#a spes thoughts

[a-spes]

So.. guess who is back with more thoughts about Wanda's really nice hands, and long nails?

Me.

I am the one who can't think about anything else but those perfect hands 🙆

You have many bad habits. You would bite your nails — or your lips, depending on your current mood — and skip meals sometimes. The woman hates that, but there is one bad habit of yours that she doesn't want to fix because she finds it absolutely endearing, and it is the way you are always avoiding her gaze.

She had quickly noticed that you were unable to hold eye contact with her for more than a few seconds, crumbling under a simple glance. She loves to slowly drag her index all the way up your neck until it finds a place under your chin. She loves to apply a slight pressure here, forcing you to tilt your head back until you have no choice but look at her, directly in the eyes. She loves the embarrassment she can read on your face.

—

Sometimes, you forget to think, and words you regret eventually fall past your pretty lips. Words that you do not mean, but would still get you in trouble with the woman — “Shut it, before you say something I'll make you regret,” she reprimands, and you can feel her nails slowly digging into your cheeks.

She is right. You don't want to suffer the consequences of your own actions, you were just craving for some of her attention. She has been so busy with her job lately that you've been feeling left out. Eventually, her thumb would find its way in your mouth, and you would just accept it.

“Isn't it what you wanted, honey? My whole attention? No, don't get shy now that you have it, and use your words to tell mommy what you want,” she teases, and suddenly you find yourself unable to speak — god, there is nothing she likes more than seeing how fast she can make you shut the fuck up and how quick she can turn you into her perfect, and obedient, little girl. One that would do anything she asks without thinking twice about it.

—

She does it on purpose, and you know it. The woman keeps pretending that she left these marks by accident, but you can see in her smile that she meant every one of them.

She loves them.

She loves to see those red crescents that decorate your skin. They are the reminder of who you are belonging to. They are the memory of the nights you've shared, and her not so gentle touches. Most of those are left when you try to squirm out of her grasp, when she has to dig her nails into your hips in order to keep you still while she ruins her precious baby.

—

That is something she loves to do, grabbing you by the hips whenever she is given the chance to. It is not her fault that you are looking so adorable that it gives her the urge to have her hands on your body, and to slowly draw pattern on your skin.

Most of the time, the woman would just sneak up behind you when you are busy, and you would have no idea that she was coming before you could feel her nails slightly digging into your skin and her soft breath brushing your neck.

[rivalkieran]

antipathy world. (maskless ver under cut)

[secondsotries]

hey tumblr i can't take this anymore i need everyone to know i am obsessed with SAM (special archie x maxie) and that i live breathe and eat SAM content

if SAM has a million fans, i am one of them. if SAM has five fans, i am one of them. if SAM has one fan, that is me. if SAM has no fans, i am no longer alive. if the world is against SAM, then i am against the world until my last breath, i will support SAM

[cheswirls]

looking @ old fic i started when i was 14/15 is so funny bc im realizing once again why i never mark fics as abandoned even if its been literal years since i've touched them. specifically i was checking docs for stuff i started and either did or didn't post to ffn.

and its like. nothing is bad??? like i can see where my outside-the-box ideal of fic writing comes from. not just fics but writing in general, i'm p sure. even if it's a total cliche plot setup, there are details on each that rly make it stand out like oh yeahhhhhh i did have this great idea once upon a time.

funny too bc was it executed well in prose??? no absolutely not i wrote like shit when i was 15. would i revive an idea one day and revise it to be less cliche or cringy while still keeping the stand-out elements??? yea maybe. i might. everything i'm currently working on that i started from 2021 up to now still holds my supreme interest, but like i'm not gonna say never.

esp since i write fic first and foremost for my own need and specifically what i like to read, it makes it impossible to consider an idea i've thought extensively about "not worth writing anymore". anyway not making this too long i jus found everything interesting to consider

[chiisana-lion]

havign briefly been overcome by the much love and nostalgia i have for a dearest actually kind of mid childhood pkmn manga its kind of funny to think abt that yeah. i did draw close to nothing but it exclusively for three or four years huh. maybe even more. and the amnt of people ive met and known through it that have either remained or long since moved on/lost touch with is nothing to scoff abt and i still talk to many on occassion

and then here i am now with a brand new different kind of people i interact with/that know of me who probably are unaware i was (am) kind of overly attached to this very specific manga that it was my personality for a good chunk of my online life til now. you have no idea

[perenlop]

maybe its the presentation like i said and also that ive muted the game and turned off battle animations so it goes faster but man. im coming to the brutal realization that my kanto issues probably dont stem from gen 1 as much as they do with pokemon yellow

[mythgirlimagines]

Yellow, emerald and who are nb pokespe ocs?

the character revealed for the SV arc! Since they're not really based on the male or female protags- as OP points out- they can qualify as one of the (few) pokespe OCs!

