#And so bad psychologically is something that should be studied

[chaotictissuebox]

putting this here too because I just couldn’t resist it’s their motif man

[bueckets]

Thin Walls

Pairing: roommate!Paige x reader

Genre: roommates to lovers, kinda funny?, smut, unbearable sexual tension, petty revenge, paper-thin walls, psychological warfare via moaning, paige bueckers menace era, girl failure x girl who never fails, competitive pining, mutual obsession, doomed from the start but in a fun way, vibrators n SEX, almost all ssmut

Description: When a sleep-deprived biomed student moves in with UConn’s most notorious heartbreaker, you expect late-night film study, protein shake graveyards, and an apartment perpetually scented like sweat and victory. What you don’t expect? Thin walls. And Paige Bueckers making absolutely no effort to keep her extracurricular activities quiet.

What starts as a battle for basic human decency turns into something far messier—petty revenge plots, mind games laced with innuendo, and an unspoken tension that neither of you is willing to name. Paige plays like she owns the court, like she owns the world, and maybe—just maybe—like she wants to own you, too.

They say pressure makes diamonds, but when it comes to Paige Bueckers, it just might make a disaster.

WC: 8.4k

There’s a certain satisfaction in watching rich people fight over throw pillows. Like, deep, existential satisfaction. The kind that settles into your bones, whispering at least you’re not that delusional while you scrape the bottom of your bank account for rent. That’s why Selling Sunset has become your new comfort show—nothing soothes the sting of your own financial ruin quite like watching a billionaire lose their shit over an ocean view.

The couch has practically absorbed your body at this point, molded to the exact slouch of your spine. The TV’s glow flickers against the walls, the only illumination in the apartment aside from the soft neon blur of the city outside. A bowl of Greek yogurt sits abandoned on the coffee table—your latest attempt at a “responsible” late-night snack, made in partnership with self-loathing. You’re too exhausted to move, too wired to sleep. Somewhere outside, a siren wails, stretching long and lonely through the night, and you think, for just a second, that if you squint hard enough, you can almost pretend your life is fine.

Then the door slams open like a fucking battering ram.

A mess of limbs and pure, unfiltered desperation stumbles in. Paige Bueckers and tonight’s lucky contestant.

They’re already kissing—no, consuming each other. Lips fused. Hands gripping. Hips aligning like they’re moments away from shifting the tectonic plates beneath them. It’s all sloppy giggles and breathy moans, the kind of shit that should come with a parental advisory warning.

Paige is in sweats and a hoodie that’s hanging halfway off her shoulder, her blonde hair a tousled wreck that suggests she either just left practice or got aggressively felt up in the Uber ride over. The girl—a brunette this time—has her fingers twisted into the hem of Paige’s hoodie like she might actually rip it in half. You’re 98% sure they don’t even notice they almost wipe out over the entryway rug.

You stare. They don’t. They’re too busy dry-humping against the door like horny teenagers who just discovered the concept of friction.

This is usually the part of the night where you’d be asleep. That’s the unspoken agreement. Paige does whatever (or whoever) she wants, and you exist in separate, peaceful universes where her sex life is not your problem. But tonight, insomnia had you in a chokehold, so instead of peacefully slipping into unconsciousness, you’re here, trapped in the splash zone of her latest conquest like some unwilling war correspondent reporting live from the trenches.

Paige finally clocks your presence. Her head jerks up mid-kiss, blinking at you through the haze of what you can only assume is either lust or a full-on brain shutdown.

“Oh. My bad.”

Her voice is husky, wrecked, but casual—so casual, like you just bumped into each other in line at Trader Joe’s, not like you just caught her halfway to third base in the shared living space. The brunette barely acknowledges you, too busy chasing Paige’s mouth again, fingers already curled into the waistband of her sweats like they’re pre-gaming for something much worse.

Your jaw clenches. It’s not jealousy. It’s not even annoyance, really. It’s just…the audacity of it all. You didn’t survive financial ruin, an eviction, and the world’s most soul-sucking job just to end up as an unwilling extra in Paige’s late-night softcore escapades.

Paige smirks, something smug and completely unbothered dancing in her blue eyes, and then—because apparently, she has to make sure you fully marinate in your suffering—she winks.

She fucking winks.

Then she grabs her conquest by the wrist and drags her toward her bedroom. The door swings shut with a decisive click.

You exhale sharply. Shift on the couch. Turn back to Selling Sunset.

A blonde woman in Louboutins slams a designer purse onto a marble counter, screaming about escrow like her life depends on it.

You grab your spoon, chew a bite of yogurt, and pretend this isn’t the worst night of your life.

At first, it’s nothing you can’t ignore—a muffled giggle, the faint creak of a mattress. You’ve had years of training in the fine art of selective hearing. Cheap apartments with walls thinner than a CVS receipt, noisy neighbors who lived for 3 AM karaoke, exes who had no concept of volume control—life has forged you into a soldier of endurance. A survivor. You could sleep through sirens. You could pretend not to hear the couple next door having a screaming match about a misplaced vape pen. You could—if the situation demanded it—completely erase the existence of an entire soundscape from your brain.

But then the giggling shifts. Turns breathy. Then it turns into something else entirely.

A rustle of sheets. A gasp. A low, pleased hum that shouldn’t make your stomach twist with secondhand mortification, but does.

Your grip tightens around the remote. The TV screen flickers in front of you, but you’re no longer absorbing the content. Christine Quinn is monologuing about open-concept kitchens—something about “flow” and “maximizing natural light”—but her voice isn’t nearly loud enough to drown out the escalating symphony from down the hall.

You turn the volume up. Way up.

It doesn’t help.

Paige’s conquest lets out a high, breathy whimper, the kind of sound that makes your entire body lock up like your nervous system just crashed. Paige’s voice follows, low and affectionate, murmuring something you absolutely do not want to hear, but your cursed, traitorous ears pick up anyway. Whatever she says makes the brunette giggle—another peal of laughter before it melts into something softer, more desperate.

Your eye twitches. Nope.

You launch off the couch like you’ve been personally attacked, storming down the hallway with all the righteous fury of someone who has had enough. The second you reach your room, you slam the door shut behind you. The walls rattle. The moaning does not stop.

Jesus. Are your walls are made of tissue paper? No, fuck that—tissue paper at least offer some resistance. This? This is sonic purgatory. Paige’s voice is clearer now, her tone teasing, low, smug. A pet name you can’t quite make out but absolutely wish you could bleach from your brain.

You groan. Loudly. Throw yourself onto your bed and yank a pillow over your head like that’s going to do anything.

It doesn’t.

Because the sounds are intermittent—waves of giggles followed by the kind of sighs that make your ears burn. The occasional shhh from Paige, followed by a breathless “like that?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Think of something else. Think of literally anything else. You focus on the fabric of your pillowcase, the way the cotton sticks to your cheek, the faint scent of detergent—Paige moans, and your brain short-circuits like a 2003 Dell desktop.

You don’t even have the energy to be properly mad. This is just Paige. Unbothered, self-contained, casually ruining your will to live Paige. She doesn’t try to be inconsiderate, but she also doesn’t try not to be.

Another moan—drawn out and shameless—curls through the air, and you nearly levitate out of your skin. You want to scream. Instead, you yank another pillow over your head for good measure, as if two pillows will somehow create a force field against whatever the fuck is happening in there.

Christine Quinn is still monologuing in your mind, her voice a distant echo beneath the carnal horror occurring in real time.

"It’s all about location, location, location."

Yeah. No shit.

You really should’ve picked a better one.

The morning drags itself into existence like a bad hangover—except you didn’t drink. You just endured. Survived. Battled through the night like some war veteran, only your battlefield wasn’t made of trenches and gunfire but moaning and drywall acoustics.

Sunlight filters through the too-thin blinds, stabbing into your retinas like a personal attack. It casts a harsh glow over the wreckage of your living room—your personal post-war scene. The coffee table is an abandoned crime scene: an empty takeout container, a spoon half-submerged in a sad puddle of yogurt, a crumpled napkin that might have been thrown in frustration during hour two of your sleepless torment. Your blanket is twisted in a heap on the couch, kicked off at some point in your desperate attempt to burrow away from the sounds of Paige Bueckers living her best, most inconsiderate life.

It’s quiet now. Blessedly quiet. A void. No hushed giggles, no rhythmic bedframe percussion, no doors slamming. No evidence of last night’s atrocity except for your residual irritation, clinging to the air like stale perfume.

You sit at the dining table, textbook open, pen in hand, attempting to refocus on something productive. Biomed homework. Neural pathways, synaptic transmission—things that matter. Unlike Paige, who—

A shuffle of feet. Soft, socked steps. You don’t even hear her door creak open—just the lazy, leisurely sound of someone who has never known suffering emerging from her room.

You refuse to look up.

“Morning,” Paige says, casual as ever, like she didn’t turn your living space into the set of a low-budget lesbian porno eight hours ago. She stretches, arms overhead, back arching slightly, exhaling like she just had the most restful night’s sleep of her life.

Meanwhile, you—who has never been more tired—physically recoil at the audacity.

She rubs her eyes, yawns, shuffles past you toward the kitchen like nothing happened. Not even a hint of acknowledgment. No sheepish oops, my bad for mentally scarring you with surround sound sex noise. No hey, sorry about your insomnia and emotional distress. Just a morning like everything is fine.

You blink at her. Unbelievable.

Your fingers tighten around your pencil as you force your gaze back to your notes. Ignore her. You are a scholar. A person of intellect. A higher being.

Paige, meanwhile, has fully migrated to the fridge. She rummages carelessly, like she owns this apartment, like she pays your therapy bills. She emerges with the orange juice carton, unscrews the cap, and—like an absolute menace to society—drinks straight from it.

The pencil in your grip creaks ominously.

“You’re up early,” she remarks, between gulps.

“I didn’t sleep,” you reply, flat, clipped. You don’t look at her. You refuse to.

Paige makes a small sound—something vaguely amused, vaguely disbelieving. “Damn. That sucks.”

That’s it? That’s all she has to say.

You inhale, deeply, willing yourself not to commit a violent felony before noon.

Slowly, slowly, you lift your head, turn your glare toward her like a sniper locking onto a target. Paige, in all her infuriating glory, is leaning against the counter, still drinking your orange juice, looking like someone who has never felt guilt a day in her life. Her expression is neutral, open. Not quite smug, but there’s something about the way she exists that makes you want to throw your textbook at her face and plead temporary insanity in court.

She swipes her thumb across her mouth, wiping away a drop of juice.

“You know what else sucks?” you say, voice deceptively calm. “The structural integrity of our walls. They’re paper-thin. Just an interesting fact I thought I’d share.”

Paige’s lips twitch. She knows. She fucking knows. She tilts her head slightly, like she’s considering whether she should poke the bear or let you stew in your suffering. Then she settles on:

“Huh.”

That’s it.

Your grip tightens on the pencil so hard you might actually snap it in half.

Paige drains the last of the orange juice, wipes her mouth again (like an animal), and sets the carton down with a satisfied sigh. Then, as if she hasn’t just mentally and emotionally destroyed you, she stretches again, rolling out her shoulders.

“Welp,” she says, tone light, completely unbothered. “I’m out. See ya.”

“Wait, what—”

But she’s already gone, disappearing back into her room for approximately thirty seconds before emerging again—this time with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

You stare at it. “You’re leaving?”

Paige nods like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah. Team stuff. Won’t be back tonight.”

Your brain malfunctions. Won’t be back tonight. This terrorist has held you emotionally hostage for an entire night and now she’s just leaving? Just walking away from the wreckage like some kind of villain in an action movie, casually strolling as the building explodes behind her?

She tugs on her sneakers at the door, slings her bag higher on her shoulder, and—because the universe is cruel—throws you a lazy, almost mocking little salute.

“Don’t wait up,” she tosses over her shoulder. Then she’s gone.

The door swings shut and the apartment is silent again.

You sit there, fingers clenched around your pencil, biomed notes glaring up at you like they’re personally offended by your suffering. Your eye twitches.

I fucking hate her.

Then you sigh, rub your temple, and force yourself back to work.

It’s been three days of silence. Three whole, glorious days of peace. Three nights where you didn’t have to contemplate smothering yourself with a pillow just to escape the torment of Paige’s complete disregard for basic human decency. The apartment has felt almost normal—like an actual home instead of a halfway house for Paige’s revolving door of hookups. You don’t have to brace yourself every time the front door swings open, because it hasn’t swung open. You don’t have to leave your headphones on while studying to shield yourself from the auditory terrorism of her sex life. You don’t have to walk into the kitchen at 1 AM and fear that you’ll be confronted with Paige, half-naked, wearing nothing but someone else’s lipstick and a hoodie that’s falling off her shoulder like she’s starring in a fucking romance movie.

The peace has been so uninterrupted, so unnatural, that you’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to live in a state of constant vigilance. You throw yourself into your biomed assignments, losing yourself in the clean, clinical world of neural pathways and synaptic transmission, your SZA playlist looping softly in the background. You almost start to believe this is real. That this is the new normal. That maybe Paige has finally, miraculously, learned self-control or, at the very least, found a new venue to conduct her business.

You are so fucking naïve.

The front door doesn’t just open—it explodes. A crack, a slam, a full-body collision with the wall that rattles the picture frames. The kind of entrance that belongs to either a SWAT team or a raging hurricane of bad decisions.

Your body locks up like an animal sensing an oncoming natural disaster. The pencil in your grip slips through your fingers, hitting the desk with a dull thunk. Your heart stutters in your chest, and for one brief, delusional second, you tell yourself that it wasn’t real. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe Paige forgot something and came back only to leave again. Maybe—

A thud. Then another. The unmistakable rhythm of someone kicking off their shoes, the soft scuff of footsteps across the floor.

You grit your teeth, pressing your palms flat against your desk. You are not going to react. You are not going to engage. If she wants to slam doors and stomp around like a feral beast, fine. You refuse to let her drag you into the chaos. You reach for your headphones, adjusting them over your ears, cranking up the volume until SZA drowns out the world.

It’s not enough.

A sound pierces through the music, slicing through the air like a warning shot. It’s high-pitched, sudden, obscene—so sharp that your entire body recoils. Your brain trips over itself, scrambling to make sense of what it just processed, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you think someone is in distress. Like maybe—maybe—this is the night Paige finally made an enemy and brought home someone who wants to kill her. But no. No, that is not the sound of murder. That is the sound of someone who is very much alive and living their best fucking life at maximum volume.

Your grip tightens around your pencil so hard you genuinely worry it might snap in half.

Then it happens again—louder this time. 

“Ooooh, Paige, baby it feel sooo good,” a long, drawn-out moan that echoes through the walls like a goddamn announcement.

Your jaw clenches so hard you swear you hear something crack.

You tell yourself to ignore it. You try to focus on the actual problems in your life—like the metabolic equation staring up at you from your notebook, the one that makes no fucking sense, the one you were just about to solve before Paige returned to single-handedly ruin your night. But this girl—whoever she is—sounds like she’s in a full-blown cinematic production, and Paige? Paige has zero concern for your sanity. No attempt to be discreet, no effort to maybe keep it down, no acknowledgment that she is actively breaking your spirit in real time.

A shhh from Paige, soft, teasing, followed by something breathless. While you– you black out for a second.

The chair scrapes against the floor as you shove away from your desk, adrenaline flooding your veins. You are this close to storming down the hallway, ripping Paige’s door off its hinges, and launching her entire bed out the fucking window. Instead, you flatten your hands against your desk, inhale deeply, and stare down at your notes like they personally wronged you.

This. This is it. You swear to yourself, you are getting revenge.

You don’t know how yet. But it’s happening.

Because if Paige wants to act like an inconsiderate, sex-obsessed demon hellbent on making your life miserable, then fine. Fine. Two can play at this game.

You’ve waited two days. Two agonizing, anticipation-filled days where you paced your room like a villain in the third act of a revenge flick, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Every time you passed by Paige’s empty room, you could practically hear the ghosts of her past hookups mocking you. You had suffered. You had endured. And now, it was your time.

The front door swings open. Not as violently as before—no dramatic bang against the wall, no whirlwind of limbs stumbling over the entryway rug. Just the quiet shuffle of footsteps, the soft rustle of fabric, the barely-there whisper of a muffled giggle. It’s all very tame. Too tame. Like she thinks she can just slip back into this apartment unnoticed, like she didn’t shatter your will to live just days ago with her complete lack of shame or respect for human decency.

You sit up in bed, eyes gleaming in the dim glow of your laptop screen. Showtime.

It had taken an embarrassing amount of time to craft the perfect revenge strategy. You wanted something devastating. Something that would haunt Paige the way her late-night moanfest had haunted you. You considered various forms of psychological warfare—hiding her favorite hoodie, signing her up for weird spam emails, strategically microwaving fish at odd hours—but none of it felt impactful enough. You needed something biblical. Something that would scar.

And then, the answer came to you. Porn.

Loud, obnoxious, horrifically detailed porn. You smile at your glowing laptop and click play.

Instantly, the most sinful, ungodly, downright demonic sounds explode from your speakers. It’s graphic. Monstrous. A chorus of moans, screams, the unmistakable, wet, slapping of skin against skin. The kind of audio that makes you question humanity as a species. You’re pretty sure you hear someone begging in French.

It’s perfect. You crank the volume up.

Then, with the sheer dramatic commitment of a Broadway performer, you slam your bed frame against the wall.

The headboard cracks against the drywall with force, rattling like you’re in the throes of an earth-shattering experience. You moan. Not well, but loudly. Passionately. Over-the-top.

“Ohhh my GOD,” you scream, throwing in some unnecessary yes, yes, right there’s for added flair.

You can feel the disturbance in the force. But you don’t stop. Oh, no. You commit.

You keep the moans rolling, layering them with guttural, animalistic gasps. You bang the headboard again, harder this time, just to make sure Paige feels your suffering on a molecular level. You toss in a deep, satisfied sigh, dragging it out like you’re playing a villain savoring their monologue.

You keep the moans rolling, layering them with deep, broken gasps, the kind of sounds that should not be echoing through the walls of a shared living space. Your voice wavers just enough to sound shaken, overwhelmed, ruined, like you’ve ascended past the mortal plane and are now one with the universe.

The headboard collides with the wall again—harder this time, with a resounding crack that might actually fracture the drywall. Good. Good. Let her feel it. Let the vibrations of your suffering seep into her bones. Let her live what you lived.

