#why did my brain insist on hurting me in this way

[moonstruckme]

hi okay hi you’ve probably seen me in your notifications for the last twenty minutes because i am absolutely obsessed with the way you write poly!marauders.

i was wondering if you could write something about the (fem)reader who slowly starts dissociating when things get tough and she’s not really present and while they’re concerned, they just show their love for her through caring until she comes back to herself. it’s completely okay if you can’t!!!

Thanks honey, I'm so glad you enjoy my blog! Love the pfp btw, I personally think that was Spence’s best hair. I know everyone experiences dissociation differently so I did some research and I hope this is alright! Many apologies if it’s not accurate

cw: dissociation, brief mention of sexual assault

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 910 words

You’re grateful to Sirius for defending you. You are, but the man’s hand on your ass had caused some deer-in-the-headlights glitch in your brain, and the yelling that ensued only made you retreat further into yourself. You know, distantly, that it’s Sirius’ voice, and that he’s yelling for you, not at you. But it’s all noise to you, a ruckus that means danger, and then there’s movement, and more hands, and everything that would be too much if you weren’t so far away. 

You feel like you’re sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool, everything above the surface of the water muffled and distorted. What happens up there doesn’t concern you. It’s peaceful down here, even if there is a certain wrongness to it. You know you don’t belong here, not really, but you can hold your breath and try to make it last. 

“Baby?” a voice says. “Hey, you okay?”

“Don’t shake her, that’s not going to help.” You can’t tell if it’s another voice or the same. The comfort it brings you doesn't change, and you can’t force yourself to care either way. You can’t care at all, really, about anything. You wonder if you should be worried about that, but feelings are something out of your reach, and maybe it’s better that way. 

“Something’s wrong with her.” 

“I can see that, love. We’re almost home.” 

“You don’t think she’s hurt, do you?”

More hands. You want to flinch away, but it’s like you’re moving through a thick sludge. “You’re alright, dove, I’m just checking that you’re okay. Do you hurt anywhere?”

“Why isn’t she talking?”

“I don’t know. I think…maybe she’s just overwhelmed. I don’t think she’s bleeding anywhere.”

“Fuck. Shit, is this a panic attack? Do you think she needs a doctor or something?”

“Let’s just give her a few minutes.” 

There’s more talking, but you give up on trying to decipher it. After a while, something cushy comes up underneath you, or maybe you go down onto it. Your hand is warm, and then it’s pressed to soft fabric. “Feel my heart going in there, baby? Can you focus on that for me?”

You’ve made such a cozy home for yourself in your head that it takes you some time to realize everything around you has gone quiet. There’s a persistent bumping at your palm. 

“Don’t tight hugs help with panic attacks?”

“We don’t know if that’s what this is. What if it scares her?”

“Hey, angel, can you hear me? Come back to us.” 

The wrongness of where you are is starting to set in, the voices at the surface louder and more insistent. You think that maybe your chest is starting to ache.

Something moves your feet, and then you're touching something interesting. Soft and a bit rough, familiar. Carpet. 

“Breathe, honey. Good. Again. We’ve got you, take your time.” 

You’re conscious of your breaths first, the effort it takes to fill and empty your lungs. Then the plush material under your thighs; you’re sitting on something. Awhile longer, and you realize you’re blinking, your eyes intermittently dry and then not. Eventually you register your hand, pressed to a beating heart. Sirius’ heart. 

You don't try to speak yet as you take in your surroundings. You’re home, on the couch, and someone’s taken off your socks and shoes, your feet bare on the carpet. You don’t know how any of that happened, which is unsettling, but the realization that you can feel unsettled comes with a sharp relief. 

Sirius’ finger swipes over your wrist where he’s gripping your hand to his chest, and your next exhale is shaky. 

“Dove?” Remus’ tone is cautious.

“Sorry,” you say croakily. “I don’t know what that was.” 

Sirius sighs, letting your hand drop from his chest, and Remus grips your ankle from where he sits by your feet, stroking his thumb over your achilles’ tendon in a way that you suspect is as much for him as it is for you.

“Fucking scary, is what it was,” James says, voice thick with tears. “Can I hug you?”

You nod, and his arms come around you with his usual eagerness, though you notice his hands trembling just a little. You squeeze his shoulders tightly. 

“I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, no sorries, okay?” Sirius says, though even he sounds exhausted from what you’ve just put them through. “You obviously couldn’t help it. Do you feel alright now?”

“Yeah,” you say, though you’re unsure. You feel relatively normal at the moment, but the knowledge that you can slip into numbness that easily doesn’t allow for much comfort. “I’m just…really tired, for some reason.” 

Remus hums. “I think your brain was doing a lot of work just now. Makes sense you’d need a rest.” 

James releases you from the hug but only sits back far enough to see your face, his hands lingering at your waist like he’s worried you’ll slip away if he lets go. “Want to cancel dinner and have a night in, sweetheart?”

You nod, your throat closing as warmth rushes to your face. “Yes, please.” 

“Hey,” Sirius says at your tears, voice lightly chiding but full of concern, “what’s wrong? You sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I’m okay,” you promise, swiping under your eyes. “Just, thank you guys for helping me. That was really scary.” 

“I know,” Remus says, palm sliding up your leg as he rises to give you a hug of his own. “I know it was, honey, but you don’t have to worry. We’ve always got you.” 

#poly!marauders #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x y/n #poly!marauders x you #poly!marauders fanfiction #poly!marauders fanfic #poly!marauders fic #poly!marauders imagine #poly!marauders scenario #poly!marauders drabble #poly!marauders oneshot #poly!marauders angst #marauders fanfiction #marauders fanfic #marauders fic #marauders era #the marauders #marauders #james potter #james potter x reader #sirius black #sirius black x reader #remus lupin #remus lupin x reader

[tojifile]

@Satosugu . . . ( ´ ꒳ ` )

Tags: idols!satosugu, f!reader, very very cliché wattpad 2018 plot, fan!reader, satosugu x reader, fluff, no curse au, cursing, use of petnames, mentions of stalking, clingy Satoru, kind of ooc (?), reader is 18 n the guys are 19, reader is shorter than both of them, NOT A SATOSUGU SHIP POST

A/N: Thinking about Geto Suguru & Gojo Satoru and those kpop fics I saw everywhere on Wattpad during 2018. I made it less (?) cringe. This is just for fun anyways, I still eat up the most cliché shit. I just love love love them. Pt.2 is out now frfr!!

Kaisen - JJK Entertainment ☆

- Gojo Satoru

- Geto Suguru

idol!satoru who you literally bump into on a cold winter’s night in Japan. He has this cheeky grin on his face as he saw your shocked expression. “Hey princess!” He teasingly says. You thought that he looked kind of familiar but you weren’t really paying much attention, you were too caught up trying to escape the guy who has been following you.

idol!suguru who almost immediately noticed the man all dressed in black who seemed to be keeping a close eye on you while also maintaining a distance. Suguru observed the man as you and Satoru conversed.

idol!satoru who’s fond of the way you look up at him before apologizing, as if your brain buffered for a second. “Like what you see princess?” Satoru teased. You snap back into reality and turn red, you then started to apologize profusely. “I’m– I’m sorry for staring and bumping into you, I really didn’t mean it!!”

idol!suguru who then whispers something to Satoru. He decided to take matters into their own hands. It was obvious that the man was someone you were trying to get away from and the man was obviously intimidated by Suguru and Satoru.

Before you knew it Satoru went to your side and interwined his fingers with yours. “Just follow our lead princess. We won’t hurt ‘ya, I promise.” He then began to lead you somewhere while Suguru walked right behind you.

You then start to notice some people taking pictures of you and the two random men you just met a minute ago. Suguru then went to your side to make sure you weren’t captured by any more pictures. Although, the constant camera clicks did make you curious. You looked up to catch a glimpse of Suguru and Satoru’s face. It was at that moment you realized that these two weren’t just random men—they were world-famous idols.

idol!satoru who caught you trying to sneak a peek at the both of them. Your blush didn’t go unnoticed as you realized who they were. He chuckles but chose to let it slide. Trust me, he really, really wanted to tease you, but he figured that Suguru and him should take you somewhere safe first.

idols!satosugu who brought you to their hotel room. Suguru tries to make you feel comfortable. He makes small talk as you sat beside him on the couch, asking you about your name, likes and dislikes, what you did today. You were still in shock, you couldn’t believe you were in the hotel room of your favorite idols. Although you weren’t as much of a fan as everyone else, you couldn’t deny how handsome they were.

Suguru also made sure to tell you that the man who was following you couldn’t follow you inside the hotel. Their security here was great and he wanted to reassure you that you were in good hands.

idol!satoru who wants to keep you with him forever. He’s now saying things like, “Oh princess! I wish I could keep you in my pocket and bring you back to Korea!” His words make you blush hard. But Satoru’s words made Suguru sigh, he didn’t want you to think they were like your stalker.

Turns out they planned a semi-secret trip to their hometown. They didn’t tell the world they were going there, but they weren’t exactly hiding it. You were grateful yet utterly confused. Why would they help you out of nowhere?

idol!suguru who insists on walking you home but then they get mass texts from their manager in JJK Entertainment;

manager

Didn’t I tell the both of you to not get into trouble??

Check your socials, you and Satoru were found with some girl.

I swear to god Suguru, this is a PR disaster. We’ll pick you up as soon as possible. For now, don’t go out of your hotel room.

19:27

Suguru sighed as he saw the text messages, he knew they fucked up. “Okay, never mind, we can’t walk you home. Our manager got intel that the press is looking for us in the lobby—the three of us. They saw you in the pictures and now they want to know who you are.” Suguru got on one knee in front of you so that he would be at eye-level. He took both your hands in his and said, “I’m sorry.”

idol!satoru who immediately realizes that means you have to stay with them. “So that means you have to stay with us princess!” He happily states, “But– but maybe the pictures aren’t clear enough! I could sneak past the press and–” you were cut off by your own self as your gaze fell on Suguru, still on his knee holding both your hands.

idol!suguru who sweet-talks you into staying with them. “We’d feel much better if we know you’re safe here with us. Some fans can get crazy y’know.” Suguru spoke as he looked into your eyes. He really wanted to give off that yearning vibe. Which again begs the question, why were they so keen on helping you?

“Okay.. I’ll stay..” you hesitantly replied.

idol!satoru who then steals you from Suguru by hugging you tightly. “Great choice princess!” He was so happy, it was contagious. The both of them didn’t even mention being idols they just talked about their manager as if they had normal jobs. That was until Satoru decided to be cocky about it, “Y’know princess, most fans would’ve said yes immediately! Are you perhaps not a fan? Or even—a hater?!” He said dramatically.

idol!suguru who has a scowl on his face because Satoru stole you and because of Satoru’s question. “That’s none of our business Satoru.” He scolded his friend. Satoru only laughed in return.

idol!satoru who speaks in the most dramatic way possible. “But we’re world-famous idols Suguru! Surely this cute little princess is one of our fans, right princess?”

Gojo Satoru—the Gojo Satoru looked at you confidently as he waited for your answer. It made you a bit nervous, “I– I am a fan! I just didn’t want to be a bother..” you replied. “Plus you can never be too sure about people, I can’t just trust you because you’re idols!” You then sighed at the irony of that statement, “but I did because there was no other choice.”

idols!satosugu who listened to you speak attentively. They were very touchy and loved being close to you. It’s like they lacked physical affection. Suguru in front of you and Satoru beside you, such a cute duo.

idol!satoru who is the whiniest man ever. “So you think we’re bad people? I thought you were better than that princess..” he pouted. “No I don’t! I’m just saying you can’t trust too easily!” Satoru only laughed as you tried to defend yourself. He hummed, sarcastically agreeing to your words as you finished.

“Okay princess, whatever you say.” He mocked as he pulled you onto his lap, embracing you by the waist.

idol!suguru who tries to keep his best friend tamed. “You’re too touchy with her Satoru.” To which Satoru replies with a pout. “But she likes it!” He whines, “don’t you princess?” You turn red at his words. Suguru only sighs, he holds your hand, hoping you aren’t done with them. He just wants to help you.

idol!satoru who knows no personal space and props his chin on your shoulder as he continued to hug your waist from behind.

idol!suguru who rested his head on your lap, tired. At this point he didn’t bother telling Satoru off. He was just reduced to a big sleepy man.

idols!satosugu who were now all over you, both derived of physical affection. You couldn’t escape the idols now.

Comment 🪩 to be on my taglist !

#jjk #gojo x reader #geto x reader #satoru x reader #suguru x reader #satosugu x reader #geto suguru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #suguru geto x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo #geto #suguru geto #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #geto suguru #idol au #no curse au #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu #kaisen #jjk x reader #kpop #kpop idol #satosugu #tojifile

[satellitespinner]

✼ mommy issues .. (one)

a/n: oh did you think this was gonna be a cute lil fluff fic? nahh it’s sad city down there!! be careful..

content warnings: ANGST panic attacks.. hurt (no comfort.) joel is dead. ellie’s a lil sad :/// ellie’s a lil anxious… ellie’s a projection of me.. ANYWAYS. reader and ellie are kinda the same but different ??? swearing ofc.. reader is very much okay with being a lesbian ! and she’s on good terms with the baby fawtha cause what! ellie is not fond of children apparently?? she also might be autistic.

wc: 2k.

taglist: @flowersforvi @diddiqueen @ellslvr @saturnsdrafts @3lli3l0v3r @williamssgirl @liasxeatt @adelaide013 @a-little-bit-of-everybody @elliessweetheart @pedropascalsbbg @ellies2missingfingers @nelzooo @r3starttt @jaeminpookie @onlinelesbo @tphmnv @p4ison1vy @pascals-doll @snowy-vee @diddiqueen

ellie grew up around masculinity, thats why people assume she is the way she is. but ellie can assure that her brain would work the exact same way if she had a mother.

plus, she had joel. that was really all she needed. she still knew how to be a woman. it’s not like she grew up without a mother and didn’t know anything about herself.

2 WEEKS AND 4 DAYS AGO..

ellie sighed and threw the white stained towel over her shoulder. fuck she muttered under her breath as she read yet another email.

ATTENTION STUDENTS!

You will all be required to purchase the following textbooks in order to complete the course - They will help immensely in the upcoming exam. I recommend reading carefully and thoroughly.

Sincerely,

Prof Morgan.

all 5 of the books linked in the email were over $150.00 each. how the fuck was she supposed to work that out? all while paying her own tuition, rent and utilities.

“yo, williams!” her manager jesse yelled, interrupting her calculations.

“breaks over.” he snatches the towel from her shoulder and makes his way back into the kitchen with it in tow.

she scoffs and shoves her phone back into her polyester pocket. jesse’s head pops back into the room “oh and” he starts before turning to her. “you’re training today” she scoffs and lifts herself off the chair.

“is that even in my job description?” she follows him out of the kitchen once again.

“sure it is, i just described it to you.” he winks, ellie huffs.

the sky had dimmed by the time ellies shift was over. skating home was gonna be a bitch.

“you need a ride home?” dina places a hand atop her shoulder, a helpful smile on her face. ellie really wanted to say no. she’s been asking for help from others so much lately.

“no, uhh- i’ll get home t’night. thanks dee.” she nods as she grabs her skateboard from her locker. have the trucks always been this lose?

“no, i insist.” dina presses. she pulls out her keys and throws her bag over her shoulder.

“let’s go, my child.” she giggles at the nickname. ellies shoulders relax.

“thanks again, i really appreciate it.” ellie said, her tone laced with genuine gratitude. dina dismisses her with a hand flick. “don’t even sweat it.” she bragged. “now get goin, it’s late.”

ellie pushes the car door open with a steady grip on her skateboard. her smile falters as she waves dina off.

she unlocks her door with a trembling hand, she hated being alone.

the picture of her and joel neatly placed beside the coat rack mocked her as she placed her skateboard down in its dedicated spot. she stared into the picture until the colors morphed into one big glob.

the loss of not just a parent, but her only parent cut her deep. she could barely lift her head for the first while, nevermind go to work. she should be proud of herself! but she isn’t.

how could she be? she felt like everyone else in her life was doing so much with themselves. dina had a kid for fucks sake! dina had a whole kid and ellie couldn’t even get to class on time.

“fuck.” she muttered as she placed her keys down. bills upon bills were flooding the kitchen counter. tears burned at her eyes, blurring her eyesight.

i look so pathetic right now. she thought. a slight chuckle leaving her throat at that.

she tried to blink back the tears but she couldn’t, they just kept coming.

her silent whimpers quickly turned to snotty sobs as her chest heaved in and out involuntarily. she placed a heavy hand on her heart as she slid down the kitchen cabinet. soon enough she found herself completely breathless and wailing.

she eventually calmed herself through deep breaths and a cold glass of water. as she does through every panic attack, although the melancholic feeling always lingered.

after joels death ellie could never find herself truly happy. especially not in an environment where he was everything, everytime she turned around she was reminded of the man who wasn’t even her real father.

nothing was really hers.

she made her way down the dark, dusty hallway to her bedroom. desks adorned with pictures of her and joel. she ignored them this time.

she stripped of her uniform and took to the shower. the water burning her skin till it turned red. she scrubbed harshly at her scalp and body. she smelt like grease. gross.

the after shower feeling made her feel a bit better. she grabbed her toothbrush and rinsed it before wiping a glob of colgate toothpaste on the bristles and shoving it in her mouth.

ellie chased sleep for what felt like an eternity. her damp hair scratching at her neck was definitely a part of the problem.

thank god she didn’t work saturdays..

the first 30 seconds of ellie’s day were complete bliss, usually. but not today.

today ellie woke up to the obnoxious sound of a child crying. she decided right then and there that the universe hates her and wants her to die. (but she thinks that about everyone in her life..)

she scoffs and walks over to the curtains, her own padded feet already annoying her.

she peeks out the curtain only to be met with a u-haul and an suv parked in the driveway next door.

new neighbors, how wonderful. and they had a whiny kid! perfect.

she continues watching out the window until she sees you hand off the kid to its father. her eyes follow you until you step into the u-haul and start dragging boxes out. that’s when she sighs and decides to get ready for the day. even though she doesn’t want to.

your entire life you were desperate to be equal. to be taken seriously. you craved maturity.

you spent your entire childhood chasing adulthood. you were desperate to grow up. you didn’t know it then, but you would regret it.

the one thing you didn’t regret, was felix. the baby that you got out of your last relationship. that was before you realized you were very much a lesbian..

“cmon baby, just put your shoe on.” you struggled against the child in the backseat as he wailed. the sound was excruciating.

“please- can you just let mommy put your shoe on?” you gritted as you attempted to shove the shoe onto her other foot.

“no!” he screamed, almost directly into your face. that was it.

“you know what? fuck it.” you muttered the last words under your breath. truthfully you already weren’t setting a good example, but hey! let not say fuck infront of our kid!

you gave up on the shoes and shushed him gently as you undid his seatbelt from his car seat. you placed him in the arms of his father, tossing the shoe into his dinosaur covered backpack.

he slowly came down from his tantrum as he placed his head on his dads shoulder.

“you sure you don’t need me to help unpack?” your ex asks, unsure of leaving you behind with an entire house to furnish.

“yep! i’m good!” you smile. you gently kiss your baby’s forehead before shutting your car door.

the father nods in response. “just text if you need and we will be here. isn’t that right felix?” he asks the child who nods profusely.

“of course mama!” he shouts causing you and his dad to laugh. “well alright then!” you rush, it was still early but you were eager to get to your gardening before dark.

you watch as your ex buckles the kid in and situated himself in the car, before pulling out of the driveway he rolls down felixs window.

you blow kisses as the pull out of the driveway and take off to ‘the old house’ in your sons words.

as soon as the car is out of sight you make your way over to the U-Haul.

you’re so focused on getting this last box out of the truck that you don’t even feel the presence creep up behind you.

“hey did you need some hel-”

“what the fuck!”

you jump in fear before turning around. being faced with a red headed, green eyed girl.

“oh my god, i’m so sorry.” she apologizes calmly. an awkward look on her face as you stare at her wide eyed.

you chuckle lightly before putting your hands on your hips. “it’s alright, hon.” you reassure.

you two just awkwardly stare at eachother for a few seconds before ellie finally speaks up again.

“i saw you struggling. did you want some help?” she asks. her eyes drifting to the box filled with gardening tools.

