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bullshxtvixen · 3 years

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*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Pairing: Bokuto x Reader

Word Count: 5.1k

Song: Put It On Me - Matt Maeson

Warnings: 18+, Coercion(dubcon themes), size kink, cream pie, virginity kink, corruption kink, rough sex, spitting, spanking, light choking, light assplay(I couldn’t help myself), dom!bokuto(he’s kind of an ass oops).

A/N: So uh, it’s finally here…My first fic in two months and i’m ngl, i’ve been dreading posting for so long, but i tried to give you guys something good for my return, so please let me know what you think and go easy on me, i’m a little rusty sksks. However, this is a gift for @thekraziesreside because she drew me them most amazing Kenma x Me icon and i needed to pay her back somehow!!

Shoutout to my amazing friends @deathcab4daddy, @dymphnasprose and @spicykzumeknma, who i’m sure are sick of beta reading this by now and having me freaking out about posting it. Thank you for all your grammar corrections that I will probably never learn from, I love you all

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“I-I’m a virgin.”

The words slip from your tongue before you can stop them.

The large hands that had been tracing the contours of your body stilled. You had to stop yourself from flinching when his intense golden stare shot to your face.

“What…” He let the word trail off, a well-practised mask of surprise coming into place on his features.

It was second nature to him now, letting his face morph into whatever expression he needed it to at a moments notice. No one ever suspected the friendly Ace of being anything other than a good guy, and really, he wasn’t a bad guy. No, he just relished in taking the innocence of unsuspecting women who easily fell into his trap.

Like you.

“I’m a virgin, Kou.” Even though you were straddling him, you still had to look up to meet his eyes.

With the tips of your ears burning, you moved to get off of his lap as if you could escape from your embarrassing confession. You couldn’t believe you’d openly admitted you were an inexperienced virgin to the guy you’d only just met a week ago. A mutual friend had introduced the two of you, and you’d quickly fallen for his ‘nice guy’ act.

You hadn’t even put a foot on the floor before you were pulled back and thrown into the pillows. The weight of Bokuto’s body was quick to settle on top of you, pressing you down into the plush mattress.

“What are y-” before you could finish your sentence, your wrists were pinned above your head, rendering your arms useless in his firm grip. The muscles in your abdomen tightened at his rough treatment, and you couldn’t stop the small gasp that fell from your lip. Turning your head to the side, you tried in vain to hide your flustered expression.

Bokuto felt his cock twitch in the grey sweats that hung low on his hips.

The innocent ones were always the most responsive. He fought off a grin as the thought crossed his mind.

“Did you really think I was going to let you get away after telling me something like that?” He growled, warm breath ghosting over your face and across your neck. He watched with a glint in his eyes as you shivered under him.

Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

“Do you know what that means, little bird?”

Your heart raced at the nickname.

Could he make you sing for him?

Certain he could hear your heartbeat fluttering like a hummingbird's wings in your chest, you silently prayed for the ground to open up and swallow you whole. The mortification you felt was palpable in the space between you.

Bokuto thought it was cute how bashful you were, so unsure and unwilling to show him your real feelings, even though your body told him everything he needed to know. Still, he’d have you voicing your innermost desires sooner or later- it was only a matter of time.

“Well?” He pressed, not allowing you to dwell on your thoughts any longer. He didn’t want to have to put in too much effort to break you.

Your voice was small and unsure when you answered him, eyes looking anywhere but his direction, “No.”

He was so close, closer than any man had ever been before. The proximity made it hard to think straight as the warmth of his body seeped into your bones, and his masculine scent invaded your senses.

It was almost stifling.

His tongue darted out, licking a wet strip up the side of your exposed neck before pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. He felt you shiver beneath him before pulling back and watching a deep blush journey down to your chest. It was so pure...He couldn’t wait to be the one to defile your virtue.

Gently grasping your chin between his thumb and index finger, he turned your face until you had no option but to meet his simmering gaze.

Begrudgingly, you looked up at the man looming over you and found he was already observing your flustered expression. He stared so openly and without shame that you began to squirm under him.

Bokuto saw your blush deepen further and wondered what you’d look like when he eased his cock inside your virgin hole.

Would your eyes roll into the back of your head? Would your nails imbed themselves in his back? Or maybe you’d simply cry out in pain and pleasure as he ripped through your innocence?

All kinds of scenarios whirled around in his brain, sending his mind into overdrive.

Unconsciously, he ground the head of his cock against your clothed slit and was rewarded when he heard your sharp intake of breath.

Heat pooled in his groin.

It was such a pretty sound. He wanted more, and he didn’t need to feel the slick collecting in the crotch of your underwear to know your feelings mirrored his.

His smile was predatory as he answered.

“It means that I’ll be the first person to fill your tight little pussy up with cum. I’ll stretch your walls around my cock and pump you so full that it’ll be dripping out of you for days.”

The lewd words fell from his mouth with ease, and you found yourself shifting as your body all of a sudden became too warm as if the temperature in the room had spiked, but you knew it was his words alone that had caused your reaction.

You hated how easily he affected you.

“I bet you want me to corrupt your sweet little body, don’t you?” He already knew the answer.

Your body responded of its own accord, turning into putty beneath him. Your hips rolled against his as your back arched off the bed at the feeling of his cock nudging against your clit. The knot in your stomach tightened.

The grip on your wrists tightened. Bokuto took a few steadying breaths, struggling to hold himself back. You seemed so tiny and fragile as you lay beneath his brawny form, and he was scared he would break you if he gave in to his own desires too soon.

Maybe that’s what you wanted. The sadistic voice in the back of his mind purred.

“I- I don’t know.” Your voice wavered as you answered him honestly. Doubt had begun to gnaw at your gut. Waiting didn’t seem like the worst idea- there was no rush, after all.

He closed his eyes for a split second to hide the annoyance that no doubt flickered through them. When he reopened them, he became the personification of a bird of prey, and you were his next meal.

Your mouth became dry as you lied entrapped by his stare.

“Come on, I can make you feel good.” As if he was digging his talons in to prevent your escape, he rolled his hips against yours once more, making sure that his cock rubbed firmly over your swelling clit. The side of his mouth quirked up when a tentative moan left your parted lips.

“That’s it, you like that, don’t you? You want me to make you feel good, don’t you, little bird?” another roll of his hips, and he watched the doubt dissolve away for now.

“Koutarou...please.” Your voice was small, uncertain as you begged.

You didn’t know what you were begging for, you just knew he could give it to you, whatever it was.

Golden eyes flashed at the way your voice was saturated with need. For a moment he thought that maybe you weren’t a virgin, but instead, a succubus, come to steal his soul.

He would let you.

The weight of his body left yours, and in seconds, you were stripped of all of your clothing, which was thrown haphazardly around the room. His soon followed.

Eager eyes drank in the sight of your naked body before him. Your skin was so beautiful and unmarred by another person, so enticing and begging for his touch. Soon you would be littered in his marks as he lay claim to your body, inside and out.

Growing self-conscious under his prolonged stare, you tried in vain to cover your most intimate parts.

“There’s no use trying to hide from me. I’m going to become well-acquainted with your body by the time I’m done with you.”

A gasp escaped your lips when his fingers reached down and ghosted over your folds. A groan left him when he felt just how wet you were.

“Well, looks like someone’s already dripping at the thought of being ruined by my cock- isn’t that cute?” Though his tone was mocking, his words still sent excitement trickling down your spine.

Spreading your lips, he circled a thick finger around your twitching entrance, smiling devilishly when you whined for him. Through heavy-lidded eyes, he witnessed your jaw go slack as he eased the first finger past the slick opening, surprised when he was met with little resistance.

Soon he was able to work himself knuckle-deep, and your walls fluttered around him in welcome.

Such a slutty pussy for someone so untouched.

“You’re so tight, baby. Your pussy’s sucking my finger in so nicely; I bet you’re going to feel amazing when I stuff my cock inside.”

You groaned as his fingers started to move within your previously untainted walls. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling like you’d feared it would be- it was almost like a welcoming pressure had settled deep within you.

“Kou… more.”

A chuckle met your ears in line with his warm lips brushing against your pubic bone, “Your wish is my command.”

When the second finger was added, the discomfort became evident on your face. He didn’t pause his movements; instead, their pace increased as pain and pleasure fought for dominance at the apex of your thighs.

“That’s it, you can do it. The pain will stop soon,” At that moment he chose to curl his fingers and press them against the spongy spot deep within your sopping cunt. The pain dulled and was overshadowed by pleasure as he played with your body as if it were an instrument he was fine-tuning.

“Ah- fuck, I-” Your breathing accelerated as the pressure in the pit of your stomach began to increase . Your hips started to buck up off the bed when his thumb joined his ministrations and began working tight circles against your clit. Sparks of excitement like nothing you’d felt before shot through your veins. Stringing thoughts together became almost impossible.

If this was what his fingers could do, you weren’t sure you’d be able to remain sane once his cock entered you.

“There it is,” he cooed, fingertips rubbing against the same spot, this time with a little more vigour, “God, you look so beautiful with my fingers inside you, you’re drenching them, baby.”

A thick fog came over your mind as they stroked and stretched your walls, creating a pressure in your abdomen that threatened to overflow at any second. It almost scared you, and yet, you couldn’t prevent your hips from desperately grinding down against his hand.

“More,” you cried, your breaths beginning to come out in pants.

The wet squelching sounds of your pussy filled the room as his hand became a blur between your thighs. The sound only added to your arousal.

When your legs began to quake, he lowered his head and added his mouth to the mix, suckling skillfully at your puffy clit. His lips were cool as they attached themselves to your heated skin, the difference in temperature causing a prolonged whine to leave you.

His tongue swirled around the sensitive nub, his fingers working your insides, coiling, stroking and stretching until the pressure that had been steadily rising in your stomach finally exploded within your body. It erupted from your core, spreading through you like wildfire.

Your hands found hair, pulling and twisting the soft locks as you came hard around his fingers. He moaned at the flash of pain in his scalp- causing his own desire to heighten. Your walls pulsed as he continued to curl his fingers against your g-spot.

“Yes, yes, yes! Fuck, Kou, fuck, oh god, oh god!” Your cries of delight were music to Bokuto’s ears. It excited him so much that he couldn’t help but gently rut his hips into the mattress. His cock was painfully hard now, and precum leaked freely from his swelling tip. He needed to be inside you soon or he’d lose his mind.

Pulling his fingers from your pussy, you watched through half-lidded eyes as he brought them to his mouth and began to eagerly lap at them.

“Koutarou…That was....” Your brain was still riding its high, unable to give you an end to your sentence.

He pulled his hand from his mouth, “I told you I’d make you feel good. Now, before I fuck your brains out, why don’t you see how good you taste?”

The musky smell of your arousal filled your nostrils as he brought his fingers to your lips.

“Open.” It wasn’t a request.

At your hesitance, he quirked a brow, “I promise you taste amazing. Now, open.”

You obeyed, still riding the endorphin high he’d pulled from your body. Because of this, you didn’t even notice that he’d reached over and pressed record on his phone that was propped up on the nightstand. He’d made sure to angle it so the camera pointed directly at your face.

He found people were much more...compliant... if he had video footage he could use against them in the event that they changed their minds.

With a grin, he placed the two fingers he’d had knuckle deep in your cunt against your tongue.

The tart taste of your release was quick to spread over your tastebuds. His eyes darkened when you began to swirl your tongue around his fingers, lightly sucking on them until they were completely clean of your arousal.

It was so erotic that you found it hard to maintain eye contact.

He released a shaky breath before pulling his fingers from your mouth with a satisfying ‘pop’.

“You’re a little minx, you know that?” He teased, allowing one of his hands to come to rest next to your head while the other reached between your bodies. Taking his length in his hand, he watched a mix of anticipation and fear come over your features when you looked down.

Your audible gulp was heard in the silence that followed.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected, but this was beyond anything your mind had come up with. Even though you’d never had sex before, you knew he was big. His cock was thick and heavy where it hung between his legs. Veins ran along the sides of his shaft, the largest one snaking directly down the centre before splitting in two near the swollen head. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would feel like having something so big inside your body.

“I don’t think I can do this.” Your voice wavered, doe-eyes shining with fear as they met his.

He acknowledged your fear with a condescending sneer, “Oh, little bird, you really think you have a choice?” he nodded towards the nightstand.

The blood in your veins turned icy, and your body began to tremble as you lay eyes on the phone, screen open and recording.

Breathing became difficult as panic rose in your chest. You’d been so naive. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“It’s been recording for the last couple of minutes. Now,” his rough fingers came to rest against the sides of your throat, squeezing lightly as he brought his face just inches from yours, “you can either behave, and this will feel amazing for both of us, or you can be a brat, and the only person this is going to be fun for is me. Not to mention, I’ll send the video around to every person you know, including your boss.”

At the mention of your boss, your whole body deflated. He had you right where he wanted you. While the thought of your friends and family seeing the video was mortifying, you couldn’t risk losing your job. Your virginity was a small price to pay to make sure the video stayed hidden.

Anger bloomed in your chest as you leered up at the spiky-haired man, but you had no fight in you. It was useless to even try.

“If I do this, you’ll make it go away?” You tried to make your voice sound confident, but it cracked at the end.

He couldn’t stop the smile from creeping onto his face when he realised you were giving in, “Of course- no one else will ever see it.”

He watched the internal battle going on behind your mind before your eyes hardened.

“Fine, so be it. I’ll play your sick game.” You spat, what else did you have to lose?

Bokuto’s eyes widened when you reached down and removed his hand from his length before replacing it with your own. It was softer than you’d imagined, yet firm at the same time. Like steel encased in velvet.

“You like the feeling of my cock, baby? It’ll feel even better when I'm balls deep inside you. You’ll be my little slut and take it all like a good girl, won’t you?”

The man above you let out a rumbling moan from deep within his chest when your fingers flexed around him, head falling against your chest. Your wavering hands felt so small as they struggled to circle his impressive girth. It again reminded him of the size difference between the two of you.

Your eyes darted between him and the phone. He took the hint and reached over, turning the phone off and laying it flat against the nightstand.

He turned back to you with a smug smirk.

You wanted to slap the look right off his face, but violence would probably result in the video being circulated faster.