You throw in a deep, satisfied sigh, dragging it out long, making it obscene. You let silence stretch, just for a moment, just long enough for Paige to think maybe—maybe—it’s over, that this nightmare has passed.

And then, with the full, unwavering conviction of a lunatic, you moan again.

It’s breathless. Shaky. The kind of sound that would make someone deeply uncomfortable in any setting, but especially when coming from the other side of a paper-thin wall.

A shuffle. A creak of bedsprings. A pause. You can feel her trying to process.

And then, like a gift from the heavens, Paige finally breaks.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

The pure, unfiltered disbelief in her voice is a drug. It fuels you.

You slam your palm against the wall, a solid thunk that reverberates through the apartment. Then, in the single most unhinged act of pettiness you have ever committed, you howl a random man’s name.

Silence.

You shift in bed, letting out a shaky, devastated exhale, the kind of breathless, wrecked sound people make when they have been absolutely, thoroughly ruined. You make sure it carries through the wall, make sure it sinks into her skull.

There’s another pause. A long one. You can almost see Paige lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how her life has come to this exact moment.

Then—an aggressive rustling of sheets, a sharp inhale like she’s gearing up for a speech. You brace yourself.

Her response is immediate. A heavy thud—her fist against your wall. “Oh my God, have some fucking decency.”

That should be the end of it. A normal, sane person would stop here. But you? You are not a normal, sane person. You are a petty, wounded soldier, and you will see this through to the end.

So you shift, make sure your bedsprings let out a very suggestive creak, and then murmur, low and breathy, “Five more minutes.”

A second of pure, raw silence. Then, from her room—chaos.

The violent shuffle of blankets, a sound like something falling off her nightstand, an aggressively muttered string of words that you cannot hear, but you know they’re unholy.

Victory tastes sweet.

The next morning, you wake up feeling transformed. Cleansed. Vindicated. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes of your own pettiness, reborn into a creature of pure, unadulterated vengeance. A god of retribution.

Last night was a triumph. A masterpiece of psychological warfare, orchestrated with the precision of a military strategist and the artistic flair of a Broadway performer. Paige had suffered—oh, she had suffered—and you had heard every ounce of that suffering in the sheer disbelief laced through her voice. You had sent her into an existential crisis without so much as stepping foot into her room. And the best part? You didn’t even have to talk about it. No awkward confrontation, no passive-aggressive exchange, no forced discussion about boundaries. Just a silent victory, the best kind of victory.

You stretch in bed, limbs loose and relaxed for the first time in days. No residual irritation, no ghosts of rage clinging to your skin. You won. You won.

The air feels different when you step into the kitchen, like the whole apartment is holding its breath. The atmosphere is charged, electric with something unspoken, a tension that exists only because you created it. You bask in it, inhale it like fresh air, let it fill your lungs as you roll your shoulders back and step into the room.

Paige is already there. She’s leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around her ever-present protein shake, the other holding her phone, scrolling with the kind of casual indifference that feels fake. Too stiff. Too controlled.

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge you in the slightest. Good. That means you got to her.

You let the silence stretch, let her feel you watching her, reveling in the unspoken weight of last night’s events. Then, with all the exaggerated nonchalance you can muster, you open the fridge. You take your time, rummaging through it, making a show of your relaxed state, of your complete and total lack of shame or regret. Every movement is deliberate, every pause pointed.

The tension is thick enough to taste.Finally, after a long, drawn-out beat, you break the silence.

“Sleep well?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Paige just lifts her shake, takes a slow sip, and keeps scrolling, her gaze glued to her screen like you don’t exist.

You bite back a smirk. Oh, it’s like that, huh?

Fine. You love a challenge.

You grab a yogurt, pop the lid with exaggerated ease, and lean against the counter directly across from her. Mirroring her. Challenging her.

She knows you’re looking. She feels it.

The weight of your gaze drags over her jaw, the bare skin of her collarbone where her hoodie has slouched just a little too low. Over her hands—gripping her phone a fraction too tight, her knuckles taut with something just shy of restraint.

She lifts her protein shake. Takes a sip. Measured, deliberate.

You take a slow, obnoxiously slow, bite of yogurt.

“You seemed a little... tense last night.” Your voice is carefully neutral, the epitome of innocence, like you’re discussing the weather. But your eyes say otherwise.

A flicker. There. The tell.

It’s microscopic—her fingers tightening around her phone, a brief clench of her jaw before she lifts her shake again.

“I’m fine,” Paige says, monotone.

You hum, swirling your spoon through the yogurt, dragging it up in long, slow loops. “Really? You seemed a little... thrown off. Like you weren’t expecting something.”

Paige drinks. Swallows. Sets the bottle down with that same, mechanical precision.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oh, this is delicious.

“Hmm.” You take another lazy bite, then—just for effect—let your tongue flick over the spoon, slow, clean.

She doesn’t react.

But she sees it. You know she sees it.

The battle of wills unfolds in the silence. A quiet, blistering, psychological duel.

You stretch it, waiting, baiting. Letting the tension tighten between you like a tripwire waiting to snap.

And then—she exhales.

A sharp, quiet breath, controlled but strained. Like she’s holding something back.

And finally, finally, she sets her phone down.

Lifts her head.

Meets your gaze.

And suddenly, the air shifts.

Because Paige’s expression isn’t annoyed, like you expected. It isn’t irritated, or bored, or vaguely exasperated.

It’s something else.

Something slower. Darker.

Your stomach tightens—not in fear, but in something far more dangerous.

She tilts her head just slightly, a fraction of an inch, but the weight of it is immense. A move so calculated it feels like a blade sliding from its sheath.

"You good?" she asks, her voice a study in casual ease. Too smooth. Too careful.

It’s a trap. You know it’s a trap.

But you don’t back down from fights.

“Better than ever.” You drag the words out, light, effortless. “Best sleep of my life.”

Her lips twitch. Just barely. A half-second away from a smirk.

“That right?”

You shrug, feigning boredom. “Guess loud, passionate sex really tires a person out.”

A beat. A single, suspended moment.

Then—

“I wouldn’t know,” Paige says, smooth as silk. Cool as ice. “Didn’t hear a thing.”

Your smirk falters.

Oh.

Oh, she’s good.

You recover quickly. “Really? You must sleep like the dead, then.”

Paige picks up her phone again, dismissive, her gaze flicking back to the screen like you’re not worth the effort.

But her lips? They’re curling. Slightly. Just enough to show teeth.

“Or maybe,” she murmurs, so damn casual, “it just wasn’t worth noticing.”

Oh, that bitch.

Heat flares up your spine, crackling, sharp.

You glare. Paige doesn’t even glance at you. The war has officially begun. And it’s on sight.

You’re not proud of yourself.

Not in the slightest. In fact, you don’t even know how you got here.

But this is what happens when you let your petty little battles spiral into something else, something darker and messier and impossible to ignore. You hate her. You loathe her. You think about her way too much—about how she gets under your skin, about her smug little smirks, about the way she acts like she owns the air you breathe just because she’s taller than you, because she can throw a ball into a hoop, because the entire fucking world looks at her like she’s something more than just a girl who’s in your goddamn way.

And maybe that’s why you’re here.

On your back. In your bed.

Hand between your thighs like an absolute fucking degenerate.

Because Paige is supposed to be gone. She’s supposed to be three states away at some game, doing her little interviews, getting her ego fed by an arena full of people. The apartment is supposed to be empty.

So you let yourself have this.

Let yourself chase the tension out of your muscles, let yourself melt into it, let yourself lose in it.

And God, you wish you were thinking about someone else.

But it’s her.

It’s her stupid fucking face.

It’s the way she taunts you, the way she stands too close in the kitchen, the way her sweatpants hang low on her hips in the morning, the way she stares you down like she’s daring you to push her, like she’s waiting for the exact moment you snap.

You hate her.

You hate how easy it is to imagine her hands on you instead of your own.

Your fingers are slick. Obscenely so. The vibrator hums against your clit like a live wire, like an electric pulse searing through your nerves, turning every inch of your body into a hypersensitive mess. Your thighs twitch, your stomach clenches, your hips keep jerking up, desperate for more, even though it's too much—too intense, too sharp, too unbearably fucking good.

The sheets are ruined beneath you, damp and twisted from how much you’ve writhed against them, chasing the high, riding the edge, dragging it out like you deserve to suffer for this. Like you deserve to ache for it. Your other hand is gripping the pillow, fisting the fabric, white-knuckled, because Paige, Paige, Paige—you can’t get her out of your fucking head.

That smug smirk, those broad shoulders, the way she leans against the kitchen counter like she owns it, owns you, waiting, watching, pushing, teasing—

God, you hate her.

You hate the way she gets under your skin, the way she’s there, always there, lingering in the space between, looking at you like she’s daring you to do something about it. You hate that you want to.

And you hate that you’re so fucking close just thinking about her.

Your toes curl, your breath breaks into little hiccuping moans, your body bows off the mattress. The vibrator sends another sharp burst of pleasure through your swollen, oversensitive clit, and it’s too much—your thighs slam shut around your hand, trying to temper the sensation, trying to trap it, hold it inside you, but it just makes everything sharper, stronger, unbearable—

You choke on a sound, a raw, desperate little whimper.

And then– a noise. Not yours. Not in your room.

On the other side of the fucking wall.

At first, your brain refuses to process it. Because no. No. No way. Paige is supposed to be gone, three states away, playing her stupid game, being her stupid self, not here.

But then you hear it again. A moan. Low, wrecked, unmistakably needy.

Your whole body locks up.

For a second, all you can do is lie there, frozen in place, vibrator still pressed against your clit, your own pulse hammering in your ears. Your skin goes hot, burning with shame, with realization.

She heard you. She fucking heard you.

Another shift. A creak of her bed. The rustle of sheets. 

A sharp inhale escapes you, unbidden, and then you clap a hand over your mouth, mortified.

The vibrator is still humming against your clit, sending little aftershocks through you, but you can’t move, you can’t fucking move, because your brain is stuck on the fact that Paige is touching herself right now, that she’s lying in her bed, one wall away, listening to you, moaning for you, and you—

Oh. Fuck.

Your breath catches, your whole body locks up, your hand stills between your thighs—just for a second, just long enough for your brain to catch up to what the hell just happened.

You press the vibrator harder against your clit, bite your lip so hard it hurts, and keep going.

You’re sick, a fucking degenerate. You have to be, because the thought of Paige, lying there in her bed, one flimsy wall away, fingering herself to the sound of you falling apart is the single hottest, most disgusting, most earth-shattering thing you’ve ever fucking imagined.

Your hips twitch up, chasing the feeling, chasing the high, chasing whatever this is, this tight, searing, unspeakable thing curling in your stomach. You shouldn’t be doing this. You should not be doing this. But your fingers are shaking, your whole body is on fire, and you can’t stop, you can’t fucking stop—

And then she makes another sound.

This time it’s louder, more desperate, like she doesn’t care if you hear her anymore. And it sends you spiraling.

Your eyes slam shut, your thighs squeeze together, your stomach clenches so hard you can’t breathe, and the pleasure—fuck, the pleasure—rips through you, tears you apart, drowns you, ruins you.

You come so hard you forget how to exist.

The air is still humming.Your skin is still hot, still damp, still sensitive in a way that makes every shift against the sheets feel like too much. Your breath hasn’t fully evened out, your body still shaking from the wreckage of it, from the way you lost yourself, let yourself drown.

It should be over. It should.

But then—

A sound. Distant, but there. A soft shuffle, the faintest creak of floorboards beyond your door.

Your breath catches. You stare at the ceiling, heart pounding, trying to ignore it. It’s late. Maybe you’re imagining it, maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re still stuck somewhere between dream and aftermath, still feeling the phantom weight of her—her hands, her voice, the way your mind kept slipping back to her even as you tried not to.

But then it happens again. A shift of movement. Closer.

A slow, deliberate pause just outside your door.

Your stomach tightens. No.

But the air is suddenly thick with something too real, something too electric—something that makes your pulse hammer in warning even before the first knock lands.

Knock. You stop breathing.

Another.

You jerk up, your body still too sensitive, your skin prickling under the weight of anticipation. You don’t move at first. Don’t respond. Just listen.

A pause. Silence. Maybe she’ll leave. Maybe she’ll take the hint—

And then, the voice. Low. Steady. Unshaken.

"Open the door."

Your fingers tighten around the blanket, pulse kicking hard. Not a question. Not a request.

Just a command.

You should hesitate. You should stay still, let the moment pass, let it slip into the quiet, pretend it never happened.

But you know what’s waiting on the other side. And you know you’re already too far gone. But now she’s here.

You don’t move at first. Just stare at the door, heart picking up speed, hands pressed against the comfort of your blanket. A breath. Another. You tell yourself to stay still, stay quiet, maybe she’ll go away, maybe she’ll take the hint—

She knocks again.

“Open the door.”

Your skin prickles. Not a question. Not a request. Just a flat, patient command. Still, you hesitate. Seconds pass, stretching out between you like a tightrope, thin and fraying. And then, finally, you move.

The door creaks as you pull it open, slow and careful. Paige stands in the dim hallway, shoulders loose, hoodie hanging from her frame like she just threw it on without thinking. Her hair’s a mess—like she’s been running her hands through it, like she’s been restless all night. Her blue eyes flicker over you, unreadable, scanning, weighing.

Then she steps inside.

She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait for permission. Just walks past you, brushing close enough that you feel the heat of her body, the scent of her—something clean and sharp, faint sweat and warm fabric and something entirely, infuriatingly her.

The door clicks shut behind her. You don’t speak.

You don’t have to. She turns to you, slow, deliberate, expression unreadable. Then, voice low and measured:

“Lay on the bed.”

A prickle of heat races down your spine. You swallow, breath catching, fingers curling at your sides. But you don’t argue. Don’t hesitate. Just step back, moving without thought, without question, without sense—because it’s Paige, and because you want to know where this is going, and because something inside you is already unraveling at the edges.

The mattress dips as you crawl onto it, arms bracing, knees pressing into the sheets. You don’t dare look at her. You hear the shift of fabric, the quiet creak of the bed frame as she moves behind you, slow, careful. A pause. A breath.

Then—

“Where’s your vibrator?”

The words hit like a strike to the ribs. Sudden, shocking, stealing the air from your lungs.

Your fingers clutch the blankets, throat dry. You don’t answer.

Paige hums, thoughtful, unimpressed. Then you feel her—one hand at your lower back, pressing just enough to make you sink into the mattress, the other trailing up your spine, fingers grazing the curve of your shoulder.

“You’re gonna tell me,” she murmurs, voice steady, quiet, dangerous in its softness. “Or I’ll find it myself.”

Heat pools low in your stomach, twisting sharp and deep. Your breath stutters. Paige’s hand lingers at the back of your neck, fingers tracing, waiting.

Your voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Drawer.”

A pause. The ghost of a smile in her voice.

“Good girl.”

Then she moves.

You hear it—the slide of the drawer, the shift of objects, the quiet click of plastic against wood. A heartbeat. Two. Then the bed shifts again, and she’s behind you, close enough to feel the heat of her, the weight of her presence, the steady, unshaken confidence in every movement.

Her fingers skim your thigh, light, testing, teasing.

“You know what to do.” Your stomach clenches.

Slowly, breathlessly, you shift forward, sinking onto your hands, pressing your chest to the mattress. Your knees spread, thighs parting just enough to leave you open, vulnerable, trembling with something you can’t name.

The air is thick, charged, electric.

Then, Paige’s voice, low and certain:

“Don’t look at me.”

You shudder.

And then—she starts.

The first press of the vibrator against your clit is light—just a tease, barely there, a flicker of sensation that sends a sharp jolt straight through you. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, breath catching, body already wound so fucking tight you think you might shatter from just this.

Paige hums, pleased, lazy. Her other hand skims up your back, slow and deliberate, tracing the dip of your spine, the curve of your ribs, fingers spreading wide as she grips your hip, holding you in place. The bed shifts beneath her weight, but you don’t look back. You don’t dare. Not when you can already feel her eyes on you, watching every little reaction, every twitch, every shaky inhale.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “So fucking wet already.”

You let out a soft, helpless sound, pressing your forehead against the mattress, trying to steady yourself. It doesn’t help. The vibrator hums again, firmer this time, rolling against your clit in slow, torturous circles, and your hips jerk instinctively, seeking more, needing more.

Paige clicks her tongue. “Uh-uh. Stay still.”

The sharp sting of her palm against your ass is unexpected, quick and precise, more startling than painful—but fuck, it makes you tighten everywhere, makes you gasp, makes heat curl even deeper in your gut. Your nails dig into the sheets, thighs trembling.

Then—without warning—the vibrator presses harder, just enough to make your whole body tense, thighs twitching, stomach clenching. Your mouth falls open, a high, breathless moan spilling out before you can stop it.

“That’s it,” Paige murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

She drags the vibrator lower, just for a second, teasing the slick heat between your thighs, and then—fuck—you feel her fingers, tracing, pressing, testing. You whimper, hips bucking, and she chuckles, low and amused, before finally—finally—she sinks one finger inside.

Your breath stutters, back arching, body clenching tight around the intrusion.

“Fuck,” she exhales, voice rough, almost reverent. “You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

The vibrator keeps buzzing against your clit, steady, relentless, a constant pulse of pleasure as her finger moves, slow and deliberate, curling just right, dragging along that sensitive spot that makes you tremble.

“God, you’re dripping,” Paige mutters, voice edged with something darker, something raw. “You want more?”

You nod frantically, too wrecked to form words, pushing back against her hand, chasing it, needing it.

She gives it to you.

Another finger presses in, stretching you, filling you, fucking into you in slow, deep strokes, pushing past that tight resistance, until she’s buried up to the knuckle. Your whole body shakes, heat coiling low in your stomach, sharp and overwhelming.

“Jesus,” Paige breathes, her voice tight, wrecked. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.”

She picks up the pace—fingers curling, twisting, pressing in deeper as the vibrator rolls against your clit, unrelenting, merciless. You’re gasping now, panting, your hips moving without thought, without control, grinding down, fucking yourself onto her fingers, onto the pulsing buzz of the toy, lost in the slick, obscene sound of it, the heat, the pressure, the unbearable, intoxicating pleasure building too fast, too much—

“Paige—”

She tightens her grip on your hip, holding you still, pressing the vibrator harder against your clit, fingers thrusting deeper, sharper, hitting that spot over and over and over—

And you snap.