I'm really excited for this arc and to learn more about them :D

[r4zzberry-reblogz]

@cisher-galathem @rvbyaoi @sheepiemenace @exbo @salty-herba-mystica

Hey, don't cry. Five thousand fanfic daydream scenarios inside your head about the super-obscure fictional character you've latched onto like an orphaned duckling, okay?

[a-spes]

It is a random thought but, please, tell me that I am not the only one thinking that Wanda would give the absolute best head scratches in the world?

—

Imagine, you are coming home after a particularly hard, and exhausting, day at work. When you get home, the first thing you notice is that Wanda came back before you, something that rarely happens.

From then, the only thing you can think about is how bad you want to be close to her, how much you need her. You precipitately get rid of your shoes, not even taking the time to put your bag away, just dropping it in the entrance.

A second later, you are letting yourself plop on the sofa, where she is sitting, your head finding her lap to be the perfect place to rest. Immediately, you can feel one of her hands — the one that is not holding her cup — coming down to your scalp, and her fingers gently scratching it.

She is not paying much attention to you, her gaze is fixated on the sitcom that is playing on the TV, but you are fine with that, finding comfort in the silence.

“my baby had a rough day, uh?” she would eventually ask, but not before the end of the episode she was watching. By the time, you would already be half asleep.

—

I mean, look. at. those. hands.

I already know that some of your dirty minds are thinking about sometimes else, but let those thoughts aside for a moment to think about the head scratches, just the head scratches.

[rivalkieran]

For the shipping bingo.. (spe) crystal and silver? Im curious cuz people never ever mention it tbh

I prefer johtoship over solo specialjewel but theyre cute I like them :)

[nereidprinc3ss]

please don't say you love me

in which fwb!spencer reid and fem!reader get into an argument about the nature of their relationship.

18+ (implied intimacy) warnings/tags: friends with benefits arrangement, it goes bad, reader is so clearly anxious avoidant, reader is so me-coded, self-loathing, difficulties with emotional intimacy, arguing, derek and penelope make an appearance woo, a little dramatic, no happy ending (a nereidprinc3ss first!) a/n: it happened guys I stopped writing for a few days and last night randomly was inspired to finish this fwb piece and it essentially turned into a vent and went a completely different direction than i thought it would but here we are!!! i hope you enjoy, I loved writing, ilysm

“Are you reading it? Did you get to the part yet?” You ask, buzzing as you peer around Spencer’s arm to see where he’s at in the book you’d handed him. Sometimes you think it takes him longer to flip the pages than to read them. 

He doesn’t answer, but you see the flickering quirk of his lip like something is amusing him. It’s been a few minutes and he’s maybe halfway through. He has to have seen it by now. 

You’re clinging to his arm, eyes darting pointlessly between the text and his face, searching for a reaction. It comes in the form of a furrowed brow, a disbelieving smile, and something between a barking laugh and an exclamation of, “what?”

“You read it?”

His eyes narrow and he flips back a page, taking a bit longer to reevaluate. 

“Our moans and grunts drowned out the screams of the dead and dying only a few hundred feet away.”

You giggle furiously, clapping a hand to your mouth when you snort, and you feel Spencer’s focus shifting to you, even with your eyes screwed shut. 

“And you read this whole series?”

At that you sober up some, still hiding the bottom half of your face and brows drawn sorrowfully as mirthful tears well. You’re slow to admit your guilt with a nod, and his expression is somewhere between horror and fascination. 

Your cheeks heat and you cover your face, laughing again and shaking your head shamefully as he ridicules you. 

“Why? Why would you do that to yourself? I don’t even know if I can be seen in public with you, that’s—” he’s haphazardly tossed the book back on its display table and grabbed your wrists, pulling gently and laughing too. “No, show me your face. This is—you need to explain yourself. This is unforgivable.” 