Resigning yourself to your fate, you dipped the head of the thick muscle between your folds. Your slick coated it instantly. Lining him up with your entrance, you waited for him to meet your gaze. When he did, he saw the hatred burning in them. It made his cock throb in your palm.

When he pressed his hips forward, all at once, the air left your body as heat flooded your core.

Bokuto studied your face intently, drinking in the way your pupils dilated and your mouth dropped open into a silent moan. If he could burn one image into his mind, it was your face at that moment as he stole the last remnants of your innocence from you.

“Hng-fuck...it feels...s-so-” Your hands blindly grasped at his broad shoulders, seeking some kind of anchor as the burning feeling of his cock threatening to split you open sent your mind into a frenzy.

“So what, baby?” He cooed, body tense above you. “How does it feel? Come on, little bird, use your words.”

Nails dug into his shoulder blades as he worked himself into you. Hissing out a breath, he savoured the way your lower muscles clenched around his girth before relaxing, only to repeat the motion moments later, pulling him deeper into your heated sheath.

“So full. So so full, so fucking good.” You whimpered, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. It was a fullness, unlike anything you’d ever felt before. Every nerve in your body had come to life, and a familiar heat began to pool in your lower body once again. Bokuto’s control began to slip, and he soon realised he was trembling above you in an effort to hold back. Heat was surging through his own body, clouding his mind and bringing him closer to his climax. If he didn’t move soon...

“Ah, fuck, I need…” He couldn’t finish the rest of his sentence, his mind was lost to the beast you’d unleashed inside of him. With a harsh snap of his hips, he sheathed the rest of his cock inside your wet heat.

A scream ripped from your throat as your poor cunt was suddenly filled to the brim with the Ace’s cock. His hips lay flush against yours as he bottomed out inside you, the plush head of his length kissing your cervix. He stretched your body in such a sinful way that for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

Even though you never wanted anything to do with him and the thought of him being inside you made you feel sick, you couldn’t stop your body’s natural reaction to him.

On instinct, your legs wrapped around his hips, heels pressing against his ass. You didn’t know where your confidence had come from, and in your lust-driven craze, you didn’t care. In fact, it was almost as if a switch had been flicked in your mind. All you knew was that you craved him.

“Shit, you’re choking my cock with that sweet little pussy. Fuck.”

“Koutarou...move. Please.” You panted, cutting him off, “I need you to move, now.”

The heels of your feet dug into his ass while you simultaneously rolled your hips into his. The movement sent flares of desire straight to your core.

Bokuto didn’t need to be told twice.

The first few of his thrusts were short and practised as if he was testing whether or not your body could handle him. When he was met with mewls and whimpers, he couldn’t stop himself from picking up his pace and slamming mercilessly into your greedy pussy.

The pressure you’d experienced before started to build once again, only this time it felt more intense, almost out of control as you writhed beneath him.

There were many ways you’d imagined losing your virginity; slow, soft, romantic sex with someone you’d known for years; gentle caresses and stolen kisses beneath a slither of moonlight as your lover whispered loving words into your ear.

This was nothing like that.

Bokuto’s thrusts were bruising, unforgiving, and the power behind each one jolted your entire body. He was animalistic as he fucked into you.

This wasn’t love-making. This was rough, hard fucking, and you found yourself growing intoxicated as you were forced to drink in every sensation he was pulling from you.

He’d been wrong before, you weren’t like the other girls at all. They’d all cried and begged for him to go easy. But you, you thrived on him using your body, even savoured the feeling of being fucked like a whore.

The realisation made his head spin. If you liked being fucked like a whore, he was happy to oblige.

A strangled cry echoed through the room when his teeth latched onto the sensitive skin of your nipple. His hot tongue swirled around the pebbled nub, sending bolts of desire splintering through you as the pressure inside you bubbled up and threatened to explode at any moment.

His mouth left you all too soon.

“Such a good girl. You’re taking my cock so well. Who knew a virgin could be such a dirty little slut? I bet you’re loving this, being used like a cocksleeve.” The words left his mouth in a rush as if he’d forget them if he didn’t get them out fast enough.

Leaning back, he hooked his arms beneath your knees, still continuing his assault on your cunt. He couldn’t help but reach around and press a hand on your stomach. Desire stirred in his groin when he felt himself moving beneath his palm.

“Fuck, that’s so hot. I’m practically in your stomach…” His words died off when he felt your walls begin to spasm.

“Kou, I’m- fuck- I’m going to cum.”

No, he wouldn’t let you cum just yet, it was too soon. He knew if he drew it out much longer, you’d be too sore for another round, but he wanted- no, he needed- to test just how far he could corrupt you.

Without thinking, he leant over your body and allowed a string of his saliva to slowly drip from his mouth. It gave you enough time to move if it was too much for you.

You didn’t move. No, instead you eagerly stuck your tongue out and waited for his spit to drip onto it, like a puppy begging for a treat.

When you swallowed it with a smirk on your face, he finally lost all semblance of control.

You weren’t entirely sure what happened next, but next thing you knew, you were stomach-down on the bed.

“Wha-”

The sound of impact as Bokuto’s hand met the supple flesh of your ass rang in your ears. You barely had time to register the searing heat blooming across your rear before he brought his hand down again on the opposite side.

“Get that fucking ass in the air.”

Bringing your knees under you and sticking your ass out as much as you could, you waited for his next move as your orgasm began to dwindle.

Bokuto bit his lip as he watched you present yourself to him, puffy lips glistening in the dim light.

Gripping your hip with one hand, he used the other to give your ass a few slaps with his length before realigning himself with your entrance. You were so wet and stretched so well that with a harsh snap of his hips, his entire length was buried deep in you with no resistance.

“Fuck!” Your voice was hoarse as you cried out from being stuffed with his cock again.

The angle this new position set had his cock dragging along your walls, caressing them as he fucked into your heat. The new pace he set was brutal as he chased his own high.

Skin against skin became the only sound in the room as his weighty balls slapped against your clit- each time the coil in your stomach tightened.

Your body stiffened when you heard him spit, followed by the feel of moisture coming into contact at the top of your ass.

He’d been lost in his mind as he watched your puffy slit suck in his length, and when his eyes travelled up to the puckered hole just above, he couldn’t help himself.

“Don’t worry,” He spread the spit around your pucker with his thumb before gently applying pressure, “I’ll ruin this hole next time, little bird. But first, I want you to get an idea of just how good I can be to you.”

When his thumb slipped past the tight ring of muscle, your eyes rolled into the back of your head.

A sense of euphoria settled deep within you as you lay there and let the Ace pound into you with reckless abandon.

Bokuto became drunk on the cries he was sure you didn’t even realise were falling from your mouth as drool pooled beneath your cheek and turned the bedsheets a darker shade.

It wouldn’t be long now. He could feel his balls tightening as heat spread through his body. Not to mention, your legs had started to quiver with the first signs of your release.

“You ready to come for me again, baby?” His hips never faltered from the harsh pace he’d set.

“I can’t...too much...fuck.”

He found it almost endearing that you thought you had a choice.

“Wrong answer.”

You didn’t think it was possible for him to fuck you any harder, but a last burst of energy had him pistoning his hips into you with such force that you had to reach above your head and press a shakey hand against the headboard to stop your body from jolting forward.

Your body couldn’t take much more stimulation and seconds later you cried out your release into the mattress.

Your first orgasm was nothing compared to the pure ecstasy you felt in those following moments as you came hard around the thick muscle still pumping into your aching walls.

Stars flashed across your vision as your toes curled, and your hands blindly clawed at the mattress. It was as if you’d been washed out to sea in an ocean of bliss, and you had no choice but to ride the waves crashing through you.

Bokuto’s thrust became sporadic until finally, his body went taut behind you, balls tightening as he emptied his seed into your spasming walls.

His cum was warm as it splashed against your cervix, staining every inch of your insides with the thick fluid.

White noise rang in your ears as your body rode out its chemical high.

Bokuto pulled his thumb and cock from your holes once his balls were empty. Once removed, your body collapsed to the side, exhausted.

Bokuto’s own energy was about to run out, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from your twitching cunt. His cum had started to dribble out from between your swollen lips in a steady stream of white.

Instinct had him reaching out and pressing as much of it back into your body as he could. He ignored the weak cries that the action coaxed from your mouth as his fingers brushed against tender flesh.

He’d fucked you raw.

You’d be sore for days after this. Hell, a dull ache had settled in his own muscles.

With a groan, he used the last of his energy to scoop your thoroughly fucked body off the bed and carry you the short distance to the bathroom. Placing you gingerly down into the toilet seat, he only let go when he was sure you weren’t going to fall face-first onto the cold tile floor.

Grabbing a small cloth, he made quick work of rubbing the musky smell of sex from your body before jumping into the shower and ridding himself of the thin layer of sweat sticking to him. The warm water felt amazing against his skin, and suddenly, tiredness came over him. All of his limbs felt heavy as if weights had been attached to them. He’d definitely been rougher than he meant to- fucking never usually took this much out of him.

You’d been so lost in your after-sex daze that he almost jumped out of his skin when you finally spoke.

“So...When can we go again?” Your voice was far more lucid than he’d expected. It seemed in your daze you’d forgotten your hatred towards him. He knew some gentle persuasion was all it would take to unlock your inner animal.

Raising a brow, he turned to see a sly smile creep onto your face as you sat naked on his toilet.

You at least had the decency to blush at your request.

“I mean...that’s if you want to. Oh, and you’d better delete that video or I’ll rip your cock off and shove it down your throat.”

He thought you might just be a succubus after all.

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runawaymun · 3 years

Note

I have this really dumb idea for Glorfindel. So a reader who plays the violin and violins aren't really common to elves so Glorfindel takes a bit interest in her. Idk its just something random I thought of.

Glorfindel x Fem!Reader - Harmonics

genre: romance warnings: tooth-rotting fluff for: @armin-ocean-eyes reader pronouns: she/her

Traveling musicians are always welcome in Rivendell. Whenever you pass by the Hidden Valley, you make it a point to stop there to rest and resupply. Lord Elrond is more than happy to receive you and all that anyone ever asks in return is a few songs.

You, especially, are a favorite guest-- by virtue of your instrument alone. Elves are no strangers to stringed instruments, but they favor harps, lyres, guitars, and ukuleles --the kinds of instruments meant to accompany a singer-- over violins.

This time when you play in the Hall of Fire after the evening meal, you notice an unfamiliar face in the back of the crowd. He’s impossible to miss, mostly just because he glows like sunlight lives beneath his skin, and his hair is the color of gold.

When the moon reaches its zenith, you’ve run out of songs to play, your callouses hurt, and you’re starting to feel a little sleepy. The elves are sad to see you stop, but Lindir takes your place and soon the entire hall is enthralled by his harp and silvery-sweet voice.

You step out to the terrace, put your bow away, and take a seat on one of the benches beneath the stars to clean the rosin dust from the tiger-striped wood of your violin. After a time, a pair of catlike footsteps comes up and stops next to you, and when you look up it’s that elf with the golden hair. He wears a circlet and cream-colored robes with a wide purple sash. He’s clearly someone important. You’re surprised you’ve never seen him before.

“Well met,” he says. His voice is soft but carries, warm and bright.

“Well met,” you return, surprised. “I am sorry, my lord, I do not know your name.”

“I am called Glorfindel,” he returns with a smile. “And you?”

You tell him your name. He repeats it to himself in a concerted effort to remember it, and then says: “I want to compliment you on your music. It was extraordinary.”

“Thank you.” You feel your face heat at the compliment. It’s nothing you haven’t heard before, but he’s so earnest about it to the point of gushing.

“You have been to Imladris before? You seem quite popular.”

You shrug. “A few times, yes.”

“I must confess I am surprised to never have met you. I think I would remember. How does it work?” he asks.

You cock your head. “My lord?”

“Your instrument?”

“Oh!” You look down at the violin in your hands and then back up at him. “Have you--” you bite your tongue, afraid it’s a rude question. Then, shyly, you go on to ask: “Have you never seen one? Really?”

“I have,” he laughs, “But never so close as this.”

His laughter warms you through. There’s nothing unkind about it. It’s pure and sounds almost like music. You scoot over on the bench so he has room to sit next to you.

“It is...a little like a guitar in construction, I suppose. When you break it down to its most basic parts,” you say. He leans over to look at the violin in unadulterated fascination. You tap the body, showing him how it makes a hollow sound, and trace the f-holes. “When the strings vibrate, the body amplifies it. There is a post inside and the quality of the music will be greatly affected by where it is placed.”

“There are no frets,” he murmurs, tracing one of the strings with the tip of his finger.

“No,” you say. “You learn where to place your finger by memory. It is very exact. If you’re a little bit off, your note will be out of tune. It isn’t a very forgiving instrument.”

“Then you must have great skill to play it so well.”

Again, the compliment is so utterly sincere that it catches you off guard. It’s then that you realize how very close the two of you are, how very close his face is to yours. You look up at him. He isn’t looking at the violin.

As soon as you lock eyes, he flushes to the tips of his ears and looks away.

“I apologize.”

“Do not,” you say. “I must admit I-- I am flattered, my lord.”

“Glorfindel,” he corrects.

The corners of your mouth turn up. “Glorfindel.”

“How much longer will you stay in Imladris?”

“Well, I was planning on leaving the day after tomorrow--”

“--might I convince you to stay a little longer?” he asks.

“Very well. The day after tomorrow, plus a minute longer.”

He barks another laugh and shakes his head. “Longer even that that.”

“Oh, two minutes?”

“Ai! No!” He is laughing still. You think you could keep teasing him forever, if only to hear it.

“Then tell me, how much longer were you thinking?” You nudge his shoulder with yours. “You must be more specific.”

“There will be a comet five days hence. It comes every few hundred years and the best view is from that peak--” he points to a mountain in the middle distance, near the Northeast section of the Valley. “Would you watch it with me?”

You stand to tuck your violin safely back inside its case and shoot him a smile.

“I would love to.”

#glorfindel x reader #glorfindel #glorfindel imagine #lotr imagine #lotr #lord of the rings #this was so cute aaaaaaa #thank you for the prompt!#i hope you like it!#And Rohan Will Answer! (Requests)#gif not mine!