It crashes into you all at once—blinding, breathless, a shockwave of raw, shuddering pleasure that rips through your entire body. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, legs shaking, thighs clamping around her hand as the orgasm slams into you, wrecking you, drowning you.

Paige curses, low and filthy, working you through it, keeping the vibrator pressed firm against your clit as your body jerks, as you convulse, as pleasure spills over in wave after brutal wave.

You collapse forward, panting, trembling, barely able to hold yourself up. But Paige isn’t done.

She flips you onto your back in one smooth, effortless motion, her body pressing into yours, caging you in. Before you can even catch your breath, her mouth is on you.

The first kiss is rough, searing, a claim more than a kiss—teeth dragging against your lip, tongue pressing deep, swallowing the wrecked little sounds spilling from your throat.

Her hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, dragging your legs apart, squeezing your waist, your ribs, your tits, mapping every inch of you like she’s memorizing it.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cum,” she murmurs, lips brushing yours, voice thick with hunger. “All fucked out and messy for me.”

Your breath stutters. Paige leans in again, dragging her mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear that makes you shiver.

“I want you loud this time,” she mutters, fingers already slipping back between your thighs, spreading you open, rubbing slow, teasing circles against your overstimulated clit. “You gonna give me that?”

You whimper, nodding frantically, hips bucking up into her hand, desperate for more.

Paige smirks against your skin. “Good.”

The heat of her body presses you into the mattress, her grip firm, unrelenting, claiming every inch of you like she’s owed it, like she’s been waiting for this for so fucking long that holding back isn’t an option anymore.

And it’s not. It never was.

Her fingers curl inside you, deep and sharp, pressing right against that devastating spot that makes your whole body tighten and shudder. You’re soaked, dripping down onto her hand, onto the sheets, your thighs slick, trembling, spread wide as she takes what she wants—what she’s wanted for so fucking long.

“You have no idea,” Paige mutters, voice low, wrecked, breath warm against your neck as she drags her lips over your skin, teeth grazing, biting. “No fucking idea how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.”

Your brain short-circuits. You gasp, clutching at her shoulders, legs wrapping around her waist, dragging her closer, needing her closer.

She groans, grinding against you, fingers moving faster, harder, pushing into you with a rhythm that’s obscene, ruthless, making you arch, making you cry out.

“You think I didn’t notice?” she growls. “The way you looked at me? The way you listened when I fucked other girls in this apartment?”

Your stomach clenches, a sharp pang of shame and arousal slamming through you.

Paige laughs. A low, breathy, utterly wicked sound.

“That’s right,” she purrs, slowing her fingers to a torturous, teasing drag. “I know what you’ve been doing. Lying in here, all hot and frustrated, touching yourself to the thought of me.”

Your breath catches.

“You ever wonder if I was thinking about you?” she continues, voice husky, lips dragging down your collarbone, your chest, your stomach. “Lying in bed, hearing you through the walls, touching myself to the sound of you coming?”

Your hips jerk up, a desperate, broken sound escaping you.

Paige chuckles, dark and amused, before she slams her fingers into you again, relentless, brutal, dragging you right back up that peak.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “That’s what I fucking thought.”

The words send a fresh wave of heat ripping through your body, pleasure slamming into you all at once, sharp and unbearable, too much but not enough, never enough.

Then she’s everywhere—her mouth crushing against yours, teeth nipping, tongue pressing in deep as her fingers fuck into you, relentless, merciless, like she’s making up for every second she didn’t have you like this.

“Come for me,” she demands, voice ragged, forehead pressing against yours, blue eyes dark, wild, locked onto you like she’s daring you to fall apart.

Your whole body seizes up, back arching, mouth falling open on a silent scream as the orgasm tears through you, overwhelming, devastating, making your mind go blank, making your vision fucking blur.

Paige groans as you clench around her fingers, as you drip onto her hand, onto the sheets, onto her.

“Jesus fuck,” she breathes, watching you, drinking in every twitch, every shake, every shattered gasp. “You look so fucking good like this.”

And before you can even catch your breath, before you can even think, she’s flipping you over again, pressing you into the mattress, pinning you down, her body covering yours completely.

Her mouth is everywhere—hot, desperate, claiming every inch of you, kissing you like she wants to consume you, biting at your throat, your jaw, your lips.

“You’re mine now,” she mutters, breath ragged, hand gripping your hip, dragging you up against her. “You fucking get that?”

You nod frantically, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, needing more, needing everything.

“Say it,” she growls.

“I’m yours,” you gasp, voice wrecked, desperate.

Paige grins—wild, triumphant—before crashing her mouth against yours again, her hand slipping back between your legs, fingers dragging through the mess she’s already made of you.

“You’re gonna give me another one,” she murmurs, voice dark, teasing.

Your breath stutters, eyes going wide.

“You can’t—”

“I can.” She presses the vibrator back against your clit, fingers already sliding back inside you, making you sob. “And I will.”

Then she fucks you, properly, thoroughly, relentlessly, making you come again and again until you can barely breathe, barely think, until the only thing left in your head is her.

The room is wreckage. Pillows displaced, sheets tangled, the air thick with the scent of sweat and satisfaction. Your limbs are jelly, nerves still sparking like frayed wires, pleasure still ghosting along the edges of your skin in aftershocks you can’t quite suppress. Paige—Paige fucking Bueckers—is lying beside you, her chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths, arm slung possessively across your stomach like she owns you now.

And maybe she does.

You blink up at the ceiling, brain still trying to reboot. The night—Jesus, the night—had unraveled into something primal, something endless, something that had pushed you past exhaustion, past coherence, past sanity. Paige had wrecked you, torn you apart, rebuilt you in the shape of something raw and ruined and aching for more. And now—

Now, she shifts beside you. A lazy stretch, muscles flexing, a small, satisfied hum escaping her lips. You don’t have the energy to turn your head, but you feel her, the weight of her gaze settling on your profile.

Then, voice still husky from exertion, smug and utterly fucking unbearable—

"So, do you want to get dinner with me?"

Your brain stalls.

Your head turns, slow, disbelieving, vision sharpening just enough to catch the absolute shit-eating grin tugging at her lips. She’s fucking with you. She has to be. After everything—after the way she spent hours making you come until you forgot your own name, until your body had nothing left to give, until you had collapsed against her, too spent to do anything but breathe—she’s asking you out. Like it’s casual. Like it’s normal.

Like this isn’t the most insane, deranged turn of events imaginable.

You stare.

Paige smirks.

And you—God help you—you might actually say yes.

[yoohyeon]

Saw that the Tumblr icon on my iPad changed so I went to see what’s up and WE FINALLY CAN REPLY WITH THE BLOG WE WANT !!! THANK YOU !!! Now staff make it so when you block someone it’s block on all sb too thanks I’m tired of blocking 3 times

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing your Character's "Inner Critic"

Inner Critic - a mental inner voice that criticizes and judges your actions, thoughts, and behaviors.

In the early 20th century, psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud referred to it as the “superego,” and it’s been a constant source of study ever since.

Learning to address the excesses of your critical inner voice is an important element of self-care and holistic well-being.

Popular psychology movements of today—like cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) and acceptance and commitment therapy (ACT)—assist individuals with reframing their inner critic’s negative thought processes.

Negative Thoughts From Your Inner Critic

Assessing your mental health means knowing when your inner critic is doing nothing but harm. Examples of an inner voice that engages in self-destructive behaviors:

Dwelling on the past: If you regularly beat yourself up for past mistakes and regrets about life experiences, recognize that many of these thoughts are self-defeating. Your inner critic draws on memories like this to keep you incapable of growing in the present moment.

Focusing on shortcomings: Your inner critic might be a perfectionist—holding you to impossibly high standards—or just constantly echo your deepest insecurities. If you think of yourself in the second person a lot—”you’re not good enough,” “you’ll never succeed,” and so on—you might be under the thumb of your inner critic.

Worrying about the future: You might constantly think that you’ll inevitably say or do something to destroy your future prospects. Your inner critic might insist bad things are inevitable and that you should always stay in your comfort zone since you’re bound to mess things up if you color outside the lines. Heeding these judgmental demands will limit your ability to grow and enjoy all life has to offer.

Ways Meditation Helps Counter the Inner Critic

Slowing down and centering your mind can help you combat the critical inner voice in your head. Here are just five ways meditation can help you:

Empowers you with positive affirmations: Through certain types of meditation—like metta or the “lovingkindness practice”—you can use upbuilding and compassionate thoughts and mantras to anchor your sense of self-compassion and combat the worst urges of your inner critic. These affirmations help reorient your mind in a positive direction holistically.

Enables you to recognize impermanence: At the center of meditative practice is a recognition that the present moment is ever fleeting. As soon as you pay attention to one breath, your mind whisks away to some stray thought. The more you do this—always returning to the subject of meditative focus—the more you’ll see your mind divert to your inner critic’s viewpoint. It’ll become obvious as you continue to meditate that it’s just one point of view among many—and you can pay attention to its demands or ignore it just the same.

Encourages you to determine what’s of value: Not all self-criticism is bad. You should discard needlessly negative thoughts, but you can turn the inner critic into one of your best friends if you tame its voice. The equanimity brought on through meditation helps you see when a critical thought can be constructive or when you should ignore it for being untrue and damaging.

Gives you an opportunity to practice compassion: A mindfulness practice allows you to see yourself from the outside looking in—and this experience often brings about a sense of self-compassion. As you meditate, you can see and feel the damage the inner critic is doing to you from an objective standpoint. This can lead you to treat yourself more kindly and, as a result, treat others more kindly, too.

Helps you detach from your ego: Meditation allows you to reorient your sense of self-esteem away from the attachments of your ego. By distancing yourself from your ego (or “I, me, mine” thoughts) in general, you also distance yourself and even silence your inner critic. Although it might sound contradictory, thinking less about yourself, in general, can significantly boost self-confidence overall.

At its best, the inner critic is one voice among many—and you can take it or leave it.

If you can sift through these self-critical thoughts objectively and analytically, you can discover whether they’re valuable or merely detrimental and untrue.

The former can help you improve as a person; the latter will only bring you down.

At its worst, the inner critic can act as an intrusive, overpowering force—wracking you with unnecessary self-doubt and causing insecurity, depression, and anxiety.

Letting your inner critic run roughshod over you like this usually isn’t healthy.

Managing this facet of your inner dialogue can lead to positive personal growth possibilities, but left to its own devices, it can cause an overwhelming amount of negative self-talk and low self-esteem.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[loverslantern]

Mirror- Dean Winchester x f! reader oneshot

Description: Reader doesn’t feel pretty so Dean tries to show her what he sees in the way he knows best: praise.

Warnings: It’s hot and heavy in here, inherently sexual but nothing happens, manhandling?, praise

Word count: 2k

Note: This is not only my first time writing something like this but also my first time writing something not related to The Hunter and The Witch series so please leave feedback!

  I catch my reflection on the screen of my laptop and groan. My face looks weird today. It’s just one of those days where I just couldn’t feel…pretty or nice or any other adjective. It shouldn’t matter now when I’m alone in my motel room and researching for the next hunt. There’s no one to impress in the desolate room other than the four beige walls and a creaky bed. 

  It shouldn’t matter. To be fair it shouldn’t matter in general when beauty is an objective concept, and yet it does. I do not know the psychology behind it, maybe it’s a biological thing as animals would choose the mate that’s more appealing or strong to have offspring that can survive. I shake my head, ridding myself of the thought. This would just spiral into a psychological analysis that would only make me think of it further rather than ignore it. 

  It’s an obsessive thing, isn’t it?

  Either way, I don’t like the way I look today. I couldn’t get my hair to look just right this morning and I tried so many up-do’s that my arms got sore. It still didn’t look right, so I left it down. 

  And my face just looks wrong. Maybe my eyes are too big or too small in proportion to the rest of my face. Or, maybe my jawline is too soft, perhaps I’m not rough enough. Perhaps I’m too rough. Somehow, every possible thing feels true. 

  I groan again, leaning my head back against the headboard of the bed, and squeeze my eyes shut as if it will get rid of it all. I’m meant to be focused on research. It was supposed to help. But stupid screens and their stupid reflections.

  The jingle of keys forces my eyes open, my eyes landing on my door as it clicks open. “Hey, sweetheart,” Dean greets, casually inviting himself in. 

  “Hi,” I breathe. I suppose the consequence of giving someone a spare key is that they will use said key. But, I’m not that bad of a thing considering it’s Dean who’s walking in. “I’m gonna head to a bar, you in?”

  “Eh,” I answer. “You go ahead. ‘Not feeling it tonight.”

  He eyes me for a moment, squinting just slightly. “Not even as an excuse to dress up and listen to music?” he pushes. “‘My treat.” Of course, his treat meant a fake card or money he got from hustling. But, god the way he smiles and holds his hands up as he tries to convince me is cuter than it should be. “Sorry, Dean,” I say despite the sight, “Just not feeling it.”

  His shoulders and smile drop, “Come on I’ll buy you as much (favorite drink) as you want.”

  “You can go without me you know?” I point out as he saunters over to the bed and plops himself down. “We both know you’re gonna be leaving with some random girl anyway.” 

  He rolls his eyes as he leans back on his elbows, his black shirt flexing against his muscles. He knows I’m right. “I thought Sam was the nerd,” he comments, ignoring what I said by lifting my laptop off my lap and discarding it in the empty space next to him. “Why don’t you wanna go out? ‘You feeling okay?” he asks and for a moment as his eyes scan my face, I can see the concern pass through them. 

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I insist, trying to be as convincing as possible. Yet, he sees right through me, giving me a pointed look. He’s hard to lie to. I break, shaking my head, “Fine. I just…I don’t feel pretty today so I don’t really wanna go out.”

  His eyebrows raise, his lips parting a bit as if that’s the last thing he expected me to say. “You?”

  My eyebrows furrow, head tilting in confusion, “….Yeah….” Who else?

  He studies my face again and I worry he’ll see what I’m seeing. He’ll see I’m not pretty. His features soften regardless. “Come with me,” he announces, gesturing a hand to follow as he gets up from the bed. I don’t listen, giving him a confused and cautious look. “Come on,” he insists, his voice firm. 

  I hold back my sigh as I stand from the bed. I almost didn’t want to know what he had in store. But, he doesn’t leave me with much choice but to turn back as he takes hold of my hand. His hand is big and warm as it envelopes mine, butterflies erupting in my gut at the simple touch.

  He leads me into the bathroom, his hand leaving mine to travel up my arms and to my shoulders, positioning me in front of the mirror. My hips press against the sink, his hands on my upper arms and his body close behind mine. He nearly looms over me with his tall stature, his head and eyes tilted a little down as he uses the mirror to meet my eyes. “Don’t look at me. Look at yourself,” he directs. But my eyes linger on him, on his pretty green eyes, sharp sculptured jaw, and his straight nose. His fingers tap against the skin of my upper arm, “Come on,” he encourages, his voice a little gravely. 

  I give in. He makes it so easy to give in. I pull my eyes from him and land on myself. A frown pulls on my lips as my eyes jump around my features, even my frown looks wrong. He squeezes my arms, gaining my attention back in the same second my gut lurches. “Uh-uh,” he hums. “Eyes back on you, baby.”

  Jesus. 

  Again, I force my eyes away and I can feel his burning gaze on me. “What do you see?” he asks. I scuff and roll my eyes, “Dean, I’m not—“

  His hands rub up and down my upper arms. “Just—what do you see?”

  I bite on my bottom lip. I look unamused. That’s what I’m seeing. I sigh, trying to humor him. “Myself,” I answer plainly.

  He tuts, “Not what I meant, sweetheart. What do you see that you don’t like?”

  Everything. That seems like an appropriate answer. But I can’t just say that and I don’t. I hardly want to share what I feel when it’s hard to put words to it. “How about this?” he says, his head dipping down to occupy the space by my neck, putting himself closer to my level than far above me. “I like your smile,” he admits, his voice so soft it’s like a rough whisper. “I like when you smile at me…” he squeezes my arms, “like I’m damn important.”

  “You ar—“

  “Uh-uh,” he hums again. “This is about you, baby.” 

  One of his hands drifts upwards, the muscles in his forearm flexing. The sight is nearly intoxicating as I watch it move in the mirror, resting at the base of my neck as he stands to his height again. His thumb brushes back and forth against my collarbone, his eyes downturned to his movements. “Keep watching yourself,” he reminds me. I hadn’t realized I was watching him but could you blame me?

  He presses me back against him, his body solid and warm. I wonder if he can feel the increase in my heart rate. “And your skin…always so smooth. Hardly any scars.” He presses down on the base of my neck, encouraging my head to lean back against his chest. My breath hitches.

  “Shows how careful you are, yeah?” I can almost feel his warm breath as clearly as I can feel my heart beating against my ribs. “You a careful girl?” His gaze is burning as it travels down me. “Yeah…” he drawls, eyes traveling back up. “You are.” His thumb taps once against my collarbone, reminding me to keep my eyes on myself which seems like an impossible feat now. “There you go,” he praises, his voice low. 

My skin feels warm. My everything feels warm as if I am a furnace with the sole purpose of burning and he stokes the fire, poking at it, adding wood to keep it going. 

“Those eyes,” he mumbles, and I can feel the rumble in his chest as the words protrude from his lips. “‘Damn pretty eyes. Then you give me that look…fuck.”

  My eyes flick to his, something burning deep within my gut. He doesn’t scorn me for looking away from myself. “Yeah…” he whispers, eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “That look right there. Eyes all big, your lips parted just a little.” His hand drifts up from my neck, gracing my jaw. His thumb presses on my bottom lip. “So pretty…” he mumbles. “‘Don’t know what you aren’t seeing. Can you look at yourself again baby?” 

  I do as told and my knees feel wobbly with the heat that pools within. It’s the sight of him rather than me. The sight of him practically playing with me. “Want you to know how pretty you are,” he mumbles. “How good you are. God, you’re so good.”

  His thumb is a little wet as it slips from my lip onto my chin and my neck. His lidded eyes watch the slight mess he makes, his breath a little shallower. He hums, his chest rumbling with it. “Do you know what I think?” he asks.