“oh that would be amazing!” you said before wiping the sweat of your forehead.

ellies eyes follow a droplet of seat down your neckline all the way down your cleavage. she finds herself licking her lips

before you introduce yourself.

she darts her eyes back up to your own, praying that you didn’t see her blatantly check you out. “i’m- i’m ellie.” she jumps over her words.

since when did you not know how to speak, idiot? she internally face palms before walking over to pick up the box.

“where do you want this?” she asks with a grunt as she steadys the box in her arms.

“just over here” you direct, letting her follow you as you walked over to the side of the house. she follows you and sets the box down with ease. she jokingly wipes the dirt off of her hands before nodding and starting to walk off.

“oh sweetie! i don’t wanna be a bother but would you mind helping me with one more thing?”

you must’ve been magic because somehow you swindled ellie into helping you with almost everything, and she was totally fine with it.

currently you were both at your kitchen island, laughing over a bottle of wine.

ellie had confided in you about school and you had rambled to her about what it’s like to be a mother.

“yeah, i mean- besides pregnancy it’s not all that bad.” you admit. ellie’s face shifts at the mention of pregnancy.

“i don’t know if i could ever have a baby inside me. i think i’d like- die.?” she questions. “not that i would of course” she giggles. your face becomes a look of confusion.

“no boyfriend? or just not one for kids?” you ask. you totally forgot that it’s very possible for her to be-

“i’m a lesbian” she answers and takes another sip of wine. her eyes watching your face for any negative reaction.

you clap your hands over your mouth quickly. now it seems obvious.

“i am so sorry, that totally slipped my mind.” she laughs at your attempts to redeem yourself.

“it’s totally chill, don’t worry.” she reassures, a smile on her face.

“i am too, actually.” you admit, it was your first time admitting it to someone other than yourself of your now ex husband.

“oh i was just gonna ask if that was your husband out there earlier.” she fidgets with the rings on her fingers as she asks.

“well, ex. it’s not easy to find a baby sitter that actually takes care of my kid these days.” you admit to her. she ponders for a slight moment before speaking up again.

“well, if you’re looking. i’m usually free during the day, i work nights most of the time.” she offers up. she wasn’t really sure why. she wasn’t even a fan of kids.

“really?!” it looks like your eyes had bulged out of your head. “god that would be amazing! i’ll pay you!”

ellie didn’t hear anything besides ‘i’ll pay you’ that’s all she needed to know.

“yeah of course. i’ll take him.” she confirmed.

that night ellie left with your phone number and a smidge of hope in her heart.

#˚ ༘♡ ⋆ mommy issues¡fic #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams #tlou #tlou fanfiction #tlou2 #₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟizzie writes!? #ellie tlou #ellie x reader #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams angst #ellie williams x you #ellie x dina #ellie williams fanfic #ellie x reader fluff #ellie x fem reader #ellie x y/n #ellie the last of us

[sant-riley]

Uhhh brain wracking brain wracking-

Imagine S/O surprising Ghost with their strength by picking him up and perhaps spinning him around

They insist that he's as light as a feather. They're visibly struggling while holding him up

Thank you anon for the food, I haven't written anything in AGES I'm sorry if I'm rusty but fuck it we ball, gonna do these as bullet points!

Warnings; nothing I can think of! But as always, lmk!

(Literally me and Simon)

Trying and somewhat achieving in picking up Simon!

The first time you bring it up, asking if you can attempt it, Simon looks at you like you're fucking stupid.

He's a big dude, bigger than most and will almost always be the biggest person in the room, he's built like a fucking mountain.

You throwing him pretty eyes and begging for his permission isn't gonna change the fact that you're smaller than him, you'll hurt yourself, he knows you will, so he says no.

This does nothing to ward you off, only fueling you to want to work out and gain upper arm and body strength to prove him wrong out of spite.

He'll ask Soap where you've been in the last few weeks,, noticing your slight absence when training hours are over, nowhere to be found an hour or so afterwards.

Soap only chuckles and throws a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the gym where the creaks of the workout gear can be heard still.

"They're still workin' wouldn't tell me why though."

Simon makes his way towards the gym, leaning on the doorway as he sees you huff and puff as you do sets of bicep curls.

He can't help but a small smirk run under his mask, you're so committed to this. It's so stupid, but he can't deny it makes him happy.

No one can just pick the man up, takes Price, Gaz and Soap usually to keep up right and that's with his arms thrown around their shoulders.

He still doubts you'll be able to, but he's flattered. You're trying (asshole)

Simon creeps silently to you, waiting til you set down the weights before whispering out a "boo", his shit eating grin when you yelp and whirl around, wide eyes staring oh so prettily up at him.

"What the fuck! Why would you do that?" "It's funny." "It is fucking not." "Mmm, sure is."

He moves to ruffle your hair, ignoring your hand swatting at his own.

"Why are you here afterhours? You're missing chunks of your dinner." He knows why, he just wants to hear you admit it.

"Is it a crime to work out some more? To stay in top shape for our job?" The eyebrow he raises is catastrophic, immediately calling you the fuck out without any words.

"Okay, fine. I've been working out so I can prove to you I can pick you up."

At this point, he figures he can humor you, you've been trying so hard.

"Y'know what? Why the hell not, cmon, try and lift me."

"Are you fucking with me or-" "hurry up before I change my mind." "Aye Aye sir."

He stands in front of you, arms loosely at his side, head tilted to the right as he watches you get into form.

The key to lift with your legs, the strength in them far outweighing anything else, wrapping your arms across his stomach (a feeling of electricity jumps up his spine at your touch, he hopes you don't notice.)

You take a deep breath, nuzzling your head into his chest and try your fucking damndest to lift this behemoth of a man up and to your and Simon's surprise, you DO manage to lift him up, at least an inch of the ground before your legs buckle and you shakily place him down.

A whoop leaves your mouth, jumping up and down as you giggle about lifting Ghost, "I did it! You weren't that heavy at all!" Simon can literally see the sweat on your brow, but he just rumbles out a laugh and moves to plant a masked kiss on your temple, congratulating you on your win over him.

You run out into the base, no doubt going to tell the others about your feat.

He sighs a gross lovesick sigh, and moves to grab your gym bag from the bench and follow after you.

#I HOPE THIS IS ENTERTAINING PLS HAVE MERCY I DONT WRITE ANYTNING EVER ANYMORE #ghost <3 #ive missed him my husband #kayla writes <3 #kayla asks <3 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty drabble #call of duty headcanons #call of duty modern warfare #cod #call of duty #call of duty x reader #task force 141 x reader

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

Spilled Ink

Pairing: Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike x f!reader

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: Uhhh Marcus Pike as the world's softest tattoo artist that's it that's the fic.

Warnings: Lots of tattoo talk, obviously, which includes needles, tattoo guns, pain, mention of bleeding, etc.; reader is explicitly coded as neurodivergent because I said so; yearning; lots of kissing; Marcus Pike being a goddamn menace and he fucking knows it

A/N: @kedsandtubesocks made a post about Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike (original post HERE) and then I wrote 7.5k words in 12 hours, as one does. All credit for the idea goes to the amazing Erika who entrusted me with this idea and THANK GOD SHE DID because I don't think I could have gotten it out of my stupid brain otherwise. Header pics credit go to Erin @perotovar, who made these with Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike in mind and I'm just WOOFWOOFBARKBARKBARKBARKHOWL. Thanks also to @littlebirdsbookshelf who suffers through HOURS of me sending screenshots every time I write anything. Love you <3

Additional Note on Canon: I am pretending that we never got to see Marcus Pike in short sleeves in the show despite it happening twice. He has full sleeves on both his arms in this fic that he covered up during his time working at the FBI. Because sleeves are hot and I said so.

Masterlist

It’s not unusual, these days, to wander down the sidewalk staring at your phone. Some people are texting. Some people are reading the news–because hey, this is D.C. Others, like you on this brisk morning, are watching the little blue dot on a tiny representation of the city streets, trying to find the address you had typed into the search bar.

A text box pops up, informing you of your arrival, and you finally look up.

No wonder it took you so long to find the place–it’s hardly what you expected at all. You always picture tacky neon signs, bars on the windows, undesirables milling about on the street, smoking cigarettes.

Okay, so you admittedly don’t actually know much about tattoos.

All you know is that you want one–a fact you confessed to a friend over lunch the other week: a conversation that led you here.

“Okay, so get one,” she had said bluntly.

“It’s not all that simple,” you had protested. 

“Why?”

“It’s just… it seems like a lot. Mentally. Physically. I’m not sure I have what it takes.”

“They don’t hurt that bad,” your friend had insisted.

“I’m not just talking about that, I’m talking about… y’know, just everything. The noise. New people. Strangers touching me. It just doesn’t seem like something I’ll be able to do.”

“Oh. Ohhh. Because of the… yep. Actually I might have something for you,” she said, taking out her phone and scrolling through that app that drives you crazy–it’s overstimulation in a convenient package–full of noise, chaos, and flashing lights. 

She must have seen you pull a face, because she held out her hand placatingly. 

“Just finding the name of the place, hang on. It’s a shop right here in DC that went ‘viral’ for this video of a guy with autism who wanted a tattoo to commemorate his dad, but he was only comfortable lying on the floor–so the tattoo artist just… got on the floor with him! It was really cute, and anyway I guess he caters to all sorts of people, so… I dunno. Check it out.”

And here you are. Checking it out.

The words “Government-Issued Ink” are spelled out on large windows, and the punny name–apt for its location not far from the Capitol–makes you snort. 

The shop is bright, warm, and inviting–tearing down your outdated preconceptions that tattoo places must always be run-down, dark, and dingy. It’s also empty this early in the morning, save for a lone figure in the back, seated at a well-worn desk, his head pitched forward over his work.

He’s so enveloped in whatever he’s sketching that he must not have heard the light ringing of the bell as you had entered. You watch him for a few moments–taking in the graceful movements of his hand and the way his fingers grasp the pen. He’s dressed in a plain blue button-down dress shirt, which also doesn’t fit your assumed archetype of ‘Tattoo Artist.’ You can’t see his face; his head is leaning forward too much and a few short locks of dark brown hair obscure your view.

Suddenly wondering if you’re being incredibly rude, staring at someone without announcing your presence, you open your mouth to introduce yourself.

“Um.”

While not exactly eloquent, it serves its purpose. The man startles and looks up in surprise.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, jumping to his feet and letting the pen clatter carelessly to the desk. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s okay,” you shake your head rapidly. “I was, um…” You blink a few times, your nerves getting the better of you as the man comes around his desk to approach the front of the store.

“Interested in a walk-in consultation?” he offers, holding out his hands in a gesture that could either be an open invitation or a shrug.

“I don’t know,” you confess quietly. “I was thinking about getting, uh, a tattoo, and I was told this shop was… good. With tattoos. And other stuff.”

“Other stuff?” he chuckles, smiling warmly. 

“You know… with people who… might not be good at getting tattoos.”

“What makes you think you aren’t ‘good at getting tattoos?’”

“A hunch,” you shrug, expelling a little huff of laughter through your nose. “I was told to ask for a Marcus Pike?”

The man’s smile widens. “You’re looking at him.”

Oh. You aren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this. Marcus Pike is well-dressed and clean-cut, almost startlingly so. You scan up and down, looking for any sign that this man could possibly be a tattoo artist, but the only evidence you can find is a small black target inked between his thumb and forefinger on his right hand. Don’t… tattoo artists usually have more ink? Of course, with him almost completely covered from head to toe, you obviously can’t create a full picture of Marcus’s skin, but the fact that he wouldn’t look out of place in one of the nearby government buildings still takes you by surprise.

You realize you haven’t said anything in response, but Marcus doesn’t seem to be bothered by your deer-in-headlights stare. Instead, he grins again and steps sideways, extending his arm in a silent invitation to come deeper into the shop.

“Come on in. If you’d like, go ahead and sit wherever you want, and we can talk about it. No pressure,” he promises. “I’m not here to push ink on you like a used car salesman; I’m here to collaborate with you. Figure out what you really want. And, if what you want ends up being ‘nothing,’ I totally support that, too.”

There’s something innate and intrinsic about Marcus Pike that sets you completely at-ease. You cast your eyes around, taking in the eclectic seating in the shop–all mismatched, all different colors, styles, and shapes, but all looking incredibly comfortable and inviting. You settle on a giant turquoise beanbag that seems to swallow you whole when you sink down into it, and Marcus grins and sits down in the bright yellow saucer chair beside it. 

“So at the very least, you’re thinking about a tattoo,” Marcus leads. “Can you tell me about that?”

You nod, feeling encouraged by his openness. “Yeah, so… my mom, she passed away a couple of years ago, and it just seemed like I should… memorialize her in some way. Like, in a way that leaves its mark on me like she left a mark on me, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of getting some kind of permanent art that commemorates her.”

“That’s a great idea,” Marcus says softly. “Lots of people choose to do that after losing a loved one.”

“Yeah, the only problem is that I’m not good with um… noise, or people touching me, or… pain, really,” you confess. “I’m like, the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.”

Marcus chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Personally, I don’t believe that. I think anyone can get a tattoo done if they want it, provided they get it done in a way that feels safe and comfortable.”

“My friend, she uh, recommended your shop because apparently you’ve done some stuff for people with autism and it went viral on TikTok…” you ramble, “and I thought maybe that meant you’d be a good fit for… for me.”

Understanding flickers in Marcus’s expression, and he nods, a small smile spreading across his face. “I hope so,” he says with quiet earnesty. 

A beat passes–just a few seconds of silence–but something small and soft and warm settles down between the two of you, and the comforting feeling sinks down into the pit of your stomach and stays there, latent and waiting.

“So, let’s talk design,” Marcus announces. “Do you have anything in mind? Any images or ideas, however vague? I can do anything from replicating designs to building something completely from scratch for you.”

“I like the idea of it being a unique piece,” you tell him.

“I prefer original designs too,” he says. “Not to sound incredibly cheesy, but there’s no one like you, you know? In–In the general sense, of course.” He chuckles sheepishly, looking down at his hands. “I like knowing each person that comes in here leaves with something unique. Something all their own—I’m rambling,” he says quickly, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. “One thing about me is that I talk too much. Anyway–did you have any ideas you can share with me about what you’d like?”

“I don’t have a good image in my mind,” you confess anxiously. After all, how can he build a design based on the swirling, disjointed images in your brain? “I think I want it to be colorful, like she was. And… I keep getting thoughts about, I dunno, the cyclical nature of life, something corny like that.”

Marcus laughs. “Sometimes the corny stuff is what sticks with us. So, colorful and commenting on the cyclical nature of life,” he lists off on his fingers, still grinning. “Anything else?”

“I’ve looked through your galleries online,” you tell him. “You have a few that look like watercolor paintings, and I really love how they look.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I’m gonna throw out an idea—Feel free to tell me ‘no,’ because I’m just brainstorming here, but I keep thinking about a tree of life. The leaves could easily be done in watercolor and could be any combination of colors you want.” His right hand twitches–as if reaching for a phantom pen–as he speaks, and his gaze seems to be fixed on a spot on the wall, his eyes glimmering with enthusiasm as he starts to speak faster.

“You could have the leaves and the roots connecting on the sides, making a circle, maybe even having her birth date and death date embedded in the roots…” He blinks rapidly a few times, as if dispelling the image from his head. “Anyway. That’s a possibility.”

“I think that’s amazing,” you say softly, watching Marcus with something like amazement in your expression. “Actually… I really like that idea. It sounds… perfect.”

“Oh,” he intones softly, looking at you in surprise as a bright, toothy smile breaks across his face. “Oh. Well then, let’s do it, huh? One final question: where do you envision getting it?”

“I was thinking on my shoulder. Here,” you indicate, pressing your hand to the skin of your upper arm. “That way it’s visible when I want it to be, but easily hidden if for some reason it needs to be.”

“That’s perfect,” Marcus says. “Plus, the circular design will go really well there. Okay. Great. Um, some things to know about the process. We’ll exchange emails, and you can contact me at any time with any questions, concerns, ideas, changes, anything. In the meantime, I’ll get started on a design for you, and I’ll share initial sketches that you can give feedback on before I move to the final stages of the design. It’ll take a couple of weeks, maximum, depending on any changes you ask for. My only request is that you’re always honest with your feedback–don’t tell me you like something when you don’t. I promise, it won’t hurt my feelings.” He grins widely. “After that, you book an appointment on a day that works best for you. I almost always book the whole day for the appointment to factor in time for copious breaks and making sure you feel comfortable. Does that work for you?”

You nod eagerly.

“Last question,” Marcus says. “Is it okay if I get a close-up picture of your upper arm? That way I can make sure it fits the curvature of your arm, it’s the right size, stuff like that.”

“Mhmm,” you nod again, pressing your lips together and trying not to look nervous. Thank god you wore a sleeveless top under your sweater.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he insists.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you say quickly, removing just the one arm from your outer layer and pulling it aside. 

You watch as Marcus grabs a little ‘point-and-shoot’ digital camera from his desk and comes back to your side.

“This is just used for design purposes,” he promises. “I delete them after the design is done.”

“I trust you.”

His resulting expression could light an entire room. “Thank you,” he answers quietly. “Okay. Super close-up, just your arm. Cool?”

“Cool,” you confirm, and you hear the camera click several times.

“Actually,” Marcus says, still staring thoughtfully at your bare shoulder. “Would it be okay if I made a couple of little marks–washable marker, of course–to make sure the dimensions are how you want them?”

Oh. You normally don’t like it when people touch you. You knew it was going to happen eventually, obviously, because how else was he going to get the design onto your skin? But it was something you had planned on working yourself up to, not something you had to do today. On the other hand, something about Marcus’s entire bearing makes you inexplicably ache to be touched by him. 

“‘No’ is an acceptable response,” he interrupts your dithering with a quiet reassurance.

And actually, that works to seal the deal for you, and your decision is made in an instant. 

“Yes. You can. That’s fine.” And, to your surprise, you mean it.

Marcus seems just as surprised at your answer–his eyebrows shoot upward almost comically at your response.

“Okay,” he says softly. “That’s perfect. Hang on.” He jumps up again to retrieve a black marker–from what was clearly a children’s set of washable markers. He meets your eyes, and again you take in that sincere, earnest, patient look that endeared you to this man from the moment you entered the little shop.

“Is it okay if I touch your arm?” he asks quietly, still watching you carefully as you nod.

“Tell me if that changes,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze to your shoulder again. His touch, when you feel it, is just as warm as you’d imagined. He’s gentle, cautious, and when he speaks again, his voice remains at that same, soft volume and tone. “I’m envisioning being from about here–” he makes a little black dot, “–to here. What do you think?” 

You nod. It’s the perfect size–large enough to cover your shoulder but stopping just above the point where the sleeve of a regular t-shirt would hit.

“That’s perfect.”

“Okay, so that’s–” he tsks softly, measuring the distance with his finger, “–about four inches, so that same distance across, and–” he makes two more marks on either side of your shoulder. “About like that. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you answer, smiling with enthusiasm. 

“Great! Let me just…” Marcus draws a few short lines denoting the proposed boundary of your design, and you can’t help the soft giggle that escapes you at the cool tip of the marker on your skin. 

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “One more picture?”

At your nod, the camera clicks one last time. 

“Like I said, that’ll wash off with soap, no problem,” he promises with a smile. “Thanks for that, makes it easier to scale.” He grabs two business cards off his desk and hands them to you. “Can you write your email on this one for me? And you can keep the other one. Like I said, anything you need, just email me. And uh, barring that, you’ll be hearing from me in a week or so with a rough sketch. Okay?”

You scribble down your email and hand the card back to Marcus before pulling your sweater back over your bare arm. You slip the other card into your purse and rise to your feet. “Thanks,” you say, nodding to him.

“Hey, no–thank you,” Marcus returns. “Thanks for entrusting me with this. I mean it.”

Surprising yourself, you extend your hand toward him, and, when he takes it, you feel enveloped with warmth again.

“Thanks,” repeat, a little bit more breathlessly this time, before turning and hurrying out of the shop before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Your shoulder still tingles from his touch hours later.

Rather than it being a week before you hear from him, you receive an email from Marcus Pike just three days later.

Subject: Initial Sketch

Hello,

Please see attached. It’s just pencil for now, but I made a note of the general blocks of color I was thinking for the leaves. You’ll see what I mean when you open the file. Sorry, I know it’s a pretty rough sketch, I was just excited to get this to you. I look forward to your feedback!