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brostateexam · 2 years

Text

A vibe shift is the catchy but sort of too-cool term Monahan uses for a relatively simple idea: In the culture, sometimes things change, and a once-dominant social wavelength starts to feel dated. Monahan, who is 35, breaks down the three vibe shifts he has survived and observed: Hipster/Indie Music (ca. 2003–9), or peak Arcade Fire, Bloc Party, high-waisted Cheap Mondays, Williamsburg, bespoke-cocktail bars; Post-Internet/Techno Revival (ca. 2010–16), or the Blood Orange era, normcore, dressing like The Matrix, Kinfolk the club, not Kinfolk the magazine; and Hypebeast/Woke (ca. 2016–20), or Drake at his Drakest, the Nike SNKRS app, sneaker flipping, virtue signaling, Donald Trump, protests not brunch.

You can argue the accuracy of Monahan’s timeline or spend hours over dinner litigating the touch points of each vibe era — it’s kind of fun debating which trend was peaking when, or which was just for white people — but the thing that struck fear into Ellen’s heart was Monahan’s prediction that we were on the cusp of a new vibe shift. It is unnerving because when you really consider it, you can feel people flocking to a new thing. You can see that he’s right; something has shifted.

...

This vibe-shift idea landed right as I was trying to figure out what hot-girl summer — or hot vaxx summer or the whoring ’20s or however you chose to label the expected triumphant return — was supposed to be and who I was supposed to be in it. I was in the middle of attempting to relearn which clothes I wore, how I pursued sex, what drugs I took and with whom, what music I danced to and where. I could accept that some of my old bars had closed (RIP, Frank’s, Kinfolk) and that a bunch of people I knew had babies (RIP, people who had babies), but I also felt that time had stopped in some ways.

It was reassuring to think the pandemic had hit PAUSE on life, or at least put things into slo-mo. That while some of us were inside, or in the world but social distancing, or just keeping to ourselves as best we could, culture wasn’t really moving forward. In therapy, I talked about how, for the first time in years, I didn’t feel acute FOMO. It was nice that everyone was sort of stagnant, watching the same trash on Netflix. Sure, some people were going out “secretly,” but we didn’t really know what those people were up to, and we didn’t have reason to believe they were advancing any sort of scene. Turns out, two years might have swooshed into a black hole, but I was cocky to think something wouldn’t fill the void.

“Those were still real years. People’s opinions were changing, things were happening. It was just that, you know, culture and pop culture were not really putting out bangers during most of the pandemic,” says Monahan when we speak by phone in an attempt to truly decode the vibe shift.

“There’s been a real paranoia that people have. Everyone coming out of hibernation being like, What are people wearing? What are people reading? What are people doing? And it was different than when everyone had gone into the pandemic. It unsettled a lot of people,” Monahan says, commiserating, I think. (x)

#long reads #*long posts #i have never been happier to not give a shit

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benjaminmoorepaint · 3 years

Text

red: the color of...grantaire?

Figured I might do another meta post like the one I did for Marius to address the myths and misconceptions surrounding certain characters, so it's Grantaire's turn!

I'm sure we all know Grantaire quite well...a sensitive starving artist, with his Apollo as his muse, and a cynic who pragmatically points out the flaws in Enjolras's idealism, which they quarrel over.

Let's unpack that!

Grantaire is most likely middle class if not wealthy, he is certainly not poor. We don't know what he's studying (if he's studying at all) but he is nevertheless a quintessentially Parisian bourgeoise "student", much like Bahorel. "A rover, a gambler, a libertine..." As the foil of "severe in his enjoyments" Enjolras, Grantaire is a pleasure-seeker, indulging in the excesses that Enjolras disdains.

Again, though we don't know what Grantaire is studying (and I suspect he's just Bahorel-ing it) he's clearly an educated man, judging by the references he throws into his speeches, and he mentions that he once was a student of Gros.

So is he really an artist? He might have been an apprentice at some point, but it's clear he was not particularly enthused by it. After all, discipline is something that Grantaire…lacks. And because it's Grantaire, you can't completely discount the idea that he made it up just for a pun (though I do find that unlikely.) But it's a triple (quadruple?) play--it's important not to take this quote too far out of context because he's actually saying several things here.

It is a shame that I am ignorant, otherwise I would quote to you a mass of things; but I know nothing. For instance, I have always been witty; when I was a pupil of Gros, instead of daubing wretched little pictures, I passed my time in pilfering apples; rapin is the masculine of rapine. So much for myself; as for the rest of you, you are worth no more than I am. I scoff at your perfections, excellencies, and qualities. Every good quality tends towards a defect [...] there are just as many vices in virtue as there are holes in Diogenes’ cloak.

Gros was a well-known neoclassical painter of the time, and I believe Hugo's inclusion of him here is a jab at the neoclassicists, as Grantaire doesn't seem to care for him.

There's a pun! "Rapin"--term for a painter's assistant--is the masculine of "rapine"--to steal.

So he likely means he stole the apples intended to be painted for a still life, which fits his careless attitude... but he's ironically putting himself down for it too, and at the same time

putting his companions down, saying they're no better than him even if they do have more "good" qualities because each good quality has a corresponding downside, so what's the point, really?

You can see that even in this small sample of his speech that Grantaire often has layers upon layers of meaning in what he says. He's a smart guy! But that means you can't always take what he says at face value, as Hugo says, he's constantly "reasoning and contradicting" himself. So let me invite you further down into what I think his real meaning is here (though now firmly into the depths of my own conjecture, so others may have different interpretations.)

I would speculate that "the rest of you" who he professes to mock refers mostly to a specific person, you can probably guess who. After all, Enjolras is surely the paragon of virtue among them, and you could certainly argue that his good qualities edge on being flaws. I think Grantaire is right about that, and it's a sort of theme we see pop up again and again--the Bishop's generosity does hurt the women he lives with, Valjean's self-sacrifice hurts Cosette, and Javert is someone who's tipped all the way over to his virtues being vices.

But like, man, come on. Seriously. "I scoff at your perfections, excellencies, and qualities." Dude. We all know that you're obsessed with this man.

And you might notice that this is just a whole lot of Grantaire talking and talking over people, never letting anyone else get a word in. It's not a debate, Grantaire never actually debates anyone, let alone Enjolras. The idea of Grantaire debating Enjolras and making him see the flaws in his idealistic revolution is wholly a fandom invention.

The closest we get, really, is Grantaire trying to convince Enjolras to send him to the Barriere du Maine...and Grantaire doesn't come out of that looking so good.

“Do you know anything of those comrades who meet at Richefeu’s?”

“Not much. We only address each other as tu.”

“What will you say to them?”

“I will speak to them of Robespierre, pardi! Of Danton. Of principles.”

“You?”

“I. But I don’t receive justice. When I set about it, I am terrible. I have read Prudhomme, I know the Social Contract, I know my constitution of the year Two by heart. ‘The liberty of one citizen ends where the liberty of another citizen begins.’ Do you take me for a brute? I have an old bank-bill of the Republic in my drawer. The Rights of Man, the sovereignty of the people, sapristi! I am even a bit of a Hébertist. I can talk the most superb twaddle for six hours by the clock, watch in hand.”

I won't bother going too in-depth here since you're probably familiar with all this--Grantaire talks a big game and then fails to follow through. And we see one of two red waistcoats mentioned, neither of which are worn by Enjolras.

Grantaire lived in furnished lodgings very near the Café Musain. He went out, and five minutes later he returned. He had gone home to put on a Robespierre waistcoat.

“Red,” said he as he entered, and he looked intently at Enjolras. Then, with the palm of his energetic hand, he laid the two scarlet points of the waistcoat across his breast.

So yeah, it's actually Grantaire who wears red, at least canonically! I know their popular red/green color scheme comes from the musical, but it might be fun to reverse it sometimes...I think Enjolras would look great in a nice emerald green, and he'd be more likely to wear that, actually.

Why? A red waistcoat like would be a very obvious, in-your-face political statement--perfect for Bahorel, the other red waistcoat wearer, but Enjolras is actually a lot more reserved and less reckless than fandom sometimes makes him out to be. Wearing something that blatant isn't really his style.

The real question is, why does Grantaire, of all people, own one? Why has he read Prudhomme and the Social Contract and the Rights of Man?

Grantaire is not a super sympathetic character. He's a man of means, talent, intelligence...and he wastes those gifts and privileges on doing nothing, he has no aims in life, he does not aspire to do better or make the world better. He may be Enjolras's foil but I would also contrast him with Feuilly, who has spent his life dedicated to improving himself and the world despite the challenges he's faced. He's obnoxious to women, denigrates his friends for their beliefs, and is generally useless. He's given the opportunity to change and he squanders it. He's not so much cynical (because that's a belief) as he is indifferent, which is arguably worse. His indifference can certainly be read as symbolic within the group, their belief versus the apathy of the world.

But, layers upon layers...Grantaire does have a good heart hiding underneath all that. What I've been getting at all along here is that he does care; he may say he doesn't, he may even believe he doesn't, but he does, clearly, care. He says he hates mankind; he loves people. He says he scoffs at his companions; he admires them. He declares himself indifferent, yet he can't help but talk about the sufferings of the world.

Which isn't to say that simply caring absolves him of anything. Up to this point, he's still just been a useless layabout. What does absolve him (narratively speaking) is the first time, possibly the first time in his life, that he chooses to act. He chooses to take a stand. And this transfigures him, as Hugo says.

Grantaire had risen. The immense gleam of the whole combat which he had missed, and in which he had had no part, appeared in the brilliant glance of the transfigured drunken man.

At the last moment, he chooses to believe, and Enjolras finally accepts him.

One last thing: Grantaire never calls Enjolras "Apollo". Furthermore, he's actually the only one who couldn't have called him "Apollo". The only line where this nickname is mentioned is as follows:

It was of him, possibly, that a witness spoke afterwards, before the council of war: “There was an insurgent whom I heard called Apollo.”

Who could have called him that? Not Grantaire, he was fast asleep during the whole thing. So I choose to believe it was Prouvaire…he would.

#grantaire #meta

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therealvinelle · 3 years

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You've said before that you think Meyer is a good writer. I'm neutral to her myself but you're the first person in the fandom to say that that I've seen and I was wondering what your reasons were.

Sure thing.

First of, some referential links. In this post I explain why I like Meyer’s worldbuilding, and in this one I explain (in the last reblog - you can get away with skipping the previous posts) why I think her character creation is well done, and in this one I talk about why I like Twilight in the first place, though that post got a bit off-topic.

So, let me first do the disclaimer that I do not think Meyer is perfect.

Her greatest flaw, I’d say, is that what she intends to write isn’t always what ends up on page. Edward is for instance supposed to be the ideal man, chivalrous and the very antithesis of toxic masculinity. His relationship with Bella is supposed to be a love story on part with all the classics. Jacob, too, is intended as a dreamboat. Alice is the ideal BFF, Rosalie is the bitchy Regina George, Esme is the ultimate mother, and all the Cullen relationships are wonderfully happy. Aro is supposed to be a sinister villain and the Volturi are all corrupt.

Now, all of the above is how Bella perceives things, and I’m all for unreliable narrators. All narrators are, to a point, unreliable, and inferring things from fiction is one of my favorite things to do (as you can probably tell if you’ve been following this blog). However, so far as I can tell Meyer didn’t intend for Bella to have no clue what’s going on at any given time.

As it happens, I also think this is one of her strengths. This woman is living on a different planet, her mind is on a level I can’t follow at all, only spectate in silent wonder. What I’m saying is, no author in their right mind would write Twilight. No one would write Edward as delightfully unhinged as he is, for starters, not without toning him down significantly (just look at how the movies toned him down). To say nothing of how Bella would be a much more functional person, and in turn much less interesting. Aro would be an actual villain, and Twilight as a whole would not be so overwhelmingly bleak.

Her strengths come through in that she’s consistent about it, and while she interprets things differently than I do, she is still the creator of this bizarre universe and one who knows it intimately well. Does she think Edward is great, yes. Did she also write Midnight Sun without pulling any punches, also yes.

I’d put it this way, the flaw of hers that I’m trying to get at is that she creates this rich and horrifying universe and gets full credit from me for that, but she views it through rose-tinted glasses. Which in turn leads to some interesting writing and plotting decisions.

She has one other significant flaw that comes to mind. She’s not good at cutting things.

This goes for both scenes and plotlines. There’s a lot of filler in these books, from Bella making enchiladas in Twilight, to New Moon taking far too long in Jake’s garage and with Bella’s depression before things start happening again, to Breaking Dawn being 2/3rds filler (the wedding, honeymoon, and vampire euphoria especially come to mind.) There’s a lot of stuff in these books that weren’t necessary to the plot. The Host suffer from this as well.

To say nothing of the bigger things she should have cut, like Jake’s involvement in Breaking Dawn. He’d played out his part, Bella chose to become everything he hated, we were done. The book had more than enough story with Renesmée and the Volturi happening, and Jake’s involvement only served to lower the book’s overall quality. And introduce a pedophilic storyline, which, Meyer no.

Then there are decisions she made where I would have chosen differently, such as Bella returning to Forks at the end of New Moon.

However, this all being said, I am a very difficult person to please. Meyer was never going to tick all my boxes, and while I have points of contention with her, my overall impression is a positive one.

(Just to stress how difficult I am to please: I read Good Omens a few days ago. I liked it very much, but it wasn’t perfect. Shadwell, Madame Tracy, Newt Pulcifer and the Them could all have been cut, for starters.

I’m too critical of everything, and it’s not just Meyer that I think should have cut significant parts of their respective stories and made them into something fundamentally different.)

So, now that I’ve torn her apart, what do I like about her? What, for that matter, do I think constitutes a good writer?

To list a few things I like about her as a writer:

She’s good at writing Her prose is very good, her characters are interesting and engaging people, she’s very good at establishing a scene or a character, and she’s evocative. Her prose never bores me, and it makes me feel things.

She has good ideas Self-explanatory, really. Her lore is extremely original, her characters are interesting, and she comes up with great backstories and worldbuilding. The Southern Wars, for instance, brilliant.