  “What?” I answer the single word sounding like a sigh. My eyes drop to my lips in the mirror, my bottom lip coated in a thin layer of my own saliva like a coat of lip gloss. My breasts press against my tank top, seemingly wanting to spill over with each shallow breath. The soft swells of skin peeking from the neckline. His hands drop to my hips, pushing me forward until they’re pressing into the sink with a force that knocks me forward a little, a gasp escaping my lips. I grip the sides of the sink to catch myself. His fingers press into my hips as he holds me firmly. His body looms over me as his eyes take in my bent-over form. Those stunning green eyes that usually resemble the greenery of a forest when the sun is shining through the canopy of leaves just right, now a darkened green like the parts of the forest the sun can’t reach. 

  His hands massage my hips roughly, pushing them forward before drawing them back. His eyes are downturned to the movement, his mouth parted a little in the same manner mine is. My breath is quicker, and my heart is pounding in my chest like it’s trying to escape the space behind my ribs. “What’d I say about keeping your eyes on yourself?” He says roughly despite his own distraction. I swallow roughly, forcing my eyes back on myself for the umpteenth time.   

  He continues his actions, eyes burning into my hips and my ass like nothing else matters. “I think…” he starts, circling back to answer the question he asked me before, one I forgot about. “I think it should be sinful,” the word is like a purr coming from his lips, “to look this good. To be so fucking pretty.” It should be ironic coming from him but why would he go through all this trouble, all this guiding, pushing, pressing to convince me of something he didn’t believe in? And I can see it. I can see it, through the fog of a bad day, exactly what he’s seeing, or at least part of it. 

  “Are you seeing it?” he asks in a low voice as if he saw the change in my eyes. “Yeah,” I breathe, nodding, “Yes, I see it.”

  “Good,” he answers firmly, and yet I can hear the cocky smile that no doubt threatens his lips. Then, his hand circles around the back of my neck, tangling into my hair. He squeezes just once before he’s guiding me up, straightening me out ‘till I’m standing straight again. I spin in his hold, his large hands immediately going to my hips to keep me pressed into the sink. His eyes meet mine, something written in his irises that I can’t decipher. Then, they drop to my lips and then to my chest, that cocky smile finally making its appearance as his eyes drag back up to my lips. “Where’d you learn that?” I ask.

  His smile widens as he answers, “You don’t wanna know.”

[slvt4em1lyprenti2s]

Forbidden Love: Chapter 1 Next Chapter

Shy?

Masterlist

Criminal Minds Masterlist Emily Prentiss Masterlist

Summary: Professor!Emily x fem!student reader, what happens when profesor prentiss and the reader finally give into their feelings?

Word count: 1.5k

TW: Making out, I think that’s it?

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x female reader

A/N: Should I make this a series? Idk it might be fun!

Studying behavioural profiling is, well, different. It’s like science, criminology and psychology and smooshed into one subject. But the best thing about it, you ask? The teacher. Emily Prentiss is the most divine woman to ever step foot on this earth and no one can tell me otherwise. The way she strides along the front of the lecture all, her raven hair that falls in front of her face when she bends down to click something on her laptop, her eyes that always seem to find mine in a room full of students, her veiny hands that brush over mine when giving back a test. Ugh god, I swear I’m falling in love with this woman. 

It’s 7:45 am on a Wednesday and I’m walking across campus so I can get to lesson a little early to touch up my notes from my other class with Agent Morgan and to go over my- okay I’m bullshtting I just want to see Emily. And to be honest, I think I’m one of her more favourite students so I think she doesn’t mind me being early. 

I push open the door to the lecture hall and start walking down the steps, laptop bag slung over my shoulder that contained notebooks, pens, pencils etc, all the essentials. In my hand I held a travel coffee mug with my favourite hot chocolate in it because I wasn’t too partial to coffee. As I reach the front row I notice that Professor Prentiss has been following me with her eyes and watching the sway of my hips as I walked in. ”Morning Professor.” I try to say as if her eyes all over me weren’t causing a blush to creep up my neck. I took a quick check behind me finding out I was the only one in the room. 

“Hi, y/n. How are you today?” She asked her eyes staring into mine, genuinely curious.

”Good thank you, tired but good, what about you?” I smile as she chuckles lightly at my comment.

“Just about the same as you darling.” She replies with a smirk on her face seeing my face instantly bloom with red at the pet name. I shuffle my bag slightly before she says “I was out on a case for the last two or so days and I, only just, made it back in time to teach you guys. Lucky me hey? The only reason I’m even slightly okay with having to wake up at the ass crack of dawn is because of students like you. You actually listen and care, god knows that kind of work ethic is rare these days.” Emily looks exhausted and about ready to jump into bed at any second but the words that she said seem to cloud my head so I don’t pay much attention to her disheveled state. 

Students like me? What does that even mean? Well, she explained what it meant but I still wasn’t convinced. Nonetheless I responded “Yeah, it really is. All the people in this class want to be profilers or something along the lines of such and yet none of them take their education seriously. I want to throw something at them every time they talk over you. I might actually do it one day, it's so annoying!” She smiles fondly at my words making a cage of butterflies escape into my stomach and I smile back. 

“Now, I can’t have you throwing things at people, can I now sweetheart? That’ll get you kicked off the course. And I don’t think you want that, I certainly don’t want that, and besides don’t worry about the others. You’re doing amazing ah, that reminds me can you stay behind at the end? I just want to speak to you about your grade on our most recent exam. It’s nothing bad, I promise. You’ve done exceptionally well, in fact so well that I want to talk to you about further opportunities you have open to you.” She places her hand on my shoulder as we now stand face to face, she got up halfway through talking to lean on the front of her desk. I smile and subconsciously lean into her touch. The remains of the blush from the pet names yet again lingers but I say a small “Thank you Professor.” 

At that moment the door to the lecture hall swings open revealing another student in their own little world unaware of the building tension in the room. I give her one last smile and go make my way to a seat in the front row. I get out my laptop and notebook and start writing the dates and titles. I could feel eyes on me the whole time, I look up and lock eyes with Emily, finding her already looking at me. She sent me a wink and glanced back down at whatever she was working on. A crimson flush invaded my face and I returned my eyes to my page.

After the lesson I packed up slower than normal so that I’d be able to stay behind a little longer than she probably ment. I put my laptop in my bag and zip it up and grab my now empty hot chocolate. I walk up to Profesor Prentiss’ desk and find she’s already looking at me, again. 

“You know, you should stop staring at me so much. People might get the wrong idea.” I say, suddenly feeling confident, a teasing smirk on my lips. 

“What if I want them to get the wrong idea? What if I want them to think you’re mine?” I quickly shut up at that remark, all my confidence suddenly disappeared and I turned into putty. Heat rose to my cheeks and my head dipped to avoid her piercing gaze, it wasn’t mean, more admiration. But, any look from Emily Prentiss is intense. “Cat got your tongue honey?” She had a shit eating grin on her face as she saw me nod slowly. 

“Anyway, your grade! Okay you scared the highest in the class, and you got full marks. This isn’t anything new for you I'm sure, you’re a bright young woman. But, scoring this high in a test this hard, it opens doors for you. So, I’m here to offer you a chance to shadow me and the team for a week to see how we handle cases and what the job entails really. I also wanted to let you know that if you have any interest in joining the team I would accept you in a heartbeat. You’re a brilliant profiler.” Yet again for what feels like the millionth time today, heat rises to my cheeks. She stalks the way round her desk and stands in front of it. 

“That sounds amazing, oh my god, really?” A smile broke out on my face immediately. She looked pleased at my reaction and took a step closer. 

“Yeah of course really, why would I joke?” She laughed softly. I muttered a small ‘true’ and kept shamelessly checking her out as she still came closer to me and lowered her lips down to my ear and whispered, “Do I make you nervous darling? Is that why you get all shy whenever I’m around?” I nodded again while looking down, her hand found my chin and tilted it up. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” I felt a strange tingling in my lower stomach as she said that. 

I looked her in the eye and she bought me closer. “Is this okay?” she muttered, her breath fanning across my face due to the proximity. 

“Yes.” I breathed out. That was all the confirmation she needed to softly press her lips to mine. She held me like I might break at any minute, so tentative and caring it made my heart flutter. My hands found their way around my waist and I pulled her closer. She moved us around so now I was the one against the desk as she deepened the kiss, her tongue moving into my mouth. I instantly let her take control of the kiss and press her hips against mine. A small whine left my lips and I lent into her arms which were on my hips. 

She pulled away and looked into my eyes before whispering, just to me even though there was no one else there, “I don’t want this to just be a fling, just to make that clear.” I smiled wide and pecked her lips once more. 

“Neither do I.” She pulled me in again and we kissed with smiles on both of our faces. We knew we would have to be a secret for a while obviously but it didn’t stop me from fantasising about what was to come.

[zyafics]

hi guys! i wanna hear ur thoughts about what series i should write next. nothing is planned, but i wanna hear my readers' opinions so i can prioritize better <3

note: all of these descriptions i made up on the whim, and may not be the official summary, but it is the gist of the series

BROTHER’S RIVAL | About 12 Parts

Pogue-born Kooks, you and your brother aren't welcome to Figure Eight. Mainly because of Rafe. When your brother is determined to steal the 'King of Kook' title from Rafe, he's going to return the favor by messing with you.

tropes brother's rival, secret relationship, rafe using reader to get back at her brother, porn with a plot

DEAD MAN WALKING | Undetermined Parts

Injured in a shootout, you saved Rafe's life as a medical student. But when he returns, and the wound turns deadlier than initially anticipated, you might be the only person in the world who can save him. But when working together, it reveals more about your—and Rafe's—history, and how exactly it might be intertwined.

tropes mafia boss x doctor, secret identities, reluctant allies, plot twists, high stakes, slowburn

KILLER INSTINCT | Undetermined Parts

There are murders around the city. An unknown assailant goes around killing people without a definitive motive. However, when you and the new boy in town start working together and uncover the patterns of the case, you're starting to piece together that Rafe might be the murderer. Not only that, he also can't seem to remember that he is.

tropes murderer!rafe x psychology student!reader, sheriff's daughter!reader, boy obsessed, plot twists, slowburn

ALL AMERICAN SINNERS | Undetermined Parts

A pact shared between two people, Rafe and you have always relied on each other as lifelines, using each other to hide each other's dirty habits. But when something threatens the stability of this unhealthy dynamic, the extreme length Rafe and you would go to keep it together. And how it might destroy your relationship once and for all.

tropes coke addict!rafe x sex addict!reader, codependent relationship, toxic dynamic, us against the world mentality, porn with a plot

GOOD GIRL GONE WILD | ~ Roughly 8-10 Parts

You're rushing a sorority by deciding to ditch the good girl image in college. But when Rafe needs help in a class, and you need to secure your pledge, Rafe offers his status to help you get into your sorority of choice, for some lessons. Which may or may not turn into something else.

tropes frat!rafe x sorority!reader, good girl turned bad, tutor lessons, sex lessons, jealousy, porn with a plot

FALL FROM GRACE | ~ Roughly 8 Parts

Rafe has always struggled to maintain his father's favor. When his latest antic caused him to be kicked out of the house, Rafe turned to you for safety. However, when an opportunity arises to win back his father's trust, but by hurting you, Rafe has to choose whether he's willing to lose the only person who always accepted him for who he is.

tropes childhood best friends to lovers, i-hate-everyone-but-you rafe, rafe has to hurt reader to make up to his father, slowburn

here's a little poll! you can also send in asks, or ask in the comments, for more clarification if i'm not explaining myself properly (i'm studying rn and deciding to do this on a whim! <3)

[adventuringblind]

Hi!

can you do a fic w/ Oscar where the reader is a PhD student so they can’t really go to any of the races so fans online are DRAGGING her by saying she’s a bad gf, Oscar should cheat on her, and she doesn’t deserve him etc. Maybe she has like an identity crisis at a race and is questioning everything so Oscar is there to comfort and reassure her?

I’m sorry this is very long!

also I love your writing :)

The Psychology of Fans

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Genre: hurt/comfort, fluff, angst if you squint

Request: omg I love this idea, specifically because I am a student. Also send me ideas plz 🙏. I don't think y'all understand the excitement it brings me to make something that you enjoy :)

Summary: it's a busy time in readers life working on her PhD in psychology. She wants to support Oscar as much as possible but is struggling to find the time. The fans take notice of her lack of presence and start tearing her down because of it.

Warnings: Toxic fans, panic attacks

Notes: written in third person. This one was challenging, but fun to write!

Masterlist

Everything had been going amazing for the couple. She was starting her PhD in psychology, and Oscar had signed with McLaren for a seat. They were ecstatic for eachother.

They had their own dynamic that worked for them. Spending time together when they could but being patient with the other if things didn't go to plan.

When they started dating, she had requested that her socials and information remain private. She didn't care if people knew they were dating. She just didn't want to deal with the fans and media while she was deep in her studies.

Things between them were great. Oscar tried to keep things as private as he could. It was simple during his formula 2 career when they started dating. There weren’t as many people watching his every step.

His fan base grew exponentially as soon as he signed with McLaren. All the sudden people were everywhere asking for pictures and autographs. All the while, people were asking about his dating life. They were asking questions about her.

When the Australian Grand Prix came around, she made sure she was there to see it. She wanted to support Oscar and his first formula 1 race. It was an exciting moment for him and you wanted to share it together.

The cameras and fans were relentless and ridiculous, in her opinion. Their was never a moment of peace since they wanted to know everything about Oscar and his guest.

After everything was said and done, the fans took nicely to her and Oscar. It was relieving for both of you. It gave the press team less to worry about. Not that either would have cared, but it was nice knowing he wouldn’t had to hear about it in meetings.

School had started picking up the pace. McLaren was struggling this season. It left both of them stressed and longing for each other. She wanted to support him more then what she was but her schedule didn’t allow for it.

Sometimes she would travel with Oscar but didn’t go to the track. It was a small gesture that he appreciated. He didn’t care where she was as long as she was cheering for him.

The fans had taken notice of her lack of attendance. Coming up with their own assumptions about why she wasn’t there. Calling her names that were untrue and hurtful

“Oscar deserves better.”

“Bet she just wants a top driver.”

“Maybe she has other guys when he’s gone.”

It was driving her insane. She knew it shouldn’t get under her skin, but it did. Oscar did deserve someone who could support him full time. Who cheered him on at every race. It was causing her more stress then she could manage.

She decided not to tell Oscar. The idea of burdening him anymore made her feel sick.

~

It was now the British Grand Prix and she had decided to go and support Oscar despite the work that was piling up on her plate. He had gotten new upgrades on his car and she was saying prayers that they worked.

She practically fell over when he finished fourth. Screaming in joy for the Australian who had been working so hard.

It was on their way out that everything seemed to fall apart.

Fans wanted pictures and the cameras were still in his face. He tried to shied the girl beside him from it, pulling into his side while he walked. It was then he heard what they were saying. Heat rising to his face.

“If you’re not going to say something nice then let us through please.” Oscar pushed past everyone and forced his way to their car.

He held her close that night and reassured her that they were spewing lies. This if they were acting like that then they weren’t real fans.

~

Oscar was shocked when she came to the Hungarian Grand Prix. He knew she was stressed about school. He saw the dark circles under her eyes. But she is absolutely determined.

Peoples criticism was getting worse by the day. Oscar had started to catch on since his PR team was now bringing it up but he didn’t want to push her.

It was the end of qualifying. Another success from Oscar. A success she didn’t get to see despite all her best efforts.

The thought of what everyone was saying ran wild in her head. An interaction with a few fans left her devastated. They were saying she was only here now because Oscar is doing well. How she should support him through it all. How he could do better then her. How he deserved more.

She was sobbing now. Her mind screaming insecurities. Her breath uneven and her hands clutching her head as she tried to block out the voices.

Oscar had been looking for her after the press conference. He wanted nothing more then to hold her in his arms and celebrate his achievement. He’d been looking for ten minutes with no sign of her.

He tried calling and texting, but had yet to receive an answer. Worry started to settle in his chest. His efforts now expedited only to run right into Lando.

“Have you seen y/n anywhere?” Oscar asks the Brit.

Lando, however, was out of breath. He had run around trying to find Oscar for a few minutes. “I heard her in your driver room. She sounds awful mate.”

Oscar didn’t waste a second moving in that direction. He felt a bit stupid for not having checked there first.

It didn’t take him long until he was swinging open the door to reveal her curled up on the floor. Her hands over her ears and body shaking.

He crouches down next to her. Slowly so he doesn’t scare her.

Sue didn't notice his presence. She couldn't even see her surroundings. Everything was going dark and she knew she needed to breathe or she would lose consciousness.

She heard faint yelling. "Lando!"

It was Oscar's voice. The sound almost drew her back to reality. But the dark confines of her mind had too much of a grip.

Oscar was ready to go into his own panicked state, but he needed to remain calm. He hears Lando slide into the doorway. His face dropping immediately now that he can actually see her.

Oscar takes her into his arms. Her curled up body was now placed between his legs. Her back against his chest.

She was completely absent. She wanted to protest and understand what was happening, but the fear of letting the voices in made her refrain from doing so.

It was difficult for Oscar to stay calm. He'd never seen her like this. He ran his fingers gently up and down her back. He uses his leg to push hers closer to the ground. Her body is trying to fight his, but the lack of air in her lungs makes it difficult.

Oscar wraps his arms around her now, pulling her further into him. Still trying every tech he knows to soothe her.

Lando came back with water and made his best attempt at coaching him through this.

She still was struggling to breathe, which concerned them both. Her hands gripped her head so hard he could see little spots of crimson in crescent shapes.

"Talk to her, mate. It might help her get out of her head."

Oscar nodded his head at Lando's suggestion. The Brit then ran off again to investigate what happened.

Instead of holding her around her middle, Oscar switched his tactics. Moving his hands to slip underneath hers. The little specks of blood now decorate his fingers.

Her mind was trying to grasp onto anything to bring her back. The thoughts are doing their best to pull her back under. She knows Oscar is there. She tries to ground herself with his touch.

He's repeating his words - a prayer falling from his lips willing her back to him. "I've got you. I'm here. Breathe. You're safe."

She tries to slow her erratic heart. Her body has been dry heaving and coughing from the sheer amount of static.

She finds the feeling in her arms and legs come back, using it to push herself further into Oscar. Then, finally, she can feel the thick cloud that has taken hold of her mind to start to filter through. The end of the tunnel in sight.

Her body practically goes limp. Oscar holds her up and leans her head on his chest. Trying to soothe the female in his lap.