Best regards,

Marcus :) 

Eagerly, you open the attachment. First of all, there’s nothing “rough” about the sketch other than the fact that it’s just penciled in. The details are already so intricate, and you find yourself smiling in amazement as you take in the design.

It’s beautiful.

Brackets, each labeled with a different color in Marcus’s neat, tidy handwriting, surround the top of the tree. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Violet. 

At the bottom of the image is another handwritten note: *All the colors will blend together and the result should look like a rainbow.

Tears spring, unbidden, to your eyes, as you feverishly type out your response.

Subject: Re: Initial Sketch

Marcus,

I really don’t know what to say other than it’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. Made me tear up. Look forward to seeing it in color.

Thanks again!

Not even five minutes go by before your phone vibrates with another email.

Subject: Re: Re: Initial Sketch

I’m sorry if I made you cry! Obviously wasn’t my intention but I’m glad the design evokes emotion :) I’ll move forward with the design as-is and you should hear from me soon with a full-color image.

Marcus :) 

You can’t wait. The next week and a half stretches out excruciatingly, but finally, on a Wednesday evening, you receive another email. 

Subject: Final Design

Hey there!

Hope you’ve been doing well. Thought you might like to see the final design of your tattoo ;) See attached and let me know if anything needs to be changed. Be critical! Don’t hold anything back! Once we agree on a final piece, we’ll get you on the calendar.

Best regards,

Marcus :) 

Your mind skims over the fact that Marcus used a winking-face emoji in your email, because you honestly aren’t equipped to process that right now, and open the attachment instead. This time, you start crying in earnest. It’s perfect. The colors are so vibrant, and they make the tree look as though it’s in a constant state of movement. Your mom’s birth and death dates are entwined seamlessly into the roots themselves, in a way that makes them not readily apparent at first glance, but seeming to just appear out of nowhere upon further inspection. 

Subject: Re: Final Design

Marcus,

If I had any critical feedback, I would share it, I promise. But I have nothing. This is everything I’d imagined and more, and it means the world to me.

Thank you so much.

After a few more messages back and forth, you settle on a date one month out. 

You can’t wait.

As excited as you’ve been for the past month, when you step foot back into Marcus’s little tattoo parlor, the air of finality makes your body thrum with anxiety.

You’re really doing this.

Marcus is at the back of the shop, busying himself with setting up his workspace when you enter. Today, he’s wearing a dark green henley that looks just as soft as he is, and seems to complement his features even more. As soon as he hears the chimes, his head snaps up, and he grins widely. 

“Hey!” he calls out excitedly. “Just getting everything ready. Do you want something to drink before we get started? I’ve got water, juice, soda…” he trails off, waving his hand in the direction of a mini-fridge in the corner. 

“I’m okay for now.”

“Sounds good, but when we take a break, you should have some juice or something else with a bit of sugar in it, okay?” You nod, and he continues. “Okay! Where do you want to sit?”

“Don’t I have to sit in the chair over there?” you ask, gesturing to the traditional chair and bench near Marcus’s work table. 

“Not at all,” he protests. “The table is mobile, I bring it to wherever you feel comfortable.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I’ll go ahead and sit in the chair, though.” Of all the options, it looks like the easiest–you aren’t entirely sure how Marcus would be able to comfortably tattoo you whilst sitting on a bean bag chair. 

“Your choice,” he insists, spreading his hands out in an open and unguarded stance.

You settle in the chair and he sits down on a rolling stool beside you. 

“Okay, so I’ve got a stencil of your design here,” Marcus says, holding up a paper with an outline of the tree for you to see. “It’ll transfer onto your skin exactly how you want it to go, and I’ll just trace it. Make sense?”

“Yep,” you nod.

“Before I do that, though, I have to make sure nothing interferes with the design, including tiny little hairs.” He holds up a pink safety razor. “Are you comfortable with me doing this for you?”

At your tentative nod of consent, Marcus leans forward and gently swipes the razor up and down your shoulder until he’s satisfied. His eyes dart between your skin and your face the entire time–making sure you’re still with him. After he’s done, he talks you through the stencil–confirming its location, gently applying it to your shoulder, and then holding up a mirror for you to approve. 

“It’s great,” you whisper excitedly.

Marcus returns your smile and begins to absentmindedly roll up his sleeves in preparation to start working–-and the question about tattoos that you’d asked yourself upon first seeing the man is suddenly and unexpectedly answered.

You can’t help the soft sound of surprise that escapes from you when you catch the colorful patchwork of designs on both of his forearms, disappearing under the pushed-up henley and suggesting that they go all the way up. 

Marcus catches you staring and grins, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I didn’t know,” you say softly. “You keep them covered up.”

“Force of habit,” Marcus shrugs. “I had a desk job for a long time.”

“Doing what?” you ask, curiously. You can’t see the man doing anything but this.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he jokes, winking in your direction. 

Ignoring how the wink makes your heart stutter in your chest, you bark out a laugh at his answer. “What? Were you like a secret agent or something?” you tease.

“Special Agent,” he corrects, grinning. 

“Get out,” you deadpan. “I can’t imagine you as a Fed.”

Marcus shrugs, giving you another one of his boyish, crooked smiles. “Would’ve been fifteen years this year had I not finally seen the writing on the wall and run for the hills a couple of years ago.”

“What made you leave?” 

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “That’s a long story. How sensitive are you to noise?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

“Uh, I dunno. Kind of depends on the day and the situation,” you shrug.

“Fair. Well, I usually let newcomers listen to what the gun actually sounds like, so there are no surprises. If it’s too loud, I do have noise canceling headphones.”

And miss out on hearing Marcus’s soft-spoken reassurances? No matter how loud the tattoo gun is, you’d rather endure it just to be able to hear him talk. 

Marcus turns the instrument on, and the room is filled with a mild buzzing sound. On your worst days, admittedly, it would probably grate upon your nerves, but you’re feeling relaxed, comfortable, and excited about your new tattoo.

“It’s not bad,” you tell him truthfully. 

“Perfect,” he grins. “Are you all set to get started?”

Heart rate increasing with pleasant anticipation, you nod giddily. 

“I’m obviously gonna be touching your arm a lot,” Marcus says, “so let me know if you need a break from that, the noise, the needle, anything.” Seeing your solemn nod, he continues. “I’m gonna do a little dot right here to let you see how it feels, okay?” He gently touches his index finger to your skin to indicate where. 

“Okay.”

The gun turns on again, and Marcus presses it lightly against your skin for just a second before pulling back.

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I thought it would hurt more,” you confess.

Marcus laughs. “Well, the same feeling over and over again in a small area can start to be pretty uncomfortable. I’ll check in regularly to make sure you’re still doing fine. Good?”

You smile widely. “I’m really excited.”

His smile softens, his gaze becoming warmer and more tender. “I’m glad.”

His other hand gently cradles your arm as Marcus leans in, a look of intense concentration settling over his features as he begins the design. Engrossed in his work, you take the time to study his forearms. They’re a hodgepodge of designs, clearly done at different times and by different artists, but you can see themes throughout. He likes classic styles, you can tell, and in between some of the more traditional works you can see beautiful references to an assortment of famous paintings. A Dali melting clock here. A sunflower clearly inspired by Van Gogh there. On his opposite bicep, you can just barely make out the side of one design that looks like it might be of a Greek statue. Tilting your head, you realize it’s Nike alighting on the bow of a warship, and you inhale sharply. That’s one of your favorite sculptures.

“Still okay?” Marcus asks, glancing up at you with concern in his eyes.

“Sorry.” You shake your head quickly. 

“Just checking,” he says softly. “Try to be just a little more still, okay?”

“Sorry,” you repeat, laughing sheepishly. 

“Don’t be, you’re doing great.”

You try to fight the way your entire body seems to grow warm at Marcus’s praise, but you can’t stop the way the feeling stampedes through you. You’re being ridiculous, you chastise yourself. He’s doing his job, and you’re getting all moony-eyed.

In order to distract yourself, you continue playing ‘Spot the Famous Artwork’ on Marcus’s sleeves–although, as distractions go, it’s not your best work. You can’t help but focus in on the way his forearm cords with muscle as he holds the tattoo gun, controlling each movement so delicately and precisely, creating a beautiful, intricate design on your shoulder.

After finding a bit of yellow patchwork that's clearly a reference to Gustav Klimt's The Kiss near his right elbow, you break your silence.

“You like art, huh?”

It seems like a stupid thing to say to a fucking tattoo artist of all people, and you immediately kick yourself internally for saying something so obvious. 

Marcus glances up, and, seeing how your eyes are focused on his own ink, smiles. “Always have,” he murmurs, returning his gaze to your shoulder. “Some of those are years-old.”

“Is that how you got into being a tattoo artist?” you ask.

“Sort of,” he answers, brow pinched in concentration as he continues working. “I uh, apprenticed for a shop in college to pay the bills before going to Quantico for training.”

“You’re really talented,” you tell him. “I was surprised to find out you haven’t been doing this your whole life.”

Marcus hums his appreciation as he carefully fills in a root. 

“Can I ask what made you join the FBI instead of opening your own place after college?”

He huffs a little laugh through his nose. “Parents would have killed me, going to college and then doing nothing with it.”

“Running a small business isn’t exactly doing nothing,” you point out.

“Well, public opinion on tattoos wasn’t what it is now,” Marcus says. “They were scandalized by my apprenticeship, but it paid the bills, so they couldn’t complain too loudly.”

“Was it them who wanted you to join the FBI?”

“Mm, not so much,” he murmurs. “It was more like ‘whatever you want to do, so long as you can make a lucrative career out of it.’ Being an artist wasn’t one of those things, so in lieu of becoming one myself, I decided I wanted to protect them instead.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Protect them how?”

Marcus grins up at you and waggles his eyebrows playfully. “Art crimes,” he answers. “Being an art detective was kind of in the limelight in the early ‘nineties after the famous Gardner Museum theft, and I got swept up in the craze.”

“So you spent the last fifteen-ish years recovering stolen art,” you fill in for him.

“Stolen, forged, looted, illegally traded or smuggled…” Marcus offers, not breaking his concentration again. He wasn’t wrong–the repeated drag of the needle across what felt like the same square centimeter of your skin was starting to wear on you. 

“Uh-huh,” you say, forcing the discomfort out of your tone.

Noticing the tightness in your voice immediately, Marcus’s movements stop. “Feeling okay?”

You shrug.

The gun switches off.

“You gotta be honest about how you’re feeling,” he reminds you. “I might be able to create designs based off of customers’ vague descriptions, but that doesn’t make me a mind-reader.”

“It’s a little uncomfortable, but I can endure it,” you insist.

“There’s no need to endure something that’s painful,” Marcus argues with an amused smile. “Even if it involves choosing to repeatedly jamming a needle into your skin.”

You can’t help but laugh, and your heart swells when he joins you.

“C’mere,” he says. “Let me show you something.”

You let him lead you to the other side of the shop, where he stops in front of a large storage cabinet that you'd assumed held various supplies. When he opens it, however, you find that isn’t the case at all.

No, the entire cabinet is filled to the brim with a collection of stuffed animals just as eclectic and varied as the furniture. There's also a couple of shoeboxes filled with every manner of fidget toy you could ever imagine. 

"You can grab one, if you want. I know it might feel kind of goofy, but I promise they help with the pain."

"Okay," you breathe. Your gaze lingers first on the IKEA shark, then on a very soft-looking cactus with an adorable grumpy expression, but when your gaze lands on the largest and arguably oddest toy in the collection, your hands can't help but move toward it. 

"The big guy, huh?" Marcus laughs, taking the giant squid off of the shelf and placing it in your arms. You have to laugh at how large and ungainly it is; its massive black eyes stare vacantly back at you, but the effect is dopey, rather than menacing. 

"Where do you get all of these?" you ask in amazement. 

"Most of them are gifts from past clients, including that one," Marcus says, indicating the squid. "But I think he originally came from the Smithsonian. I was told his name is 'Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.'"

"Thank you," you say in a small, appreciative voice.

"'S'fine," Marcus shrugs. "Feel up to continuing?"

You nod, looking down at your partially-inked shoulder. "Guess you didn't get very far before I had to stop," you remark, somewhat self-deprecatingly. 

"It's not a race," your artist says earnestly. "We've got the whole day, and we go at your pace. You're paying me, after all." Another wink in your direction.

"Yeah," you nod, confidence growing again. "Yeah, okay." You plop down in your seat, with Cthulhu in your lap, and Marcus takes his place beside you. 

“Gonna turn this back on again,” he announces as the now-familiar buzz fills the room, “and I’m gonna touch your arm–” his fingers wrap warmly and gently around your skin, “–annnd here we go.” 

The needle scratches insistently against your skin, but it isn’t so bad–not really, not with the hilarious giant squid on your lap and Marcus’s gentle, soothing voice in your ear. He talks while he works, sometimes asking you questions about your own life–to which he listens intently and always seems to have follow-up questions–and sometimes telling you stories of his own. You discuss art, obviously, but also music, books, movies, and baseball of all things.

You find yourself wondering if he has this type of easy rapport with everyone who comes in, but you assume he must. He might be the most disarming person you’ve ever met, and it’s hardly a stretch to believe he’s like this with everyone. Still, there’s an ugly, jealous part of you that wishes the connection between you was unique, special. That he’s only this warm with you. 

Marcus was right–squeezing the stuffed toy on your lap is a perfect distraction from the discomfort of the needle, and before long, the sensation fades into the background. As the time drags on, though, the persistent drone of the tattoo gun causes an ache to creep in and settle between your eyes. You take in a deep breath through your nose, count to three, and exhale slowly through your mouth.

Marcus glances up, watching you for a split-second before cutting power to the gun and stretching his back with a satisfied sigh. 

“Break time,” he announces. “Hand’s getting a bit sore.” He shoots you a knowing glance and another one of those crooked smiles. “And you should probably have a little something to drink, maybe a snack.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you say gratefully as he walks over to the little fridge.

“Apple juice?” he asks, holding up a little juice box that looks slightly comical in his large hands. When you nod enthusiastically, he hands it to you.

His fingers brush yours.

If it were anyone else, you’d recoil, but it’s him. It might just be the forced proximity, but…

You’re developing quite the crush on Marcus Pike.

Shoving the thought aside for the moment, you stab the straw into the little hole and take a long sip. Marcus settles down beside you with his own choice–a little can of vegetable juice–and holds it up in a silent ‘cheers.’

Feeling emboldened, you ask the question that’s been burning in your mind since you started.

“So what made you leave the whole ‘helping other artists’ thing behind and start a tattoo business instead?”

Marcus presses his lips together, and for a moment, you fear you’ve crossed a boundary. Just before you’re about to apologize profusely, though, he speaks.

“Have you ever just… woken up one morning, and realized that everything you were working toward, everything you thought you wanted in life… was a lie?”

“I… I don’t know,” you confess quietly, surprised at the emotion behind his words.

“Happened to me,” he laughs softly. “I had moved to DC for what I thought was my dream job, with who I thought was–” he shakes his head, as though dispelling an unpleasant thought. “I had spent my entire life checking boxes: College degree? Check. Well-paying job? Check. House? Check. Check, check check. I spent so much time trying to get ahead, like life was some kind of game to be won. If I said all the right things, did all the right things, if I did everything right… I’d have the life I wanted.”

“What was the life you wanted?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“It was bullshit, is what it was. Saw one too many rom-coms as a kid, I suppose. I thought I was after the picket fence, the dog, the wife and two-point-five kids, that sort of thing. And one morning I woke up, realized that… that relentless pursuit of something I couldn’t even hold–it was all bullshit.”

“So you just… quit?”

“I quit. I wanted to create things again. I wanted to feel inspired. After a bit of uh… frantic soul-searching before I ran out of money entirely, I sold my stupid, too-big condo that I hated and bought this shop instead.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, I’m not bankrupt yet,” Marcus says dryly.

“No, I mean… did you feel inspired again?”

“I did. I do. So very much so,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and that comfortable warmth that had settled in between you the first time you had met him… grows. Mutates. Until the warm, tingling feeling feels a lot more like electricity.

An unspoken moment seems to pass through you, but then Marcus clears his throat roughly, setting the empty can aside and standing again, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Wanna keep going?”

Breathlessly, you nod. 

In no time at all, you’re settled back in the chair with one of Marcus’s warm, strong, large hands cradling your arm as the other gently wields the tattoo gun. As he starts to fill in and blend the colors, the pain starts to increase, and you worry one of the fuzzy tentacles back and forth in your hand as you grit your teeth.

“I know, I know,” Marcus soothes quietly. “The color’s the worst part, but you’re being so good for me.”

It helps you to watch him work, so you do. He’s blending in the colors now, and you watch with interest as it starts to take shape. It’s so mesmerizing that you hardly even notice the buzz of the gun or the light sting of the needle anymore.

“And you said you ‘weren’t good at tattoos,’” he teases gently, noticing your obvious interest. 

“Did I say that?” you laugh, teasing back.

“I believe your words were, ‘I’m like the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.’” he reminds you. “And look at you now, huh?”

You duck your head at his praise, unable to withstand the intensity and honesty in his gaze.

“Doing okay after all, I guess,” you say with a sheepish smile.

“You’re doing amazing,” Marcus corrects, smiling warmly. “The type of client any artist dreams of.”

You don’t know how to respond to the things this man says to you. Stunned and at a loss for words, you stare awkwardly at your hand where it still wraps around Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.

“I’m sorry.” The words are soft, concerned. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just meant that your enthusiasm and your curiosity is the stuff that makes me want to be an artist in the first place.”

“Are you saying I inspire you?” you try to tease, but it falls flat.

Just audibly, over the hum of the tattoo gun, you hear his whispered response. 

“Yes.” 

As Marcus wipes away the last of the stray ink on the purple bit of tree, the tattoo gun suddenly switches off. The silence is almost shocking, and you blink rapidly in confusion.

“Break time?” you ask.

Marcus chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “It’s all done.”

“It is?” you ask, although you can see the answer for yourself in the large mirrored wall to your right. 

“How’s it feel?” he asks.

“My arm kind of aches,” you confess, “but oh my God, Marcus… it’s beautiful.”

It’s his turn to preen under your praise, the tips of his ears blushing pink as he grins back at you.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says softly. “Here, let me give you a little something for the pain.” 

He squeezes a glob of light-green cooling gel and coats the angry skin with the barest of touches. “Still okay?” he asks, glancing up at you for confirmation.

After the harshness of the needle, the soft press of his fingers is more soothing than ever, and you have to resist the urge to sigh and melt into his touch. 

“Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re going to want to keep this covered for a couple of hours, up to overnight,” Marcus says as he carefully applies a dressing to your shoulder–still softly, but more businesslike than before as he walks you through all of the instructions for care. “Once you take this off tomorrow, you’ll probably see some fluid leaking from it–that’s totally normal. It’s blood, plasma, and extra ink, and it should stop after a few days before it starts to scab over.

 “You’ll want to keep it from drying out; I’d recommend scent-free, dye-free lotion if you don’t already have some,” he continues. “Wash it twice a day and put lotion on after. When it starts to scab, I can’t stress this enough: don’t pick the scabs.” He gives you a serious look. “Repeat that back to me.”

“Don’t pick the scabs.”

“If you do, you could cause it to scar, or even pull out the ink. One more time for me,” he prompts, and you get the feeling that this is always the sticking point in his speech.

“Don’t pick the scabs,” you repeat.

“It’ll take three to four months for the lower layers of skin to completely heal,” Marcus tells you. “During that time, keep it out of the sun, keep it hydrated, and you’re in the clear.”

“And don’t pick the scabs,” you say teasingly. 

Marcus winks at you. “Exactly. Any other questions for me?”

“No, just… thank you. It’s amazing,” you tell him. “You did such an incredible job.”

“Hard not to, when I have such a beautiful canvas.”

Your eyes dart up, expecting to see a teasing glint in his eyes, but all you can see is heartfelt sincerity. You swallow thickly, and he tracks the movement, his eyes dropping down, then back up to meet your eyes. Is it… not just you? Does he feel it, too? Realization slams through you and threatens to overload all of your systems. Marcus’s lips are parted slightly, and the look in his eyes… it’s desire.

“Marcus…”

“Wait,” he says urgently. “Hang on. Come… come over here for a minute, let me–” he dashes awkwardly over to the till on the counter and gives you your total. Frowning in confusion–he wants to do this now? Interrupting that electric moment that had passed between you?–you dutifully swipe your card and numbly take the receipt.