She’s consistent She’s described this herself - she doesn’t get to decide what her characters do, sometimes they do things she very much does not want them to do and she’s quite put out about it. And that, I think, is the key to why her characterization is so consistent - she doesn’t do that dreaded thing where the author forces a character to do what they must to force the plot along, like cramming a square through a triangular hole, she just lets her characters decide for themselves. As her characters are already delightful people, this works out beautifully (Edward conspiring with Jacob that they should forcibly abort Bella’s baby so Jake can then impregnate her comes to mind. Or Aro, whom she views as a powerhungry maniac, showing up at the battleground and being absolutely devastated about that fact.) as they never do anything they wouldn’t do, and their characterization does not change from one book to another. (Counterexample: look at how Kylo Ren in The Rise of Skywalker turns towards the light when we’re closing in on the end of the movie. It’s unconvincing, to say the least, and runs contrary to what has previously been established about him. The movie does not bother to explain why this happens now, what it is that’s so special about one chat with Han and a duel with Rey that makes him turn his life around, nor why it couldn’t have happened sooner. He is redeemed because the trilogy is nearly over, not because it made sense for his character.)

Her plotting is generally good Her plots make sense, I’m invested in them, and they’re reasonably adapted to her characters’ power levels (The clusterfuck that was the Department of Mysteries showdown in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is an example of the antithesis of that).

Of these virtues, I’d place the most emphasis on Meyer’s writing and character creation.

As for what makes a good writer…

It’s difficult for me to pin down.

It’s chiefly whether I think their writing is good, and that means prose, characters, and plot. As Meyer fulfills all of these three, that puts her in my “good writer” box. She’s not perfect, but she has earned her place as a published author.

More, I enjoy reading her books and care about the story and characters she creates. This is a matter of personal preference, but I’m down for what she’s putting out. It would be disingenuous for me to do that and then say “... but of course, she’s a terrible writer”, in part because I feel that’s become a bit of a disclaimer when it comes to Meyer. It’s like the Emperor’s New Clothes. Stephenie Meyer is a bad writer, everyone knows that, if you think otherwise you have bad taste. She has written things, I’ve enjoyed them all, and I’m giving her full credit for that.

#long post #twilight #twilight meta #twilight renaissance #stephenie meyer

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angryschnauzer · 4 years

Text

Do You Want Some Hunny

Summary: Your roommate brings you to a Halloween costume party and your costume is Winnie The Pooh, and you find another resident of the Hundred Acre Wood there who shows you just how well Tiggers can bounce.

Pairing; Henry Cavill x Female Reader (Moodboard disclaimer: Usually i keep any physical images of women out of my moodboards, but i couldn’t find a shot of the shorts without a model in. It is mentioned in the story that the reader purchased the shorts and they/she were not the same as the model)

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Crackfic, Smut, Public fingering, Oral Sex (female recieving), unprotected sex, Creampie.

I do not operate a tag list, but please pop over and follow @angryschnauzerwrites and put that blog onto notifications. You’ll then get an alert every time i post a new story.

Masterlist can be found on AO3, Link HERE.

Do You Want Some Hunny?

You hurried along the pavement, trying to keep up with your roommate as she stalked ahead in her sky high heels, somehow managing to not get them caught in the trim of her Morticia Addams costume. You had opted for your Red Converses that matched your costume and yet still you were having to trot behind her. Fighting against the wind that whipped at your bare legs, you clung to the long parka coat you’d thrown on over your costume, cursing the fact that what you’d chosen at the last minute from an urgent amazon prime order had been more designed for warm climates.

The Winnie The Pooh ears you’d had left over from a trip to Disneyland a few years back were what started it all, a red t-shirt borrowed from your roommate that seemed a lot longer on her than you, and the only thing missing was something yellow to wear with it. You hadn’t wanted to wear a skirt, so had opted for a pair of velvet yellow shorts, however they were a lot shorter than had appeared in the photo, and were very much hotpants rather than shorts. Anyway, they had arrived just a few hours before the party, so it was them or forgo a costume, and not wanting to be a party pooper you decided to go with it.

Following ‘Morticia’ up the porch steps, your heart sank when you saw everyone else’s costumes as they milled around; it was all spooky, dark, and horror movie costumes. Nothing as cute or fluffy as Winnie The Pooh. The host called out to your friend - her girlfriend - and you smiled as you watched the other woman who’d slicked her hair back and had drawn on a mustache to look like Gomez Addams embrace. ‘Gomez’ turned to you and grinned;

“Thanks for coming, i was worried people wouldn’t want to come, let me take your coat”

Shrugging your jacket off you handed it over and fidgeted as she glanced over your costume, you tugged at the shorts;

“Yeah, it was a last minute costume… not very Halloweeny like everyone else”

Gomez winked at you;

“Oh you’re not the only resident of the Hundred Acre Wood here tonight, c’mon, let me get you a drink seeing as my love has wandered off to behead the roses again”

Two hours later you were pleasantly buzzed from a couple of beers, and had been introduced to the other Hundred Acre Wood escapee that was at the party - Tigger - who tended to go by the more human name of Henry.

Six foot of pure muscle was now animatedly installing the virtues of PC gaming having discovered you were starting to learn how to play yourself, all whilst dressed head to toe in a Tigger Onesie. On anyone else it would have looked absurd, but with the zipper undone just enough to show off an inviting patch of chest hair he managed to pull it off. And it wasn’t the only thing you wanted him to pull off. Your attention wandered to his hands and how he was able to circle a beer bottle with his fingers and your words faltered as you explained how you were the hosts girlfriends roommate, instead turning the question back to him;

“So, how do you know Gomez?”

“We’ve been working together on a production here, she’s let me stay in her guest room whilst we’re on a break from shooting”

“You’re an actor?”

He actually blushed at that point;

“Yes… and its quite refreshing to talk to someone that doesn’t immediately recognise me”

Before you could say anything a shout came from the living room;

“Come on! Movie’s about to start!”

Henry led the way and you discovered most of the seats and spots on the sofa’s were taken, finding a single soft chair as he flumped down into it, his legs spread. You paused for a moment before he took your hand without even thinking and pulled you onto his lap;

“There’s enough room for two”

The room was cold, so as the movie started you found yourself snuggling up to the warmth emitting from Henry, envious of his onesie. The room was dark and the massive screen was at the furthest point of the room so everyone’s attention was trained away from the two of you. The movie was one of those modern creep-fests, with ghosts creeping around and the stars oblivious of the entrance to hell they built their cottage on, and with every scare you clung to Henry tighter, his strong arms wrapping around you. Soon you weren’t even paying attention to the movie, your nose hooked under his chin and you let out an involuntary shiver as you were surrounded by his scent.

“Cold?” he whispered

“A little”

He reached and grabbed a blanket that had been tossed over the back of the chair, pulling it over the two of you and it suddenly felt like you were in your own little cocoon. With the warm fabric up to your shoulders you shivered again when Henry slid his hand down beneath the blanket, a grazing touch against the curve of your breast and you found your body arching for more of his touch. He turned to look at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as his gaze consciously focused on yours, licking your lips you gave the smallest nod as he pressed forwards. The kiss was silent and as his plump lips caressed yours you sank into his embrace, his hand finding the edge of your top and slipping beneath the fabric, moving to cup your breast through your bra. As his thumb brushed over your nipple you let out a tiny gasp, but it was enough for his tongue to slip inside your mouth.

The kiss deepened and you shifted on his lap, suppressing another groan when you felt him starting to harden beneath you and even through the thick fabric of his onesie you could tell Tigger had a lot for you to bounce on.

Henry however had traced his wandering touch down your body and was toying with the edge of your shorts, a featherlight touch over the inseam had you gasping against his lips. His voice was low as he spoke, barely a whisper;

“Does Winnie want me to play with her Hunny Pot? I bet you’re delicious”

“Henry!” you shushed him; “We can’t, not here!”

“I wasn’t going to eat it, i was just going to taste it… for now…”

Slipping a finger beneath your shorts he hooked them to the side along with your panties, his thick digit swiping through your folds and seeking out your clit, rubbing firm tight circles against it before letting the elastic snap back into place as he brought his finger to his mouth, humming as he tasted you.

Just at that moment there was a pop and the power went out, the movie shutting down and the emergency light in the hallway the only illumination. Gomez stood and said she was going to call the power company, returning a few minutes later with the bad news that a car had taken out a utilities pole down the street, knocking out power for at least a few hours. A suggestion of heading out to a local bar was floated, with general agreement, but hidden by the noise of everyone else your groan of disappointment was both heard and felt by Henry;

“Lets stay here” he whispered; “Come up to my room. We can… snuggle…”

“Just snuggle?”

His wicked grin told you he wanted to do a whole lot more, and in the melee that followed as people searched for their coats by the light of their phones, Henry was able to lead you through the house and up the back staircase, grabbing a couple of halloween lanterns as he went.

Pressed into the mattress you were buck naked as Henry pressed kisses down the valley of your breasts and across your stomach, before disappearing between your thighs. You ached to run your fingers through his hair however he still wore the Tigger Onesie, and what made the situation seem so surreal was that all you could see from between your legs was the top of Tigger’s head.

Henry’s tongue worked utter magic on you as he slid two thick fingers into your tight hole, sucking on your clit until you were bucking beneath him, clawing at whatever your hands could reach before he suddenly pulled away;

“Fuck, that pussy tastes amazing… but i wanna be inside you…”

Kneeling between your legs he unzipped the onesie all the way, his dick springing out from the open zipper.

“You were going commando?”

He grinned at you and winked;

“I was enjoying hanging loose and free until you walked into the party… from the moment i saw you i’ve been sporting a chubby…”

Fisting his dick he lined it up with your entrance and pushed in, the both of you gasping at the feel of skin on skin and the stretch of his fat cock filling you. Setting off slowly he rolled his hips, finding that delicious spot deep inside you almost immediately;

“Fuck, Henry…. Please, harder…”

“You asked for it Winnie… just watch this Tigger bounce!”

He started to pile drive into you, fucking you into the bed you were sent to heaven and god turned you around and send you straight back down again, Henry pushing his legs further apart to get even deeper, the slapping of his balls against your ass and the thick root of his dick rubbing against your clit almost overstimulating you already, trembling around him as he fucked you even harder;

“Are you gonna cum for me, soak me in your hunny?”

“Yes… keep… keep doing that…”

Just a few more thrusts and you were cumming hard, your body gripping him tight as he slowed his thrusts. As you lay trembling with aftershocks from your orgasm, he pressed kisses to your neck and chest, muttering soft praises before he carefully pulled out;

“I’ve gotta take this off before we continue…”

“Conti…. Oh… you haven’t cum yet…”

“Nope… hope you’re ready for round two”

You watched as Henry finally stripped himself of the Tigger Onesie and you got to seem him in his full glory for the first time; dark brown curls, wide shoulders and incredible arms, a chest you just wanted to lay your head on and sleep. As your gaze unashamedly travelled further, you clenched as you followed the thick trail of hair down his stomach to his crotch, his dick still standing hard and proud, before taking in the thick thighs;

“I wanna ride you…”

He laughed, a deep rich cry of happiness as he climbed onto the bed and kissed you before rolling onto his back. Holding his dick steady he watched as you straddled his waist and positioned yourself over him, before slowly sinking down. When you were fully seated he held up his hand;

“Wait a sec…”

Grabbing your Bear Ear headband he lifted it onto your head;

“C’mon Winnie, work that Hunny Pot for me…”

Just at the moment the bedroom door opened, and in the faint light of the halloween lanterns you saw Morticia and Gomez look in shock then laugh;

“Yeah, Tigger and Winnie are fine…”

The door clicked shut and you felt a light smack on your ass, bringing your attention back to Henry. Resting your hands on his chest you rolled your hips and gave it all your worth, giving him the full rodeo. Soon you could feel him start to tremble beneath you, and he quickly sought out your clit, rubbing circles against the tight bud with his thumb as you started to cum, your walls squeezing him tight and setting his own orgasm off as you milked him dry.

He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you to his chest, pressing kisses to your face before you rested your head on him.

When you woke the pale light of November 1st was creeping in through the drawn curtains, and for a moment you forgot where you were. Then the heavy muscled arm of the beast you bedded the night before pulled you closer, the warmth of his chest pressing against your back;

“Morning Winne”

“Tigger…”

His hand slid down your stomach, brushing against the patch of hair;

“Hows your hunny pot this morning?”

You hooked your leg over his as you turned your head to look at him;

“Ready to be refilled”

#henry cavill #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x you #henry cavill smut #henry cavill fanfic

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tales-unique · 3 years

Text

FAITH, LOST VI

The softness got me like 😩 I hope you enjoy it! ♥

@maddi-bug & @chelseareferenced & @actual-trash-goblin

Chapter 6

Heisenberg is gone for longer than usual. It's to be expected, given how swift and intense the explosion was, only this time you're aware of just how much you miss him when he's not there. It’s cathartic, no longer having your feelings hidden in the deepest parts of yourself. Upon reflection, you realize that you enjoy the power struggle between the two of you and that there is no shame in it. Pleasure, you had come to learn, wouldn’t compromise your dignity or pride in yourself, and wasn’t something to be demonized or resented. Weightless from this revelation, your mind drifts to the last words he spoke before leaving you; we aren’t done here . Fire blooms in your stomach, dripping lower until you’re squirming where you sit cross-legged on Heisenberg's bed. Your skin still tingles from where he held you in his rough grasp, white noise erupting all over your body. It’s clear just what the phrase implies , but at the same time you have no exact idea what to expect when he returns and that’s part of what makes this all so thrilling . Though even with all the positive feelings that come with this, you can’t help but still feel conflicted. You find yourself lost in the moment, sent adrift in a vast ocean with no lifeline.

Now, it wasn’t as though you hadn’t had sex before, because you had. It was only once, in the hayloft of the village stables with a young man named Nicolai that you were fond of. He worked in the fields and you often saw him on your way to Church, where he’d smile and wink at you. He’d happened upon you when you’d lingered near the edge of the fields one day after morning Mass, bashfully accepting when he proposed that you go somewhere quieter together. You remember that his kisses were soft, but he was a little pushy, and once he was done that was it. No real connection, no real passion, just motion until you were both done, and even then you weren’t completely sure if you were done. Then a week later he was dead, mauled to death in that very same hayloft by a Lycan, along with a girl from your congregation named Irina. You can only imagine the reason why she was there with him that day. It sat, bitter like poison, within you for some time after their deaths, knowing that this hadn’t been the special thing you had been led to believe; this divine virtue that needed to be protected until you were lawfully wed, where all would finally make sense. Then you met Lord Karl Heisenberg and everything was suddenly turned on its head. Since you had come to the Factor you had been exposed to a more sexually charged and free environment, with Heisenberg's flirtatious teasing a regular occurrence, as well as his sarcasm and moods, culminating in the spark that set all this motion when he had you pinned to the desk in his office. You were given no room to avoid it, no chance to hide behind demureness and virtue, and because of that you were able to grow . You now embraced what this freedom could give you and it was all because of his pushing. At first it didn’t sit well with you, it squirmed and fought, but the disquieting sensation dissipated easily and you were left with an insatiable hunger for all things you had been denied, scandalous or otherwise. Biting your lip, a devious little thought fills your head; you needed to thank him when he came back.