“No! I swear it was a morbid curiosity, I didn’t like it, I’m sorry! I—”

“Reid?”

You both freeze. 

It’s not the most dignified position, admittedly—hidden among the shelves in a bookstore, pressed too close to be friendly, his hands around your wrists. 

So you don’t mind when he drops them like hot potatoes and gives you a few inches of breathing room. 

“Hey! Uh—you’re—”

Spencer is looking between you and two other people at the end of the aisle—a quirky bespectacled blonde in a flouncy polka-dot dress and her taller companion, ripped and head shaved, sporting some impressive eyebrows. Right now they’re conspicuously raised—his eyes are also pinballing between you and Spencer. 

For a moment, everyone is just sort of… looking at each other. 

It’s a little bit… awful?

Finally Spencer clears his throat. 

“Um, what are you guys doing here? Just… looking at books?”

Something is off, and you feel like shrinking or running, but you just stay glued to your spot. 

In sync, they hold up copies of the same book—and it takes you not a second to place the author’s name, in imposing red font at the bottom like it’s important. Rossi. 

The pieces click into place. These must be Spencer’s co-workers—Penelope and Derek, if his descriptions of the team have served you well. Part of you is starstruck. Part of you is embarrassed. They’re clearly shocked to see Spencer with a girl in the wild, so you know he hasn’t told them about you—and why should he, you think, why should he tell his friends about the girl he’s been sleeping with for months now? 

Finally, the blonder half of the duo speaks. 

“You’re—this is a girl. That’s. Who is that? Hi! Who are you?”

She’s��literally pointing at you, eyes drifting between you and Spencer like it just doesn’t make any sense. Derek gives her a look and gently pushes her hand down. 

“Hey. That’s enough.” Then he offers you a polite smile, though you sense a bit strained, and his eyes too keep wandering back to the man next to you. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no! You’re not… interrupting…” Spencer trails off and you sense he’s looking at you and gauging a reaction but you’re just smiling idly at his friends and waiting for this to be over. He finally thinks to introduce you by name, and you offer a shy wave and a smile to your new acquaintances. 

Penelope points (that damn finger again) but this time it’s less accusatory, and stays below chin level. 

“Cool shirt. I love that band,” she offers genially. Your brows raise and you look down, trying to remember what shirt you’d tossed on before leaving Spencer’s apartment an hour ago. 

“Oh! Thanks,” you smile, and you’re relieved to mean it this time. 

Another frosty silence begins to descend, but Derek doesn’t let it settle so much this time, to everyone’s satisfaction. 

“Alright, well. It was nice to meet you. Enjoy your date.”

There’s too much weight on the last sentence, and Derek gives Spencer a eyebrows-raised-meaningfully look you don’t understand. You’re just glad Spencer keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t immediately insist that it’s not a date, because it’s not, and that’s fine, but the vehement denial would bum you out. 

The pair walk away in the kind of clenched silence that means they’ll start fervently whispering as soon as they are out of ear shot. You watch their retreating figures and chew your lip, sensing that the carefree and playful energy of five minutes ago will have evaporated by the time you turn back to face your companion. 

“Strange,” you murmur, mostly to yourself, and you’re slightly jarred when Spencer replies from beside you. 

“Which part?”

All of it. 

Turning to face him, you smile, and it doesn’t reach your eyes but it doesn’t need to. 

“Oh—nothing, sorry.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, only stares at a point somewhere above your head and narrows his eyes like he’s thinking unpleasant thoughts. 

“Was I an asshole, to you, just now?”

It’s unexpected. You don’t have an answer prepared, so you say something that feels like a lie because you can’t prove that it’s not the truth. 

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“I just… I don’t know. I get weird around them, sometimes. I don’t always know what to say, like, when my personal life and my work life intersect, because for a long time I didn’t really have a personal life. And I think they still think I don’t know how to talk to girls, so…”

“You don’t know how to talk to girls,” you remind him. “Let’s go look at the puzzles.”

Maybe you spend too much time with Spencer Reid. Maybe that’s the problem—too long in his presence and he’s eating away at your neural tissue like you’ve got cysticercosis and he’s the T. solium (a terrible thing he had explained to you a few weeks ago.)