“Now you’re no longer my client,” Marcus explains softly. “I–sorry–I was about to throw caution to the wind and kiss you, and I didn’t… I didn’t want to be unethical, I–”

“Yes,” you say simply, giving your response to his un-asked question.

It’s all he needs to stride forward, gently take your face in his warm palms, and, seeing no hesitation in your eyes even as he searches your face desperately—presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is as soft and as tender as the man himself, which hardly surprises you. Your eyes slip closed as his lips move against you with aching caution. He’s careful in all things, including this–taking your cues, giving you the lead, letting you feel everything he’s giving you.

All too quickly, he pulls back–but his eyes only sweep your face again, a growing smile on his lips as he sees nothing but want reflected back at him. 

When he lowers his lips to yours again, he’s less gentle. One large hand leaves your face too hook around your waist, pulling you closer, closer–and when the proximity causes you to gasp softly, Marcus is ready. His tongue gently slips between your parted lips and you practically melt into him. When your knees buckle, his strong arms are what keep you standing upright, and still–

He can’t seem to stop kissing you. 

You break before he does–pulling back to suck in a few shaky, heaving breaths, and he smiles through his own labored breathing.

“I wanted–I–” he begins, before hastily pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as if he can’t help but do so. 

“I’ve thought of you,” he tries again. “I thought of you like this for the last month,” the confession finally spills out. “I wanted to–wanted to kiss you so badly all day, but I couldn’t. Couldn’t let myself.” He kisses you again. “But now,” he promises, whispering the words against your mouth. “Now I’m gonna get my fill.”

To punctuate his statement with one of your own, you slant your head and deepen the kiss, wrapping one hand around Marcus’s neck and pulling him closer still. He makes a soft noise in his throat, and the grip on your waist tightens. You lose yourself completely to the feel of his tongue sliding slowly against yours, until he suddenly pulls back.

“I’m doing this all wrong,” he whispers–although he’s still smiling. “I wanted to ask you out to dinner, first.”

“So ask me,” you say with a giggle.

“Come have dinner with me,” Marcus murmurs, shaking his head in quiet amusement as he steals another gentle kiss. “Right now. Tonight.”

“You might have to open all the doors,” you tease. “My arm hurts.”

Another kiss.

“I’m wounded that you think I wouldn’t open every door regardless.”

“Are you always such a gentleman?” you remark with a wry smile.

Another. 

“Well,” Marcus grins wolfishly. He places on last, lingering kiss on your lips and then makes a show of offering his arm. “Not always.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #pedro pascal

[feyhunter78]

Breakdowns in Study Town - Nerd!Miguel

Description: After a long study session, your emotions get the best of you.

Shout out to @cannolithedarkpoet for the idea!!!

“I can’t do it; I’m going to fail.” You say, slumping down onto the table, burying your head in your arms, the hum of the air conditioner adding to your sensory overload. Your head hurts, your hand hurts, your stomach hurts, everything hurts, and you just want to cry.

“Hey, hey, no you’re not, you’ve almost finished it, just a few more problems to go.” Miguel says, sliding your notebook from under you. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re having trouble with, and I’ll see if I can explain it.”

“Everything. I’m having trouble with everything; I hate this stupid class.” You say, lifting your head slightly to look at him.

He smiles and adjusts his glasses before clicking his pen and beginning to circle several problems on the page in front of him. “Why don’t we break it into sections, then?”

You roll your head to the side, your brain hurts, and the florescent lights are making your eyes water. “Why don’t I just jump off the roof instead, that seems easier.”

“Y/N.” Miguel sighs, running a hand through his hair.

You bite your lip, fatigue pulling at your bones, hunger gnawing at your stomach. You’ve been at this for hours and you still can’t crack it. You just want to go back to your apartment and lay face down on the floor until you feel better. “I can’t do it, this is just not my thing, I’m going to fail, I’ve accepted it.”

“Look, it’s easy, you just need to give it another try.” Miguel urges, the words coming out too fast, too insistent, and they sound harsh, as if he’s annoyed with you and you start to spiral.

He’s annoyed with you, you’re annoying him, because you’re annoying. Stupid and annoying, and honestly, probably not even that pretty so you can’t even coast on your looks because who wants an ugly, annoying, stupid girlfriend? Which is probably why you don’t have a boyfriend, why Miguel would never date you. Stupid, stupid y/n, why did you even think you could do this? Why would you drag him all the way out here when you know you’re not smart enough? And now you’ve wasted so much of his time, and he’s realizing you’re not the fun, pretty sorority girl who just needs a little help. Just a little, enough to be cute and make him feel like a man, but not enough that it burdens him, but now you’re dead weight, an annoyance.

You sit up and start to gather your things, hands shaking as you blink back tears. “Sorry, I—I gotta go, I’m so sorry, I wasted like four hours of your life, I’m just going to study at home and—”

Miguel’s hands catch yours, gently forcing them to still. “Y/N, it’s okay.”

A sob works its way up your throat, escaping past the prison of your tightly pressed lips. “I’m sorry…”

“No, no, hey, hey, why are you apologizing?” His hands are gentle, he’s always so gentle, as he turns you to face him.

“I just—I—” You can’t even get the words out.

He turns your hands in his, rubbing circles into your palms, then the inside of your wrists. “Don’t cry, y/n, it’ll be okay, so what if you don’t do well on this test, the professor said he drops a major test grade at the end of the semester anyways.”

You hang your head, full on sobbing now, unable to hold it in. “That’s not it—it’s, you, you think I’m annoying, and stupid, and I’m not even pretty, and I’m never going to understand anything in this stupid class, so you’re just wasting your time with me.”

“What? Y/N, dulzura, no, no, you’re not annoying, I don’t think that, I’ve never thought that.” Miguel rushes to say, his hands hovering above your shoulders, unsure of whether or not to touch you.

“But I’m stupid, and I’m like average pretty, and I keep making you stay late in the library to help me study and—”

Miguel does something that surprises you. He laughs.

The sound startles you, makes your eyes flicker up to his face, vision blurred with tears as another sob wrenches itself from your chest. “And now you’re laughing at me.”

He cups your face with both hands, fingers spreading out, in your hair, resting on the sides of your neck, his pinkies smoothing over the skin of your pulse point. “You’re funny, you know that?”

You stare at him, confused and miserable.

“Y/N, you’re not stupid, not annoying, not ugly, and you’re not wasting my time.” He says soothingly, his voice low, his hands warm against your skin. “You’re so smart, remember when you won that trivia contest for your sorority? You beat every other team, by yourself. And you’re not annoying, you’re never annoying, I wouldn’t be here if you were.”

You nod weakly, your sobs turning into sniffles, a deranged thought taking hold. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

Miguel’s face tints red and his eyes drop to the floor. “Y/N come on; everyone thinks you’re pretty.”

“But do you?” You ask quietly, your fingers finding purchase in his faded blue sweatshirt.

His eyes meet yours, and they’re stunning, flecked with gold and green, warm, and intent, staring straight into your soul but shying away right before you all but shove it into his hands. He leans into your touch, a subconscious movement that makes your heart flutter. “Creo que eres la chica más hermosa que he visto en mi vida.” Trsl: I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.

Your voice is barely above a whisper, afraid to ruin the moment, to shatter whatever lays between the two of you right now. “I don’t speak Spanish, Miguel, you know this.”

“Yes, dulzura, I think you’re pretty.” He admits, using his thumbs to wipe away the last of your mascara tainted tears.

“I think you’re pretty, too.” You say, biting back a smile when he short-circuits, his eyes darting around the room.

“Thank you…” He stutters out, leaning back suddenly, as if he’s just now realized how close together the two of you are.

Your stomach growls, the sound echoing in the small room.

“Do you want to get food?” You ask, pulling out a compact mirror from your backpack and trying to rid yourself of the remaining mascara stains.

“Sure, I could eat.” He says, his body is turned from you, but you can feel his eyes lingering.

TL: @bat-bae, @nyctophilic0vitnir, @smokeywhalee, @obi-mom-kenobi, @prowlingforfood, @penggion, @crystal-crax, @oharasfilipinawife, @generalkenobitrash, @melsimps, @chrishy973, @farrowroyale, @palesatan, @scaryplanetdestroyer

#meg's writing #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #college!miguel #college!reader #nerd!miguel #nerd miguel #nerd!miguel o'hara #sorority!reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara x y/n

[steddieas-shegoes]

Hello my love! ❤️

Another for you, if you’re still taking them, though of course feel free to ignore this for any reason (or even no reason) at all!

I would love to see what you can do with Steddie and James Arthur’s “Car’s Outside”. I feel like this is one Eddie would write for Steve, maybe after an argument..? 👀

I had to look this one up because I’d never heard it before and this is some emotional stuff I wasn’t prepared for but should’ve been when you said maybe after an argument 😭

Touring the country had been his dream for so long that when it became a reality, he forgot what was most important.

It happened to a lot of rockstars.

His reality check came like lightning, fast and sharp.

“I’m just trying to understand, Stevie. You wanted me to do this. You told me to go on the tours and record the albums. You supported me. What changed?”

“You did.”

That was the last thing Steve said to him over a week ago.

All he knew now was that Steve was back in Hawkins staying with Wayne and hadn’t told him much other than he wouldn’t take up too much room for long.

Wayne didn’t tell him anything except that Steve was alive and safe, but didn’t seem to be taking care of himself well.

The first two days, all Eddie felt was anger. He was full of contempt for Steve suddenly changing his mind about Eddie’s life and dreams.

But the third day was when it hit him that Steve left.

He’d avoided everyone after that, only answered the phone in case it was him calling and hanging up if it wasn’t him.

He barely got out of bed, barely ate, didn’t even go into the bedroom converted into a music room to play his guitar.

The next tour was set to start in two weeks and he didn’t think he could go, not like this, not without Steve here waiting for him.

- - - - -

Wayne called the night before he was leaving for the tour, said he needed to come to Hawkins, but wouldn’t say why.

“Are you sick or hurt?”

“No, Ed.”

“…is Steve?”

“Just get here.”

So Eddie did.

He called the guys and told them he would meet them at their first stop in New York in three days, that he had a family emergency and couldn’t travel on the bus with them.

When he got to Hawkins, he felt like turning right around and leaving.

He hadn’t been back in years; Wayne always came to see them for holidays and visits.

Nothing has changed, not even the trailer Wayne insisted on still living in, even when Eddie offered to buy him something nicer.

Steve’s car sat in the driveway next to Wayne’s truck, just like it did before they’d moved to Chicago to try to make Eddie’s dream happen.

Eddie parked next to him, the rental from the airport much cleaner and nicer than anything else around here, but not in a good way.

It clicked suddenly, that Eddie wasn’t the same. That the guy who used to drive a beat up van and live in this trailer and loved Steve so much it felt like a physical ache when he wasn’t around wasn’t here.

He walked up to the door, knocking like this wasn’t his home just five years ago.

Wayne answered, sullen face making his chest tight with worry.

“Where is he?”

“He’s asleep finally. Come on in, son. Have a seat.”

“What happened?”

Wayne sighed.

“He’s been overworking himself and not sleeping or eating, and it finally caught up to him. He’s had a migraine for three days now, longest I’ve seen. Can barely sit up to sip water but begged me not take him to the hospital.”

Eddie’s fists clenched.

“Why wouldn’t he go?”

Wayne blinked at him.

“Son, you’re not an idiot despite the way you’ve been actin’ for a while. Think about it.”

Wayne walked to the kitchen and started packing his lunchbox.

“Where are you going?”

“I got a shift to get to. Steve shouldn’t be alone.”

Eddie stayed on the couch for the next two hours, his brain shifting through thoughts that quickly turned into song lyrics.

He wrote them down, but barely focused on what he was writing. Now wasn’t really a great time to be producing something new.

He heard a groan from his old bedroom and shot up from the couch, making his way to the end of the hall and entering the room without a second thought.

Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed, body hunched and eyes closed, pain a physical presence through every inch of him.

“Stevie,” Eddie choked out.

Steve’s head shot up. He winced in pain, but the tears in his eyes didn’t seem to have much to do with that as Eddie got closer.

“What are you doing here?”

“Wayne called.”

“And?”

“If you need me, I’m gonna be here.”

Steve looked away, his eyes closing as he turned his head.

“That’s not how things have been.”

It hurt, but he was right. It hadn’t been how things have been. Not for a while.

“I know. I…I don’t think sorry is enough for any of it, but I am. I’m sorry. So sorry, Stevie.”

Steve looked at him, the haze of the migraine keeping a lot of emotion off his face.

“Yeah. Okay.”

It wasn’t forgiveness, and forgiveness wasn’t deserved yet, but it was a start. And when Steve let Eddie get him water and medicine, and play with his hair, it felt like a start.

- - - - -

Eddie had to go.

If he didn’t go, he’d miss the first show of the tour.

He’d be in deep shit, and the guys would hate him, and he would never make music again.

His manager called him every four hours at Wayne’s asking when his flight would be and he always said “when things are right with Steve.”

It started to feel like that might not happen.

But something about the way Steve was slowly letting him in, allowing him to care for him more every day, gave him hope that he could get him back, get them back.

Wayne didn’t say much to him, didn’t have to. The way he watched was enough to know how Wayne felt about him, this situation.

But he didn’t go.

Steve’s migraine was gone, but he still needed Eddie, still needed to see that he was the priority.

Eddie needed to show him that he mattered more than his band, because he did. He always had and always would.

He missed the last flight that would’ve gotten him there on time.

He called the guys to let them know, to apologize, to tell them that he had to do what was best for him.

They understood, but told him their manager was livid and probably would try to replace him instead of postpone the tour.

He didn’t care at this point.

He’d gotten his taste of fame and it was bittersweet.

Steve stood in the doorway when Eddie hung up the phone, watching him with his arms crossed as Eddie covered his face in his hands.

“You’re not going?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Eddie dropped his hands and sighed.

“If I have to pick, then I pick you. I’ll always pick you.”

Steve’s brows furrowed.

“You think I want you to pick between me and your career?”

“Yes. That’s why you left, isn’t it?”

Steve shook his head.

“I left because you forgot that I was a choice at all,” Steve’s voice sounded choked. “I left because I didn’t even think you’d care if I did. You didn’t seem to care much about leaving me anymore.”

Eddie’s heart couldn’t possibly break more.

“Sweetheart, of course I care. I’m here because I can’t lose you. If it’s you or the band, then it’s you. Always.”

Steve let out a sob.

“I didn’t want you to choose me instead of your career. I wanted you to recognize that choosing your career didn’t have to mean not choosing me.”

“Oh, my love.”

Eddie pulled Steve against him, holding the back of his head against his chest, other hand running up and down his back slowly.

“You’re always my first choice. I’m sorry I forgot to show you that. I’m sorry you ever had to feel like you weren’t even an option. You’re the most important choice I’ve ever made and I’m going to keep choosing you every day. Even if it means giving up the band. None of that means shit to me if I don’t have you.”

Steve nodded against his chest.

They stayed like that for so long, Wayne came home, nodded and smiled from the doorway of the kitchen.

- - - - -

Steve came with him.

He called his manager the next day, said it was non-negotiable that Steve be with them for this tour.

The band was on his side, of course. They loved Steve and they loved Eddie and the last thing they wanted was to see either of them hurting.

The first time he performed the song he wrote while he was in limbo with Steve, he let the crowd know what was most important in his life.

“Gonna slow it down a bit for this next one. Sometimes this life has some downsides, hard to believe, right? It’s hard to maintain who you are when you’re being pulled in so many directions. But I’m lucky to have someone who keeps me grounded. Leaving them for tour wasn’t an option this time around, and I’m glad they’re here with me. I wrote this a couple weeks ago when we were having a hard time. I wasn’t being the partner they needed, and I wasn’t showing them that they’re the partner I want. I’m not loving you from afar anymore, sweetheart.”

Steve watched from his spot backstage, like he did every night.

He didn’t feel like an option anymore, he felt like the choice.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #headcanon #rockstar eddie munson #angst with a happy ending

[irkimatsu]

hi!! i love your husk works <3

something wholesome (or maybe it turns smutty… 🫦). husk making biscuits. y'know, how cats do.

this idea has been rotting my brain. ☠️

How about smuttily wholesome? It's not full on NSFW, but Husk does get a little handsy in this one. It's all out of love, though - that nice balance of sweet and spice. Inspired by another kneading post I saw in the tag; damn it I wish I could remember who posted it so I could give them a shoutout! 1k words, Reader has breasts but otherwise gendered words aren't used.

---

It’s a calming evening in, with you and Husk lounging in his bed at the hotel. Calming jazz music plays as the cat demon dozes on top of you, paws rested on your stomach and his chin settled on top of them.

You know he’s human and that he insists on being treated as such, and you’d never disrespect his humanity… but you can’t help but admit that his cat-like mannerisms are adorable. Ever since the two of you established a relationship with each other, he’s been immensely affectionate with you in private, even clingy. One of his favorite activities with you is napping, as befitting both a cat and an old man, with his favorite position being on your lap or otherwise over you. His weight over you is so comforting, and even though you aren’t in the mood for a nap yourself, you’re enjoying being pinned beneath him for the time being. He looks so peaceful there, his face relaxed as he quietly snores.

“Husk…” you whisper, smiling, as you reach down to gently scratch behind his ear. It doesn’t awaken him, but he still reflexively tilts his head toward your hand and purrs while you scratch.

God damn it, how are you not supposed to find that cute?!

“I love you, Husk,” you keep whispering as you cradle his face in your palms and stroke his cheeks with your thumbs. You’re glad he trusts you enough to allow this. He knows you don’t enjoy petting him because you merely view him as an animal; this is a genuine attempt to show affection and comfort to the man you care so deeply for. It’d break your heart if he ever believed your affection meant anything less than that.

He continues purring as you stroke him, allowing his scent to cover your hands just as he enjoys. He’s so into the affection that his claws begin to flex against your stomach.

“H-hey!” you say with a surprised laugh, trying to be quiet enough that you don’t startle him. “Watch your claws!”

He doesn’t seem to hear you as he keeps flexing, his nails slightly poking at the skin beneath your shirt. Is he… kneading you?

Despite your instinct to laugh, you know you should take it as the highest compliment that he’s comfortable enough for that instinct to take over. It doesn’t hurt like you’d think it would, given his strength and the size of his claws. Even when asleep and acting on instinct, he knows how to treat you gently.

God, what is a man this sweet doing in hell? (Okay, you know why he’s here. But still…)

He grunts slightly in his sleep and starts moving, slowly easing his way up your body. Once his paws are on your chest, he settles in again, shifting his weight so that the pressure isn’t uncomfortable. Once he stops moving, you start rubbing his cheeks again.

You’re not thinking about the current position of his paws until he starts kneading again.

“Hey!” you can’t help but yelp as his claws dig into your breasts. The noise immediately awakens him. His yellow eyes snap wide open as he jolts upright.

“Ah! Shit!” he says as he pulls his paws off of you. “What happened? Did I hurt you?”

“Your claws,” you say. “You started, um…” You know he prefers for you to be honest with him about his instincts, so there’s no sense in being cagey about it. “You started kneading me.”

Husk holds his face in his palm and grumbles. “God damn it…”

“I enjoyed it!” you clarify. “You just got a little rough with my breasts, that’s all.”

“Huh… well, that explains my dream,” he says.

“What were you dreaming about?”

“About you. Who else?” He’s taken his paw away from his face and is now giving you one of his standard, charming grins. “You were cradling my cheeks and kissin’ me, doing a good job of it as always.”

You blush slightly; you still haven’t gotten used to the idea of someone liking you enough to have such intimate dreams about you, not just physical, but loving.

“While ya kissed me, I was running my hands over your body, just how I know you like it, marvelin’ at how damn good ya feel.. I was just getting to the good part when I woke up.”

“And the good part was…?” As if you truly need to ask.

“Can I show ya?” he asks, still smiling. Once you nod, he nuzzles his head into your chest and rests his paws on your breasts, now more deliberate than earlier. “I was just about to start touchin’ here…”

You wrap your arms around him and hug him firmly as he lightly squeezes your breasts, inviting him to continue touching you. In tandem with his paws’ gentle rubbing, you start lightly scratching at his back. You start in the middle of his lower back, a good distance from two of his sweet spots, but you know what you’re doing as you drag your nails up to the spot just below his wings.