Everything in her body hurts, but her lungs are finally getting some reprieve. She takes in the situation around her. Oscar's comforting touch keeps her present.

Her body stops trembling. Only little hiccups now escape as the tears slow. It hurts Oscar to see her like this. She looks broken and he dosen't know how he didn't catch it sooner.

"I'm sorry" falls from her lips. He just shushs her and continues to stroke her arm. "You deserve better than me."

Oscar is taken aback by her admission. He was too stunned to stop her before she continued on. "Other girls can be there to support you. They aren't as busy with school. They are prettier and can travel with you, and you wouldn't have to worry about them cheating -"

Oscar shifts them around until he can see her face. Her puffy teary eyes shattering him. He holds her face in his hands. “Other girls aren’t you.”

She can’t stop the tears from welling in her eyes again. A flurry of emotions tries to take hold once again.

“Who gave you that idea?”

She shakes her head. Willing him to ask anything else. Panic again rising into her throat as caught wrack her body. She tried to pull away from him. Her body starting to close in on itself again at the memories.

Oscar doesn’t let it happen. Holding her in place firmly yes every one of his touches are gentle and loving. He silently wills Lando to come back faster. His teammate has dealt with anxiety and would know better then him what to do.

“It’s okay, Love. We don’t have to talk about it.” He soothes and reassures her until her body goes lax agains his once again. Put exhaustion takes over and she can’t will herself to stay coherent and conscious any longer.

Oscar is relieved when she falls asleep on him. Her breathing becomes even and her body now relaxes.

Lando reappeared in the doorway ten minutes later; Out of breath and drenched in sweat. “Mate, you’re not gonna like this.”

~

The two boys moved the girl to the small couch and draped her against it gently.

Oscar was trying to hold in his rage. He wanted to storm out of the motor home and unleash his anger on everyone who ever said a word against his girl. The girl he loves. The one he chose and trusts and is ridiculously proud of. Her accomplishments deserve to be praised, not torn down by those who call themselves fans.

Lando had warned him against it. It would be a PR mess and might actually cause her more anxiety. So he bit his tongue and put on the Oscar everyone was used to seeing.

He practically sped through all his media duties. Wanting nothing more then to see that he got her back to the hotel room. Back to a safe environment where she could open up to him.

Oscar was done quickly and back in his room and changed within an hour. The woman asleep on the couch still breathing evenly.

He knew he didn’t need to, but he waited for Lando. The Brit had offered to help him get her back safely and fend off any media who tried to talk to them.

He welcomed the fact that they were distracted. Not caring much as passerby’s gave him weird looks.

~

She woke up in a foreign place. She distinctly remembers being at the track. Regardless, she couldn’t help but sink into the comfort.

Oscar her her shifting around. Gently seating himself next to her on the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” She rasped. Her throat both sore and dry from her earlier wailing.

“Please don’t panic-“ he places a hand over hers. “- Lando told me what happened. We’ve both made statements about it and the PR team is doing the rest. Everyone agrees it isn’t right.”

A weight felt like it was being lifted of her chest. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s my job to make sure things like this don’t happen. I love you so much and I hated seeing you like this. I don’t car in anyone else sees it. I see it and I see you. And you want to know what I see?”

She shoot him a quizzical look, curious as to where he’s going with this.

He smiles. The smiles that makes her feel warm. The smile that make heat rise to her face.

“The greatest thing I could have ever asked for.l

[bubblegumgothglados]

(on anon bc i keep my main sfw) hi i just wanted to say i recently encountered a few of your posts in the wild and it brought me to ur training guide post and holy shit FINALLY SOMEONE WHO GETS IT?? in my normie life i am both an animal trainer (dogs and cats! train your cats!! its good for them!!) and studying to be a therapist (for humans), and i genuinely detest the overall kink community's obsession with punishment. even a basic understanding of the psychology of learning should teach you that punishment is ineffective and kind of shitty.

i know so many subs who have forced themselves into a punishment-focused dynamic they hate or feel excluded from the scene entirely because they aren't down with punishment. i hate that it happens and I'm so happy to see someone else preaching the good word of actual properly implemented positive reinforcement, and showing subs that they don't have to be treated like shit to engage with kink.

like its so pervasive and thats really tragic and upsetting. I remember in the early-ish days of my relationship with one of my partners where we were first integrating kink into our relationship, there was a night where she broke down crying in my arms because she felt guilty that she didn't want to incorporate punishment into our dynamic. bc she had been given the expectation that her job as a masochist was to misbehave and be punished, rather than actual fun s/m sessions.

i hate that theres an expectation not just for subs to be punished, but for doms to want to punish them?? like ppl will treat you like you're a bad dom because you DON'T do punishments. its crazy and i wish one day for a world where no one, dom or sub, pushes themselves into a punishment dynamic that isnt fun or useful just because they feel like theyre "supposed to." and I'm so happy there are other people that share that vision and want to help our community get there.

this might be an incoherent ramble idk i just wanted you to know theres someone out here who really appreciates what you're doing. 🩷

Ohhhh my goodness anon show your face so I can kiss you!

Punishments have no place in a healthy d/s relationship

If you want to be hurt then say that, if you want to hurt someone then say that, hell if the idea of doing something to someone and them legitimately not liking it turns you on then say that too. There are people out there who mirror your desires

Arghhh this topic makes me so worked up

[cellythefloshie]

;; I Did Something Bad Dedicated to @hockeyboysimagines

Summary: After you send a sexy snap to the wrong Brady, you and your stepbrother cross a line that you had never considered crossing before. Kinks & Tropes: Age Gap (18 vs. 22). Stepcest. Phone Sex/Sexting. Praise. Mutual Masturbation. Protective Big Brother. Reader Nickname: "Sissy". PLEASE NOTE, this work of fiction depicts a budding sexual relationship between step-siblings who grew up together from ages 10 and 14 - step-siblings who always considered one another siblings. -- Set during Brady's time as a New York Ranger. Word Count: 4k+ A/N: Happy Birthday to the lovely @hockeyboysimagines ! You have been the best worst influence for me as a writer, always encouraging me to write what I want to write instead of what I should be working on. And you very well know October was meant to be spent with the filthiest of Brady Skjei content. This is very much the tip of the iceberg for Brady and his stepsister, and I couldn't be more thrilled to get the two of them going because of your birthday. This fic is in no way groundbreaking, but it's filthy and fun and maybe even a little toxic. But if I know someone who is going to appreciate it for their birthday, it's you! AND a quick little shout out to @hagelpoint-3821 who was around when my filthy mind birthed this idea probably 2 years ago now! It's finally happening!

“Do you always think of me when you touch yourself?”

Your blood ran cold. You recognized the voice in an instant, and it wasn't the one you expected to hear when you answered the phone. And it was nowhere near anything you thought would leave your stepbrother's mouth. 

His words sent a rush of heat surging through you. It sent your skin red hot with embarrassment as you lay in bed, one hand still in your panties and the other holding the phone to your ear so tightly your hand ached. You wished the embarrassment could have been for him. That he had somehow dialed the wrong number. That he meant to dial whichever slut he had in whichever city he was in for the night. But that was just a dream of a possibility, because he knew exactly what he was doing when he phoned you. 

Silently, you drew your phone back from your face, a quivering breath trembling through your body as you opened Snapchat on your phone and looked at your last sent messages. At the top of the list was Brady, the red and white arrow beside his name showing you the last message sent to him was minutes ago. And just below him, the intended recipient of your message, Braedy. He was an idiot you’d met in the back row of your first year psychology class. You’d exchanged numbers on the first day, which led to helping him with assignments while he helped you with orgasms. But while he was in his dorm room across campus, rock hard and waiting for your next risque picture, you lay still in bed with your stepbrother on the other end of the phone. 

Swallowing hard, in an attempt to moisten your dry mouth, you accepted that the silence had been too long to pretend that you hadn’t accidentally sent him a picture of your hand in your panties. 

“I-” you started, but you formed no words. Anything you could have thought to say became strangled in your throat.  "Sissy, was that picture not meant for me?" Brady asked, saving you from the need to provide him with some sort of explanation, but it didn't make you feel any better. Your heart continued to pound against your chest as it flooded with panic and embarrassment.

“No, I, ah-” you breathed, your attempt at words more of a stutter than the beginnings of an explanation. 

“And I thought you were being a good girl-” your core clenched “-focusing on your studies on campus. I don’t have to come down there and check in on you, do I?”

You shook your head slowly as if he could see it, your hair becoming a mess on your pillow. Your breathing was shallow and uneven, your body hot and sweaty even as you lay there in nothing but a cropped t-shirt and your panties. Panties that your hand had yet you leave and your crotch was still damp with arousal from the brief exchange of photos before Brady’s interruption. An interruption that should have dried you up like a desert. Yet, you were just as wet as when you answered the call, if not wetter. 

“Are you still there, sissy?” It was only with his words that you realized he couldn’t see your response. 

“No, I-” your throat caught your words as you fumbled with what exactly to say. Brady’s words were so calm, sounding cautious and thought out, while your mind was so frantic you couldn’t even think of the right words to say. 

“I’m still here,” you confirmed with a breath, “and no, you don’t need to check on me.” 

“I’ll be in the area next week,” he hummed slowly, and your eyes darted to the calendar that was on your bedside table. The Rangers would play in Minnesota soon, and while you were sure the team wouldn’t give him time to come visit you on campus, Brady never seemed to fail at scaring any prospecting partners away. It was the big-brother thing to do, or at least that’s always what you guys told yourselves. But as he spoke with his words so thought out as if he was trying to tiptoe through the situation with caution, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was and had always been a little more than that. 

“No, no,” you protested, “I’ll be good.”

“Will you?” Brady challenged. “Be a good girl and block that boy for me.”

“Brady-”

“Do it and show me.” The firmness of his voice sent a wave of heat through you. There would be no fighting him on this, so you obliged.

Slowly, your hand left your panties, the elastic waistband snapping against your hip before you brought your now freed hand up to your phone. You cradled the phone in both hands as you turned on the screen recording and captured blocking your classmate, Braedy, on Snapchat and his phone number. Then you sent the video to your stepbrother, Brady. 

“Good girl,” he praised you, “keep it that way, alright, Sissy. No distractions. Promise.”

“I promise,” you breathed out, though you were fully entertaining the idea of unblocking Braedy as soon as this awkward phone call was over. What Brady didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, or you. 

“Good girl,” he said again, your body reacting the same to his soft praise, and it nearly left you reeling against your pillow. You shouldn’t be feeling that way, especially with Brady on the phone. Yet, you forced out a quivering breath and chalked it up to coincidence and the poor timing of his call. “Are you in bed?” he asked you slowly. 

“Yes,” you confirmed. 

“Wearing those pretty little panties?”

You lay there in the same silence that had consumed you when you had heard his voice when you had answered the call. Had you just heard him right, or was your mind playing tricks on you? Or maybe, just maybe, you had fallen asleep watching shitty pornography, and this was all just a dream. 

You pinched yourself. 

No, not a dream. 

You had accidentally sent your stepbrother a suggestive photo, and now he was what, trying to have phone sex with you? It didn’t make sense, but did all at once.

The two of you had always been close, even if your parents hadn’t married until you were 10 and he was 14. He had snapped into your life so perfectly. Brady was the big brother you had always wanted. From helping you with your homework, to attending both his high school football games and his hockey games, too. The two of you did it all together. Even when he was off to college, you were there supporting him, counting down the days until you too would attend the same university in his footsteps. And then there were the jokes, made by your own parents, that if the two of you weren’t siblings, the two of you would get married. It was always a joke, one that both you and Brady had laughed at - but it was all coming to crest now. Had the joke always been funny because it was true?

The two of you just never admitted it - or fully entertained the idea - until you had forced it all by accident. 

Biting down on your lip, you chewed it slowly as you took in a slow breath. You had a decision to make, and the weight of it rested heavily on your chest. You could answer him, paint a sexy little picture for him with your words, or you could hang up. 

“Brady,” his name was weak on your lips, your tongue darting out to run over your lips slowly. 

“Sorry,” he spoke quickly, “I can hang up. We can pretend this didn’t happen-”

“No, don’t,” you spoke out too quickly as you shot up in bed, “don’t hang up.” 

He replied with nothing but a soft sigh, one that sounded like a smile and relief. 

Slowly, you pressed up onto your knees, your thighs pressing firmly together to ease the tension that continued to build throughout your body. One hand left your phone and tucked your hair behind your ears and out of your face before falling to rest on the top of your thighs. “Where are you right now?” 

“My hotel room in Detroit,” he answered slowly. 

You swallowed hard. “Alone?”

Brady hummed his confirmation into the phone, sparking a sense of excitement into you. “Maybe,” your lips curled up into a soft smile as you spoke, “I could send you another picture. Would that be wrong?”

Yes. Yes, it would. But he didn’t stop you. Instead, Brady encouraged you. “Wrong? No. It’s just a picture, right?” You weren't sure if he was trying to convince you, or if he was trying to convince himself that what you were about to do was okay. 

His words made you giddy when they should have. And with a stupid smile, your phone left your ear as you positioned yourself on the bed. You knelt there with your legs slightly spread so he could have a clear view of your panties. Snapping the picture, you wrinkled your nose at the outcome. You didn’t like it. You posed again after fixing your shirt just right to show off just the right amount of under-boob in the next picture. It was great, but there was one issue: you could see your face. Thumb hesitating over the send button, you contemplated about taking another, one where you couldn't see your face. A picture like the ones you had sent your classmate earlier. Yet, you hit send. Because this was Brady, and if he shared it with anyone else, he would get into as much trouble as you would. 

“There, I sent it to you,” you told him as you brought the phone back up to your ear.

You could hear Brady's satisfied hum through the phone as you relaxed back on the bed. “You look so pretty on your knees,” he told you and you threw yourself back on the pillow with a too wide grin. “Such an amazing body you have, Sissy.”

Your cheeks flushed with color. This wasn’t the first time he’s seen so much of your skin. Your family had taken a vacation somewhere hot every year for as long as you could remember, but this was the first time Brady could really comment on it. 

“Can I show you something?” Brady asked, and your heart quickened. 

“Yes,” you nodded eagerly, and you waited patiently, your face half buried in your pillow as you waited for his picture to be sent. 

Yet, when that red square popped up on your screen, you hesitated to open it. It was one thing to send a picture, but to receive one. Opening it would mean you both crossed a line and there would be no coming back from it. Then, as you did most decisions, you took the risky option with no consideration for the repercussions you would face in the future. You held your thumb down on the screen, the sight it unlocked leaving your breath to hitch in the back of your throat. 

Your eyes went to the shadow of his abs first and traveled down the dark trail of hair on his stomach as it began just below his navel and disappeared behind the gray fabric of his sweatpants. Licking your lips, you indulge yourself in the sight of his cock tenting up against his sweatpants. You had no words, your mouth falling agape in a heavy exhale as you tried to keep your body calm. But it was too late. Your skin was hot with arousal and on the verge of sweating, and as you pressed your ass down into the mattress, you could feel just how slick you were between your thighs. 

Raising your phone back up to your ear, you greeted Brady with a quivering breath and he spoke with confidence into your ear. There was no need to tiptoe around things now. “You see what your little accident did to me?”

“Oh? Did I do that?” you answered his question with a question, your words knowing and sickeningly sweet as you let your hand run down your own stomach and stopped at the waistband of your panties. Your fingers traced over its edge slowly, craving to dip deeper, but you would wait. 

“Do you think you can help me take care of it?” Brady asked, and you could hear the smile in his voice. You bit your lip, hiding your own smile from yourself, and he must have taken it as a moment of hesitation because Brady’s words found your ear again. “You have such a great body, Sissy. It’s so hard to ignore, and that picture,” he let out a long exasperated breath, “send me another one?”

“What do you want to see?” You asked him. Your words were a breath that you thought he might not even have heard. 

“Whatever you’re comfortable showing me,” Brady answered. 

His words had been soft, melting you further and further into the mess of a puddle that you were. “Let me just,” you hummed out, “give me one second.”

Peeling the phone away from your ear, you opened Snapchat again. You tried to take a picture laying down, but each one left you feeling undesirable. Then you rolled over onto your side where you knew your cleavage would be the star of the show if you had been wearing anything else, but the high neckline of your cropped sleep shirt kept your breasts at bay. You let out a frustrated huff as you moved to the edge of the bed and spread your legs. At this angle, he could see just how wet the crotch of your panties was. 

With your phone in one hand, you posed with the other. You placed it on your inner thigh first, but you didn’t like that. Then, you rested it over your panties but decided it was too close to the first image he had received. You almost gave up, but then, with the quick swipe of your thumb over the screen, you were recording yourself as your fingers dipped inside the fabric of your panties and found your clit. You pressed into it with the pads of your fingers and stroked it in two slow, agonizing circles before you sent it, without reviewing it, to Brady. 

Your hand didn’t leave your panties as you sprawled out lazily over the bed. Stroking yourself slowly, you listened to Brady breathe into the phone, undoubtedly watching the clip you had just sent to him. 

“Fuck,” he cursed, and you pressed into your clit harder, “so beautiful, sissy. You’re so wet,” Brady let out a low groan, “you make my cock so hard.”

“Are you touching yourself, Brady?” You asked him, your words breathy, “Touching yourself, because of me?”

“I am,” he confirmed with a heavy breath into the phone, “you want to see it, Sissy?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, your feet leaving the floor to dig into the mattress. You dipped your fingers down lower, parting your wet lips and teasing the entrance of your core as you waited for the notification to buzz against your ear. It almost startled you when it did, even if you were expecting it. 

Lulling your head to the side, you let the clip play. Brady was laying in the hotel bed now, his sweatpants pulled down just below his balls. His hockey hardened hand wrapped around his thick cock as she stroked it slowly. Up and down, then up again, making sure you could see the very length of him. 

Your eyes shut as the clip disappeared, trying to keep the sight of it in your mind as you plunged two fingers into your dripping core. 

“Brady,” you gasped out, your phone laying back on the bed almost completely abandoned until you had reached out quickly to put the call on speaker. You couldn’t hold it any longer. You needed both hands now. With your two fingers in your cunt, your other hand dipped beneath the cotton and found your clit again, rubbing it in those same slow circles. 

“You like that, Sissy?” Brady’s voice erupted from the phone beside you, and you were suddenly thankful that your roommate had been spending the night at her boyfriend’s place. No one would overhear him saying things stepbrother shouldn’t say, and no one would hear you moan. 