Maybe you need a break from him, to stop breathing his air and sleeping in his bed and wearing his clothing, because you’re forgetting that he’s not the entire world and that is a very bad thing to forget in a situation like yours. The entire world cannot be the size of his apartment. 

But you also just like him so much. As a friend, of course. That goes without saying. You like his strange sense of humor, and the way he lights up when you ask him an obscure question. You like your legs across his lap while you watch his old shows. You also like being kissed by him, and hugged by him. You like being taken care of like no one has ever taken care of you, and you like the way he always touches you, soft and kind and so on purpose. 

You never meant to like him so much. 

This affection—it has grown, insidious and parasitic, and now that it’s been pointed out to you like a lump in your side, it’s impossible to ignore. 

What you and Spencer have works precisely because you’ve kept things platonic and casual. That way, there’s no worrying about emotional baggage or arguing about feelings because there are none to be found and no precedent that any such things should or need to occur. You can’t hurt each other’s feelings if your feelings aren’t on the table. 

So why can’t you stop thinking about earlier?

Why can’t you help caring that he’s been keeping you a secret from the people he loves most?

“So, essentially the book is his first deep dive into meta-fiction. It was pretty revolutionary at the time, and while not his most celebrated novel, I’d argue it was his most relevant and culturally pervasive. I’d actually love to hear your interpretation of the story—it’s truly different for everyone. It’s a little like… like a literary Rorschach test. Do you wanna borrow it?”

You’re a tangle on his bed—arms, legs, sheets—it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins. All you’re sure of is his hand, tracing his fingers in chaste lines, feather-light up and down your inner thigh in the way he knows you like. Usually it’s so soothing you melt and fall asleep within minutes. Right now it’s only stoking some sparking electrical fire in your chest—the buzzes and bursts from which have you on edge. Ready to cave in at any second. You wish you could relax. You’ve been trying.

Spencer is in no hurry for you to respond, and so doesn’t seem to mind when it takes you a long while to find your answer. 

“I think I need to go home.”

It comes out too scratchy, as you haven’t really spoken for several hours. Not as casual as you were going for. He angles his head down toward you and his hand stops and you realize it’s actually worse like that. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah! Everything is fine, I just… I wanna sleep in my own bed tonight, I think.”

It’s late and you shouldn’t be making him drive you across town, but he’s always amenable to what you want. This is the longest you’ve ever stayed at his place, after all—a rare long weekend—and before that a few weeks had passed with no cases to speak of, during which time you’ve been staying with him more and more. Spencer seems to be completely content letting you eat his food and use his shower if it means you don’t leave. 

“I know the feeling well,” he admits, and your heart twinges with the care he takes to not bump or bend you or pull your hair as he shifts. He’s already been out of bed, and so is more dressed than you. Really, most people on the planet are more dressed than you, and you pull his nice sheet higher up your chest as he sits on the edge of the mattress, looking down at you and with a sort of worry in his eyes. He finds your knee through the fabric. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been quiet.”

Stop paying such close attention, you want to tell him. And in the same breath, please don’t ever look away. 

“I’m… good.”

It is easily the least convincing performance of your life. Either you’re self sabotaging or you want him to push you further, and you don’t know which is worse. 

When his brow ramps just the slightest bit, you know you’ve fumbled it. 

“I don’t believe you.”

You shrug. “I don’t need you to.” And then you sit up, still holding the sheet to your chest. “Can you hand me a shirt?”

Enough clothing has accumulated around the room recently that he could pretty much reach out in any direction and find something for you to wear.  He grabs a sweatshirt hanging from the bedpost and holds it out for you, and you pull it over your head, before dropping your feet onto the cool wooden floor and grabbing the first bottoms you see—a pair of floral pajama shorts. How have so many of your clothes ended up at his apartment?

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

You scoop your bag up from a chair and flit around the room, haphazardly stuffing away discarded clothing to take back home. It’s true that it’ll be nice to get back to your stuff—your shower products and your closet and your silk pillow cases. You shouldn’t be spending so much time here. It’s not your space and you’ve been sacrificing your own needs to be closer to him, which is something you’d rather not do for any man. 

“You can drive me home. I’ll send you gas money.”

“You don’t need to send me gas money,” he says, tacking your name on to the end of the sentence in a way that raises your hackles instantly. 

“Yeah, I do. You drive me around constantly. I’ll pay you back and start taking the metro, or something.”