“Mmm…!” He moans as a purr rumbles in his throat, louder than ever. He nuzzles you again, and his claws resume their flexing. Since he’s awake this time, he can be more careful with his movements, not treating your breasts rougher than you like. Just rough enough.

“I’m sorry I disturbed you,” you say, a teasing smile on your own face. “I should let you get back to your nap.” Even as you say that, you keep scratching his back in a way that you know damn well has him too riled up to get back to sleep so easily.

He chuckles in response. “Nah, I’m not tired anymore.”

“But don’t you want to get back to your dream?”

He responds by lifting his head and pressing his lips to yours. His paws keep kneading at your chest as he pushes against your body and moans into your mouth.

“Why go back to my dream when I can have the real thing…?”

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin husk #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel husk x reader #hazbin husk x reader #irk blubbers about nothing #irk got asked a thing #antholojade #irk huskposts

[charliedawn]

The slashers react to your first heartbreak :

Jason was not going to say anything. He had always found your boyfriend 'odd', but hadn't dared say anything.

And then, you came in with a tearful face and a trembling lip and he was certain of two things.

First off, you were hurt.

Two, he didn't like it.

He immediately took you in his arms and rocked you back and forth while you sobbed in his chest.

He wanted to hold you and tell you everything he felt, but he just kept hugging you tight.

Whoever had hurt you would come to regret it quickly.

He'd take down his favorite machete and make sure the man/woman who hurt you can't walk anymore.

Bo saw it in your eyes when you came home. You were heartbroken and he didn't say anything before grabbing one of his tools and storming out to follow your 'ex'.

It didn't take him long to catch him and beat him to a pulp.

"Squeal, little piggy. Squeal !"

Bo cackled before thumping his foot down on your ex's throat.

"You made MY girl/boy cry...I'll fucking kill you."

You tried to stop him, but to no avail.

Bo was dead set on making him pay for the pain he caused you.

"YOU'LL NEVER HURT THEM AGAIN, FUCKER !"

He then got out his shotgun and didn't hesitate before shooting your ex in the head. He then turned back towards you, blood splattered all over his shirt and a satisfied grin on his face.

"Oh ! Look at that ! He did have a brain afterall ?!"

The moment Brahms knew, he didn't waste any time stepping up. He knew you were hurt badly and the only way to make it all better was to be there for you.

"Brahms will...make you happy...Never go.", he said while holding you in his arms.

"I know, Brahms. Thank you for being my friend.", you said and his grip tightened slightly as he shook his head.

"No friend."

You laughed and thought he was joking, so you only eyed his arms around you.

"Rrright...I'm sure no friends would try to cheer me up."

But, he didn't laugh.

"No...friend."

He insisted before gently bending your body so your face may be above his.

"Brahms...Wants. Loves. Y/N."

Your eyes widened and you smiled through your tears at him.

"Y/N loves Brahms too."

He didn't hesitate before leaning forward to press his mask against your face, holding you tighter than ever. If you were to be alone, he'd be the one to fill the void. Forever.

"Human mad...Penny mad."

He bared his sharp teeth and growled in anger.

It was clear enough he had read your mind and found out what had happened.

"DON'T !", you cried out as he was about to jump out the house to tear your ex to pieces.

"HE MUST SUFFER !"

You hugged him and immobilized him momentarily. He didn't want to hurt you and you hid your face in his puffy collar.

"WHY ?!", he growled out—clearly confused.

"...Because I want you here with me.", you confessed and Penny's anger turned into bitter understanding as he wrapped his arms around you.

"...Alright, human. You can have me.",he begrudgingly agreed while plotting all the ways he was going to punish your ex once freed from your hold.

Your ex wouldn't see the light of day again.

Jack was so angry hearing about the way your ex had messed up his chance with you, he snapped.

"That fucker did...WHAT ?!"

You took a step back as various things went flying around you and Jack gritted his teeth.

He knew what was going on. He knew exactly what was going on through the little shit's head.

Because, he knew what they thought. He knew because they were him.

So, he would go there and knock some sense into the guy/girl.

Later that day :

"THEY ARE THE BEST FUCKING THING THAT EVER HAPPENED TO US ! AND YOU DARE BREAK THEIR HEART ?!"

Jack then knocked your ex out with a book. He then savoured the fear from him and smirked as he raised his axe in the air.

"They gave you all the chances in the world. Now, ain't never going to get another one..."

Myers wordlessly stood up and walked out to return that night covered in blood and didn't even glance back at you before entering his bedroom.

It was just another victim. No need to dwell on it.

And when you saw on the news that your ex had 'mysteriously disappeared' ?

You didn't mention it to Michael.

You were just numb at this point and Michael understood.

He left you alone and occasionally cooked for you when he knew you were feeling really bad.

He even tried to feed you when you wouldn't.

He knew it would take time for you to heal, but he could wait.

He had all the time in the world.

Pennywise was on his way to complain to you about one thing or the other—but before he could utter a word...He noticed the tears.

He stopped dead in his tracks and could smell the faint scent of pain and grief in the air.

He then saw you were holding one of those things humans called "phones". From what he understood, whatever information you had received from the communication device had shattered your spirit.

He sighed and considered leaving, but his steps brought him closer to you instead. He crouched in front of you and hesitated before holding your hand and squeezing it.

"Don't cry, doll face. They ain't worth it."

He wiped your tears with his gloved hands and smiled.

"There are some folks worrying about you. Very worried. Very here. And very attached to you...And I may be one of them."

"...Pennywise", you uttered in a whisper and Pennywise's smile turned incredibly painful. He sighed again before rising to his feet and walking away. You didn't know what he was going to do until he turned back towards you and his pupils were a bright orange.

"Don't worry, doll face. They ain't gonna bother you ever again..."

Norman knew you'd come for a rebound. He wasn't an idiot. But, it was just too tempting to pass on.

He wanted to be a true gentleman and comfort you, but he realized that it was impossible.

He was just too happy about the whole ordeal.

He knew the two of you wouldn't work, because you belonged to him—no one else's.

He had kept his mouth shut when he had seen the way you had fallen so fast for the idiot, but he wouldn't anymore.

He trapped you in a tight embrace and kept you there as your tears coated his shirt.

And then, he did the one thing he had always wanted to do, but had never had the chance to.

He kissed you.

He wanted to suck all of the pain out of you. And, he even smiled when you started kissing him back.

The cops wouldn't find your ex's body for weeks, it would give him all the time in the world to convince you and heal you.

If that was the last thing he did...

"...He made you cry, huh ?", Freddy said knowingly and didn't seem his usual sarcastic self as he took a step forward and wiped your tears with his thumbs.

"Told ya. Assholes exist. Gotta learn to recognize them, lovely.", he told you and you sniffled before raising your hand above your heart—to check if it was still beating.

"...I think my heart is broken.", you said and Freddy smiled—but it was a sad compassionate one.

It didn't suit him.

"Yeah...You'll learn to live with it."

You closed your eyes and nodded before the corners of your eyes slightly tilted upwards as a thought crossed your mind.

"Funny...I'd thought you'd be happy. Or, that you'd try to get in my pants."

Freddy snorted before replying.

"Who says I'm not ?"

You looked at each other for a few seconds before bursting out laughing together.

Two broken souls laughing together on the first step of the gallows...

Freddy was broken, but he'd be fine to be broken with you. And whoever or whatever broke you ?

Well...There wouldn't be a night when Freddy wouldn't be hunting their dreams, eating them away until nothing remained but madness. And even in death, Freddy would bring them to hell himself.

"~Honey I'm back !", Eddie said with a big grin on his face, grin that immediately fell when he found you crying on his coach.

"What happened ?", he asked worriedly before sitting down next to you. He threw the concert tickets he had bought on the floor and you confessed.

"They broke up with me..."

"Idiot.", he didn't hesitate before telling you and then smiled sympathetically at you. "You're great. The greatest of them all. You are nice. You were always nice...even to me."

He held your hand and kissed the back of it.

"He didn't see his chance ? Too bad."

Eddie wouldn't make the same mistake.

That night, Ghostface made another victim. And Eddie won himself a chance to right his past wrongs.

He had let you go once, never again...

Eddie *gently tugs a strand/curl of your hair behind your ear* : "You'll be alright, sweetheart. I promise."

#fandoms #imagine #fanfic #freddy krueger x reader #michael myers x reader #norman bates x reader #jack torrance x reader #pennywise 1990 x y/n x pennywise 2017 #pennywise 2017 #pennywise 1990 #pennywise x reader #bo sinclair x reader #brahms heelshire x reader #jason voorhees x reader #slashers

[autisticlancemcclain]

“You know I love you, right?”

Keith smiles. He doesn’t stop his hands from their constant brushes through his boyfriend’s hair, doesn’t shift or move. Lance stays where he is, too, full weight on Keith’s body, head pillowed on his chest, moving slightly with every breath.

“Yes,” Keith says. “I know.”

“Good.” Keith feels the rumble of Lance’s voice in his ribcage, the puffs of his breath on his bare skin. “‘Cause I tease you, a lot, so I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

“I do. I know.” He pauses as he runs his fingers over the shell of Lance’s ear, tracing the scar on his skull, before gently tapping his finger three times. For a while Lance simply breathes, sinking into Keith’s touch, then he shifts slightly, turning brown eyes up to meet Keith’s.

“How do you know, though? Like if you had to define it.”

Keith leans down slightly to press a kiss to his freckled nose, just to watch it wrinkle. It makes him grin. “I just do, Lance. You say my name like you love me.”

The answer doesn’t seem to placate Lance completely, but enough that he sighs, putting his head back down on Keith’s chest and reaching over blindly to pull their blankets up to his chin.

“Okay.”

Keith says nothing for a long while, humming to himself, enjoying the feeling of Lance’s soft skin under his hands, the weight of his body pressing him into the mattress. It’s a relief after a long day, a balm to his exhausted muscles and tired brain.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

Keith tugs a strand of Lance’s hair in admonishment, not enough to hurt, but he grumbles anyway.

“Try again.”

“Maybe I don’t love the man who hurts me so,” Lance pouts, sticking out his bottom lip and rubbing his scalp like it actually hurts.

Keith rolls his eyes. Lance grins, then sighs.

“Just — someone said something, at training. Kind of huffed and said something about how annoying it was that we still don’t like each other.”

Keith snorts. “Well, you did shoot me.”

“I was justified! You were being irritating!” Lance shifts, moving to his belly so he can look at Keith properly, glaring. “And I put my bayard on stun! It barely hurt!”

Love of his life or not, Keith loves getting this man so riled up.

“Yeah, the giant bruise I have says otherwise.”

There is no giant bruise.

But messing with Lance is funny.

“You are not fucking bruised!”

Before Lance can get too enraged and start stripping him down to make sure, Keith laughs, giving up the game and grabbing Lance’s wrists. He pulls him forward so he loses his balance, arms around Keith’s neck, barely managing to catch himself before their heads smack together, face inches from Keith’s.

“You worry too much,” Keith whispers, nosing his way down Lance’s cheeks, peppering kisses as he goes. “I don’t give a shit what anyone else says. The whole point of keeping them in the dark is so that I can have you —” he bites Lance’s earlobe gently, pulling it slightly, making the Cuban’s breath hitch — “all to myself.”

“Still,” Lance tries to insist, but Keith can physically feel his resolve falling away, feel him melting into Keith’s touch. “It bothers me that people think I can do anything but love you. You’re — I dunno. You’re everything to me. You make me feel like I can keep going.”

Keith can’t help his smile, and he knows Lance feels it, pressed into the junction of his neck. He kisses slightly there, and Lance turns his head to give him access, slides his hands into Keith’s hair as he works a mark into dark skin.

“That’s gay,” Keith mumbles, as fondly as he can.

It takes a second for Lance to clock Keith’s words, too focused on the besotted sound of them, but he huffs when he does, shoving Keith away and glaring at him.

Keith bursts out laughing.

“You’re the worst,” Lance says, but soon he’s smiling, too. Keith leans in and kisses that smile, because he can and because he wants to.

“I know.”

“Jerk. I’m divorcing you.”

Keith hums, tugging him back down under the covers, wrapping him back into the position he was in earlier. “You won’t even let me marry you.”

“We are twenty years old,” Lance grumbles, but every time he says it he sounds less and less like he cares. “We’re not getting married at twenty years old.”

“We’ll see.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Lance settles into the silence, breathing evening again, wandering hands going still.

“I love you too, by the way,” Keith murmurs, suddenly worried that Lance doesn’t know.

He feels Lance’s lips upturn, and smiles to match it.

He knows.

#look i love it when they’re soft and in love #vld #voltron #lance #lance mcclain #keith #keith kogane #klance #established klance #established relationship #secret relationship #secret relationship klance #brown-eyed lance #keith is a little shit #flirty keith #keith has game #whipped keith #whipped lance #my writing #fic #longpost #?

[cissyenthusiast010155]

Maybe 27 with larissa or lesso?

Hey anon! I already did 27 for Lesso and you can read it here: Red Fever. But I’d love to write this for Larissa 💕🤭 I included an amazing song to go along with this fic 😉✨

I Take Care of What’s Mine ~Larissa Weems xFem Reader

Mommy…Master List

Requests & Prompt-List

#27. “If you hate me so much, why do moan my name in the shower?!”

Warnings: NSFW, 18+!!, shower sex, implied masturbation, fingering, kissing, hickeys, praise kink, angst, enemies to lovers kinda, implied future smut, etc.

Enjoy (;

You had started working at Nevermore this summer and now the school semester was in swing. Your colleagues were pretty nice and the kids were great (difficult at times, but you loved them). And then there was Principal Weems.

You two had a weirdly professional yet complicated relationship. You were both formal and behaved professionally. At least most of the time. You had a hunch that she didn’t like you. And that she simply covered her distaste for you with professionalism.

For one, she insisted that all staff members called her ‘Larissa’ in private, but not with you. For you, it was always ‘Principal Weems’ or ‘Ms. Weems’. She also actively ignored your inputs at staff meetings. She’d just run you over and continue talking. Her words to you were curt and prompt. And you had the feeling she avoided to be alone with you at all costs…

But you loved everything else about Nevermore. So you put up with the Principals disguised hatred. Even though it hurt your heart that the two of you didn’t get along.

You sighed, contemplating all of this for the zillionth time, as you made your way to Principal Weems’ office. You had to drop off some paperwork, which meant you unfortunately had to interact with Larissa… You arrived at her office, only to find the office door cracked open… You entered the office and found no one.

“Principal Weems…?” You called.

“M’mmm…”

You heard a stifled mumble of a voice in response, coming from a side door in Principal Weems’ office. You placed the papers on her desk and quietly approached the ajar door. You heard a light pattering of water. As if someone was showering…

“Oh Fuck…” a muffled voice groaned.

Your eyes widened at this and your ears pricked up even more. But nothing could have prepared you for what you heard next…

“Oh God Y/N that’s it…! Such a good girl…!!” Larissa cried out.

Your breath hitched and you stumbled backwards. Your brain short circuited and you practically ran back to your private quarters. You slammed your door shut, collapsing against the door and panting heavily.

~~~

The next morning, all you could think about was what you had heard the night before. Through the entire staff meeting, your thoughts were spiraling.

Why would Larissa say your name? Didn’t she hate you??

As the staff meeting let out, you decided you had to do something.

“Principal Weems, can I speak to you in your office for a moment?” you asked.

The Principal didn’t even look up to meet your eye. She merely hummed a yes in response. You entered her office, yesterdays sounds ringing in your ear, as Larissa closed the door behind you. She walked around behind her desk and her eyes finally met yours.

“What is it Miss L/N?” She impatiently asked, her foot tapping the floor.

“I…” you stuttered, suddenly at a loss for words.

“Why do you hate me so much?” You blurted out, just wanting to get this over with.

Larissa’s eyes widened at your statement and her lips pursed.

“Excuse me…?”

“I… why do you… hate me so much…?” You stuttered, tears starting to sweal in your eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Miss L/N.” She defended.

“It’s not ridiculous!” You exclaimed with a crack in your speech, “I just… I just don’t understand!”

“Don’t understand what??” Larissa demanded with a raised voice.

“If you hate me so much, why do moan my name in the shower?!” You exclaimed, finally letting it out.

Larissa was stunned. And now you were confused by her reaction. After a minute of straight silence, Larissa broke out in a fit of giggles.

“Is this funny to you??” You questioned the blonde.

“Yes…!” She chuckled, “Do you honestly not understand??”

“Understand what?!” you yelled.

“That I like you!!” She yelled back.

Luckily Larissa had closed the door…

It still hadn’t clicked for you yet.

Larissa groaned out in frustration, swiftly invading your personal space, and smashing her lips into yours. At first you froze, but Larissa was quick to melt you with her lips on yours. You giddily moaned into the kiss, as Larissa’s tongue slid into your mouth. You both had to eventually pull away to regain your breath.

Larissa stared at your unabashedly, as your cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. Her lipstick was smeared all over you lips and all around hers as well.

“Do you understand now…?” She purred.

Your blush tenfolded, “Yes…” you whispered back.

Larissa’s lips grazed your ear, “Did it turn you on to hear your name on my lips…?” She purred.

You shuddered at the change to such a sultry tone. Your throat went dry at her words.

She lustfully continued, “Did you want that to be your fingers making me come undone…?”

You gulped and nodded.

“Well Why don’t you join me for a shower then…?” She purred, staring you down intently.

“I…Yes please…!” you immediately whimpered in response.

Larissa raised her brow and walked over to the side door, leading to her private quarters. She beckoned you to follow her.

This was a fucking fever dream…

You followed the blonde into her room and then into her bathroom, your mouth agape the entire time. Larissa chuckled lightly at the effect she had on you. She closed and locked the bathroom door.

And then she began stripping right in front of you. Your eyes widened and your blush deepened as Larissa exposed her swell breasts, milky thighs, and everything else for you to see… You were glued to the spot. Larissa eventually sauntered over to you, swinging her bare hips in a delicious fashion.

“This will not work…” Larissa tutted, as she began to remove your clothing, piece by piece.

Your pupils were blown wide and you let the blonde lead you into the shower. She turned the water on. The same sound of pattering water filled the room. You still couldn’t fully believe this was happening. But then her lips were on yours again, and everything made sense again.

Your bodies moved in tandem, as Larissa guided you to trap her in between the wall and your own body. As her tongue explored your mouth, Larissa’s hands explored your exposed, wet body. One hand found it’s home on your ass, squeezing it and eliciting a moan from your lips, which Larissa gladly swallowed. The other hand finding your breasts and kneeding them one after the other.

Eventually, Larissa pulled away from the heated kiss and brought her lips to the shell of your ear, “Why don’t you be a good girl and finger me, baby…” she husked, her words sending shivers down your spine.

You immediately nodded, dropping to your knees for the blonde. Larissa widened her stance for you, as she leaned against the wall with one hand in your hair. Your mouth found home on the blondes clit, causing Larissa to only egg you on more. You ran a finger through her folds, removing your mouth from her clit for a moment to lick her slick off your finger. You moaned in delight.

“God Baby… Don’t be a tease…” Larissa groaned.

At that, your tongue wrapped itself around her clit once more and you slipped a finger into the blondes dripping cunt. Your began pumping and curling your finger inside her heat at a decent pace.

“Oh Fuck…! More Baby… God more!!” Larissa moaned out, her head and eyes rolled back in pleasure.

You happily obliged, slipping another finger into her throbbing pussy and speeding up your thrusts. Once you found that spongey spot in the blondes walls, she was done for… Larissa’s legs began shaking and moans flowed freely from her lips. You added a third finger and Larissa snapped.

“Oh God Y/N that’s it…! Such a good girl…!!” Larissa cried out, as she came around your fingers, with your mouth on her clit.

You eagerly cleaned the blonde up through and after her high. You then looked up and met her hodded gaze.

“Such a good girl…” Larissa husked, cupping your chin and raising you to connect your lips to hers.

You whimpered into the kiss, now needing desperate relief yourself. Now you were the one to pul away. Your needy eyes met Larissa’s.

“Please… I need you…” you whimpered.

Larissa chuckled, “Don’t worry, Baby… I’ll take care of you…” peppering along your collar bone kisses in between her words, “my good girl…” she purred.