When Heisenberg does come back to you it's already well into the night, and in anticipation of his return he finds that you’re not in your room when he looks, instead, amusingly, you’re actually in his . Sound asleep, you’re curled up on his bed with the sheets clutched in your dainty fingers up to your face. He watches from the doorway the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest as you breathe and the way your long lashes kiss your cheeks. You’ve clearly been busy while he was gone, having ordered the disheveled work desk to semi-neatness so he can at least still find his things. Straightened papers, pens put in the holder, lined his tools up for easy access. It’s something he doesn’t outwardly thank you for, but has most certainly come to value. You don’t overstep, you merely aid, and it’s in these quiet moments of downtime that he realizes how much he appreciates the little things you do for him. Yes, it began with your faith and devotion to Mother Miranda and her decree for you to serve him, but he isn’t naive enough to believe that’s all there is to it. Not now, anyway. You don’t have to be caring towards him in your servitude, in your own little ways, like becoming annoyed with him when he tells you he hasn’t eaten all day or hasn't drunk enough water while working. Soft, kind-hearted things; things he isn’t used to. Trying to be as quiet as he can, Heisenberg walks over to where you lay, settling on the edge of the bed by your side. You squirm in your sleep as his weight dips the mattress but you don’t wake up, merely curling up tighter with a soft sigh. He watches your sleeping form with pinched brows, the uncomfortable intensity of yearning twisting knots within him. A hesitant hand comes to brush your cheek with his thumb, cupping it gently. Such tender affections were not something the Lord was known for, or used to receiving from others, given the magnitude of sins he had performed at the behest of his hatred for Miranda, her manipulations and betrayals, and his insatiable need to be free of the confinement he was forced into. Ulterior motives were second nature in his world, the lesson that kindness and affection were a means to an end instilled in him from an early age. Yet the compulsion, new and alarming, to give in to your motiveless warmth had wormed its way deep inside, threatening to shatter him from within. Not that he wasn’t trying to fight it, he was . Like a wild mustang refusing to yield to anyone, he twisted and pulled and snapped at the feeling, it’s tendrils repelled as much as he could, but he was slowly weakening to its constant attacks. It just wouldn’t leave him be . The realization was harsh and unforgiving that you are well on your way to becoming someone that would, in time, serve to weaken him, grinding down his walls just as the sea wears away the rocks on its shores until they resemble nothing of their former selves. The thought irks him and in a childish display of spitefulness he pulls his hand back from your face, lips curling into a snarl. His fingers burst with static, punishing him for prematurely cutting the contact, and he tries to smother the sensation by tightening his hand into a fist. It doesn’t help. He can still feel it and he hates that he misses it, like some love-sick pup! It ties his stomach in knots and sets his blood aflame. He’s hyper aware of you laying behind him, overwhelmed when you turn over and your knees press against his back. Lulled by your gentle, slumbering breaths, a calming serenade, Heisenberg’s hand slowly unfurls to rest on his leg. Though he’s still very much on edge. The dizzying free-fall into such conflicting emotions sends him nauseous, reeling from the sudden severity of it. You were just a weak, pathetic human , for fucks sake! You had no right to come barging into his life and start wrecking shit up with your pretty smiles and warm eyes! All those selfless moments he tries so desperately to poke holes in, only to find that they’re as sound as a concrete wall. It has him doubting, however minutely, the thought that everyone was out to get

him and that scared him. Quickly standing, he decides even being in the same room as you is too much. Everything is suddenly stifling, the heat cloying and making his throat burn. He doesn’t even check to see if he’s disturbed you as he exits the room, head throbbing mercilessly. There’s nowhere left in the factory that’s safe from your influence; the rooms smell of you, the hallways echo with your voice, his things marked by your touch — you’re everywhere , encasing him. And he doesn’t help that fact when he finds himself standing in the middle of your room. His keen senses are overwhelmed by the space, your space, but it isn’t so disarming this time. No, now he’s growing to like it against his better judgement. You’ll ruin him and he’s slowly coming around to the idea of letting you do it, too. It makes him sick, that thought, but it doesn’t really matter as he sits down on the couch where you sleep, fingers smoothing over the sheets you’ve neatly folded over it. There’s a twisted sense of irony in how he finds comfort in being surrounded by your things, as little as they are, when trying so desperately trying to get away from you. It doesn’t make sense, but since when did anything in his fucked up life? "Fuck," he moaned, the word drawn-out in his frustration as he laid his head back to stare up at the ceiling.

"Heisenberg?" The Lord tilts his head to look at where you stand in the doorway, your tender question alerting him to your presence. You're a picture of post-slumber beauty; hair dishevelled and fluffed up on one side from where you had been laying, eyes hazy with sleep, your top languidly slipping down one shoulder, creased from your rest. Your brow is pinched as you regard him, gently padding over to where he sits. "Sleeping Beauty finally wakes up, huh?" He chuckles, casually slinging his arm over the back of the couch. “Did you enjoy sleeping in my bed?” He teases with a smirk. “You were gone too long,” you retorted, fixing him with a tired glare, pulling your legs up as you settle down beside him, “and you don’t let me down into the lower levels with you, do you?” “I know, but this was serious,” Heisenberg sighed, his free hand coming to pinch the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut in frustration, “one of the fucking conveyor lines decided to go ka-pow !” He punctuates his statement with a mimic of the explosion, both hands involved before dropping down limply. “It was jammed. I got it under control but the fallout was, well, messy ,” he explained, taking off his glasses and putting them aside on the couch arm, along with his tossed coat and gloves. You frown at the way he drags his hands down his face, sighing deeply. He’s exhausted and there’s nothing you can really do that you haven’t already tried. “At least it’s fixed now, yes?” You ask softly as you turn to sit cross-legged, facing him. You have a look of worry creasing your features and Heisenberg is quick to hide the rising emotion with his usual swagger. “Of course it is, why do you think I’ve been gone so long?” He scoffs, shaking his head. His leg begins to jiggle under the weight of your wary gaze, knowing that he’s not fooling you in the slightest. You’ve seen enough of him, the vulnerability he has, to know an act of bravado when he’s conjuring it. It’s unsettling to know that you have a means of undermining his power over you now, that you can call his bluff with somewhat decent accuracy, and he fully expects you to embrace that power. So when you gingerly move to nestle into his side, back resting against him with your head leaning against his arm where it lays slung across the back of the couch he’s pleasantly surprised. He should know better, you’ve always been soft . Even when you’re being fierce towards him and you blaze like a thousand suns it comes from a place of tenderness and care, something he doesn’t think he’ll ever truly understand about you. “I missed you.” It’s barely a whisper and even his keen hearing is strained to pick it up. There are a million sarcastic and teasing responses that he could choose from to say, and very much would have, if not for the fact that you’re right there , disarming him with a distant, non-threatening kind of affection that has him weak. It’s easier, he assumes, for you to not look at him when you tell him your truth and he’s grateful. Those big doe eyes, filled with gentle fondness, that you have when you’re being this way might just send him into overdrive at this point and he hasn’t yet come up with a game plan on how to deal with it. “Yeah?” It’s a simple response, but there’s a slight break to his voice that betrays the tempest of emotions swirling within. The air is charged with anticipation, a prickling static that is so close to erupting, all because you’ve got him going fucking soft . “Mhm,” you hum, pressing your feet into the cushions to distract yourself. Your face is ablaze with colour, your skin burning. To be so open, so raw , in such an intimate setting as this was completely foreign to you, and it didn’t help that the one you were experiencing it with was Lord Karl Heisenberg . A silence, pregnant with the onset of a coming storm, rolls over you both and you sit, listening to the sound of each other's breathing. Your heart is hammering in your chest, the hummingbird threatening to break free. White noise suddenly erupts across your body when you feel him shift, ever so slightly,

and his arm comes across your front to pull you closer. The movement is awkward, marred by a lack of experience with this kind of action, and you too have to move in order to be comfortable. It takes a moment or two but soon you both find a happy medium.You rest your cheek against his arm, nose lovingly brushing against one of the many raised, white scars that littered his skin. If only he could be so bold in this way. His body stiffens instinctively when you continue with your ministrations, resisting the urge to pull back, to push you away. His scars were a source of contention for him, among many other things, some known to you and some not, given how he had come to have them. But you didn’t seem to mind. That he now knew for sure from the way you lavished them with gentle attention, carefully tracing the lines with your dainty fingers. You even dare to press a gentle kiss to one that curls into his wrist, feeling the way his pulse jumps wildly under your lips. “I didn’t realise you had so many,” you murmur, looking over his arm with interest. He’s never spoken outright about them, but they were hard to miss. There was nary a patch of skin, seen or unseen, that didn’t have one of some kind, or so you presumed. You had no doubts in your mind that he would keep their origins from you and you wouldn’t presume to have leave to ask, but in this moment anything could be possible. Stranger things had already happened, after all. However, when he remains quiet you frown, pressing a lingering kiss to the spot, a silent apology for having been so prying. His pulse jumps again and suddenly you're pulled in closer, tighter. You gasp at the sudden shift, feeling him lean in, nosing your hair, taking in it’s scent. “You’re pretty brave tonight, huh?” He rumbled low into your ear, making you stiffen. He wanted to touch you, only this time it was different from before. It was driven by an unfamiliar desire to give intimacy as he had been given, to gain back the power you had taken. Or so he told himself. You were his, Mother Miranda had said as much when she gave you to him, but now he wanted to be yours , too. “I—” You swallow your nerves, turning so that you could look up at him with wide eyes, “—did I go too far?” It was hard to know when you had crossed a line until you were already well beyond it, incurring his wrath, so you were understandably wary, and it irked him to know that he was the source of your constant insecurity. He really was a shitty person, like you had said before. “Not at all,” he stated, lips quirking in a smile at the way your gaze softened, a bashful smile crossing your face. This thing, whatever it was that you had, was a delicate, fragile little bloom that he was striving to keep, to protect . In his mind he knew there may not ever be another chance for something like this for someone like him and so he was determined not to lose it. Not to his siblings, not to that bitch Miranda, not to anything or anyone . This time the silence is more comfortable for the both of you, his fingers drumming a nonsensical tune on your arm as you rest against him — the last vestige of his anxiousness and nerves. You don’t hold it against him, instead allowing it to lull you into a peaceful doze. Your weight, like an anchor to his wayward ship, is pleasant and he finds that quietness can indeed be peaceful. With you at his side he’s grounded, electrified but contained. It’s surreal, but he’s addicted to the odd sensations your affection gives him. It’s nothing like the sexually charged tension of before but in some ways it’s even better . He doesn’t ever want it to end, you and him, in this still, secret moment, and that worries him to no end.

#RE #RE8 #RE 8 #Resident Evil #Resident Evil 8 #Resident Evil 8 Village #RE Imagine #RE8 Imagine #RE Imagines #RE8 Imagines #Resident Evil Imagine #Resident Evil Imagines #Karl Heisenberg #Karl Heisenberg Imagine #Karl Heisenberg Imagines #Karl Heisenberg x Reader #Heisenberg Imagine #Heisenberg Imagines #Heisenberg x Reader

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diavolosthots · 3 years

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Hi there! I love your writing so much, your angst is one of my favorites to read because they always hit me in the feels. Can I request a hc or imagine (I can’t remember what they’re called) about Diavolo x Satan where Satan feels insecure because he thinks that Diavolo is with him as he was once a part of Lucifer, who doesn’t hold romantic love for Diavolo. You can add some smut if you want, I’m perfectly okay with the angst either way 😁!

I wrote this and posted it on AO3 first but here it is. Hope you like it anyway!

Warning: like 1 dust crump of slight NSFW if you look hard enough

Love's Poem (SATAN X DIAVOLO)

Love is such an unpredictable thing.It comes so unexpectedly and knocks you over, or it will come gently and embrace you in its arms. Love is also odd. You may feel it strongly, almost too overwhelming, you will find peace in it, almost as if a blanket is draped over your shoulders. Love may come in full force, or it will come agonizingly slow. In Satan’s case, love could’ve been anything, but it was always there, he noted. Despite his exterior and the picture people painted of him, he always wanted to feel it, to experience it, to have it… and only in his books did he ever find it. It’s almost sad, really, pathetic. Or at least, Satan thinks so. A millennia old being holding on to such a childish dream, and yet… he can’t seem to let go of it. He has hope for it and he longs for it, but he isn’t foolish. He won’t blindly reach out for it. “Patience is a virtue.” he says, even if he finds it hard to be patient for a lot of things. He craves to be in love so desperately, laying there day and night with his nose buried in a book that tells of things he has yet to experience. A poem. A poem is what he yearns to create with someone else; a poem of their lives together.

In all his yearning and waiting and desperation, though, he failed to realize that the poem had long started to be written. He failed to realize its soft touches, its gentle glances, and its sweet words calling out to him. He was so preoccupied with the paper it was supposed to be written on that he failed to notice the ink creating words on it. When he finally did notice, though, it was neither calm nor overwhelming. It was there, and Satan felt as if it had always been, because it had been. Still, when he realized whom he held it for, he was taken aback. Diavolo was never someone he excessively thought about… or so he thought. Diavolo, too, took a while to see Satan in such a new light and only when the two of them shared a moment over some literature did the Demon Lord realize just how deeply he could feel for the fourth born.

But Satan was unsure. He was questioning the demon’s motives, and quite honestly, he was scared. Scared of giving his all only to be left in the dust. To him, as much confidence as he bears and he truly does, coming from the Avatar of Pride himself and all, to himself, Satan was no one special. He’s attractive, very much so, and of course highly intelligent, but he also realizes how much of a brat he can be, or a bore, depending on the day. Diavolo was a manchild with insecurities, and Satan had said that more than once. Yet, their relationship blossomed and Satan found himself quite attached to the man, and vice versa. Diavolo felt like he had someone to confide in, someone who gave it to him straight but also comforted him. Someone he could experience things with and have a calm, peaceful evening with every night. Satan appreciated being brought out of his room, in which he would otherwise have been holed up in, and although he wasn’t after Diavolo for the money, status, or fame, he also appreciated the extravagance that his life brought to him. They balanced each other out, in the most unlikely ways, and both of them knew it.