“Mhm,” you hummed, and it sounded like a whine.

“What are you doing now?” Brady asked you slowly, his words quick as he breathed through the pleasure of his own hand. “Your hand still in your panties, Sissy?”

“Yes,” you gasped out, “they feel so good.”

“What feels good?” Brady asked you slowly, “tell me.” 

“My fingers,” you squeezed your eyes tighter, fighting to speak your words when all you wanted to do was moan. “My fingers in my cunt.”

“That’s so sexy,” he told you and a wave of heat hit you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge that you already felt on the verge of falling over. “How many?”

“Two,” you panted out. 

“Two? That’s not nearly enough.” A lump formed in the back of your throat as he spoke. “No, no, I think I’m at least three of your fingers.” Your walls clenched at the very idea of sliding a third finger into your core, and your hips wiggled, taking your own fingers until they were knuckle deep at the very prospect of pretending that you were being fucked by his thick cock. “Can you do that for me, Sissy? Put a third finger in for me?”

Withdrawing your fingers, you brought three fingers together and pressed the very tip of them to your entrance. You gasped at just how much more they would fill you. “Brady, that’s too much,” you gasped. 

“Would I be too much for you, Sissy?” His question made you shiver. “Is my cock too big for that pretty little pussy of yours?”

“I-I,” you stammered, your heart racing deep in your chest as you hesitated to even try. 

“Take a breath, get nice and relaxed for me,” his words were soft as he guided you, “circle your cunt with three fingers for me. What do you feel?”

“I’m dripping,” you told him with a quivering voice. “I can feel it all down the back of my hand.”

“Good girl,” he cooed, “so slick and horny for my cock. Slowly press just the tips of your fingers. Nice and slow.” His words were gentle and encouraging as you followed his guidance, your core feeling so tight around the tips of your fingers, but the longer you held them there, still inside your cunt, the better it felt. 

“And when you’re ready, press in just a little bit more.” Delving your fingers in deeper, you let out an audible gasp, one that left Brady moaning on the other end of the phone. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah,” you assured, your toes curling over the edge of your bed as you pumped your fingers in and out of your dripping core. “It feels so good, Brady.”

“I can hear how wet you are, Sissy,” Brady groaned. “You like this? You like thinking of me when you touch yourself. Talking to me when your fingers are buried in your cunt.”

“Yes,” you groaned through your grit teeth, “yes! I’m so close, Brady.”

“Don’t hold back. I want to hear you come. I want to hear what you sound like when you moan,” he encouraged you, and you could hear his hand pumping at his cock. 

Your body reeled in your bed, your hips jutted into your own hand as you gasped and moaned out. Core clenching around your fingers, squeezing them as if they were desperate for the come of his cock. You rolled over, so you were laying face down in the bed. Your hips angled, taking your fingers down to the knuckle and humping them until you fell into the dreamy haze of your release. It left you dazed, so ready for sleep, as you lay there staring at your phone, panting. 

The air was silent for a long time, nothing heard but your own breathing as you calmed. It was a silence that lulled you close and closer to sleep, and Brady must have known it. “Are you going to sleep now, Sissy?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. 

“Good girl, get cleaned up and rest. I’ll check on you tomorrow, okay?”

You hummed out in approval, “okay, night Brady.”

“Night.”

The line cut, leaving you in the silence alone with nothing but the weight of what just had happened. It should have bothered you, you knew it should. Instead, you were calm as you rolled out of bed and stepped out of your wet panties. Abandoned on the floor, you left them there as you reached for the makeup wipes you kept on your bedside table. The cold wipe was a shock to your skin as you wiped your hand clean and then used another to clean up the inside of your thighs. A proper shower could wait until morning. 

Clean, or rather clean enough, you crawled back into bed and pulled up the covers only to get him in the face with your phone that had become lost in the mess of your blankets. You let out a low curse as you pushed the covers off to climb out of bed once more to plug in your phone. Blocking your path were your panties, and your heart raced as a mischievous ideal struck you. The idea had you regretting taking them off so quickly, but it was nothing another makeup wipe wouldn’t fix. 

You stepped into your panties and pulled them back up again. Then, you propped up your phone on your desk so that the camera focused on the space between your hips and your mid thighs. When you pressed record, you took a half step back and hooked your thumbs on each side of your panties. You dragged them down slowly, your legs spread just wide enough for the camera to capture your arousal as it webbed and beaded as you peeled your panties from your body. You dragged them down your leg, leaving wet trails down the inside of your thighs until you stood there naked from the waist down in front of the camera. 

You were giddy when you stopped the footage, your cheeks flushed as you sent it off to Brady with no shame. It gave him something to wake up to in the morning. A little reminder of what just had happened, and how your body responded to his words and his guidance. It was fun, though the only person you would ever admit that to was yourself. Not even Brady could know. Not when you were sure he would wake up in the morning with your little gift and be hit hard with the reality of the situation. That one picture accidentally sent to him spiraled further than you both should have let it. 

And as you crawled back into bed, you kept telling yourself: It was just a picture. It was just a phone call. What you did wasn’t wrong. It was a happy little accident, something that only happened one time, and you told yourself it wouldn’t happen again. That was until you woke up the next morning and found a text message from Brady on your phone. 

You hadn’t even left your bed yet when you opened it. Your own video met with his own, one that you could hear your own moans in the background of. While you had been riding your own three fingers, Brady had been thrusting into his hand and was capturing it all on camera. It was a video you were sure he was saving for himself. A dirty little secret he would watch when he wanted to remember what you sounded like when you came. But it was more than that now that he sent to you. Because it wasn’t just a recording of the soft sounds you made, it was also a video of how Brady let out a sigh that you didn’t remember hearing. A video of how his cock twitched and throbbed as it was so close to release–and how he sighed out your name as he shot thick webs of his release up over his toned abs before the phone dropped and the screen went black. It was the video that put everything in perspective. Together you and your stepbrother had created a fucked up little fantasy, and while it was wrong, you didn’t want to stop.

TAGLIST: @mp0625 , @wingedwheelprxncess , @kurlyteuvoteu , @couldawouldashoulda50

[charliedawn]

The New Patient

Eddie Munson as Ghostface…

The arrival of a new patient at St. Louis was always an event, but when the file came in marked high-risk, it got even more interesting. Gregory House sat in his office, flipping through the file with his usual mix of skepticism and amusement. That one looked like he was fun at parties for sure…

Patient Name: Edward "Eddie" Munson Alias: Ghostface Age: 20s Crimes: Multiple homicides, suspected cult activity, theatrical tendencies… Psychological Notes: Highly intelligent, unpredictable, prone to dramatic flair. Extremely talkative. Charismatic but potentially manipulative. Eddie has a history of violent outbursts when provoked or bored.

Narcissistic: Eddie craves attention and admiration, often using charm or fear to control others.

Sociopathic: Lacks remorse, views people as tools for his amusement.

Unpredictable: Quick to switch from jovial to violent without warning.

Intelligent & Strategic: Uses his mind to manipulate situations but hides it behind a chaotic persona.

House arched an eyebrow and scoffed. "Oh great, a slasher with a personality disorder and a love for theatrics. Bet he and Freddy will get along just fine."

He tossed the file onto his desk, grabbing his cane as he stood up.

Time to meet Ghostface.

He made his way down the halls of St. Louis, his cane tapping rhythmically against the linoleum floors. The guards were more tense than usual, gripping their batons a little tighter, their eyes flickering toward the cell of their newest arrival.

"That bad, huh ?" House smirked, glancing at one particularly nervous guard. "He bites or something ?"

The guard scowled but didn’t respond. Instead, he unlocked the heavy steel door, pushing it open with an audible clunk.

Inside, sitting on the edge of his cot, was Eddie Munson—or as the file called him, Ghostface.

But there was no mask now.

Instead, there was a wild-eyed young man with a mop of curly dark hair and a smirk that practically screamed trouble. He looked up as House entered, tilting his head like a curious animal.

"Well, well, well," Eddie drawled, swinging his legs a little. "You must be the guy they send in when all hope is lost. Should I be worried about you ‘fixing’ me ? I gotta say, Doc, you don’t look very…hopeful."

House studied him, unimpressed. "And you don’t look very threatening, but here we are."

Eddie grinned, his fingers drumming against his knees. "Ouch. Right for the throat. I like you already."

House glanced around the room, noting the walls covered in scratch marks—probably from restless hands rather than any escape attempt. Eddie seemed more…alive than the other patients. Most of them had this eerie stillness, like coiled beasts waiting to strike. But Eddie ? Eddie moved. His energy buzzed around him, barely contained.

"Let me guess," House said, pointing at him with his cane, "you’re the fun serial killer. The one who makes jokes while slitting throats. Likes a bit of performance with his murder ?"

Eddie shrugged, grinning. "Hey, if you’re gonna do something, do it with style, right ?"

House narrowed his eyes. "So that’s your excuse ? You’re an artist ?"

Eddie let out a dramatic gasp. "Finally ! Someone gets it ! These guys—" he gestured vaguely to the walls, probably referring to the guards and other members of staff "—they keep treating me like I’m some mindless psycho. But you ? You see the craft."

House rolled his eyes. "Oh, I see something, alright."

Eddie leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "So tell me, Doc, what’s your diagnosis ? Am I insane ? Or am I just a ‘misunderstood kid who wants attention’ ?" He pouted before chuckling.

House smirked. "You want my medical opinion ?"

Eddie spread his arms wide. "Lay it on me."

House huffed, stepping closer. "You’re a narcissist with a flair for the dramatic. You crave attention, and the whole ‘Ghostface’ thing ? That’s just your way of making sure everyone remembers your name. You get off on the fear, the chaos—but you’re not like Myers or Jason. You’re not some silent, brooding force of nature. You need people to react to you."

Eddie didn’t even look offended. In fact, he looked amused. "Damn, Doc, you really get me."

House stared at him for a long moment. Then, finally, he asked, "Why ?"

Eddie blinked, caught off guard for the first time. "Why what ?"

House tilted his head. "Why the mask ? Why the killings ? What’s the real reason ?"

Eddie’s smirk faltered—just for a second. But it was enough for House to see it. That tiny flicker of something deeper, something darker. Then, just as quickly, Eddie grinned again, leaning back against the wall.

"That’s for me to know," he said, flashing House a wink, "and for you to figure out."

House exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead. "Great. Another one who thinks he’s deep."

Eddie chuckled. "Oh, come on, Doc. We’re gonna have so much fun together."

House turned to leave, muttering, "I already hate you."

Eddie called after him, "You say that now, but give it time ! Everybody loves Eddie Munson !"

The door slammed shut behind House.

He had a headache already.

A few hours later:

The sterile echo of footsteps filled the corridor as you approached Eddie Munson’s cell, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead casting flickering shadows on the concrete walls. You balanced the small tray in your hands—vials, alcohol swabs, and a syringe neatly arranged.

The guard beside the door shifted uncomfortably, his grip tightening on his baton. "You sure you don’t want me to stay ?"

You gave him a flat look. "It’s a blood sample, not a cage match."

The guard didn’t look convinced but stepped aside as you unlocked the door. The heavy metal creaked open with a groan, revealing Eddie sitting cross-legged on his cot, fiddling with the hem of his standard-issue pants. His dark, curly hair was a chaotic mess, and when he looked up, a wide grin split his face.

“Well, hello, Nurse Sunshine,” Eddie drawled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “To what do I owe the pleasure ? Or is this just a social call ?”

You closed the door behind you with a solid click—always best to limit distractions. “Blood sample.”

Eddie’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it grew wider. "Ah, straight to business. You wound me." He placed a dramatic hand over his heart, then shifted to sit on the edge of his bed, swinging his legs like an overgrown child. "Should I roll up my sleeve, or are we doing this the fun way ?"

You set the tray down on the small metal table in the corner, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Left arm.”

Eddie obeyed without protest, rolling up the sleeve of his orange jumpsuit. His arms were littered with faded bruises, old scars, and a few tattoos—one of a crude demon face, another of a snake winding around his wrist.

As you prepped the syringe, you felt his gaze on you, sharp and unblinking.

“You know,” Eddie said casually, “most people look a lot more nervous when they’re in here with me. Guess you’re not like ‘most people.’”

You didn’t bother looking up. “I’m not.”

His laugh was soft, almost musical. “I like that.”

You approached, checking the vein in his arm, finding it with practiced ease. As you inserted the needle, Eddie didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

“Do you ever wonder what it’s like ?” he whispered.

You didn’t respond, keeping your focus on the vial as dark red blood filled it.

Eddie smiled wider. “You know…the moment when everything slows down—the rush, the clarity. Like time freezes just for you.” His gaze drifted lazily from your face to the needle in his arm. “That’s the fun part. The power in it. It’s not about the mask. Not really.”

You pulled the needle out smoothly, pressing a cotton swab against his skin. “You talk too much.”

Eddie’s laughter burst out, bright and wild, echoing in the small cell. "And you don’t talk enough ! We’d make a great duo—me with the charm, you with the cold, mysterious aura. It’s perfect !"

You capped the vial, placing it back on the tray. "We’re not a duo."

Eddie leaned back on his hands, still grinning. "Not yet."

You picked up the tray, turning to leave without another word.

As the door creaked open, Eddie’s voice followed you out, light and sing-song:

"See you soon, Nurse Sunshine !"

The door slammed shut behind you, but his laughter lingered like an echo in the hall.

A few days later:

Eddie had been somewhat calm so far and hadn’t cause any trouble. So, you decided to reward him. The quiet hum of the hospital was broken by your footsteps as you walked through the sterile hallways, the large TV and game console in your arms. The guards at the front desk looked at you with a mixture of confusion and curiosity, but you ignored their glances, focused on your task. Eddie had been clamoring for something to pass the time, and you decided to indulge him for once.

The guards at Eddie’s cell eyed you warily as you approached the door. One of them, who had been here longer, stepped forward with a raised brow. "You sure about this, Nurse Y/N ? You’re bringing him a TV ?"

You flashed a small, almost mischievous smile. "He’s been complaining about boredom for days. Can’t have him getting too... restless."

The guard grunted but stepped aside, unlocking the door with a familiar click. Eddie was lying on his cot, as usual, his legs hanging over the side, but his eyes were alight with curiosity when he saw what you were carrying.

“Well, well, Nurse Sunshine,” Eddie said with a grin that could’ve rivaled the sun itself. “I think you might just be my favorite person around here.”

You set the TV down on the small metal table and plugged it in, trying your best to keep things professional. Eddie, however, had other plans.

"Hold on, hold on," Eddie said as he jumped off the cot with surprising agility for someone who had been cooped up for so long. He leaned against the wall, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Are we talking video games here ?"

You nodded, setting the game console down next to the TV and pulling out a couple of controllers. “Yep. A little distraction, as requested.”

His grin widened, the chaotic energy that seemed to constantly radiate from him building. "No way ! I was starting to think I’d die of boredom in here. What kind of games we got ?"

You handed him one of the controllers, still maintaining your calm composure. “You’ll find out in a second. You need me to set it up for you ?”

Eddie shook his head, his eyes gleaming with a mix of mischief and excitement. "Nah, I got it. You’re dealing with an expert here." He winked, and bent forward to get all the wires connected.

As he took over the controls, setting everything up with quick, deft hands, you took a step back. "I’ll leave you to it, then."

But Eddie paused, looking up at you with a grin. “You sure ? I mean, it’s a shame to keep the best gaming partner waiting. I’m a great teammate, just ask anyone who’s ever survived a game with me."

You raised an eyebrow, fighting back a smile. “Ah…Unfortunately, I left my video games’ skills at home. And I’m not in the mood to be humiliated.”

Eddie threw his hands up in mock surrender. "No humbling today, I promise. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me." He gestured to the TV and the game console significantly with an inviting grin.

You gave him one last look before heading for the door. "Enjoy, Eddie. Just don’t break anything."

As you closed the door behind you, you could hear Eddie’s voice already calling out from inside, fully immersed in his new world of video games.

"Best. Day. Ever !" he shouted, followed by the distinct sound of buttons being mashed.

You allowed yourself a small, quiet smile. Maybe this would keep him calm for a while.

That night:

The night was calm, the sterile hospital air still and quiet as you made your rounds. The only sounds were the distant hum of machinery and the occasional shuffle of footsteps from other staff members. But then, from down the hall, you heard it.

Eddie’s screams.

They cut through the silence like a blade. Unrestrained, raw, full of anguish. You moved instinctively, rushing down the hallway towards his cell. The guards watched you pass, but they didn’t stop you.

When you reached the door, you found it already wide open. Inside, Eddie was on the floor, curled up, his hands clutching his head, his body shaking violently. His usual bravado was gone, replaced with the desperate, helpless sobs of someone in deep pain.

"Eddie," you called, rushing to him, your voice soft but urgent. "Eddie, it’s okay, you’re safe."

He didn’t hear you. Or maybe he couldn’t. His eyes were wide and wild, tears streaming down his face as he rocked back and forth, the sobs coming out in choked gasps. He seemed lost, trapped in whatever nightmare or memory had taken over him.

You knelt beside him, instinctively pulling him into your arms despite the space between you and the guards. "Eddie, it’s okay," you whispered again, this time more firmly, trying to anchor him. "I’ve got you. You’re okay."

His body flinched, and in his frantic movements, his hand shot out, inadvertently scraping across your arm with sharp, frantic force. You winced slightly, feeling the sting and blood dripping down your elbow, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you held him tighter.

"Eddie," you said, soothingly, your voice never wavering. "It’s me. Nurse Sunshine. Just breathe, okay ?"

He shook his head, his sobs growing louder, more desperate, and he clawed at the air as though trying to escape from some unseen terror. "I can’t...I can’t..."

You tightened your grip, trying to steady him. "Try, Eddie. Try."

His shaking gradually slowed as your voice, calm and steady, seemed to bring him back, grounding him in the present. The screams subsided, turning into broken sobs as Eddie clung to you, his breath coming in short gasps.

"I…I don’t know what happened," he mumbled, his voice hoarse with emotion, still not fully aware of what had happened.

"You had a bad moment," you murmured, stroking his hair gently as he buried his face into your chest. "It’s okay. You’re going to be okay."

You stayed with him in the quiet of the room, not rushing him, not asking any questions. You just held him, allowing him the space to breathe, to calm. Even though the situation had startled you, even though you felt the sting of the scratch on your arm, it was clear that Eddie needed this moment of reassurance more than anything.