~~~

#gwendoline christie #gwendolineuniverse #gwendoline christie character #gwendoline christie x reader #larissa weems #principal weems #principal larissa weems #weems #larissa weems x y/n #larissa weems fanfic #larissa weems smut #larissa weems x reader #larissa weems x female reader #wednesday weems #wednesday netflix #wednesday netflix fanfiction #wednesday addams netflix #wednesday netflix smut #wednesday smut #wednsday addams #shower scene #enemies to lovers #larissa weems angst

[izurou]

you can’t sleep, and so kento can’t either.

it’s a recurring theme. you toss and turn, turn and toss, and being the light sleeper he is—kento will wake up.

he always attempts to lull you back into a slumber though, even if he is only twenty percent aware of his surroundings. one of his arms will reach out to your side and pull you close upon discovery, more or less restricting any further movement on your end as he keeps you in place with his strength.

ten minutes pass, followed by fifteen, twenty five, half an hour—and all you get is the overflow of his seemingly endless supply of body heat, which in turn, just makes your dream of a good night’s rest—or what’s left of it, even more unattainable.

you slip out of his grasp—mumbling something about getting a glass of water from the bathroom—or using the kitchen? he isn’t entirely sure. even so, you’ve pulled this stunt enough times for him to know you won’t be back anytime soon.

so he forces himself out of bed and steps into the pair of sandy brown slippers he keeps by the door—dragging them against the hardwood floors as he joins you downstairs.

“you can’t do this every time,” he mutters over his shoulder—filling your little kitchen with the steady sound of his spoon as it clinks against the sides of his mug. “you do know that, right?”

he’s cute like this—little blonde tufts sticking out all over his head, a faint red indentation wrapping around the arm he was passed out on, and the subtlest hint of annoyance woven into his words—a watered down version of the tone satoru is often on the receiving end of.

“why not?” you ask, sweet and innocent—you’re not hurting anyone—well, maybe yourself in the grand scheme of things, but that has nothing to do with him, right?

“don’t you think it’d make more sense to, i don’t know,” he pauses, lifting the cup to his lips for a quick sip before turning around. “try to sleep?”

“no,” you say, mimicking his movements as you reach for your own cup—chamomile tea he made for you. “sometimes you just have to get up and move around.”

“yeah?” a puff of air leaves his nose—something resembling a laugh as he hides his growing smirk behind his coffee. “looks like you’re doing a lot of moving, sweetheart.”

well, he isn’t wrong, you’ve been leaning against the kitchen island this whole time—at no fault of your own though, because kento insisted on making the beverage himself.

“you know what i meant,” you grumble, giving him a rather unsavoury glare.

he just hums in agreement, pushes himself off of the edge of the counter, and settles in next to you—same exact position, better company.

“something on your mind?” he asks, knowing full well that your brain is often the culprit on nights like these.

“nothing major,” you reply, “just wondering why you put creamer in my tea.”

flavoured creamer to be exact—tasting vaguely of peppermint, something you’d only expect to find in store around the holiday season. why kento has it now will have to remain a mystery.

“i did?” he furrows his brows, craning his neck to peek into your cup—and sure enough, the liquid is a much lighter shade of brown than it should be.

you didn’t say anything of course, seeing as he was nice enough to do it for you—but apparently, not conscious enough to do it well.

“mhm, it’s,” you pause—bringing the rim of the cup to your lips, reluctantly letting the concoction slide down your throat, and over exaggerating the disgusted face you make in the process. “t’s really bad, maybe you should’ve let me do it.”

“tch, don’t give me that,” he huffs, though he just can’t seem to fight the grin that bullies it’s way onto his lips.

“give you what?” you ask, as innocent and sweet as always—even despite the pout on your face.

“that,” he clarifies, pressing a finger against the apple of your cheek, which consequently replaces your pout with a pretty smile—and maybe, this is worth more than the sleep he’s missing out on.

you wrap your arms around him, nuzzling into the warmth of his chest—ironic, you know—but it’s much different when you’re not buried under the blankets. at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

you remain like this for a few minutes, and he’s silent, incredibly so—with his chin resting atop your head and his hands holding your waist. you can’t make out the sound of his breath, nor the beat of his heart—did he die up there?

“ken?” you poke him, searching for a sign of life.

“hm?” he jolts a little, seemingly coming back to his senses on contact. well, he’s not dead—just sleepy, and totally giving himself away.

you might not be able to sleep, but kento can—he just chooses not to, for your sake.

#izurou #nanami x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami x you #nanami fluff #nanami <3 i miss him sob

[aperrywilliams]

Pandora's Box II (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

(Not my gif. Credits to the creator!)

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Author Masterlist / Author Taglist / Part I

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader doesn't know what to think after the kiss between Spencer and Cat. Insecurities about their marriage surface in both Reader and Spencer. How severe will the consequences of what Cat did be?

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Most of Spencer's traumas are only mentioned (Hankel, Dilaudid, Diana's illness, etc.). Angst and a lot of inner thoughts (I mean it: a lot). But not despair, my friends, happy ending.

A/N: Hello! Here is part two of Pandora's Box. Thanks a lot for all your comments, likes, and reblogs on part I.

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Spencer's POV

Cat did it again. No. Scratch that. I did it again.

I'm still seeing her eyes full of betrayal. God, how did I let this happen? How I was not able to think of something else to do. I'm so stupid!

I thought about running after her to stop her and convince her to go home with me. But I know (Y/N), and it would have been worse to insist when it was clear that she was shocked and hurt.

That leads me to now be in our shared bed, staring at the ceiling as I sink into my own mortification. Emily and JJ called me several times during the night, but I didn't feel like talking to anyone. I just texted them that (Y/N) was fine, but I screwed it up, and she hated me now. I don't know why I thought that would stop the calls. It was the opposite, but I decided to ignore my phone from there. I knew that (Y/N) would not call or text me either. Besides her getting rid of her cell phone, I was the last person she wanted to talk to.

How do I fix this?

The more I thought about it, the more complicated it became. We were not only talking about me kissing Cat Adams. It was more than that. And even if (Y/N) didn't go further saying how bad she was feeling, she slipped a hint. And it hurt. It hurt to know I was hurting her. Maybe Cat was right. I was not made to have a normal life and be loved like that. Perhaps I didn't deserve her.

Spencer, stop it! Don't fall into Cat's game. She wanted this to happen. She wanted to ruin your marriage, I repeated myself.

The funny thing is maybe I ruined it first.

Tossing and turning, I couldn't find a way to fall asleep. That brought me to the months I spent in jail when I barely slept an hour in a row. Endless nights were I missed (Y/N) 's body next to me. Nights where I swore to myself that if I made it out of there, I wouldn't waste another minute without making her my wife. So I did it. The very day I was released from Milburn, I got down on one knee and proposed to her. No ring involved, just a promise to spend the rest of my life with her, loving her and raising a family.

Two years since that, and now I think about the things I promised and what I have fulfilled. I feel terrible realizing that I have failed her.

Tiredness got me at some point, but my brain didn't stop working. I dream about (Y/N). It was a sweet dream that turned into a nightmare when she told me it was over. That ours was over.

I woke up sweating and screaming. 

I couldn't let that happen. I wouldn't let my incompetence makes me lose the best thing that had happened to me in life.

After showering and getting dressed early in the morning, I went to our habitual coffee shop and bought her favorite coffee and donut. I stopped by her dad's and left a bag with the treats and a note. A tiny gesture compared to the mess I had made, but I needed to tell her I was there even if she didn't want to see me.

-

Reader's POV

I couldn't sleep. I just couldn't.

After explaining the previous day's chaos to my dad - partially though, because I didn't want to give in to the embarrassing details - he let me stay in my old bedroom.

Every time I closed my eyes, I could see Spencer kissing that psycho over and over again.

I could see how his hands held her head, his eyes closed, lost in the sensation. Their lips moving in unison. His body pressed against hers.

Has he ever kissed me like that? Yes. He has. That is precisely the way I liked to be kissed.

When we started dating, Spencer was so shy at first, but he freed all the passion within him over time. I always wished to be the only one to see and feel him like that. And I really thought I would be the only one with that privilege. It seems I was wrong.

Why does it hurt so much? I mean, Spencer wouldn't do that to me, much less with that crazy bitch, right? I could bet he did not even want to do it.

Maybe it's the fact that there's a fucking Jiminy Cricket in my ear telling me things between Spencer and I aren't going well, and this shit is another proof that there will always be something interfering between us.

It terrifies me to think this could lead to the end of us, but I can't deny the idea has been on my mind for a while. It's true that we have never talked about it. It's true I have tried to deny that Spencer's absence affects me more than I let on. Has he noticed anyway? I'm afraid to know.

The next morning when I got to the kitchen, I saw my dad making coffee. Over the counter was a paper bag with my name written on it. It's Spencer's. I would recognize that handwriting anywhere.

"You don't have to open it," my dad told me, sensing the internal debate in my head. "I just brought it inside so you can decide if you want to do it or not."

It wasn't the only decision I needed to make, though.

Curiosity got the best of me. Inside the bag was my favorite coffee and donut. Of course Spencer knew it. Tucked in the coffee cup holder was a note.

'My love. Don't think this is me hoping that with just a coffee and a donut, you would forgive me. It is just a way to tell you I'm thinking of you. We have so much to talk about, but I won't push you to do it until you're ready. Please, only remember that I'm here, and I love you. Always yours, SR.'

Tears clouded my vision. I love him. That's not in discussion. But to be with someone is more than to feel love. It's about giving and receiving. It's about comprehending and being comprehended. It's partnership and complicity, things that have been away from us for a while. I will not blame Spencer for that because I have much to do with it. I should have said something. Is it too late now?

I took the lid off and sipped the coffee. I was thinking of him too.

-

Spencer's POV

Three days. The longest days of my life. Am I overstating? I don't think so. Because even if we had been apart for longer than three days, these circumstances made it worse.

The anxiety was killing me. Those days I went to work by inertia, unable to concentrate or be useful in any way. It was hard not to go over the last few months in my head. The signs, the unsaid things. The looks of disappointment when at any moment, the phone rang, and I had to leave.

Prentiss caught me deep in thought that afternoon.

"You okay?"

"Uh - yeah. I just got distracted. Sorry," I apologized. Emily shook her head and sat beside me.

"We both know it is more than that. Do you want to talk about it?"

I sighed, leaning back in the chair. I had the question on the tip of my tongue.

"Do you think fifteen years is a long time?"

Emily raised an eyebrow, trying to decipher the question's implication, but I knew she understood why I was asking.

"Well, I guess it depends on what you compare to," she ventured with a reassuring smile.

"I mean, doing this job. I had spent my whole adult life in the BAU. And don't get me wrong, I love my job-" I trailed off.

"But?"

"I love (Y/N) too, and I'm not good enough conciliating this job with my marriage. I can't make it work as JJ does," I confessed.

"If it is the case, having some time off should work to return some balance, but something tells me it's not the biggest problem," Emily asserted. Of course she did. She knew me better: it was more than the lack of time.

I chuckled bitterly.

"We have been only married for two years, and I feel I have failed her too much already. I mean, I was the one who said I needed to slow down after everything that had happened in Milburn. (Y/N) has been by my side in so many hard times. She was the first one I told about my addiction. She was there after the Anthrax episode. She took care of me when I got shot in Texas. I ran to her when they told me about my mom's Alzheimer's. Then jail happened. What else would she have to put up with? JJ's confession and being kidnapped by a cult. And now Cat again? Fuck, she saw me kissing her! The same woman who framed me for murder. How twisted is it?"

"She loves you too much," Emily pointed, trying to get me out of my rabbit hole.

"And I love her, but I always find a way to show otherwise, uh?" I mocked myself. I really felt like I was screwing up over and over.

"Spencer, none of those things have been your fault."

And maybe Prentiss was right. That didn't exempt me from my blindness, though.

"But it's been enough to have done something about it. Emily, I couldn't bear to lose her."

I could feel the lump forming in my throat.

"Spencer, she knows you love her. She married you for who you are. You just told me she has been with you in the toughest moments. You won't lose her."

How can she be so sure? I knew things never last long. I have seen people leaving me before.

"You know? It breaks my heart when I have to leave every time. (Y/N) always says she understands my job and never has demanded something from me. Still, I know she worries as hell every time I'm in the field, and I know there have been moments when she needed me, and I couldn't be there for her. I'm her husband! I promised to be there for her! Having more time could help, yeah, but I'm tired of this rhythm. I'm tired of being on the tightrope. I'm tired of the Tobias Hankels, the Cat Adams, the Mr. Scratchs-"

I had to stop my rant because I got out of breath.

"Well, if this is the matter, I think fifteen years is a long time then," Emily told me with a knowing look, patting my shoulder.

As a cue, my phone got a text: 'Are you in town? Can we talk?'

-

Reader's POV

Not two minutes had passed since I sent the text, and Spencer had answered, asking me when and where we would meet.

I figured it would be a complicated conversation, so I suggested it be in our apartment after work that day.

It's not like I wanted to torture Spencer for three days before to talk to him, but the events with Cat triggered a series of thoughts I didn't want to admit before. And the truth is, I wasn't sure how to deal with this. In fact, standing in front of the door and about to open it, I'm still not entirely sure what to say, just sure we can't keep putting this conversation off.

"Hi," Spencer said when he saw me. He was still in his work attire; only the tie was missing.

I returned a tight-lipped smile, stepping into the apartment.

I turned after closing the door, and Spencer just stood there, fidgeting with his hands. He was nervous, and so did I.

"Coffee?" He offered. I shook my head.

"No, thank you."

"O-okay," he mumbled, moving to the living room and gesturing to the couch for us to sit on.

Now we were both seated, maintaining a safer distance between us. Someone needed to break the silence. Spencer cleared his throat before speaking.

"About the kiss, (Y/N), I'm so sorry-" I cut him off.

"Spencer, not that yet. You need to start telling me what happened. It still confuses me how we ended in your old apartment with Cat Adams there."

Spencer nodded and recalled the events of that day: since the moment Penelope called him when we were at the coffee shop to him and Cat at the threshold, kissing.

After hearing the whole story, I couldn't understand how someone could set up something so elaborate to annoy someone else. Well, I don't know why I should be surprised; we were talking about Cat Adams, after all.

"Okay. So you thought a family and I were in danger. And she demanded a kiss. And you thought that would help," I filled. Spencer sighed, looking at his hands on his lap.

"Honestly? I didn't think anything. I felt trapped and knew I had no leverage on her. The opposite, actually. She was in control. I let her have me at her mercy," he confessed.

Spencer at Cat's mercy. Well, it wasn't the first time.

"You didn't seem troubled kissing her," I said bitterly. "I know it sounds childish, but you haven't kissed me like that in what? Months? It felt like I was nothing in your life, Spencer. It was like I didn't even exist and was watching a movie."

My voice cracked a bit while saying those words. Even imagining that I might not exist to Spencer made my stomach churn. It was worse to think I had already been losing him for a while or that perhaps he was never mine.

"(Y/N), that's not true. I -" Spencer tried to rebut quickly. I could feel the guilt in him.

"Spencer, it's okay. I can understand you were under pressure. But it was the way I felt. What would you think if your wife made out with the person who made her life a living hell for a long time?" It was a rhetorical question, though, because I would never do that to him.

"I know. And you might not believe me, but I was thinking of you. You were in my mind at that moment. Cat told me to do it as if she were you," he acknowledged. That didn't make me feel better. I let him know that.

"And you complied. That's the thing, Spencer. It's not the kiss itself; it's the fact you did what she told you. Again."

Spencer averted his gaze from me. He was embarrassed, and I hated being responsible for doing that, but he needed to know. I was done keeping things to myself.

"That makes me realize you're still caught up in her twisted game. Cat will never stop tormenting you, and I don't know what else I can do to help you. And it hurts me because I feel I'm not enough, Spencer. I'm not enough to really be by your side and be who you need."

Treacherous tears began to run down my cheeks. That was the admission I didn't want to reveal. After all these years, I thought, at some point, I could be in tune with Spencer's life. That's why I never said anything. I yet harbored the hope of living up to his expectations all this time.

"Don't say that! It's not true!" He argued, scooting closer to me on the couch, no longer afraid of proximity. "You are everything and more that I have ever needed and wanted. God. I love you, (Y/N). If anything, it's me who feels not worthy of your love. And I'm sorry, you are the most important person in my life, and I haven't shown you that."

"Then why do I feel then we are falling apart, Spencer? It's me imagining things?"

Spencer shook his head, a tentative hand reaching mine. I doubted for a second, but I welcomed his touch.

"It's my fault you're feeling this way. Believe me; you didn't do anything wrong."

His fingers stroking my hand resembled the way his touch always comforted me. In other circumstances, I would have believed nothing had changed between us.

"Are you sure? It's like we're becoming a couple of strangers. And I cannot understand if something about me bothers you or if I am simply indifferent to you. You don't trust me the way you used to."

I retracted my hand to protect myself from the pain it would surely follow when Spencer acknowledged I wasn't the person he wanted anymore.

"I know I have been pushing you away, but it's not because I didn't trust you. It's just I have been putting so many of my problems over your shoulders that I didn't want to overwhelm you. I'm sorry for not being honest with you," Spencer said, maintaining eye contact as if he wanted to imprint his apology on me. My lips quivered, and I was doing everything to not cry.

"Spencer, I'm your wife. It is supposed we lean into each other!" I complained. How was it possible he still did not understand he is not a damaged good and deserves understanding and support.

"And you always have been there for me. But what has happened the times that you have needed me? I am away most of the time, which is unfair to you. I'm your husband, and I should have been here."

His voice broke at the end. And it hurt me because that has happened more than once, but I decided not to say anything before.

"Spencer, I knew your job when we married," I reminded him. It was the truth. I knew what I had signed for. Spencer shook his head nevertheless, blinking back tears.

"That doesn't mean I don't do anything about it. I just let it pass. And it was wrong. You were uncomfortable enough to tell me you were worried or disappointed because of my job." 

I looked away as I listened to Spencer describe my behavior over the past few months. It was hard to admit that I feared what it would mean to us if we discussed it. It seemed childish, perhaps, but like a scared child, I didn't want to feel vulnerable, saying it affected me.

"But it's what you do. It's your life. You chose to be a profiler, and you save people every day."

That was far more important, wasn't it?

"But I chose you too. And you are part of my life too." Now he had hunched before me, gently placing his hands on my knees. "Do you remember what I told you when I proposed?" He asked, smiling fondly.

Of course I remembered. After living apart for three months because Spencer was in jail, the moment of our reunion was one of the most emotional things I have experienced.

"Besides telling me you loved and wanted to marry me?" I replied - a blush creeping my face at the memory.

"Yeah, that too. I told you I wanted everything with you. I told you I didn't want to spend another minute without you. You make me whole and feel alive (Y/N). That's far more important than catching monsters and consuming my life for them."

Grabbing one of my hands, he brought it to his lips, planting a loving kiss. His gaze never left mine, and I could feel like my heart skipped a bit.

"What do you mean?" I asked in a whisper. He returned a smile, tucking a hair strand behind my ear.

"That I'm done. Fifteen years is more than enough, and if this job continues cracking the good things in my life, I don't want it."

I wondered if I was listening wrong or if my mind was playing tricks on me. I needed clarification.

"What? Are you saying-" Spencer cut me off, nodding his head.

"There are so many things we dreamed of doing together. Do you recall our plan to stay a whole winter in a cabin in the woods? Or the trip to Greece? The idea of moving to the suburbs?"

"Do you still remember all that?" I asked in disbelief. That seemed a lifetime ago. We had so many plans and ideas, but I thought this would only form part of an unfulfilled desire, of our youthful and innocent desire to achieve something different from what we were used to. I often felt those plans were a way of escaping from our daily life full of pain, ghosts, and fears.

"Of course I do! And it's not because I have an eidetic memory. If I didn't, I would remember it anyway because I still want those things. With you."

Stroking my cheek with his palm, Spencer looked at me intensely as he didn't want to miss any of my microexpressions. I felt bare before him, but it didn't feel odd or wrong. If anything, it felt like he was seeing into my heart and soul. I have missed that.

"Spencer, you don't have to. You are a profiler, and you save lives. Your life has been the BAU," I reminded him. I didn't want him to be doing this just because we were in a rough patch and for it to be something he would regret for the rest of his life.

"It has been, but I don't want it to continue to be. It's a job (Y/N). One that has given me a lot of satisfaction but also a lot of pain and has consumed me. I want that to change. I want us to be able to make plans and stick to them. I want that family we talk about so much. Sure, if it's something you still want," he pointed out carefully. My eyes widened.