“I don’t want your money,” he scoffs. 

“Fine. Then I’ll call a car.”

“That’s unnecessary. I’m happy to drive you.”

“Why?”

Silence hangs. Spencer has by this point stood up, and he’s watching you with a furrowed brow and slightly parted lips like he doesn’t understand where this animosity has come from. Honestly, you’re not entirely sure either. You didn’t realize you were harboring so much of it. 

“Am I supposed to see you as an inconvenience?”

“I’m not your responsibility.”

“No. You’re not. We have a relationship and I don’t mind doing things for you.”

“You’re not my boyfriend.”

You didn’t mean to say it, but you sure as hell were thinking it. 

It feels good to say, like stretching a sore muscle beyond its limits or pressing into a bruise until you get past the ache. Sometimes when things hurt, it’s best to feel the pain and move on. 

He looks absolutely perplexed, the lines between his brows only ditching deeper. 

“Is that what this is about?”

“Oh my god, Spencer, no, I don’t care—”

“Because earlier at the bookstore I asked you if I was being an asshole and—”

“I do not give a fuck about earlier at the fucking bookstore!”

It’s too late to be yelling, but he doesn’t scold you. He just sort of looks at you, like you’re something mildly unpleasant. It makes you feel worse. 

A long moment goes by. 

“Fine. I’ll take you home.”

You let him brush past you, nothing more than a breeze on your shoulders as he disappears from the darkened bedroom. For a moment, you can’t follow him. All you can do is stand there and try to contain that sour, stinging, crying feeling in your eyes and nose because there’s no reason for you to be crying right now. 

From the living room, he calls, rather abrasively, “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” you huff, and it is as wavering as it is insolent, so obviously the only word holding back a full-fledged deluge of tears. 

One minute. One minute to sniffle and take deep breaths and wipe abashedly under your eyes because you refuse to be dramatic about this. Refuse to get over-emotional. You will not let it matter this much to you. 

When you decide you can show your face without making a scene, you march out of his bedroom and straight past where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, keys in hand, to the front door. 

He doesn’t move. You burn smoking holes into the dark wood of the door with your eyes, and the two of you are apparently at an impasse. 

“I’m ready,” you eventually snap, always the impatient one between the two of you, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. 

“I’m not.”

“You said you would—”

“I know what I said,” Spencer cuts you off and shuts you up, “and I changed my mind. I’d prefer to talk about it before I take you home.”

By the time he finishes the sentence you’re already wrestling your phone from the depths of your bag in search of a ride sharing app. 

“Okay, well I’m done talking because I don’t think there’s anything to talk about, so—”

“No, you’re done talking because this is what you do. You can never admit it when you want something because that would mean acknowledging that you’re a human being with emotions, and that’s too scary for you.”

Surely you misheard him. You turn around, a deep frown contorting your features. 

“Excuse me?”

He only looks at you in that expectant, knowing way of his. 

“It’s too scary so you run away. You’d rather burn your relationships to the ground and rebuild them with a new person every time than actually let someone in.”

“You don’t know me!” You yell.

“Do you actually think that’s true?” Spencer says, pushing off his perch against the counter, voice shrilling and raised slightly as he gets visibly agitated. “You think I’ve spent hours upon hours with you and I don’t know you at all?”

“You have no idea what I’m like in a relationship because this isn’t one. You have no fucking idea what I want, so do not presume to,” you seethe. 

“You want a relationship. You wanted my friends to know you and you didn’t tell me that because you’re fucking terrified of the fact that I do know you. You can’t stand the idea that regardless of how many times you tell yourself it’s just sex, you have been vulnerable with me, and you’ve told me things you’ve never told anyone before, like why your last three relationships really ended, and how you constantly self-sabotage when you’re on the verge of getting what you want because you think you don’t deserve it.”

“Shut up!”

“No. I’m not just going to let you walk away from me like you did everyone else who could’ve ever cared about you because I know once you walk out that door you’ll stop responding to my calls and texts and I’ll never see you again, which is a juvenile pattern and completely unsustainable if you don’t want to keep pushing people away for the rest of your life!”

“God, Spencer, stop!” You sob, staggering back like you’ve been stabbed. 

The urgency, the raw, desperate scratch of your voice, stops him in his tracks. 