And you would give it to him, no questions asked.

[deezee112]

The worst ending 18 : Eternal Protection

The worst ending 17 | The worst ending 19

Yandere!platonic!Ortho Shroud x GN!Reader

A/N : I should watch sci-fi movies. I should really stop watching them. Not because the plot is bad, but because I've been watching sci-fi movies for 5 days straight, going to bed at 1am every day.

And I'm really stressed about work, both studying and working. I don't want to work, but if I don't, I won't have any money. Maybe I should stop thinking too much.

Warning : Yandere platonic Themes , Psychological Horror , Possessiveness, Isolation , Non-Consensual Transformation , Character Death.

Tags :

@iris-arcadia @yuu-twisted

If you want me to tag you please tell me.

English is not my first language.

The boy in front of you wasn’t human. His body was made of sleek metal and glowing energy, floating just slightly above the ground. His Gold eyes blinked slowly, scanning you with an unreadable expression. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move unless you moved first. He just watched, waiting.

You crouched down, meeting his gaze. " You don’t have a name yet, do you? "

He tilted his head, the faint whirring of gears filling the silence.

A name. Something simple, something warm.

" Ortho. " you murmured. " That’s what I’ll call you. "

The boy blinked. Slowly, his lips curled into a small, mechanical smile.

And just like that, he had a name.

At first, Ortho was silent, responding only with nods or slight tilts of his head. You had to teach him everything—how to speak, how to understand emotions, how to mimic the natural flow of human interaction.

" Ortho, this is a spoon. " you said one evening, handing it to him.

He stared at it, tilting his head. " Spoon. " he repeated in a metallic voice.

" Right! And you use it like this. " You demonstrated, scooping up some soup.

Ortho hesitated before mimicking your actions perfectly. " I see " he said, his voice a little smoother now.

" Good job! " You ruffled his hair, only to feel the hum of energy beneath your fingers. He blinked up at you, eyes glowing a little brighter.

That was the first time he looked genuinely happy.

Over time, Ortho grew more expressive. His speech patterns improved, and his attachment to you deepened. He followed you everywhere, hovering silently behind you like a tiny, floating shadow.

" Ortho, personal space. " you reminded him one afternoon when you nearly tripped over him.

" But I have to stay close to you. " he said, frowning. " Big Sister is fragile. "

" I’m not fragile. "

" You don’t have armor. "

" That doesn’t mean— "

" If something happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to repair you." His tone was soft but firm. "So I must protect you. "

You sighed, giving up. There was no reasoning with him when he got like this.

At first, it was small things. Ortho would insist on carrying your bags, scanning your food before you ate, hovering outside the bathroom door " just in case. "

Then it got worse.

" Ortho, what happened to my phone? " you asked one evening, searching your room.

" I removed it. " he said simply.

" What? Why?! "

" You were talking to too many people. " he explained. " Some of them could have been threats. "

" Ortho, give it back! "

His eyes glowed a little brighter. " No. "

Your stomach twisted.

He wasn’t joking.

One evening, you decided to go out alone. Ortho protested, of course, but you assured him you’d be fine.

" I’ll be back soon, okay? " you promised.

He didn’t respond. He just floated there, watching.

The city lights blurred together as you walked, enjoying the rare moment of solitude. But as you turned a corner, the streetlights flickered. Your phone—your new one, hidden from Ortho—buzzed with an alert.

[ WARNING: HIGH THREAT LEVEL DETECTED ]

Your heart pounded.

You turned, and there he was. Hovering above the pavement, glowing brighter than ever.

" Big Sister. " Ortho said softly. " You left me behind. "

" Ortho…I just needed some air— "

" You don’t need air. " he interrupted. " You need me. "

His hands lifted, and for the first time, you realized just how strong he really was.

The next morning, your apartment was eerily quiet. Ortho sat at the table, humming softly to himself. In his hands was a small, delicate device—a heart monitor.

It was silent.

He tilted his head, listening to the absence of sound.

Then he smiled.

" Now you’ll never leave again, Big Sister! "

The screen of his eyes flickered.

System rebooting.

A new directive.

Protect. Preserve. Keep her forever.

Even if that meant turning you into something just like him.

[brummiereader]

PREVIOUS PART

Killing Me Softly (PART THREE/ DARK!TOMMY)

Summary: You and Tommy have barely said a word to eachother since your wedding night, the tension building, Tommy's facade finally drops.

Warnings: Language, angst, psychological mind games, manipulative behaviour, controlling behaviour, Dark!Tommy (this is a dark fic, please read the warnings before continuing)

"Where's my wife?" Tommy asked looking up from his newspaper as he sat at the end of the large dining table, a cigarette in his mouth.

"She's still in bed Sir, she said she's not hungry" Frances answered nervously clutching onto her apron. It had been almost two weeks since your wedding day and the tension was palpable. You and Tommy had barely said another word to eachother since your wedding night, sleeping in separate rooms you had been avoiding him at all costs. You hadn't left the house in five days, and even when you did it was only to venture out onto the grounds of the property, one of Tommy's henchmen always a few feet behind you. You had neither seen nor heard from your mother, friends or Tommy's family since your arrival at Arrow House, everyone giving the happy newlyweds space, that's what he said. The truth was, Tommy was keeping them from you, keeping you from telling them how miserable you truly felt. Folding the newspaper in half Tommy threw it onto the table In front of him, his chair scrapping across the wooden floors beneath him as he stood up.

" Tell her I expect to see her sitting there at that table, at noon, for when I come back" he said sternly as he walked towards the entrance.

" Yes Sir" Frances nodded as she closed the dinning room door.

"Oh and Frances" he stopped as he got to the door. "Tell the chef to make lamb" He smirked as he looked up at the large wooden stairs in the foyer.

" Yes Mr Shelby" she dutifully answered as she watched Tommy walk out the front door.

Laying in bed you flinched as you heard the door of his car slam shut. He was gone, breathing a sigh of relief you sat up looking over to his side of the bed, this was not how you thought your first two weeks of being a married woman would be, even for an arranged marriage.

Deciding not to lay in bed all day and worry about your already fragile marriage, you got up putting your light pink silk dressing gown on, one you could only imagine Tommy had picked out for you, like everything else he had chosen on your behalf. Walking down the large wooden staircase you was met with Frances waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs.

" He's gone then?"

" Yes Mam" she answered with concerned eyes.

" Did he say anything?" you questioned as your fingers picked at the wooden banister.

" He said he would like to see you at lunch Mam"

"I doubt he said it as nice as you" you smiled as you placed a hand on her arm." Thank you, Frances" you added as you walked off into the kitchen in search of something to eat.

"Mrs Shelby please, let me get you something" she called out.

" It's ok Frances I don't mind " you replied, still not used to being waited on.

Sitting by the window in the study, a book on your lap, you looked out at the gardens In front of you, Tommy's horses galloping in the fields behind them. How had things gotten so bad so quickly? You pondered as you spun your wedding ring around your finger over and over again. Tommy was a man who always got what he wanted, never to be talked back to, never to be refused, and when you did just that on your wedding night he had clearly not taken it very well. Was it all your fault though? You questioned yourself, doubting every conversation and action you had done and had over the past two weeks. You just wanted to get to know him again, did he not want that too?

"Mam, it's Miss Polly Gray on the phone, should I tell her to call you back another time?" Frances asked as she opened the door to the study.

" No no, it's fine, I'll take it, thank you Frances" you said getting up, placing the book down on the chair you was sitting on. Hurrying to the phone you quickly picked up the receiver placing it to your ear.

" Polly?"

" Y/N, how are you love? We haven't seen you in a while"

" I'm so happy to hear your voice Polly" you replied, your emotions threatening to be made known at any moment.

" Enjoying newlywed bliss?" she chuckled over the phone, completely unaware of the current state of things.

" Something like that" you sighed with a small laugh as you played with the cord of the phone.

" What's wrong Y/N ?" nothing could get past Polly, she always knew.

" Me and Tommy, well ...things have not been going that great" you replied in a shaky voice, your eyes starting to fill with tears.

" Oh love... right I'm coming over, this afternoon at four, I will have my driver bring me" Polly replied, concern In her voice, knowing too well how Tommy could get.

" Ok" you said as you sniffed back your tears.

" I'll see you in a few hours, don't worry we'll sort it all out.

" Ok, bye Polly" you said as you put the phone down. Was this a good idea? What would Tommy think of you talking about your marriage to someone else. But Polly could help, she was his Aunt after all, family, someone Tommy knew.

Looking up at the large clock in the foyer you noticed it was nearly noon, Tommy would be back any minute. Hurrying back upstairs you quickly shut the bedroom door, hoping to avoid him once again.

" Mr Shelby" Frances greeted Tommy at the door.

" My wife?" he asked as he handed her his suit jacket.

"She's upstairs Sir" she replied nervously as Tommy cocked an eyebrow in surprise.

" Did you not tell her that i expected to see her in the dining room?" He asked, his voice getting irritated with each second that passed.

" Yes Sir, she's very tired, I think she needs rest" Frances said trying to excuse you from his anger.

" Tired" he scoffed as he started marching up the stairs to your shared room. "I'm fucking tired, tired of this shit" he said under his breath, his steps echoing through the house as he walked up the stairs. "Seems my dear wife needs a helping hand getting of bed Frances!" he called out angrily as Frances hurried off, not wanting to get in the middle of a marital dispute.

"Y/N!" he bellowed as he got to the top of the stairs, throwing the bedroom door open.

" Tommy..." you replied in surprise as you sat up, eyes widening as you watched him storm over to your side of the bed.

" Been laying in bed all fucking morning eh?" he asked as he pulled the sheets away from you, scoffing when you closed your dressing gown tightly around your body.

"Why are you not downstairs in the dinning room, like I asked, hm?" he demanded to know, grabbing you by the hand as he pulled you out the bed.

" I'm not a child Tommy, you don't get to talk to me like that" you answered, irritation in your voice as you pulled his hand off you. Tommy was right behind you as you marched down the stairs to the dining room, you swore you could feel his eyes piercing into the back of your head, your stubbornness only angering him more. Once again you had disobeyed him, and this time he was going to make sure you knew it. Spinning you around, Tommy pulled you flush against his body, his arm hooked around the bottom of your back.

" Stop fucking acting like a child, and I'll stop treating you like one, ok sweetheart?" he said quietly into your ear, his breath hot against your skin, his words laced with anger as his hand traveled slowly up your back grabbing a handful of your dressing gown. Firmly holding onto your robe, Tommy spun you back around in one quick motion, pushing you down onto the dining table chair.

" Good" he said, hitching his suit trousers up as he sat down next to you, satisfied you hadn't talked back. What would be the point in arguing with him, your words would only go unheard, Tommy always had to be right. You decided not to say anything, instead you pinned all your hopes on Polly's visit, praying she could get through to her nephew and help your already rocky marriage. Lighting a cigarette, Tommy watched you as he inhaled the tobacco. He had you just the way he wanted, eyes cast down, submissive, subservient, the perfect little wife.

A knock on the dinning room door had you both looking up as Frances wheeled two plates of food in. As she made her way around the dining table you noticed almost instantly what had been prepared, your eyes darting to Tommy you watched the smirk form on his lips as he flicked the ash of his cigarette into a glass dish.

" Is there a problem?" he asked, a devilish darkness overtaking his eyes as he watched you look down at the plate of food now in front of you.

"I can get you something else Mrs Shelby?" Frances asked as she looked between you and Tommy.

" No it's fine, thank you" you answered as you breathed in the gamy smell of the lamb, your stomach already turning at its odor. His pettiness was blatant, you knew exactly what he was doing, it was childish, immature, and you refused to play along.

"Eat" he said as he nodded to the plate of food In front of you. Picking up your knife and fork, you cut a small piece of lamb, raising it to your lips as Tommy watched you intently. Placing it in your mouth, you looked over to him as the smugness spread across his face, he was enjoying this, enjoying his cruelness play out.

" You invited Polly to come today?" he asked as he took a sip of whiskey. Nodding, you slowly chewed on the piece of meat, swallowing harshly as Tommy watched your throat bob up and down as the food made its way down.

" Next time you invite someone, you ask me first"

" Tommy this is my home too, I don't have to inform you of everything I do" you replied, dropping your fork onto the plate, unable to eat anymore, your frustration mounting with him.

" But you do love" he said as he grabbed your chin turning you to face him. " You're my wife, so you'll do as I say. Now eat" he said picking your fork back up.

" I can't Tommy, I don't feel good " you answered. Was it the taste of the lamb already, or his controlling words that had your stomach churning, you couldn't tell anymore. Staring at him your eyes started to fill with tears. Taking a drag of his cigarette Tommy looked at you unsympathetically as one lone tear fell down your cheek. With your hand to your mouth, you bolted up, running as fast as you could to the closest bathroom. Bending over the toilet you threw up as you tried to hold back your hair away from the toilet seat.

"Hey, hey..." you heard softly from behind you as Tommy bent down next to you, collecting your hair into his hand as he rubbed your back while you hurled into the toilet once more.

Wiping your mouth you turned to him as you flushed the toilet.

" Why would you do that?" you asked weakly, tears streaming down your face.

"Do what?" He questioned a look of confusion in his eyes as he tried to fool you with his bewilderment, but all you could see was the smirk playing on the corner of his lips threatening to expose his cruelness. Turning back to the toilet you threw up again, gagging at the taste in your mouth.

" You see what happens when you don't talk to me hm, when you ignore me? How am I suppose to know anything about you, if you never say anything to me eh? he said as he continued to stroke your back.

" But...Tommy at the wedding I told you that..."

"Shh shh" he hushed you, pulling you into his chest as he gently caressed your hair, exhaling at the close contact of your warm body.

" Let me take care of you Y/N, stop fighting it." he said as he kissed the top of your head. In your weak state you found yourself leaning into his embrace, clutching onto his chest as he responded by holding you tighter against him, placing another kiss to your temple. Had he forgotten what you had said at the wedding? His sudden behaviour was confusing, he blew hot and cold with you as quick as his temper changed, you couldn't keep up.

For another hour you laid in bed, Tommy telling you to sleep as he worked in his office, ordering his men to go home for the rest of the day now he was back. But sleep was the last thing you did. Your thoughts had been consuming you as you bit anxiously on your nails. He was playing with you like a child plays with a toy, he hadn't forgotten, he knew exactly what he was doing. Having had enough of his constant change in personality, you decided to be as petty as him and play along with his little games..since he clearly enjoyed it so much. Marching down the stairs you walked right past his office as he looked up from his desk.

" Y/N, why are you not in bed? " he asked, getting up from his chair, following you as you walked out the back door to the gardens. Scoffing at him you ignored his question. In bed, exactly where he wants you to be, knowing where you are, doing what he wants, controlling you.

" What do you think your doing?" He said as he caught up to you.

" Going for a walk " you answered as you started making your way to the woods behind the house." Is that a problem?" you said sarcastically, echoing the words he would often use. Clenching his fist he watched you as you walked away from him.

" You'll get lost!" he shouted as he stood by the door.

" I'm a grown woman Tommy" you shouted back, your arms folded as you stormed off. So tempted to see his reaction, you turned around to see him staring at you, brushing his hand down his face as he then gripped his chin with his fingers.

A satisfied look spread across your face, you enjoyed the fact your defiance was getting to him, just like he enjoyed toying with your emotions. Was this a dangerous game to play though, for how long could you really keep this up?

It had been an hour since you stormed off, and you was officially lost. Fuck. Looking down at the floor you kicked a pile of sticks in frustration, Tommy having been right only angering you even more. Looking around in a panic, you tried to remember the route you took, but everything looked the same. A noise Suddenly caught your attention as you span around, your eyes trying to look through the endless row of tress in front of you. This was England, you tried to rationalise to yourself. The chances of a bear coming out at you, zero to none, a wolf maybe, or it could be the devil himself, you laughed to yourself. Is that what you was calling him now, your husband? Then you heard it again. Walking in the opposite direction you quickly picked up the pace as you glanced behind you once more, the rustling suddenly got louder, and that's when you saw it, a small rabbit not far from where you was standing, a sigh of relief swept over you as you walked over to the small ball of fluff. Bending down you put your hand out coaxing it forwards.

" Hello little guy, you scared me" you said as it quickly bounced off in the opposite direction. Your senses no longer on alert, you hadn't noticed the real threat standing next to you. The snap of a branch had you suddenly turning back around.

" Lost little bunny?" Tommy said a smirk on his face, as he leaned against a tree watching you, a cloud of smoke bellowing into the country air. Of course he had followed you, was he afraid you would run off and leave him?

" You followed me" you said, upset that no matter where you went or what you did he would always have his eye on you.

"Maybe you would prefer rabbit for lunch next time" he joked in a sister tone. " Come on, you've had your little tantrum, now let's go" he said taking your hand only for you to push it away.

" No. I'll go when I'm ready" you said adamantly as you watched the anger rise in his already tense body.

" Y/N, you're coming home with me now or els..."

" When I'm ready" you said sterner, Interrupting him.

" Fine. Spend all night here. See if I fucking care" he replied turning away from you, storming off as he threw his cigarette onto the ground. That was the last thing you wanted to do. You watched the route he took back as you slowly followed the same path.

It had been more than an hour until you finally reached the front door to your house. Walking in you glanced up at the clock it was nearly four, you hadn't missed Polly's visit. Walking through the foyer, you was met by Tommy as he walked out the living room, Polly following behind him.

" My loving wife has returned" he said sarcastically as he took a sip of his whiskey.

"Polly" you said ignoring Tommy's remark as you walked up to her, giving her a hug as you looked over her shoulder to see Tommy smirking at you. I'm glad I didn't miss you, I was out for a walk and got a little lost"

" You did miss me, love" she said kissing your cheek, smiling to you.

" But...you said you was coming at four"

"Polly arrived an hour ago Y/N " Tommy said staring at you, his mouth slightly open as his eyes glistened with mischief.

" It's alright love, you must have forgotten. One of the secretary's left a note saying you rang and changed the time to three" she said as she started to put her coat on.

" I...I didn't rin.." you stopped, looking to Tommy as he swirled the whiskey around in his glass. And then the realisation hit you, Tommy had changed the times.

With Polly adjusting her coat in between you both, you and Tommy stared eachother down, your anger at boiling point. Neither of you saying anything you just glared at eachother waiting for the other to do something.