"You say, kids?" Spencer nodded eagerly.

"Yes. Kids. Little you's and me's running around in our new house. Whom I want to rock to make them sleep, who I want to teach them things, take them to the park, and play with them," Spencer enthusiastically described. It had been a long time since I had seen him that way. I couldn't stop my lips from forming a smile. "Do you still want that?" His excitement changed to the expectation to know my answer.

"Yes, I do," I acknowledged, my eyes filling with tears at the thought that this could be a reality one day. Spencer beamed.

"Then let's have the rest of our lives like we want them to be," he offered. It was like we were saying our vows, like the day we married.

"Are you sure? Spencer, I don't want you to feel like you have-" Before I could say anything else, Spencer gently placed a finger over my lips.

"Hey. It's been a long time since I was so sure about anything. Baby, I love you. I want us, always. Will you accept this fool man, who is madly in love with you, as your husband again?"

His eyes were full of hope, illuminated by the glow of the lighted lamp in the living room. The man hunched before me was the love of my life. The man I chose to spend the rest of my days with. I could feel the sincerity in his gaze, the transparency of the shared longing that made me fall for him years ago.

"I do," I whispered, leaning down and tenderly cupping his cheeks. "May I kiss the husband?" Spencer chuckled, nodding and leaning forward until our lips met in a passionate kiss. Spencer's hands moved up to hold the back of my head as my arms flew to the back of his neck - our lips molding like they were meant to be. The time stopped, and nothing else mattered. I was there with him, and he was there with me.

That kiss sealed our complicity and love's declaration. A kiss that Cat Adams would never have the privilege of experiencing despite the many Pandora's boxes she tried to open.

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Spencer Reid’s Taglist (some of them don't work): @dreatine​ @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @tvandfanfic​ @lovelyxtom @princessmiaelicia @pastelbabygirl19  @reidsbookclub @alexxavicry @gspenc @spencerreidisbae123 @calmspencer @thebloomingeagle @pauline5525mgg @maltamurdock @disaster-in-waiting @pebble-has-a-mirgraine @anamiad00msday @chlochlosworld @milivanili99 @laylasbunbunny @miaxx03 @leahblackk @missabsey

Pandora's Box Taglist (some of them don't work): @isisjen @marimorena06 @starlightskiss @wittlewowa @ladyofhellhounds @blogs-imagines-fanctionstories @logibearhockey1 @flowersownme @callsignwidow @regulus-black-223048 @l0v3e1i @lovejules888

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid angst #dr. spencer reid #criminal minds #pandora's box #spencer reid fanfics #spencer reid fanfictions

[vvatchword]

In Defense of BioShock Infinite

Although I had preordered BioShock Infinite with all its bells and whistles, I did not actually play it until January 2023. And lordy, I had me another Experience with a capital E. How the hell a bunch of urban Yanks could capture my experience as a queer democratic-socialist atheist struggling with her roots as a rural evangelical-cum-fascist is kinda magical, honestly. As to the game itself, it didn’t hurt how good it looked—the kickass skyhook gun battles—that novel setting—the complex characters—that delicious historical setting—that bloodthirsty critique of America—and to top it all off, they had pulled yet another Cassandra. Hell, speaking of which—not only was the game fun, it was fucking smart. It was intelligent, memorable, and meaningful in a way I hadn’t experienced in video games for years.

Now, back in 2013, when I had realized that I would be spoiled for Infinite, I left the BioShock fandom. After completing the game, I headed to Tumblr to re-engage, wagging my whole body like an excitable golden retriever, only to discover that BioShock Infinite was remarkably absent, and when mentioned, brutally derided. 

“I hate BioShock Infinite and all my friends do, too,” someone said in the tags under a post. 

I was utterly befuddled and deeply sad. I wanted to talk about BioShock Infinite! I wanted to dig into it, uncover unexpected ideas, learn new things, talk shit, make new friends—the full fandom experience. And instead I kept stumbling into hateful diatribes and super-charged disgust.

Obviously, I first looked at myself and my own judgment. Had I missed some obvious problem or misread some theme or dialogue? This wouldn’t be the first time I’d snapped down on a hook. But the more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

There are two parts of BioShock Infinite that are unquestionably terrible: the fridging of Daisy Fitzroy and the false equivalence of violence between haves and have-nots (lol what are the have-nots supposed to do, ask nicely?). Additionally, one could look at the use of real Native American tragedies as tasteless. Personally, I do not—in the same way that I don’t find it tasteless that real war victims were used as inspiration for Splicer deformities. This is what really happened; this is commentary on events that really happened to real people. 

At this point, I’m sure I don’t have to explain why two of these themes are Unequivocally Bad. 

Anyway, I thought that perhaps these were the reasons BSI had been condemned to Super Hell.

I was wrong.

How Criitcsim Werk

This wasn’t the fandom I’d made friends in over 2010. Hell, this wasn’t the fandom of 2013. This was a fandom made up of Babies. They were making their first coltish stumblings into media criticism and with it, dredging up the same brain-dead bullshit from Tumblr circa 2008.

Suddenly I was brought face to face with people who seemed to think that if a character couldn’t be likable or good that the story itself couldn’t be likable or good; that one bad element means the story is unsalvageable (lol u pussies); the implication that one is bad for liking it; the destructive juvenile insistence that media accurately measures its fans’ moral qualities en masse like an astrological sign. This goes far beyond simple like or dislike and plunges head-first into Puritanism: praying loudly on street-corners instead of quietly in a dark corner where God might hear you.

At one point I had a kid go off about how they wouldn’t take time to understand Booker DeWitt’s perspective because he had (fictionally) taken part in a genocide. (That same person said the Native American element had been employed for shock value, a thought that sometimes keeps me up at night, because it is legitimately one of the dumbest criticisms the game has ever received.) At another point I saw someone acting personally offended that (fictional person) Dr. Suchong’s (fictional) data was being stolen (in a fiction) by a (fictional) racist who would (fictionally) take credit for (fictional person) Suchong’s (fictional) inventions “while calling him slurs”. Sure, a better question would have been, “Why would the creative team opt to do this” rather than assume intentional racism from a Jewish creative director with an in-office multi-ethnic team in the year of our lord 2013, but why not handwave the choice with prurient moral dismay so your audience won’t beat you to death with bats? 

It was as though fans were treating these completely fictional characters as real people whose personal gods had opted to torment them, and that their tormentors merited the kind of censure that psychopaths should receive. As I hope all of you understand, this is fucking madness.

More than once I saw people posting about hating the studio or the creative director in ways that seemed intense, unreasoning, and excessive—notably an “I Hate [Irrational Games creative director] Ken Levine” stamp (rofl the more things change amirite). People get so performatively moralistic about it that I started wondering if I missed something big along the way. Was there some secret Voxophone I missed swearing fealty to baby Hitler or some shit?

Double Standards

At the same time, I was utterly confused. BioShocks 1 and 2 both featured some absolutely ghastly bullshit based on real-life horrors and a thick mix of complicated human beings—many of them victims who have become monsters. The fact they are grounded in historical tragedies is a huge part of their appeal. Hell, I don’t think those games would have had half their meaning without World Wars I and II and the threat of a third.

A gay man who feels so cursed by his orientation that he is incapable of intimacy and systematically destroys his ex-lovers—including the man he loves the most. A Korean who survived Japanese occupation and a Jewish Holocaust survivor repeat the violence and traumas exacted upon them and their people, subjecting a new generation to agonies unthinkable. Chasing the shadows of Bolsheviks, a Russian citizen becomes the brutal tyrant that he loathed. A rich lawyer with an easygoing drawl designs a concentration camp and systematically harvests hundreds, if not thousands of political prisoners, selling them out to medical testing for a quick buck.

But a Native man who destroys his own people and class to ensure his own survival and social acceptability is too far? This character is where people drew the line, so much so that the entire game is disavowed? Hell, if you’re just talking about Booker (rather than Comstock), he doesn’t have anywhere near the largest bodycount. If we were to judge on the metric of human misery alone, Booker wouldn’t even hit the top ten. 

Keep in mind that the most-discussed BioShock game on Tumblr is BioShock 2, and that one of the biggest fandom favorites is Augustus Sinclair—the easy-talkin’ Georgia lawyer who sells your character into horrors past all human comprehension, as he sold hundreds before and after you. Sinclair is a motherfucker so vile that BioShock 2 gives you no choice but to murder him. But Sinclair is also pleasant; good-looking to some; spends the whole game making sweet love to your ear; is one of the only true positive experiences you experience in a horror story. Unlike DeWitt, a man who is brutal and awful from step one, Sinclair is smooth and sweet. Unlike DeWitt, Sinclair’s victims are faceless, completely fictional, and carry no political or social baggage.

People fuckin’ ship this guy with Subject Delta, his explicit victim. He’s usually described as a squishy cinnamon roll. In most fanfiction, he often gets to escape to the surface and fuck Delta while helping raise Eleanor as Dad 2. It is rare that I find fanfiction that acknowledges his monsterhood in all its glory. In fact, I can only think of two.

Literacy Comes in Levels

My problem with the over-the-top hatred of BioShock Infinite is along the same lines as my confusion at Twilight and Harry Potter hate: there is so much worse out there (how much do the haters actually engage with media if they think this is that bad—yes, even considering the shitty creators themselves!), the hatred far outweighs the sin committed (in BioShock’s case, the truly bad bits are not central enough to derail the larger narrative), people don’t seem to hate it so much as they want to be seen hating it, fans want to enforce an unspoken rule hating it (bitches this is poison. Stop this), and there’s something about the hate that stinks of poor reading comprehension.

A great metric for general literacy is the newspaper. In journalism, you’re writing for the lowest-common denominator, which for years here in the USA has been about a fifth-grade reading level (about 10-11 years old, for my non-American readers). The AP posted an article a couple years back about how the general reading comprehension of Americans needs to be dropped to a third-grade one (8-9 years), and baby, I’m here to say it’s true. 

Most of the problem is that the American education system is shitty as fuck. The rest of it is from an extremely American disdain of intellectualism and the arts. People are not taught how to interpret art or literature—a difficult and subtle skill which involves accepting such truths as “multiple contradictory readings can exist and yet be simultaneously correct”, “the author can be a complete tool and still be right about things”, “the author can be a great person and still write horrifyingly incorrect bullshit”, and “worthwhile works can be ridiculously long and it really is your fault for not having an attention span”. 

Media criticism must be learned through trial, error, asking questions, confidently swaggering into a public space to announce your brilliant insight only to have your ass handed to you (usually by your older self ten years later), being willing to admit you swaggered confidently into a public space to state bullshit and then amending your bullshit only to produce more bullshit, and otherwise making a complete and utter cock of yourself. We are taught to fear and flee pain and failure, despite the fact this is how we learn and improve. Because we judge our value by whether or not we are “smart,” we are afraid of displaying that we don’t know something or might be mistaken–better not to try at all than to reveal ourselves to be fools. And yet the best way to learn is to crash up against someone else and be proven wrong!

American parents are terrified of hurting their children to the point that they spare them cognitive dissonance of any kind, disavowing difficult art—without any appreciation for the fact that art is how we provide safe spaces to explore key human experiences, better preparing us to face those difficult subjects when there are real-world consequences (sex, gender and social expression, grief, violence, predation, illness, interacting with people of different ideologies, whatever new issue is pissing off some smooth-brained old motherfucker somewhere). 

If parents and teachers aren’t teaching us how to interpret art, we’re probably never going to develop the skill at all, or crash unsubtly into it in a piecemeal fashion (hello it me). Another unfortunate side effect is that these readers tend to be blitheringly superficial: they are literally intellectually incapable of reading deeper than the uppermost layer of a text. The curtains are always blue.

And let’s not forget the role moral performatism plays in media criticism, which although faaar from new, has reached hilarious levels in the age of social media. What’s important isn’t understanding something, it’s finding something to symbolically burn at the stake so everyone knows God loves us: please keep loving me, please don’t hurt me, please don’t throw me on the fire—for performatism is not for outsiders. We long for human connection so fucking much that it’s more important to destroy what might point out our fallibilities than it is to let ourselves stand in the furnace and burn out the dross.

What do you think the point of BioShock Infinite was?

Emotional Machines

Let’s face it. Human beings give a lot more credence to how something makes them feel than they do its complex invisible reality. We are not logical creatures; we are emotional ones. Our logic is too new a biological mechanism to override something as powerfully stupid as our primal lizard brains.

Knowing this, let’s take BioShock’s most popular characters. The first two are Subject Delta and Jack Wynand, the protagonists of BioShocks 2 and 1, respectively; and why not? They’re the characters we play. In the first two BioShocks, whether or not you kill Little Sisters determines the ending you receive. In other words, Delta and Jack can only be as “wicked” as the players are. 

How do people want to see themselves? As good. What do people want to see around themselves? Good. (What is “good”? Uh, well,,,,,,) What do they want? Simple moral questions with simple moral answers. And in the first two BioShocks, what is moral is obvious: don’t kill little girls. It’s actually kind of insulting once you say it out loud.

In-fandom, Jack and Subject Delta are almost never painted as murderers or monsters, but as victims and heroes; I saw someone musing about putting Subject Delta on a “gentle giants” poll and I nearly choked on my own tongue. I only saw that musing because someone put Subject Delta and Jack in a “Best Fathers” poll. Nobody in-fandom really considers the “evil” or “complicated” endings as canon choices, despite those versions being fully understandable alternate readings, with a story that doesn’t make sense without them. (I don’t believe Burial at Sea is necessarily canon; in fact, I would bet good money that it is a huge middle finger lol, mostly because a number of brain-dead motherfuckers won’t take unhappiness for an answer.)

Most fandom art and writing is gentle, sweet, good: the symbolic healing of the damaged, the salvation of innocents, the turning of new leaves. These things are not just saccharine sweet—they tend to be unrealistically sweet. Now, far be it from me to demand these works cease. There’s a reason they exist. People write them because they need hope and happiness; I have enjoyed them greatly myself and intend to enjoy them in the future. But if y’all get to have your dessert, I demand the right to have my dinner.

The Colours Out of Earth

Let there be media where the opposite can also be true: where everything is unbelievably complicated and unforgivably fucked-up. Let there be characters who slide slurs into their speech without thinking. Let there be characters who destroy themselves in a thousand different ways, not all of them obvious, some of them horrifying. Let there be well-meaning people struggling with all their mights to do what is right only to destroy everyone around them and then completely miss the fact it’s all their faults. Let there be wickedness painted as goodness, superficial appearances accepted over essential and inherent values, denial of change and transformation, failure to accept that what is old must die and what is new must live, human stupidity and short-sightedness and cruelty in all their flavors. Let’s smash it all together and see how it plays out. 

Oh, badly? No shit! But “badly” isn’t the point. How does it play out?

Let there be a world of gradients—a place I can float from color to color, hue to hue, value to value, while attempting to figure out where, why, how, and by whom they transform—to taste concepts in a hundred different ways, test their textures by a hundred different mediums, insert them into a hundred different contexts. I need to understand why I feel the way I do; I need to understand morality in all its hideous, fragmentary glory. For I have been sold to a ideology of blacks and whites, and let me tell you: it prepares you for nothing, and it will always destroy what is most precious about human life.

I can no longer believe in a world where what is lost always returns, because that world does not exist. I have a reflexive need to come to terms with Finality: what I have lost, what I have destroyed, what will never return, what will never be better. I have a reflexive need to understand Transformation: what I am now, what is as of the present, what has risen shambling from the ashes, what turns to gaze upon me in the darkness. I need to understand what is wretched about me as much as I need to heal myself. How can I heal if I can’t understand how I have hurt and been hurt? 

I need to shine a light in the dark. Not to remodel it, not to destroy it—because I also can’t believe in a world where the wicked is destroyed forever—but to behold it, to learn from it, to view my own impact upon it, to accept how it has become a part of me, to learn how to do my best (because that’s all one can do). I must learn to love people more than causes, I must learn to love people rather than the act of winning, I must learn to love people rather than battle. I need to stand in that endless black with the lamp off and my eyes closed, letting the agony roll over me, burning with a fire that throws no light, rolling back and forth from an intense self-loathing to a fury at a society that destroys what is most valuable because it didn’t make them feel the way they wanted.

The Unforgivable

I believe that there are only two differences between Booker DeWitt and his equally cursed cohorts.

In the Hall of Whores: The Unmarked Slate

First, unlike the previous two games, where you enter the world as a tabula rasa and might roleplay as what you perceive as a good person, you are explicitly put into the shoes of a monster, and nothing you do can save you.

With other shitty BioShock characters, you are passively watching other people, and you are able to hold yourself apart. Sure, everyone else is crazy as fuck from using biological Kryptonite, but you’re too smart to end up a crazy fucking asshole like them! Sure, you are now technically a mass murderer, but those fuckers deserved it, damn it! 

“Look at this crazy bastard!” you say, rolling your eyes at the Steinmans and Cohens and Ryans and Fontaines. “It sure is a great thing I’m not a crazy bastard!”

You are able to escape acknowledging that you, too, in certain circumstances, might be the crazy bastard. You are being challenged to stand in the body of a person who has committed unforgivable sins. Imagine if you yourself committed those sins. Imagine what sins you have already committed. Imagine what brutalities you cannot take back. Imagine what horrors you have wreaked just by breathing.

“Ahhhh!” said players, probably. “What do you mean I’m not allowed to be good?”

Because that’s what the game was designed to do. Because “good” is a fucking cop-out and if it’s how you live with yourself wait until you find out you’ve been doing horrifying bullshit all your life without question. You can be evil by association through no fault of your own.

Original Sin

Second, the plight of Native Americans is a sin that non-Natives will always carry, and the socially conscious are aware of this even if they don’t know how to put it into words. The state of affairs being what it is, it is unlikely that First Peoples will ever be treated humanely, much less have their land returned. They must struggle for scraps of what is rightfully theirs while we lounge on their corpses. We cannot help but benefit from their destruction; we are made unwitting partners with our forebears; we steal the fruits of their lands and make mockeries of their faiths and identities. We have destroyed part of what made this world fascinating and unique and most of it can never be returned. Even if everything were to be made right tomorrow, their genocide is a sin that we will carry until we die, because the only reason we could be here at all is because they were killed. 

The obvious solution stands before us, but the powers that be are so much greater than we that we are effectively powerless, and achieving anything less than total restoration smacks of anticlimax. 

This is unbearable.

How can one think of oneself as a good person if one sees the good that must be done, but cannot achieve it? If one’s actions are meaningless? Goodness without action is pretension.

We are all Booker DeWitt. We have all set fire to the tipi. We swept the ashes away, we ignored the sizes of the bones, we built a CVS on their graves, and then we made statues and holidays commemorating Native Americans like the world’s cheapest “Thinking of You” card. We have de-fanged them, transformed them into cardboard cutouts, and set them up as cute little side characters in our sweeping American dream.

Booker is not a man. Booker is America and Americans—and America and Americans are monstrous: one part hypocrisy, two parts incessant violence, three parts constant peacocking, and four parts dumb as a stump.

The Monsters We Make

Outside of the message about “choice,” an enormous part of BioShock’s thematic ensemble is the creation of monsters. How are monsters created? Who or what is responsible for creating them? What do the monsters think made them the ways they are? Can a monster be saved? How? Is it enough to acknowledge you did wrong and want to be a better person?

Maybe most people are aware on some instinctive level of what facing one’s own monsterhood means. No one wants it. It’s not fun. It hurts. It’s embarrassing. It’s destructive. It’s admitting you don’t have it all together and might never, ever—that despite your best actions, you can have it horribly wrong at any point. In an age where we demand moral perfection, it demands vulnerability: you must admit that sometimes you’re the racist, the transphobe, the sexist, the nationalist, the classist, the homophobe, the violent, the wrong, the dumbfuck. 

Human beings are not built to be moral; human beings are built to survive. We so rapidly learn how to deal with our contexts at such young ages that we don’t have the time or capabilities to question why those contexts are the ways they are or why it is demanded we perform the ways we do.

In a very real way, BioShock Infinite demands vulnerability of us. It demands you look in the mirror and see what is monstrous in you—how you have been created—manufactured—a tool, a machine, a trained animal. It asks you to recognize that you can be a monster simply by association. And if we can’t look into the mirror and truly acknowledge that monsterhood, we run very real risks of becoming or enabling those monsters in one way or another.