Every place an arrow penetrated a chink in your armor aches, and it hurts so much worse because he knew exactly where they were. You don’t know when or how it happened, but he’s right. Despite your most valiant efforts, Spencer Reid knows you. Somehow he crept in and grew over every limb like ivy. It’s crawled over your feet and up your legs and it’s keeping you there, rooted in place in his apartment, sobbing silently into the crook of your arm because you feel utterly paralyzed with fear. 

Just as he’d said. 

It’s silent for a long stretch of time, unquantifiable the same way the distance between the beach and the horizon is unquantifiable. It’s sprawling and infinite and desolate. The only relief from the drowning quiet is the occasional gulp of air or gasp from you which furthers your humiliation. 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer finally whispers, soft and unsure like rays of weak sunlight over staggered tides, in the grey morning after a raging storm. It’s an attempt. It’s earnest and afraid. 

The energy radiating off of him is so tangible that you can sense his desire to come near. To hold you. But that would be your worst nightmare come to fruition. This—this warbling and crying in front of him in silence in his dark apartment is god-awful enough. But to be comforted? For him to bear witness up close and personal to your humility and your ugly, jagged pieces—that inspires true catatonia. That is everything he said you were afraid of, and he was right. 

You resent your human nature, and the fact that you care how his friends look at you and that it stung when they did so with little more than apathy. You hate that you care that he hasn’t told them about you. You hate that you feel so unimportant—because more than anything, you want to be fine with being unimportant. 

You want to be fine. Constantly. 

You hate that you feel. You hate that you care. 

But you always have. And so fucking deeply. 

Somehow, Spencer Reid is the only one who has ever noticed. 

Eventually, his self-restraint snaps and he surges forward at the same time as you take a shuddering inhale and step back. 

“Please don’t touch me,” you whisper. Afraid that if he did, his fingers would only sink into your flesh like decaying fruit. That you would disintegrate in his hands, and he’d finally see you’d been rotten the whole time. 

He speaks softly, holding his hands up to show you he’s not a threat. 

“Okay. I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“I need to go home.”

“I’ll—”

“No. I don’t want a ride. I’ll get a car.” You speak quietly. Efficiently. There’s no point in pretending this doesn’t feel catastrophic anymore. 

His brows furrow. Like a moth to flame, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, he draws nearer again. 

“I’m not comfortable with you on the street at this hour.”

“I’ll wait in the lobby,” you insist, pleading, a wounded animal, because he doesn’t seem to understand how every casual notion of kindness is a violence, how he’s ripping into you and making it so you’ll never be able to put yourself back together. He can’t be kind like you’re easy to be kind to. 

If you’re easy to be kind to, you are just as easy to hurt. Accepting that kindness is a sort of vulnerability you feel you can’t afford right now. 

Another moment of silence, of stillness, as if you’re both bolted to the ground where you stand. 

When he speaks it’s a blow to the chest because you’ve made him cry too. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, quietly, and a venomous self-hatred drips down your throat. Because you’re doing it again.

Maybe this is all you will ever be. 

You fail to stifle a sob and Spencer steps closer still, saying your name desperately and so quietly like it’s his last rite. 

And you try. You try harder than you ever have to stay in one place, to get a hold of your vibrating and to swallow all those slithery feelings and ignore every alarm telling you to panic when he reaches out to touch your arm because it’s never safe to let people in. But when his hand finally brushes you, it’s like a cow prod. You jolt backward. 

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” you whisper all in one harrowed breath, and there’s so much you’d like to say—you’re right, about everything, you do know me, you know what I want, I tried, I’m ashamed—but none of it matters. None of it is enough. He’s backed you into a corner of your own making, and the only way out is by pushing him aside even if it hurts you both. 

So you don’t say anything else. You leave him there, in the dark of his own apartment, and you disappear down the hall. 

Maybe this is all you will ever be.

[a-spes]

And you are not hard to love, no one is.

You are lovable.