Still, on one some days, Satan felt more like a shadow than anything. “Lucifer will come by today” again. “You won’t believe what Lucifer told me earlier” yes he will. “Lucifer” this “Lucifer” that. He understands that the two of them are close, after all Diavolo considers the first born his best friend. It angered Satan, though. Was he not enough? Does Diavolo still have to bring up Lucifer when he knows how the former feels about him? It’s not for a lack of communication, either. Satan has voiced his distaste quite a lot and changed the subject on more than one occasion, but a part of him also feels terrible for wanting to keep the Prince’s best friend away. “Satan!” especially when the guy so happily calls his name. “Hm?” It was nice outside, although when is it not in the Devildom. It rarely ever rains or snows or storms, and the temperature is always perfect to the demons. Satan was sitting under one of the trees in the courtyard at the House of Lamentation, reading one of his many books although he had a feeling that won’t last long. “Hm? That’s all I’m getting?” The pout that graced the Prince’s lips made Satan smile and a soft blush tint his cheeks. He looks up at the man, pursing his lips up into a kiss and waiting for Diavolo to take it. This is what he means when he says he wants a romance like in the books he reads.

Diavolo leaned down to give one to him happily before falling into the grass. Somewhere behind them, they could hear Barbatos gasp, probably because the butler knows just how clumsy his Lord could be, but Diavolo waved him off and laid his head in Satan’s lap, who laid his book on top of Diavolo’s face. “Hey! I came all the way here and I got the cold book?” “You disrupted my reading” all meant in good humor, of course. Diavolo pushed the book off of his face and reached a hand up to brush along Satan’s cheek, which made the latter blush deeply. He’s still not fully used to this type of affection. “Hm… you look so handsome today. Did you do anything special to yourself?” Satan rolled his eyes although he did manage to turn his head and kiss Diavolo’s hand before it moved behind Satan’s ear to scratch it. Satan groaned softly, shivering slightly. Diavolo knows damn well that that is one of his weak spots. “There it is…. Good kitten.” Satan knows it’s a mock and although he’s blushing profusely, he’s also flicking Diavolo’s forehead, making him laugh. “Watch it. Kitten’s can claw.” Diavolo only growled playfully in response.

“Can you believe us? A few months ago you didn’t even like me.” That’s not entirely true, he was just vary of the Demon Lord for over a few millennia, “and then Lucifer told me to just go for it.” Ah yes, Lucifer. Satan held back the urge to roll his eyes. “And then he said ‘Lord Diavolo, you would be not only blind but also a fool if you let this opportunity pass’ because he knew way more than either of us did.” The hell he did. “And you know what I said?” No, but he’s sure that Diavolo’s about to tell him. “I said, ‘Lucifer, my friend, don’t you worry. I will never take your beloved brother and son without first asking for permission’” Satan’s eye is twitching now and he finally found it in himself to say something, too, “is that all?” Diavolo’s smile slowly dropped when he saw Satan’s reaction and he was genuinely confused, slowly lifting his head from the guy’s lap and looking at him confused, “yes? Is something the matter?” He’s trying. He’s trying so hard not to snap right now so he just closes his eyes and just breathes for a couple of moments, “you know Lucifer said that when you--!”

A growl escaped Satan and this time he actually did snap, whipping his head around to look at Diavolo. “Yeah? He said that? Must be nice. Anything else he said? Anything else he would like to add to our relationship or does he want to include himself next?!” Diavolo just stared at him blankly for a moment, unsure on how to approach this, “what? No. No, it’ll always be just us.” Blatant. Fucking. Lie. “apparently not! It’s Lucifer this, Lucifer that, and if you want Lucifer that badly, you can go and get him. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to know that he ruined yet another thing!” anger is getting to him and the next thing he says was neither thought out nor actually meant to ever leave his lips, “you’re probably just with me to get back at Lucifer, am I right? Poor little Lucifer wouldn’t give you his heart so you go to the next best thing; me!” Diavolo was taken aback by that last statement and for a moment he just stared at Satan, his mouth hanging open, but it soon turned into a glare.

“Is that what you think? That my feelings are a lie? If you believe me to be such a liar, why are you with me?” Because he loves him, duh. He hates how much he feels for him but he can’t stop it, that’s why constantly hearing about Lucifer drives him insane. “I only want you, Satan, and I thought I made that pretty clear, but apparently not.” Diavolo sat up on his knees and for a moment he thought the guy was going to get up and leave, but he didn’t. Instead, he slammed his hands flat against the tree Satan was leaning against, glaring down at the fourth born before his eyes soften. “Stop being so jealous of your brother.” “I’m not jealous! You’re the one who only ever talks about him when your attention should be on me!” No matter how nice Diavolo was being right now, Satan is still glaring at the Lord, who turned his head and nodded at Barbatos. For what, Satan didn’t know, but it was for something. “Look at me Satan.” His eyes turned back up to look into Diavolo’s gold ones, holding so much softness and love, “I love you and only you.”

Satan rolled his eyes and he was about to push Diavolo off and away, but the latter cupped the blond’s face and kissed him softly before resting his head against his. “Lucifer is my best friend, yes, but you’re my lover and if I wanted to pursue anyone other than you, I would’ve, but I didn’t. Don’t be angry.” Although it is hot when Satan gets angry and if this wasn’t such a serious discussion, Diavolo would’ve definitely made a move. The blush returned to Satan’s cheeks and he tried turning his head away, but Diavolo wouldn’t let him. “No. Say it back. I know you do.” Satan mumbled it under his breath because he knows he loves the guy too. “What? What’s that?” “I love you too…” “a little louder, Satan.” The blond glared at him and Diavolo couldn’t help but laugh, kissing him again, this time a bit deeper before he grabbed Satan’s hips and fell back into the grass with him, making sure the demon landed on top. “I said I love you too…” He’s been atop Diavolo so many times, but every time he feels like it’s the first time. “There you go. It’s way easier being honest, isn’t it?” Diavolo’s hips playfully snapped up against Satan’s and the blond’s blush deepened, barely able to steady himself on Diavolo’s chest.

“Whatever… Just don’t forget I’m your only one.”

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me headcanons #obey me scenarios #shall we date satan #obey me satan #satan obey me #satan avatar of wrath #obey me lord diavolo #shall we date diavolo #obey me diavolo #diavolo x satan

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knowsbones · 3 years

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What kind of personalities are the guys attracted to?

Sans - Sans likes someone who he can joke with. If you can joke along with him and not nag him too much, then you’ve got a special place in his soul. Also, go stargazing with him, you don’t have to talk, just stay with him underneath the milky way.

Papyrus - Papyrus would appreciate someone with a sense of adventure. You don’t have to be as energetic as him, but he would love it if you would try new things with him at least once. This is his first time on the surface after all and he wants to make new memories, especially with someone as wonderful as you.

Red - Patience is a virtue, especially when it comes to Red. Red is used to people not trusting him or befriending him, only to stab him in the back later on. So if you stick around, show some kindness and prove to him that you are here to stay, he will really appreciate it.

Boss - Boss is tired of yelling and threats. He has heard them all, so he is pretty snappy when you first meet, expecting harsh words back. So if you don’t judge him for his poor example of first meetings and actually show him a lot of kindness in return, you will have gained a friend for life. Also don’t be afraid to put him in his place, if he is being too rude tell him, he has no filter and would appreciate you for doing so.

Blue - Do not treat him like a kid. He gets enough cheek pinches and children's menus whenever he goes out, it's embarrassing! Please, treat Blue like an adult! Yes, he knows he's adorable and small but he is an adult. Now if you excuse him, Spongebob is on.

Stretch - Don’t be too loud or overbearing. He gets enough of that from Blue. Just love him for him, he is very awkward and has low self esteem, the fact that you're even looking at him in any sort of adoration is shocking to him. Let him talk about his hobbies or the book he’s writing and he will love you forever.

Black - Another one where patience is needed. Perhaps even more so than Red. At the start Black will take little interest in you, so you need to show him that you have potential. Start remembering how he likes his coffee, because you will need to memorize a lot for Black’s infamous ‘friend test’ and if you fail, you won’t have a chance to progress in this relationship.

Rus - Be nice to him and give him lots of attention. That's it. You could stab someone in front of him and he would be like “cool babe. What do you want for lunch?”

Berry - Similarly to Boss, he has no filter. Berry would appreciate you stepping in whenever he starts to say something unflattering. Also please look out for him, he overworks himself to the point of exhaustion. You could say he works himself down to the bone. So for someone to take notice and sit him down to enjoy a meal you cooked or, to have a nap, he would love you for it.

Ca$h - Be kind to him. Ca$h hasn’t had the best start in life and has a lot of personal issues that he is still working on. He doesn’t want pity, do not pity him. Just hold his hand sometimes and tell him everything's fine. You aren’t going anywhere.

Wine - Wine needs to rest. So if you're stubborn enough and actually get him to sleep for at least five seconds, you are pretty much a guardian angel to him. Just be persistent and stand your ground.

Coffee - Show him that you love him. Wine isn’t there all the time, so Coffee gets very lonely. So if you show him affection or cook him something that isn’t just fast food, he will cry because he is just full of love. Also play video games with him and take some interest in his hobbies, Coffee will also take an interest in your hobbies, even if it takes him out of his comfort zone.

Axe - Be understanding. Thanks to the hole in his skull, Axe has memory issues. So he will miss dates and may even forget that you two are even dating on bad days. Just be patient with him and tell him it's okay. Put post-it notes around the house reminding him to take his meds or, about how much you love him. Axe will keep every single one.

Crooks - Help him around the house. Crooks has a lot on his plate. Sadly, sometimes it's too much for him, so he breaks down and cries for a while. When this happens, sit him down, give him a hug and do some choirs around the house or check on Axe. Crooks will appreciate this very much.

Hope you enjoy this!

#undertale #undertale headcanons #underfell #undertale imagines #undertale au #underswap #swapfell #swapfell purple #swapfell red #fellswap #swapfell gold #horrortale #knowsbones

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comrade-meow · 3 years

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Spell-caster's notebook, 2nd half of the 19th century - 1st quarter of the 20th century, Haute-Saône. Photo credit: Musées départementaux de la Haute-Saône

“When total war is being waged with words, one must make up one’s mind to engage in another kind of ethnography.”

—Jeanne Favret-Saada, Deadly Words: Witchcraft in the Bocage (1977)

One of the best studies of the power of language and its relationship to violence is Jeanne Favret-Saada’s Deadly Words: Witchcraft in the Bocage (1977). In this groundbreaking ethnography, Favret-Saada discusses how witchcraft employs language to gain power and catch the subject within a web of words. For Favret-Saada, the ethnographer is the unwitcher who lets herself become entangled within a network of power in which words create spells. She calls this being “caught.” For “those who haven't been caught” spells simply “don’t exist” (15).

Similar to Favret-Saada’s work on witchcraft in France, today’s cultural-political economy is immersed in another politicisation of language. This time the catching of subjects, government and institutions is happening in the public sphere under the guise of linguistically codifying identity. All this necessarily relies upon a previous “bewitching” of subjects who are willing to recycle the language of the magical spells despite the absence of evidence.

In witchcraft, language becomes the contested space that Favret-Saada rightfully notes as having taken hostage the very premise of communication, writing, “[I]t is no longer truth or error that is in question, but the possibility of communicating.” Addressing those who have been caught within the spell of language—the bewitched and the suffering—Favret-Saada asks:

In what way are the bewitched right when they say they are suffering? And the unwitchers, when they say they “take it all” on themselves? (And what of the alleged witches, who remain obstinately silent, or claim they do not believe in spells?) What, then, is at stake when such a discourse is being used? These questions led to other, more fundamental ones, about the effect of spoken words and the very rationale of this discourse: why is talking in this way so like the most effective kind of act? How do words kill as surely as a bullet? Why do people talk rather than fight or die, why do they use precisely these terms? And why this kind of language rather than another? If one talks in terms of witchcraft, it must be that the same things cannot be said any other way. (13)

Although Favret-Saada asks these questions about rural Normandy of the 1970s and the role of the ethnographer in studying her own culture, we can easily expand upon Favret-Saada’s premise here. For as she posits in the Bocage that one need not believe in sorcery, there is an accounting that takes place by virtue of the group’s symbolic code where “you have to be caught to believe” and where those who haven’t been “caught” have no place speaking about spells. Favret-Saada poses this question to herself: “What ultimate authority could I invoke, in talking about spells to a bewitched person or an unwitcher?” Does being an insider lend to the currency of language and belief such that any interaction with an outsider necessarily invokes a turf war over space, bodies and language?

For Favret-Saada, words do not merely represent or communicate beliefs—they have noticeable effects on the vitality and well-being of both the bewitched and the dewitcher. Where her work examines how words “kill” and “heal,” today we are in the throes of a culture war where the claim—contrary to fact—of words causing death, of words being “literal violence” are now thrust to the fore. Indeed, words are laden with such potential for “violence” today that many think twice before speaking or writing. The mere accusation of violence has become the negative reinforcement of a movement that has been allowed to make up facts, statistics and now even the very non-reality of violence.

If we are to move forward through the current debates over gender, race, and various other orbiting identities whose moral framework rests almost uniquely upon claims of victimhood, often in direct opposition to material fact, we must return to some of the primal tenets of reason posed during the Enlightenment. We are in the throes of a society caught within a hall of mirrors—many of which are firmly and uniquely fixed within the virtual world of social media—where the narcissistic output is unparalleled even by a three-year-old having a strop on the playground. Where words are “violence” and opinions akin to “murder,” we are witnessing the conflicts created when a direct antagonism between perceived identity and material reality is met on the social stage.

In order to understand what is driving this culture of identifying with oppression—often feigning oppression—our task must be to address those who claim to be suffering. While the subjects caught in the spell of words have been at the centre of media and political attention in recent years, these communities rely upon the language “witchcraft” to divorce themselves even further from ontological and empirical reality while surrendering themselves to a language that holds no resemblance to the material world. There is something to be said for the punishing efforts of these lobbies which seek to project phobias and other -isms into any thoughtful debate or prose on issues of “race” and gender.