Worst of all: perhaps monsterhood isn’t optional. Perhaps the monster was inside of us from the very beginning. It’s not a matter of if you become a monster, but when, under what circumstances, by whose hand. What is more, believing the “right” moral stances will not save you. Monsterhood can afflict anyone, in any ideology, any political stance, in any social movement, in any faith. The only element that can save you is to truly love other people, and even then, you can fail, for there can be states where there is no winner and ways to misread how best to treat another person.

Environment and Society: Context Will Not Be Denied

BioShock 1’s original ending is Jack-as-monster, regardless of how many children he saves, regardless of your feelings as player. He passes through the gauntlet of Rapture, but he has supped of its poison. And he wasn’t poisoned when he entered Rapture the second time—he was poisoned the minute he was conceived. He was born of it. He had no hope of ever escaping it—he never could have—he’d never had a choice to begin with.

No matter what choices you make in BioShock Infinite, Elizabeth will always kill you. Why? Because she has seen every world—every context—every limitation—every boon. And there is no way to stop what has been; there is no way to undo what has been done. The minute you have committed to a decision, you have split the universe; there is no telling what kind of person it will make you. In fact, there’s no telling which of your decisions will matter at all. Only Elizabeth can see because she is the unlimited future: your offspring stands before you, judge and jury, and you will have no choice but to accept her verdict, for despite your name, you are incapable of controlling how you are interpreted. 

Elizabeth sits across from you in the boat and stares without blinking. She sees a million million similar Bookers. Some are a little bit taller, some a little bit shorter, some a little heavier or lighter. Some more-resemble one grandparent or another. They have different colored ties. This one blinks when rain hits him in the eyeball. That one took a brutal beating back on the airship and one eye is swollen shut. That one can’t stop shaking; this one is unable to speak at all; one hasn’t yet lost hope, although even he doesn’t realize it.

They all lowered the torch to the tipi.

The baptism determined Comstock; what determined Booker?

Why Booker Is

In BioShock 1, characters are often stand-ins for larger concepts. Thus Ryan stands in as Ayn Rand’s Objectivist Ubermensch; Bill McDonagh as Andrew Ryan’s conscience; Diane McClintock as the citizenry of Rapture; Captain Sullivan as law and order; Frank Fontaine as the truest expression of Objectivism in its distilled form.

Who is Booker? Most importantly: why is he?

Booker is a fictional character with a brutal background based on historical events, alternative and true. Booker might be Lakota; Booker might have undergone forced Anglicization; Booker might have been ripped from his parents; Booker is a product of violence, perhaps literally. Booker is American exceptionalism distilled. Booker is the past in constant judgment of itself, unable to live with itself and unable to die. Booker destroys what is best in him and around him in exchange for belonging. Booker has sold the future to absolve his sins. Booker has sold his daughter because he is a fictional character in a work of fiction who needs to be propelled.

Booker is a shell, a sluice, an environment. Booker is the broken shape you are meant to fill, horrified. His internal shape should torture you as it has tortured him: the messy slaggy soul of a shitty tin soldier.

Does Booker take the baptism and become Comstock? If so, it might be his second one. His last name literally means “the white.” His first name can mean “author.” It is most likely his second name: an attempt to rewrite himself. And when he was unable to rewrite himself the first time, when the cognitive dissonance boiled at the edges of his skull, he found there was only one way to cleanse himself the second: to remake the world entirely. To force transformation on everyone else. To take vengeance on a world that could never love him, never want him—to create a world that has no choice but to love him. If he can’t change the world’s mind, he’ll change the world.

Note what he opts to do: to take the fight to the environment–to the unyielding universe.

Context Is Everything

It is no mistake that BioShock Infinite occurs in 1912: the sinking of the Titanic is often credited with ending an unfettered optimism, a period when the Western world believed technology had brought the human race into a golden age. With World War I—which would follow a mere two years later—came modern warfare and all the horrors thereof, not the least of which was the realization that humans had created a kind of war that could destroy the entire world. World War I also seeded the rise of the United States: much of the wealth of warring Europe—itself fat on the blood of subjugated peoples and stolen lands—would rattle into America’s coffers.

It is also no mistake that BioShock 1 directly follows World War II. With WWII came a heightened terror—that this war is not the last war, that there will never be an end to war, that war will go on expanding and expanding until it has consumed us all. World War III would not be denied: prettily packaged in the ideals of its children, it simply followed the utopians down to their underwater tombs. According to BioShock 1’s original ending, World War III is not a matter of if—it’s a matter of when.

But even more important than the history in the BioShock games are their settings. Mute leviathans, Rapture and Columbia determine all of your behaviors: from where you can exist in space to all of your desires and goals to how you choose to present yourself to how you opt to behave. Isolated in extremism—whether that extremism is the crushing depths of the ocean or the unbearable lightness of the air—most of their power is that they simply cannot be escaped. You can’t outrun them. They are everywhere. They are everything.

Like Lovecraft before it, BioShock acknowledges the greatest horror of all: you cannot escape your context. Your context does not only involve your immediate surroundings. It is also historical; contains zeitgeists from various cultures and subcultures; is filled with pressures both personal and impersonal, human and nonhuman. Many of these forces can hurt you. Many more can destroy you. What you do to survive depends very much on where, when, and with whom you must live.

Human beings are not built to be moral.

The Death of the Future

In the film Operation, Burma!, a soldier asks Errol Flynn: “Who were you before the war?”

“An architect,” says Flynn.

Who were you? Because that “you” doesn’t matter now. That “you” is irrelevant. So you’re an architect. What the war does to you; what these deaths mean to you; your past, your education, your loves and desires and forward motivation, the you that could have been outside war, the you that slogs alone into the brutal future—all completely irrelevant. Your forebears don’t care so long as you can bleed. 

Children are the manufactured tools of their creators—helpless before the enormous strength of their elders and the zeitgeists that enclose them, poisoned by their parents’ insecurities and flaws, utilized like weapons regardless of the cost—often with great love.

Consider something more than the traumatized culture: consider the society filled with traumatized children; consider the traumatized society. Consider channeling children through that trauma over and over and over again, if you can. Poisoned—poisoned—poisoned—all of us poisoned. Poisoned by those who loved us most. Poisoned by the people we trusted. Poisoned by the people who meant to make a better world.

I believe it is notable that creative director Ken Levine is Jewish; I have read from multiple accounts that the European Jewish diaspora was uniquely traumatized from the Holocaust and passed that trauma down upon their own families. I sometimes wonder if he saw that firsthand.

The fathers eat sour grapes; their children’s teeth are set on edge.

Choice: Player Expectations and Entitlement

For players who experienced BioShocks 1 and 2 with their multiple endings (Good, Bad, and “ok bye then I guess” respectively), it must have been jarring to suddenly reckon with being a monster. How often I see players grousing that nothing they do will change their wicked pasts! These players completely miss that the only meaningful choice had already been made, that it had nothing to do with the player at all, and even if they had been there, DeWitt was still unforgivable. The only way to go on was to bow out and allow the future to redefine herself.

Nobody was ready for that shit. 

Like it or not, BioShock 1 had set a precedent. Not everyone’s going to read up on creator intentions. If any keyword came blaring through the noise, it would have been “choice.” Most players only recognize choice by the ability to make it, not the absence of it, and most of them weren’t equipped to recognize that its lack was the point. The meaningless choices were commentary, and they were as much about the player as they were about DeWitt himself. Not every choice will be meaningful, will it? And there will be choices you make that will be momentous, but they will seem very small when you make them.

Because most players had experienced what they thought was a basic moralistic tale in the first two games, and would see Infinite not as reflection upon America’s destructive personality, its obsession with a meaningless Good/Bad duocracy, and the infinite, cyclical nature of violence, they saw Booker’s death as corrupted artsy claptrap.

“I did the good schuut,” they say. “I want the good schuut end. Where happy end??? Where treat :(”

Bitch the future is here. 

Time to die.

It’s Not Me, It’s You

Generally I despise essays that end with, “But the real fault lay with the clueless motherfuckers who played the game!” Often, if enough people complain, there’s something to it; the message has been obscured somehow. Details or explanations weren’t clear or intuitive enough, some mechanism isn’t working somewhere, some character needs to talk more or less, some setting needs to be transformed. O artist: stop whining and get cracking. If everywhere you go smells like shit, it’s time to look under your shoe. 

But sometimes it’s true that a piece of media is on a level folks aren’t equipped for. Think of every literature and art class you’ve ever had, if you’ve been fortunate enough to have one. There’s always someone scoffing in a back row, like here are all these jokers making more of something than they should. Similarly, some of you have been arguing with me this entire time, saying: “I just wanted a video game. I just wanted to shoot something and feel better and instead I get this bullshit ending that makes no sense.”

First of all, smart bullshit (and even fucked-up attempts at smart bullshit! Hi BioShock 2) gets to exist on this Earth along with Gmod and Roblox or Schuut Big Tits 84 (there are 84 tits and you must shoot them all. They explode into smaller tits) or whatever-the-fuck-else you think is a worthwhile gaming experience. Second of all, miserable bullshit also gets to exist, and what did you fucking expect if you played through either BioShocks 1 or 2? When you hear a football player quavering out in the darkness for his mom to pick him up, how’d that make you feel? What did you think was going to happen to Jack after pounding back the entire Plasmid library, the cancer cocktail that explicitly destroys the fuck out of its users? Third of all, if you missed the smart bullshit going on in BioShock 1 and didn’t think BioShock Infinite might be larger in scope in more ways than one, that’s on you. Fourthly, if you were simply satisfied with saving like, 15 kids from a violently-perishing city of thousands and call it good, I mean… is that really where your thoughts end? Are you really that fucking small?

It’s Not You, It’s Me

You ever meet those motherfuckers who talk shit about Shakespeare or modern art? And you’re just left there staring with dead eyes at this poseur who mistakes playing devil’s advocate for intelligence, cheek resting on your fist, thinking about the fanfic you’re writing, wondering who it’s for, remembering that all your smut-writing friends get ten times the viewers, and considering throwing yourself in front of a bus.

Yeah, there’s a personal element to this: the fact that BioShock Infinite is the kind of art I like and long for and want to make myself, the fact that the game was successful and yet the studio was closed, the way its DLC was so rushed that the story plopped out like half-baked mystery meat—realizing that the same forced rush was at 2K’s behest for BioShock 2, as well, and wondering how good art can ever be made in this unforgiving capitalist hellscape. The game was weirdly niche and I’m not 100% sure I’ll ever experience anything quite like it again. And with the whiners in this fandom, the loud ones controlling the narrative, some fresh brain-dead exec in some brain-dead publisher might be like: “We must keep it safer and simpler for these fuckin babby adult!”

Nah bitch nah. Naaaah. Cry some more while I enjoy me my fucking dinner. I’ll eat it while making loud smacking noises and keeping unbroken eye contact. Come here. Let’s look at each other. It’ll be like Lady and the Tramp but we want to punch each other. What truer form of love can there be here in the modern world?

I keep having to remind myself that this response isn’t new. I keep having to remind myself of my place. I keep having to remind myself why I write, why I read, why I like to experience art to begin with. It’s not for the reasons other people do it. Oh, I want the same emotional release as everyone else, I want the same rollicking plots, I adore the same tropes. I seek out everything and anything for a good time; I’ll read Moby Dick today and a smutty 5,000-word abortion with the world’s most suspect grammar tomorrow. I don’t give a shit if it’s low- or high-brow; there are all kinds of ways to have fun and there are all kinds of ways to engage with art, and lord knows I’ve done my share of smooth-brain criticism. The problem is that I’ve always wandered off by myself, sunk into an all-consuming reverie, on tracks that no one else ever seems to be on, and then looked up to talk excitedly about something only to realize I’m alone. And whose fault is that?

By the same token, maybe I haven’t talked enough. Maybe I spend too much time with my mouth shut. Maybe I haven’t stood up enough for things that are worth our time, worth talking up, worth setting on pedestals.

I tell you, BioShock Infinite will stand the test of time. It’s too good for this. It’s too good for you, warts and all. Some of you will grow to understand that; some of you won’t; many of you will shrug and go on with your lives (and this is fine; it is only a video game). But I’ve truly not seen anything like it. I can’t believe a mainstream video game was allowed to be so fucking brutal about the American juggernaut, and what’s more, that it sold like hotcakes. Plus, I can’t think of any works in recent memory that have struck me so close to my own heart. No creative work has made me start beating a monster’s face into a washbasin for ten hours only to lift her by the scalp and see my own eyes looking back.

Look into those eyes. See your own stupid impulses pouring out. Your own stupid excuses, your violences, your sins—your claws, your teeth, your costumes, your hilarious attempts at interpretive dance. The beast doth protest too much.

O, monster—behold thyself—and tremble.

#bioshock #bioshock 2 #bioshock infinite #bioshock infinite burial at sea #booker dewitt #subject delta #jack wynand #augustus sinclair #essays #video games #spoilers #vvatchword #vvbsreceipts

[glitchtricks94]

did you know that gyutaro kisses your knuckles but his pointy teeth accidentally scrape you. every time it happens, he grumbles and insists on kissing it better :3 (you are stuck in an infinite loop of him kissing you better)

Reece, darling, I don't think you fully understand how much I needed this. After the last few days, I honestly feel like this is just what my poor little brain needed. I'm sorry I'm taking so long with all the other goodies you sent me. I'm making something fluffy now with this.

Gyutaro tries to be a gentleman like he's seen with the humans, trying to treat you the way he felt you should be, which was like royalty. He knew he wasn't much, or at least he felt that way, but he had given you his heart, and you gave him yours in return and he had to ensure that he cared for it with the upmost importance. He would only discard your heart if you became a threat to him and his sister. Which is why a mix of frustration and guilt bubbled away in his chest. Gyutaro had decided to try his hand at being more romantic, greeting you when you stepped out of your work room to the private area that he and Daki had made within the Kyogoku house. "Welcome back, little star." Gyutaro crooned, a lazy Cheshire smile on his features as he took your much smaller hand in his. He held it for a moment as you chirped your greetings back to your love, the Upper Moon distracted by how tiny and soft your hand felt in his. Such puny fingers slotting against his own calloused hands, filling the spaces between his own fingers in a cute and clumsy yet still perfect manner. His gaze softened further, smile smoothing at the edges as he moved his attention to your face, your eyes granting the warmth he had always craved for all his years of living. You felt like home. He couldn't stall any longer, the moment felt to perfect to waste on more pointless words. Gyutaro was never really for pretty words anyways, actions always rang louder for him. He tugged you closer by accident as he raised your hand to his lips, pressing a loving kiss to your knuckles- "Ow-!" He froze, eyes going wide as your soft yelp registered in his mind. You looked slightly pained, yet didn't shove him away. The demon frowned as his eyes flicked to your hand, the sight of little dots of blood greeting him. "M'sorry, little star, didn't mean to hurt ya." He grumbled, instinctively pressing more kisses to the wound. He had told you he liked when you kissed where his wounds were whenever he got hurt, despite the regeneration, and he wanted to return the favor to you. You always did say he gave you the best kisses of your life. Gyutaro unwittingly added more damage to your skin, trying to kiss the pain away but only making you whimper. He pulled away with a growl, to which you sprung into action, seeing his frustration coming to a boil. "Gyu, sweetie, it's okay." You cooed, his attention flicking to you instantly. "Why don't we go bandage up my hand, yeah? You can help me with that, right?" Gyutaro nodded, but refused to let your hand go, deciding to skip the bandaging and simply utilize his abilities. Slowly sliding his thumb over your now marred, petal soft skin, the injuries faded, amazing you.

He felt disappointed at his failed attempt, something you noticed immediately. Running your free hand down his arm, you trailed your touch to his other hand, the Upper Moon eying you curiously. Taking his hefty hand in yours, you brought it to your own lips, planting one of your infamously tender kisses to his cold skin. His heart leapt to his throat, face heating up at your gesture. He felt a tinge of jealousy in himself too, wishing he could be as smooth with his idea of romance as you were, and yet, you always managed to reduce such thoughts to dust. "I love you Gyutaro, and it was really sweet of you to kiss my hand." You spoke softly, looking up at him like he had hung the moon and stars. In your opinion, who didn't need them since you consider him to be your night sky. "You're always so sweet and romantic, constantly trying to look out for me and make sure I'm happy. I love you for that." Gyutaro felt himself melting under your honeyed words, his soft smile and loving gaze returning to his sharp features as he leaned further into your space. "I love you too, little star. You always know just what to say to me, what I need to hear, not what I want to, what I expect to. You truly are a star from the sky, love." He crooned, making your own smile widen as you stood on your toes to press a love infused kiss to his chapped lips, the gesture being returned instantly. This time, he made sure to really watch his teeth.

#glitchwrites.notepad #glitchfriends.reece💜 #demon slayer x reader #gyutaro #gyutaro x reader #kny gyutaro #demon slayer gyutaro #gyutaro shabana #gyutaro fluff #demon slayer fluff #kny x reader #kny fluff #This was a nice thing to write tonight #It's soft and sweet and really need that since I'm tired and feeling soft #Plus hands can have such neat meanings #Twining fingers are so intimate and the cheesy romantic aspect of a hand kiss is cute #Thank you so much Reece #This means a lot to me

[t4kara]

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I'll be honest, I don't exactly know how to write any of this properly. Since this is my first time writing it will most likely be quite bad so I'm sorry if there are any spelling errors or if it doesn't make logical sense, I'm also writing on mobile so the formatting might be different on other devices than how it is for me so, please keep that in mind! However, I'm open to any criticism in the comments! Also please don't post my content anywhere else (without giving credits)!

Enjoy~

Word count: 591

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~ Cha Hyun-su (dating) Scenario ~

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Based on Season 1:

A Blessing

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You're both sitting in the quarantine room on the couch after Hyun-su came back from getting supplies due to Eun-hyeok and some of the other survivors request, during the supply run he had gotten injured by an monster.

Although he regenerates quite quickly you still decided to place some bandages over some of the wounds that would take a little while longer to heal. He told you not to waste them since he would be healed soon enough, you insisted saying it was the least you could do for him since the others didnt seem to pay his injuries any second thought, although you knew they were just scared of him and the chance he could possibly hurt them, you thought it didn't excuse the way they were treating him.

Once you had finished bandaging his wound the two of you simply sat in a comfortable silence, while you leant your head on his shoulder and gently tracing the scars on his right wrist, his gaze was following your hands movements, you knew the story of how he had made the scars and the reason as to why. When he first told you the story of them, he expected you to look at him disgusted at how he had done that. He thought you'd see him the way he saw himself but you assured him that it wasn't his fault for doing that to himself and that you loved him regardless of his scars and in fact you had even said you found them beautiful, like you did every part of him.

You'd never forget how flustered he was in that moment you told him that his scars were beautiful, his face was bright red even his ears were too. He couldn't even look at you, far to embarrassed since he wasn't used to compliments in general, yet one about something such as his scars, something so personal to him had made his brain go into overdrive and he had became a complete flustered mess. (although of course you couldn't complain because he looked adorable)

You were just subconsciously tracing his scars with your fingertips. You hadn't yet noticed how his eyes had shifted from watching your hands movement to simply admiring your face, the way your lips looked so soft, the gentle expression that your face held, the unspoken love that was swirling around your (beautiful) eyes.

He was sure of it at this point, you came into his live at the toughest of times, like a small light that had chased away a darkness that was trying to consume his soul and mind, he was convinced you was a blessing sent by a unknown god that had heard his silent prayers for something, someone, to save him. He was forever grateful for whatever god had sent you. He felt as if he didn't deserve you but he didn't want to let you go, he didn't know if that made him selfish but rightfully he didn't care either, he was grateful to have someone like you, someone like an angel and he was even more grateful that you had chosen him to hold your heart, to keep it safe.

He was sure that you were his one and only, his other half, his light to his own darkness that plagued his soul, you were his reason to survive, even if he was infected you was his reason to try and survive this new formed world. As corny as that sounded in his mind, he was sure that was the case.

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END

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ~ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ~ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

I have no real idea if this even makes any logical sense since I finished writing this at around 3am on a friday! But if it does and you'd like more leave a comment and a heart! (Or don't nobody will force you too!) Please remember not to copy or repost my work on any other sites and claim it as your own thank you!

Have a good night/day, lovelies!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ~ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

#cha hyun soo #cha hyun soo x reader #cha hyun su x reader #sweet home #song kang #hyunsu x reader #netflix sweet home #fluff #how do i tag this #x reader #netflix #season 1 #season 2