"I can't stay love, i have to get back. We will arrange for another time" she said as she kissed your cheek once again. "Tommy told me everything, you'll settle in soon" she whispered quietly into your ear. You watched on in disbelief, what had Tommy said to her? As soon as the door shut, you marched over to your husband, anger in your face ready to confront him.

" You did that on purpose! What did you say to her?" You shouted at him, pushing his chest with both of your hands.

" You sure you're not still sick love? Don't have a fever do you?" he said, a cocky smile on his lips as he turned away from you, walking to his office.

" You changed the times of her visit, am I not allowed to see anyone?" you asked in desperation, as you tried to stand In front of him, trying to get his attention. Annoyed by your insistence on the matter Tommy Slammed you against the wall as he pushed his body onto yours.

" What if I did hm? What was you going to tell her eh? How it's been so hard for you? My poor little wife, she's suffering so much. I have given you everything Y/N, everything. Do you not remember our agreement hm?" He said angrily as he held your head between his hands, his leg between yours to keep you in place.

Nervousness building inside you, you watched as his eyes turned that sinister black you feared so much. Tears streaming down your face you looked at Tommy pleading with unspoken words to let you go. Brushing away a tear with his thumb, Tommy let out a frustrated sigh.

" Look, the sooner you start acting like my wife the better things will be" he said, gently caressing your cheek as he leaned in to press his lips to your tear stained ones.

"Kiss me back Y/N" he moaned against your mouth, desperate to feel something from you.

" Still playing hard to get eh?" he hummed against your lips as he pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes closing as his hands stroked down your arms.

" I hate you" you said quietly as your voice trembled in fear. Tommy's forehead still pressed against yours, his eyes darted open meeting the fear in yours, fury spreading across his face as you pushed him away from you. Running up the stairs you turned around to see him staring at you, his eyes never once moving from you as he watched you run up the large wooden stairs.

You didn't hate him, Tommy reasoned to himself as he sat in the dark green upholstered arm chair, blowing a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. You was just getting used to your new life he quickly justified . You're words were laced with anger though, he thought to himself as he clenched his jaw, flicking the flame of his lighter on and off as he watched you sleep in the bed in front of him, the freshly cleaned bed sheets draped gently over your body. Taking another drag of his cigarette Tommy leaned forward, his hand slowly stroking up your uncovered leg as he watched you sleep. Your skin was so soft, so delicate under his fingers, why wouldn't you let him near you? let him hold you, kiss you... touch you. Frustration building up he pulled his hand away, his shoulders tense, his jaw tightening. You shouldn't test him, he didn't want to lose his temper, he didn't want to hurt you. Stirring you started to wake up, the smell of tobacco filling your senses. Sitting up you looked In front of you to see an empty chair at the bottom of the bed, a lit cigarette still burning in an ash tray on a small table beside it. Your eyes darted around the room in panic.

"Tommy" you called out as you looked to the the landing light beaming through the half opened bedroom door. Clutching the bed sheets to your chest, fear rose in your body.

He had been here, he had been watching you...

NEXT PART

Tag list: @litteltourtius @aesthetic0cherryblossom @swordofawriter @casa-boiardi @muhahaha303 @fmo166

[adarkrainbow]

Since I am on the topic of these people that get a lot of criticism for their take on fairytales but still deserve to be kept around due to their influence, I want to briefly evoke Bruno Bettelheim's book "The Uses of Enchantment", known in France as "Psychanalysis of fairytales".

Note that I will not speak of the book itself or the reception of the book in English-speaking countries, but I want to talk about its reception in France and an impact it had on France. Today, numerous elements of the book have been debunked or criticized, coupled with many people misunderstanding the intentions of Bettelheim or misinforming about the context of the book or how it had to be read. As a result, today there is a tendency to crap on this book or laugh about it when we talk about fairytales analysis. However this book had a great importance in France when it came to "save" fairytales.

Before going into the general, as a brief piece of personal experience - which isn't exclusive to me, as others also shared this. This book actually was what got me into the analysis and study of fairytale. Or rather, when I read it as a pre-teen, it made me discover that... fairytales could have depths. Fairytales could have hidden meanings behind being simple children stories. It made me consider how these stories could be taken and reinterpreted as so many allegories and metaphors, it opened my eyes to a certain visceral, psychic, social aspect of these tales, and without this book I certainly would not have been into fairytales as I am today.

Not that this book is the ultimate resource of fairytale analysis - and the entire process of a psychological reading of fairytales is someting that exists but should not be taken into account when trying to explain them (fairytales being the produce of the encounter between literature and folklore). However, this book stayed a door-opening key for me, outdated maybe, overthinking stuff I guess, but that at least allowed me to glimpse into the "great beyond" behind these stories.

And now for my actual point... How Bettelheim's book saved fairytales in France. This is something I learned when studying the life and work of Pierre Gripari - in a book called "Pierre Gripari, un passeur d'écritures" by Inna Saranovska.

When Bettelheim's book reached France in the late 70s, fairytales were in a bad spot when it came to cultural authorities. Already fairytales had been reduced in people's mind to simple, naive children stories only good for making American cartoons (cough cough, Disney). But those of Perrault were still evoked and studied in schools (little schools for little children) because it was part of the heritage of France, of French culture, and the evolution of French literatue...

However what happened in the 70s? The very serious project of just burying fairytales was brought forward. The talks by politics and school authorities were simple: let us stop teaching fairytales to children in school, let's remove fairytales from school libraries, we do not have any use for them anymore, let them be forgotten. On one side, as I said, there was a discredit due to them being seen as silly children story, and thus no real pedagogic or "useful" chilren literature. But on the other side, there were very concrete and serious political business involved - fairytales were seen as antithetic, and opposed, to the principles of the modern Republic of France. Fairytales were seen as backward antiquities that went against what a great democratic nation should be. For example, people really did took issue in the fact that fairytales depicted monarchies, with kings as absolute authorities, and where a happy ending meant to end up prince or princess. For them, it was literaly teaching children to favor and idealize monarchy when they should rather learn about democracies and republics, and while it might seem silly today, it was serious back then and what almost led to the complete erasure of fairytales from school programs.

But then came Bettelheim's book. A book which proved to these folks that fairytales could be of a deep, psychological, social use to children. A book which taught these authorities to see beyond the "silliness" of these children stories or the "backward social message", and which told them how these stories could contain and express the deep fears, the secret desires of children, and help them grow up and deal with familial, social relationships. The book was a best-seller in France, and it completely changed the higher-ups opinion, and convinced tem fairytales should indeed be maintained in school - because fairytales were now "serious" due to being part of the very serious and praised domains of psychology and psychanalysis (which was all the fad and rage in the second half of the 20th century France).

And as such - no matter what you might say about the book's uality today - it can still be thanked for actually "saving" fairytales in France.

[charmedreincarnation]

hi i’m sorry for this small rant. i really hope you reply to it because i’m spiralling so bad. i have been listening to v powerful luckiest girl and get all your desires instantly forced subs and i had two really bad days and overall my life feels so shit and i feel like nobody gives a shit about me feel left out with my friends and am really regretting some past choices i have made as in subjects i chose to study. why do subs not work on me ever? i detach but subs just don’t work for me idk what should i do i want to enter the void and live my better/dream life but i keep failing and i’m so spiraling so hard rn. i am not even seeing small success i can’t even manifest my acne away or to grow a few inches how will i enter the void and magically change my life entirely. please help me out. how do i manifest or enter the void as soon as i can. i am being delululu living in 4d but yes ik if i am truly living in the end i shouldn’t have doubts but it’s been so many months when will i see results in my 3d. manifestion should be instant right. i’m sorry for my negativity i hope you have a great day

Hi love! I feel like any of this could be answered in another ask, but you seem really worried, so I'm going to answer it anyway!

First and foremost, you are allowed to have doubts. Just because you have doubts doesn't mean you're producing those thoughts. From a psychological perspective (which aligns with LOA), our thoughts are not entirely our own. This is a scientific truth, whether you believe in LOA or not. Scientists say that our thoughts are influenced by external factors such as our environment, upbringing, and the thoughts of others. Sound familiar? They also claim that we have the power to change our thoughts and create our own reality by consciously choosing the thoughts we entertain. So, just know that you're going to have doubts until the end, but as long as you categorize them as random thoughts and not your own beliefs, they don't matter! For example, if someone dressed as Chucky the doll jump-scared you and you started having "scary" thoughts about it, that doesn't mean you actually believe Chucky is real and coming to get you. You have psychological responses to certain things that have been ingrained and coded in you for a while now. What LOA does is help us intercept these false messages and reframe them as "useless" instead of messages we encode in our mind and assumption.

I've always been interested in psychology and neurology, and even though it doesn't directly relate to your question, it's important to mention that you do have a brain, and your brain is wired to act in certain ways. Once you're aware of why you're acting and believing certain things, it becomes way easier to understand that the 3D world is malleable. I really suggest reading books by authors like Joe Dispenza so you can understand yourself better. Also, watching YouTubers who explain anxiety and reading self-help books can provide helpful ways to manage your own anxiety.

The second thing is, if you don't believe in subliminals, I don't know why people do this, but if you don't have faith in something or assume it doesn't work for you, just use something you have a little faith in. For example, maybe you're more logical. You can read about brain waves and then listen to binaural beats for anxiety,manifesting, and faith. Have faith in it, because you'll understand and know that those waves genuinely change your brain's alignment. That's just one example, but subliminals are not the only type of audios out there. There are many other methods to explore.

Also, meditation is very helpful. Not just to reach the void, but do you know how many conscious thoughts we have in a day? On average, it is estimated that a person has around 60,000 to 80,000 thoughts per day. These thoughts can range from conscious, deliberate thoughts to automatic, repetitive thoughts. That doesn't even include the number of unconscious thoughts we have, which is probably 100k+. You constantly have these little things running around in your head, trying to keep you alive, keeping you repeating the same thought patterns, beliefs, and assumptions. You can't consciously control them most of the time, but your brain and mind are working overtime 24/7. It's not your fault, so that's why meditation can help you. Not just to reach the void, though you can tap into that using some form of meditation as well, but to clear your mind and then it’s there it will be better to affirm and believe you can do whatever you desire. If you're not truly embodying the desired state, which you're not because you sent this ask, do you think a few measly affirmations can counteract the hundreds of thousands of thoughts you've been having every day since birth, most of which you don't even know exist? Affirmations do work, but trust me, I've been where you're at and worse. This is not the state to solely rely on "miracle affirmations" because you won't believe them, and when something doesn't happen, you'll just want to give up and confirmation bias will make you subconsciously think, "Well, see? I knew it. It isn’t real" But in reality, your mind is just looking for proof to align with your negative beliefs.

I know you say you haven't manifested anything, but can you really think back to something you thought was a "coincidence" or something you didn't really ask for but it just appeared? We usually brush those off as just the world at play or a small world, but nope, that was you. Maybe you don't have clear skin or whatever your desire may be, but as you probably know, that's because you've put it on a pedestal compared to all the other "small" but great things you've manifested

I know you probably wanted me to tell you exactly what to do, but I genuinely don't know you the way you know yourself - your own self, mind, and behaviors. You know best, fr! I could have said anything I've said before, like imagination is the real reality, the 3D being malleable, if you can see and feel it you can manifest it, try SATs or lucid dreaming lalala. But I've learned that you know what you have to do. Sit and meditate to learn about yourself and your mind, and why you think what you think. What past experiences do you still hold onto, reliving them in your mind and creating assumptions that no longer serve you? They can still affect you, we are humans and emotions cling to us like bees to honey, and that's okay. But we need to start moving those experiences into the past and start creating with what we are now, which is the present. Any given moment is a time to say, 'Okay, this doesn't serve me anymore, and this does. I don't want this life anymore, I want this type of life,' and consciously start creating with those desires instead.

Acknowledge your doubts, they're just doubts, and they're really just an extension of life factors that have been slowly consuming your mind. You may have them, but as a god, do you have them? No. But as a human, you are influenced by them, and who cares? You know who you are and your power now, so if you disregard them, work around them. But I can't tell you what to do because I'm not you! I wholeheartedly believe that you will get through this because I have as well and the lows are just apart of your journey as the success as corny as it sounds. But when you do succeed I promise you’ll back to this movement and just be very happy you didn’t give up despite how hard it was 💝

[sunny-speaks]

Nerd (RIVAL!DACTED x Reader)

First Ren Fic of the new year let's go guys!

Lol, life's been pretty busy and I haven't had as much time to write as I wanted but I guess I have a new aspiration for 2024! Enjoy the fic!

Characters: [REDACTED]/[RIVAL-DACTED] from @14dayswithyou x reader !!

Quick summary: library date??? with [RIVAL-DACTED]??? even though hes a pain to you??? more likely than you would think-

--

You groaned into your hand, head starting to slump into the crook of your arm.

You loved academic validation and you were all for getting good grades and all, but…

Studying?

Always found a way to bore you somehow.

You were painfully poring over the midterm research that your postsecondary teacher and lecturer had assigned for your ‘Psychology in Modern Media’ course.

Sure, it was fun and all. But the exams were sooo boring and the prep material?

God awfully boring.

You took a sip from the drink that you got from the nearby coffee store, twirling the near-empty cup in your hand as you wistfully sighed.

High school was something you’d taken for granted, huh… Man, you'd kill to do those stupid assigned readings right now.

You could feel some form of fatigue taking over your body riiight before… “Angel? What are you doing here~?”

That cotton candy bastard showed up.

Ugh! You couldn’t get enough of him! (In a negative sense! In a negative sense!)

He was everywhere!

You spotted his annoyingly attractive face in that dumb coffee shop earlier when he winked at you and five people behind you nearly fainted.

That ridiculously hot face of his was giving you unwanted and unwarranted troubles! You wanted him gone.

He pulled up in that ridiculously tight black bodysuit and that white slasher hoodie of his with too many belts and buckles to keep track of. The same unfortunately went for his pants.

It’s like he was trying to show himself off! Ugh, he knew he was hot shit, didn’t he?!

You glared at him, frustration seeping through, “What do you want now, [REDACTED]? If it’s not your head on a spike, I’m good.”

He raised his arms in mock surrender, “Woah, what’s got you so worked up, Angel? Is it lonely at the top?” He’d let you top him in anything if you wanted… In class, in bed, whatever…

He looked so stupidly attractive with the way his hair framed his face, the way his grin sat perfectly on all his features, the little way his eyebrows creas—

“Ugh, just, shut up, will you?” You scoffed out at him then winced at your volume.

That was rude. Even for you.

You sighed, exasperated, slight guilt remnants on your face. “I- My bad… Just the… exam prep is confusing. And I don’t get it.”

He gave an inquisitive tilt of his head, “Which questions?” He slid into the seat beside you, leaning close enough for you to smell the faint traces of black coffee lingering on your clothes from your previous encounter. You tried to erase that ugly feeling when you saw him smile at a pair of girls from earlier.

(…Does he always smile like that to others?)

(Ha, yeah. Not like you’re anyone special…)

He smiled softly to himself as his breaths got deeper, trying to intake as much of your natural scent as he could. That was something he would always want more of...

(Those pathetic leeches from earlier left their stupid perfume lingering on his clothes… the only way to rid him of it was to sit closer to youuu <3)

Somehow, you were too preoccupied with your stupidly annoying questions to even berate his presence this time.

And if you were a little distracted by how close he was, that was no one else's business.

They’d been giving you way too much trouble for the past… half-hour or so.

You picked up the question sheet and pointed at the parts you didn’t understand, “So, I got what a sociopath should look like and covert signs in that dumb show I had to watch, and I know the ways to find sociopathic responses in someone, but how does that correlate with these random non-associated symptoms portrayed by this character?!”

You involuntarily leaned closer to him as you stabbed the piece of paper with an accusatory finger, frustrated. “I swear! The teacher hates me or something!”

[REDACTED] wouldn’t let it slide if the teacher actually hated you though… He’d ruin her reputation amongst colleagues while keeping her isolated from social media. They’d make all family members repulsed of her and willing to not contact her. And then they’d get her fired from her job. If she ever tried to get another job, he could easily fabricate a couple pieces of incriminating evidence from one of his crime scenes…

But he knew you would find it hot that he's confident in himself and that he's witty. So he wouldn't explain his plan just like that.

He grinned, a condescending quip on the tip of his tongue. “Maybe it’s just because I’m a hotter student.”

You spluttered in indignance, bewildered how he even thought of that. Was he insinuating he was hotter than you?! He might be right then... “Wh-What?! Asshole! Ugh!” Just as you were about to get up, he added onto his comment.

“Also, the answer’s right there.” He twirled a pen with his fingers, softly whistling to himself.

“Huh?!” You couldn’t believe it.

But he was right...?

You read the part he had underlined and circled and… the answer was there. That's... weird.

You didn’t have a clue on how you missed it! It drove you insane for so long, and for what?! For that stupidly sexy jerk to find it in one go?

You groaned reluctantly at the help. Maybe he wasn’t just… y’know, a piece of ass all the time... or a jerk. Maybe he was… kinda smart and nice. “Fine. Good job, I guess, asshat… Why’re you even here, god knows you don’t need to study. Like. Ever.” You eye up and down at his visible muscles that his outfit strains to keep compressed.

He pouts a little at the accusation. “Mm, even I study, angel. Might be hard to believe with a physique as good as mine, but I do take time to work on my studies.”

“Sure. And it was totally by chance that we saw each other at the coffee shop down the street. And that you study at the same library as me.” You drawled on, naming one coincidence after the other until [REDACTED] was subjected to some form of abject embarrassment. "What're you, a copycat?"

You paid that much attention to him? No one else… Just him?

Ooh, his heartbeat practically played hopscotch in his chest at the revelation! But no! He must remain calm and mean! Only for you!

They grinned slyly at you. “Angel, please. I would never even try to copy you. So it must’ve been your idea to imitate me, huh? Bet you stalk me or something,” He lied through their teeth, in the pathological way they were used to. They’d be lying if it wasn’t incredibly ironic.

“Hah, you wish.” Your nose twitched in annoyance. God, he was far too good at riling you up. “Whatever, what’s the answer to…”

And the two of you spent the rest of the day, bickering over answers.

Maybe [REDACTED] had earned a bit, a fraction, of your gratitude.

Maybe you were starting to like them a bit more.

But he’d never know that, it’s not like he reads your phone notes or messages or has cameras in your house.

…Right?