Favret-Saada noted that those who resist the language of sorcery will be made to suffer. Today, we must ask ourselves if those fighting for the recognition of their identities even if the older remedies of psychiatry or religion have failed:

The priest and the doctor have faded out long ago when the unwitcher is called. The unwitcher’s task is first to authenticate his patient’s sufferings and his feeling of being threatened in the flesh; second, it is to locate, by close examination, the patient’s vulnerable spots. It is as if his own body and those of his family, his land and all his possessions make up a single surface full of holes, through which the witch’s violence might break in at any moment. (8)

This study considers how the aporia left by the fading grip of religion and medicine has been filled by outside forces coming to confirm the subject: the suffering subject. Having worked with those who were caught up in a spell, the dewitchers and the wives and families affected by witchcraft, Favret-Saada notes how suffering forms the core of how witchcraft is exercised in this community and she explores the reasons for this suffering.

Today, suffering is undergoing a cultural redefinition in the west through the recycling of historical tropes of violence and oppression injected throughout identity politics. Unlike the distant witchcraft of Favret-Saada's fieldwork, historical atrocities cannot simply be cut and paste into a present-day reality in order to rejuvenate a fresh violent act of suffering through which the subject identifies. Where Favret-Saada shows how working with the bewitched and their unwitchers implicates the constant manoeuvring of “good and evil," she claims that all unwitching "is impossible to cure without switching to a position of indirect violence.” Violence is a discursive marker for Favret-Saada where "he who does not attack automatically becomes the victim."

To understand the political forces that revive discourses of racism and sexism today by those claiming victimhood, we must ask those suffering why they suffer. Then, we must also ask why the spell involves converting others to their ideology so that the subject might suffer less. The symptom of suffering that we see by those claiming to have a gender identity, for instance, is inextricably linked to their need for others to mirror their self-image through language. This is similar to what Favret-Saada claims about dewitching, “a technique that neutralizes and exteriorizes venomous self-doubt." There are clear ideological manoeuvres meant to inscribe healing through fiat.

We need to understand how people weaponise emotionally-laden discourse today. The public shaming of those who do not confirm the suffering or pronouns of another seems to be part of a larger network of “sorcery” where the current structural functioning of our society rewards those individuals who engage in the aforementioned language games while punishing those who refuse.

Favret-Saada’s identification of power as the primary element in the effectiveness of ritual forms is a crucial contribution to our understanding of such rituals. Still, we can see the pitfalls of reducing the language of witchcraft to a tidy binary of the subject who suffers and the dewitcher who does violence. Where “the sufferer can choose to interpret his ills in the language of witchcraft,” it is also the case that those who do not claim to suffer are deemed de facto oppressors.

Where oppression is a historical and current-day fact, the truly oppressed subject is mostly not heard. What time has the underpaid or economically destitute worker to chime in on Twitter or to write her local politician? We are captured within a political field where segments of the population use words like “literal violence” to refer to another group whose push back on their notion of oppression. Those who use the stage of oppression in order to be heard are as numerous as is their narcissism expansive. When the media prints that something is “oppression” or “murder” today, we can pretty much bet that what is being communicated is invariably the opposite. In a world where narratives of oppression have taken hold of democratic processes with fury and where the mere claim to victimhood is tantamount to fact, we must concede that we are living in a post-truth era.

Emotions are given enormous weight over facts in media today and all it takes for one to be considered oppressed is to use the “magical spell” of language. The only way out of this chasm between truth and narcissism is to revert to the institutions of science, philosophy, journalism and law. Let us not forget that long before smartphones it was possible—even pleasant—to have heated discussions over a meal with friends and strangers, everyone chiming in with their thoughts and disagreement.

We must reject illogical, illiberal hokum being fed us as the "new progressive" language of the day and instead we should return to the table of dinnertime debate where facts outweigh feelings and where individuals are held accountable for good-faith debate. I have often wondered if the current popular authoritarianism would have ever taken hold without the cloaked anonymity that social media affords. Still, I am quite certain that the current stifling of free speech, academic debate and the media's drive of anti-science narratives are all directly linked to the fact that politicians are not held to account for their performances that have zero political vaue. From AOC's sporting her "tax the rich" dress at the Met Gala for which attendees paid £25789 to attend to David Lammy who claims that males have cervixes, the left is in dire straits with a political class of professional liars who use words to bewitch us all.

I suspect that were the online debate moved to the salon or dining room, we would all be able to see the ruffian sulking silently in the corner, angrily seething because his arguments were unconvincing. His fist banging on the table evidence his every iteration as less rational and credible than the one before. As he struggles to bully all those in disagreement around him, his turbulent behaviour reveals him to be fundamentally an irritable prig who harbours deep-seated misogyny and homophobia.

Real-life interactions are part of the remedy to the addiction-addled cycles of social media use. We cannot replace the vacuum left by religion's demise with political or ideological orthodoxy any more than we can unwitch the possessed who identify with their fictional oppressions.

One of the options we have at our disposal is to unplug and go outside. I’m heading there now. Come join me.

#Anglo.txt

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criminalminds4days · 3 years

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Family Matters | Chapter 4: Saying Sorry is a Virtue

Hello my beautiful souls!!

I hope this of you who celebrate Christmas had and amazing time, and those if you who don't had a great Friday!

I had a really chill holiday, and although I was supposed to be home and that didn't happen, I'm still glad I had a good time. I got a watch for Christmas and I'm obsessed!!

Anyway, I also wanted to let you guys know I'll be posting the story on Wattpad, and thanks to @meowiemari I also have a cover. I have attached it below! My wattpad user is @criminalminds4days so feel free to follow and read along!

Anyway, I hope you like this chapter. It's one of my favorites. 💙💙

Warnings: Swearing, sexual references, violence and murder references, public embarrassment, and very bad jokes!

Word Count: 3.6k

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Tag list: @mcntsee @lets-be-gay-for-the-angel @evelyncade @haylaansmi @paulaern @myfandomlife-blog

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(This gif is not mine)

Chapter 4: Saying Sorry is a Virtue

It had been a little over three months since her absolute wrecking of the family retreat. She had managed to get her mom to get past it, and though she had promised to apologize to the rest of her aunts and uncles, she had not gotten around (well, more like she didn't think it was necessary, they probably had already forgotten, and she did actually mean every word she said).

Her team and she had evaded more danger than possible in the last couple of weeks, and she had a feeling today she would not be returning to her bed to sleep. She also had to figure out what she wanted to get Spencer for his birthday. She was so excited to celebrate with him that she wanted to spill her idea of a surprise birthday party to him, but she needed to remain strong. She just hoped he would like it, and that she could find something to give him. She knew him so much better now and had so many things that he would like, but she wanted this gift to be unique, something that reminded him of her. Not that she wanted him thinking about her all the time because that would be weird, but maybe once in a while?

A knock on her door made her get out of her head. She walked to see Tyler Hemingway standing on the other side.

"Can I come in?"

"Why?"

"I just-" He looked at the floor, nervous. "I was just hoping we could talk."

"We can talk right here, what do you want?"

"I just wanted to say I am sorry, for what happened."

"What exactly? That you humiliated me in front of my family, or that your wife called me and my boyfriend liars."

"All of it, I should have known better."

"Yes, you should have." She debated whether to say something else but decided against it. "I honestly don't understand where this is coming from, it was two years ago."

"I know, and I am also sorry it has taken me so long to say anything. I just didn't know how to approach the situation, and what we had was so special, I wish I hadn't ruined it."

She had waited to hear those words for so long that how wrong what she did, didn't occur to her until the damage had been done. Even if her feelings for the man in front of her were not the same as they were two years ago, those words were enough to make her become less hostile towards him. She let Tyler in, forgetting Spencer was waiting for her to pick him up in about twenty minutes.

"Spencer? Why are you late?"

"Because she didn't pick me up like she was supposed to. I assumed she may be running a little late, so I waited and then I called her, but it went straight to voicemail." He responded to Emily.

"That is so not like her, should we be worried?"

"I don't know, but I already am, maybe we should go see if she's home or something."

The elevator doors opened once again as Spencer and Emily were preparing themselves to raid her house in order to find her. She stepped out, a look of immense guilt present as her eyes landed on the brunette. He did not seem upset, more like relieved she was there. Emily dropped her jacket and embraced her, a huge weight lifting off her shoulders after seeing her. When she was released from the woman's hug, she directed her eyes back to him.

"I am so sorry; I was on my way-" before she could explain Aaron Hotchner told them to join the rest of the team at the round table to discuss the next case.

"This one is a bad one," JJ said as she read through the file. "These people are killing families. Not even the children are spared."

"Yeah, and it's only getting worse." Said Penelope as she shared the pictures of the crime scenes. She wished she could concentrate but Spencer kept glancing at her with worry. He knew something wasn't right, but she didn't know how to explain it without sounding like she was digging herself in a bigger hole.

She avoided him on the jet, as she pretended to be asleep and then engaged in a very interesting conversation with JJ about diapers and toddlers. As much as she loved the blonde, she sometimes didn't appreciate learning all these baby facts, it took the wishes to have children away faster than anything else.

She was now in a black SUV, with Spencer in the back seat and Emily driving. She sat in the front seat as they drove towards the hospital. One of the girls had been spared and they were hoping to talk to her about the unsubs.

"So, why were you late this morning?" Emily questioned, "You left Cinderella over there without his carriage."

"Yeah, I know. I am so sorry Spencer."

"It's okay, I just got worried."

"I know, and I am so sorry." She took a deep breath, preparing to explain to them why she had been delayed. "I just got some unexpected company this morning."

"Was it Anna?"

"No, she has been radio silent for these past couple of months, I'm assuming she is building a bulletproof alibi for when she decides to murder me."

"Is there something I should know about?" Emily asked as she stole glances at her.

"Spencer and I went to my family retreat a couple of months ago and when we were there I may or may not have basically told my aunts and uncles to go fuck themselves."

"You explicitly told them to do so." Spencer clarified.

"Why did you do that?"

"Because they all sucked. Emily if you would have been there, you would have done the same." Spencer responded. "But going back to the main topic, who came to your apartment today? Was it your mom?"

"We need to have a conversation about this whole family retreat thing!" The woman behind the steering wheel complained.

"I will tell you all about it tonight." She assured her. "And no, Spence, it wasn't my mom, it was someone a little closer to Anna."

"Her mom?"

"No, Tyler."

There was no response to that, Spencer looked like he didn't know exactly what he was feeling, while Emily seemed like she had returned to watch her favorite show only to find out she missed a whole season, and she had no idea what happened to the storyline she was following.

"Who's Tyler?"

"Anna's husband." She clarified, "he came to apologize for everything, and to say that he didn't think what Anna did was okay."

Reid scoffed, "and you believe him?"

"He seemed very genuine about it."

"Unbelievable."

"I am so lost right now."

"Spencer, are you upset about this?"

"Me? Why should I? It's not like I pretended to be your boyfriend to prevent him from making you feel any worse than he had already, and you ended up right back at where you started."

"Are you implying I slept with him?"

"I never said that."

"Well then what are you saying? Because need I remind you, he is a married man. I would never do something like that." She crossed her arms, becoming defensive of the situation. "He simply wanted to talk, so I listened. It was a conversation, and it's just going to be a dinner. Nothing more."

"Oh, so you're going on a date with him too?"

"It's not a date! Did I not mention he was married?! To another woman!"

"Being with someone else has never stopped him before."

"What is happening right now?" Emily asked, to no one in particular.

"Seriously Spencer?"

"Did I lie?"

"Why are you so worked up about this? It doesn't even concern you."

"I am upset, because even after he told you in front of all your family that he was in love with your cousin and married her, breaking your heart, he says, 'I'm sorry' and suddenly he's back on the top of your priority list." He spits out, his emotions running high.

"This man did what now?" Both looked at Prentiss as if remembering she was there all along.

"I can't believe you just said that! I confided in you."

"And I trusted you."

"It was one day! I forgot to pick you up one day and suddenly I am the worst person on this planet, really?"

"Are you seriously so oblivious to think this is about some stupid ride?"

"Guys,"

"No? Then what is this about? Is this about me making you look bad or something?"

"No, it's about the fact that after all we've been through and the fact that I have done all I can to help you and be there for you I am still less important than Tyler fucking Hemingway."

"Guys,"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Guys,"

"It doesn't even matter anymore, enjoy your dinner." He undid his seat belt. "Why didn't you tell me we were here Emily?"

"I have been trying."

"Let's go then." He said as he exited the SUV marching up to the hospital entrance.

"What is his problem?" She asked Emily, still heated by the discussion.

"Well,-"

Before Prentiss could respond she was cut off. "I mean, yes, this guy broke my heart but that doesn't mean I have to hold a grudge forever, right? I might as well move past it, don't you think?"

"If you ask me-"

"And it was one conversation, and we're going out to dinner to finish it, there is nothing wrong with that. I don't know why he got so worked up about it, do you?"

"Yeah-"

"You know what, screw Spencer, if he wants to be a jerk for no fucking reason, let him do it. I am not going to lose sleep over it, nor am I gonna give him explanations. Who the hell does he think he is?"

"I think-"

"Yeah, you're right Emily, when Reid decides to get his shit together he can talk to me, in the meantime, we need to find out who these unsubs are before they hurt anyone else." She undid her seatbelt and opened the door, Emily still sitting there, trying to figure out what the heck had just happened. "Aren't you coming?"

"Yeah, sure." She followed suit and they both entered the hospital. Spencer was speaking to the girl's nurse as they approached, he didn't make any comments, but he also didn't acknowledge her, nor invite her into the conversation as he did to Emily. He was acting professional and doing his job, but his stance and emotions were very clear by the lack of interactions between them unless it was absolutely necessary.

As soon as Emily entered the room to interview the victim, the silence that engulfed them made her heart tighten. Spencer and she had gone past this already, they were friends, there was never a silent moment between them, and now all of that seemed to vanish in the air, all because of her decision to let Tyler Hemingway apologize.

She chose to ignore the situation until further notice. Emily was right, Spencer was being a dramatic prick and she was just gonna give him the time to realize that he was wrong. So when she got to bed, grateful for a bit of peace knowing one of the killers had been identified and was going to be caught soon, the last thing she wanted to do was have a conversation with Emily about the topic this same one had told her to not think about.

"I didn't say to just ignore it. As a matter of fact, I didn't get one sentence out during the whole drive to the hospital."

"That can't be true."

"Oh, but it was. Now I know how Reid felt when Gideon left." She fixed her shirt and continued, "well, regardless, what happened between you and Tyler, and what exactly does Dr. Genius know?"

"Spence knows pretty much everything, it kind of came with the territory." She recounted the story and this time she didn't leave any detail out, well, almost didn't leave any detail out.

Emily learned about Anna and their rivalry, Tyler and him choosing her cousin over her, the only thing she never even brought up was her dad. Only Spencer knew about it and she wanted to keep it that way. She finally landed on the weekend in question and the words she had shared with her cousin. Though that wasn't exactly what Prentiss found worrisome.

"You and Reid kissed?! Like on the lips?!" She screamed.

"Yeah, it was just so they would stop bugging us. It's not even the first time we kissed, so why is it a big deal?"

"Wait, you've kissed him before that day?"

"Yeah, at my cousin's wedding."

"Holy shit! I was not expecting that. My OTP is getting all these moments that will eventually lead to the ship sailing and I didn't even know about them!"

"Have you started talking another language by accident or something? I don't understand anything of what you just said."

"Don't worry about it. On a scale of one to ten, how good of a kisser is he?"

"Eleven." She responded immediately, "but that has nothing to do with this whole situation."

"It definitely does! Now it makes sense, Reid thinks you still have feelings for your ex, and he's jealous. He probably doesn't even know it, and he's probably trying to understand why he is so upset with you. Oh my god, he's jealous!"

"Emily, he's not jealous. Spence and I are not dating, we pretended to be a couple." She explained, thinking the woman hadn't understood her.

"Yeah, I know that, but I also know that any fake dating movie or book has always reached a point where the two main characters become unconsciously aware of their feelings. This is it! THIS IS IT!" She shook her and laughed, then suddenly came to a stop. "Oh my god, I am the best friend. I am definitely the friend that gives some wise advice that makes it click in your brain, let me think," she looked around the room as if inspiration would pop out of the bed. "I got it: get your shit together and marry Spencer." She stood and walked out the door, before fully closing it she spoke again, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go talk some sense into our little genius. Love you, hope I am invited to the wedding!"

Though after the break in the case they had found themselves relieved and on their way back, the nagging feeling she called Emily Prentiss kept insisting that both doctors were actually in love and that all they needed to do was kiss and become a couple. It was so constant that even when she wasn't around she could hear her echo. Like right then when she was trying to brush her hair and mentally prepare herself for whatever this dinner with Tyler was going to bring. Though she and Spencer had not yelled or continued to argue, there was nothing else left of their friendship, at least that's what it seemed like. It was as if the past months were a dream and they were just back to being coworkers, and that feeling was burning her up inside. She did not realize how important he had become in her life until he wasn't a part of it anymore.

"You look great," Tyler said as she entered the restaurant.

"Thanks, Spence helped me pick out this shirt when we went to the mall a couple of weeks ago. He said blue always looked good on me."

"That's great." The man responded, clearly uncomfortable. "So, I know you had to leave for work the other day, but I was hoping now we could talk more about what happened between us."

"Yes, of course."

She didn't really understand how she had gotten to the point of having an actual conversation with the man sitting across from her, because she had been angry at him for so long, that it never occurred to her as a possibility. He had once again apologized and given her a tale of how he had let his emotions guide him without realizing he could hurt others, and while that didn't excuse his actions, she still accepted his apology, choosing instead to move on from their current limbo. They had quickly changed the conversation, like if two old friends had reconnected after so long. Tyler was a great friend when he wanted to be, he was pleasant company, to say the least.

"And the other day, Spence was trying to learn to play the piano, and I told him there was no way he could learn in a week. So what did he do? He-"

"Stop, just stop!" He interrupted her, and she furrowed her eyebrows confused. "I have been sitting here for an hour listening to you talk about your stupid boyfriend and his IQ of 187." He rubbed his hands through his face and tried to calm down. "Was this the plan all along? You heard me tell you that I wished I hadn't ruined our relationship and decided playing with me was perfect revenge? Accepting dinner only to humiliate me by ignoring me and choosing to talk about that Spencer guy? Is he in on it or something?"

Oh. My. God.

Reid was right, this man was not looking to mend old friendships or start a new chapter, he was looking for a mistress.

"You, are the worst type of jerk I have ever met. I actually believed you wanted to be friends, to turn the page but all you wanted was to get in my pants." She stood, grabbing her drink and spilling it over him. "I hope I never see you again. Go fuck yourself Tyler." She walked, but before she exited the restaurant she returned and gave him a fake smile, "and also, Thank you for humiliating me in front of my family, you showed me how little you were and that I could do so much better. Say, an FBI agent with an IQ of 187." Once again she turned and this time she didn't even bother looking back.

The drive to her apartment was long, mostly because she didn't drive there, but to Spencer Reid's home. She felt her palms sweat, she hated admitting she was wrong, but she hated not having Spencer around much more than a bruised ego. She knocked on the door and Spencer opened, he looked confused, but as soon as he registered her in he simply raised an eyebrow and changed his confused demeanor to a completely neutral.

"I came to tell you that you were right. He just wanted to get in pants." There was no response, and she fiddled with her hands. "I actually thought he wanted to apologize, and I think part of me just wanted to believe that for the first time I was not being used, that people actually cared about what I felt."

"There are people that care about you, they are just not the wants you wanted to."

"No, they are! I thought I needed the people who wronged me to fix it, to show me that I was worth the trouble when in reality all I needed was for me to understand that I was. And I just needed a reminder that the people that care about me are the ones that should matter the most." A trace of a smile formed on his lips. "I am so sorry about how I acted, and I am sorry I left you here waiting for me. Spencer Reid, you are my best friend and you come before any other jerk out there. I need you to know that this time in which I didn't have you with me was miserable. I missed you so much I spent the whole dinner with Tyler talking about you."

"You did?" He seemed genuinely surprised.

"Yeah, I did. I missed you, and I hope we never fight again, I don't know what I would do without your friendship."

"I missed you too." She bit her lip, and he smiled. "Wanna come in and watch TV?"

"I would love that."

"That's good to hear, I am trying to get Spence here to watch Dance Moms with me but he refuses, maybe if there is two of us, he'll change his mind." A voice inside his apartment spoke. He opened the door to reveal Emily Prentiss wearing Pjs with The Hunger Games symbols on them. "May I say, you look hot. Blue suits you."

"So I've been told."

"Are you sure you can handle being in that close all night though? Maybe Spencer can lend you one of his shirts." She said, winking at them.

"Has she been drinking?"

"It's her third bottle of wine."

"We need to cut her off."

"Yeah, we do." He smiled at her, "She's right though, if you want to borrow something more comfortable let me know."

"Careful Spencer Reid, I might take you up on that."

"Awwww, YOU TWO ARE ADORABLE!" The woman screamed. "Just get married already!"

The pair laughed and made their way to the sofa, she closed the door behind her and sat down, feeling whole for the first time this week. Emily and Spencer were the best friends a girl could ask for, and she couldn't think of a better way to spend the rest of her night than watching trash TV with the two of them as they laughed and joked.

It was home.

#spencer x y/n #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #cm

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katsidhe · 4 years

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7.02 final thoughts? (Idk if this one has been requested yet)

7.02 Final Thoughts

*rubs hands* Ah, yes, the episode that got me into SPN. I could talk forever about season 7.

Fun drinking game: take a shot every time someone makes a different colorful idiom about Sam being insane. Hint: you’ll die, because I counted 25.

(I WONDER WHY Sam didn’t want to tell Bobby or Dean about his active symptoms of psychosis. Truly, a mystery for the ages.)

Even setting Hallucifer aside, this episode highlights so many of the things I high-key LOVE about season 7: the erosion of Sam and Dean’s support network (as tenuous as that already was)—take away Bobby’s house, take away angelic healing, take away the Impala, make them vulnerable and alone and crumbling under the weight of the trauma they’ve accumulated. The broken leg, Sam’s head injury and seizure in the ambulance? Strapped down, badly injured, the fates of their friends uncertain, headed into the belly of the beast? ICONIC. Over the top. Amazing.

It’s a similar kinda thing to Jody’s predicament—sure, she’s capable enough ordinarily, but if you give her surgery and drug her and leave her alone in a hospital with a liver-eating monster on the prowl, the stakes look a lot different, don’t they? I’ve seen this episode approximately one gazillion times but every time I get tense for her.

Quick thoughts on the Leviathans, which have a reputation as an underwhelming SPN villain. Perhaps because of how unsubtle and half-baked they are as metaphor for corporate greed/capitalistic consumption, perhaps because of how their promise of truly terrifying Old Ones, Cthulu-esque devourers, never quite came true (except for a bit in 7.01 and 7.02, yikes!). But honestly I’ve always liked them—I like how their organization and assimilation of knowledge drives the Winchesters deeper underground than even the Apocalypse did; I like how they made the Winchesters’ entire world into something mundanely unsafe and miserable; I like how they showcase the horror of a enemy composed of lockstep drones, the way that Heaven (and Hell, sometimes) tries to be, but never truly manages; I like Dick Roman’s gleeful ravenousness; I like their spooky mouths; hell, I even like the Dick jokes.

Bobby’s solicitousness towards Dean, and how awkwardly he talks to Sam a little later in the episode, is very emblematic of how bone-deep uncomfortable he is around an honest-to-God mental illness, and, well, around Sam’s issues in general. Which doesn’t make him a bad person, or unsupportive, necessarily. But it’s very evident that he’s got no clue what to say to Sam or how to handle him, that he’s leagues more comfortable dealing with Dean’s problems (as has often been the case regardless of Sam’s mental health).

A related, but separate point: the lengths the show goes to to emphasize “look, Dean’s not okay,” while Sam’s in the middle of a psychotic break… It baffles me a little every time I see this episode, when Bobby walks away from Sam all “yyyyeah I gotta go do some work” and then is immediately all “ok but Dean, how are YOU feeling?” It’d be one thing if Dean weren’t emotionally demonstrative, and if Sam were—if Sam, at this point in the episode, was so obviously struggling to such a painful degree that Bobby wants to make sure Dean’s not overlooking his own reactions. But that’s not really the case. Apart from some flinching, Sam’s been very matter-of-fact about the whole thing so far.

This is our first deep-dive into Sam post-Cage, a full season about he returned. And I love it to pieces, you guys. I love how these inescapable, soul-deep consequences are the inevitable answer to the moral of Sam’s story, where he interred himself with his worst nightmare, forever.

Dean after Hell is clawing for moral high ground. Dean focuses on this bleak kind of virtue, this idea of martyrdom and righteous struggle that eventually unspools and reveals itself to be fundamentally unmoored. He needs some kind of redemption for himself after what he was forced to do in Hell; he needs to own his destiny, and he needs that destiny to be meaningful and good, and he channels his violence outward in that cause.

Sam does not take any kind of high ground. He hurts... himself. He gnaws inward. No illusions about how “messed up” he is—he sidelines himself before Dean or Bobby can say a single word; he figures he needs to be on top of it, needs to get out ahead of the danger he could represent and reassure his family that he knows he’s a hazard. Sam has learned to repress and downplay and hide his traumas and his freakishness both to avoid feeling stigmatized and to avoid being a burden on the people he loves, especially on his brother. So when Dean reacts with fear (understandable) and anger (less so), Sam takes it in stride.

Hallucifer is probably my favorite thing this show has ever done. I could probably write another thousand words on Hallucifer alone—on how Sam’s using this face for coping, for compartmentalizing; both to hurt himself and to keep himself company, to sort through his pain and arrive at a place where it’s at all tenable for him to exist.

Sam’s skepticism about professional mental health treatment—his idea that this is a problem he can handle himself, that a doctor would "just stuff [him] full of pills”—is clearly one born of the family mold. This is his dismissive response to Hallucifer!Dean’s accusation that Sam won’t be able to cut it on his own. This denial, this idea that Sam knows he needs to get a handle on this, and therefore that he MUST do it himself, make a science of it, is fascinating.

On the subject of denial: Hallucifer poses a simple question to Sam: are you sure you got out? And Sam’s NOT sure. Faith that he’s free is yet another maybe-lie that Sam must tell himself with maniacal intensity this season, for the sake of his own sanity, to avoid the voice in his head telling him to shoot himself.

That Scene in the warehouse. Dean’s advice to Sam is to trust in Dean as the cornerstone of his reality. Asks him to build his whole world on his trust in Dean. What choice does Sam have? Who else can Sam rely on? What else can he do? There is no one else, nothing else. There’s only Dean, or Lucifer. It’s a dichotomy. It’s so CHILLING.

Especially in the context of what we know comes next—7.03, where Dean lies to Sam’s face, murders Amy, and uses Sam’s ~insanity~ to defuse Sam’s (justified) anger. And then, season 8, and 9, and 10, and, y’know what, the entire show.

Sam drives his thumb into his bleeding hand, and it’s SPN in a nutshell—forever choosing the claustrophobia of the path of slightly less resistance, forever clinging to the misery of a life that’s only just this side of bearable, burying yourself in the toxic fallout because the alternative is unimaginably nightmarish—using the trappings of free will, of defiance, to choose to claw holes in yourself so that someone else won’t. There is no escape.

Dean’s threat of murder-suicide on the phone is so clearly meant to be sympathetic. And yes, on a certain level it absolutely is; and then on another level, it’s, y’know, MURDER-suicide, where Dean’s taking explicit responsibility for and ownership of Sam’s life, even though Sam’s pretty clearly lucid. Dean’s assuming as a matter of course his ability and right to make that decision for Sam. How Dean views and deals with Sam’s instability in season 7 lays major groundwork for Dean’s willingness to let in Gadreel in 9.01.

#final thoughts #7.02 #sam and lucifer #sam and hallucinations #sam and dean #sam and self-harm #sam and hell #sam and trauma #sam and mental illness #sam and abuse #dean critical #sam and suicide #season 7 more like season HEAVEN #(except that spn heaven sucks ofc and s7 emphatically does not)

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