[biboywoofz]

SOUNDGASM AUDIOS (fauxcest edition)

none of them belong to me, all credit to the VAs and scriptwriters.

this are just my personal favorites, I thought I'd share them with you <3 (mostly m4m and f4m, mostly dom speaker and sub listener)

• DAD

[M4M] Daddy catches son jerking off [gentle] [anal] [cream pie] [kissing] lots of mentions of [son] and [dad] [sweet] [intimate] [reassuring]

A Jock and His Dad and A Jockstrop [M4M][rape-ish][incest][daddy][son][whining][whimpering]

[M4M] [M4F] [M4TM] Daddy's good boy gets DPed [gentle] [daddy] [incest] [trans man] [trans man] [fisting] [dp] [double penetration] [piss] [watersports] [whispers] [playful]

[M4M] Dad teaching son to bottom [sweet] [incest] [instructional] [kissing] [anal] [cream pie] [loving] (this one's a series but this one is my favorite obviously)

[M4M][M4TM][GQ][NB] Daddy's Pretty Boy

• MOM

Mom's Bed (this one's F/M | F/NB)

[F4M] Mommy Has Special Time With Baby Boy

[F4M] Watching Gay Porn with Mommy [Incest] [Age] [Caught you watching gay porn] [Don't be ashamed] [Anal fingering] [Holding you while you stroke] [Comforting] [Moan for Daddy in Mommy's ear] [Let's watch another one] (this one's also a series, the first and last one are the best in my opinion)

[F4M] On Top of the Mountain with Mommy and Big Sis (it says mommy and sis but it's mostly mommy)

[F4F] Mommy Domme Inspects Your Pussy [“Have you been a good girl?”] [Daily pussy inspection] [Soft-spoken] [Seductive and flirty voice] [Fingering you slowly and quickly] [Making You Squirt] [Tasting Your Clit] [Sucking Your Tits]

• SISTER

[F4F] Daddy will be pleased [Sisters] [Incest] [No Age] [Keeping it in the Family] [Daddy's little Harem] [Occult] [Fantasy] [Familial Exhibitionism] [Slight Fdom]

[F4M] Waking Big Sis Up To Breastfeed While Mommy Is Away [Big Sis][Incest][No Sex][Breastfeeding][Nursing Handjob][Gentle Fdom][Reluctant at first] but [“That Actually Feels Good…”][Fingers Through Hair][SPE][Tomboy][Good Boy][Script Fill]

[F4F] Big Sis Teaches You How to Feel Good [Fdom][Rape][Incest][Gaslighting][Comfort] [Fingering][Kissing][L-bomb][Praise / Encouragement][Size Difference][Virgin][Wet Sounds][Whispering] (this VA has such a big sis voice is crazy)

• BROTHER

[M4M] Your Little Brother's dirty secret! [Msub][Incest][I'm not gay, but...][Script Fill][Caught Watching Gay Porn][Kissing][Blowjob][Brothers to Lovers][Good Boy][Creampie][Filthy and sloppy][Dirty talk][Flirty][Boypussy][Femboy]

(I don't have many for the brother category pls forgive me for I have sinned)

let's hope they don't take me down for this

[cheswirls]

ahaha once again i think it's funny how mutuals work on tumblr and how ppl will literally follow each other to the grave. i checked last night bc i was curious and half of my muts are former magi blogs and none of us have made content for magi in years and yet i can still look at a url or a name if they've changed handles n be like oh!! magi mut!!! hell yeah!!!!

also i think it's funny that so many of us have more common interests now. whether this is by osmosis or Unwanted Exposure That Grows On You or w/e it's cute n cool to see that there's still common ground after all this time.

[rubyvhs]

day two : car sex (dean winchester) .ᐟ 18+ fem!reader

Dean waves at Sam as his brother walks away from the car and into the victim’s house to question her. All three of you thought it’d be best to split up, and since you and Dean are obviously you and Dean, you’re both together. 

You quickly step out of the car to get in the passenger's seat, and the second you do, you lean in to kiss your boyfriend. It had been ages since the both of you have had the car to yourselves, have had any time to yourselves. 

He seems to agree as reaches one hand to pull you closer and you oblige, nearly hitting the console between both your legs as you’re practically joined at the hip. He lets out a low groan in your ear and you pull away with a smile. “What?”

“I miss you ‘s what. Too many back to back cases, that’s for sure.” Yeah, well, can’t argue that one. Until you remember you’re outside your case’s house and quickly move back. Dean notices the change in your demeanor and chuckles. “Okay, yeah, let’s get to the morgue.”

And you’re not sure how you even got into it after hearing that, or how Dean managed to get hard, but the way the tip of his cock is teasing your entrance, slipping past your clenching pussy, he’s definitely hard. So fucking hard and wanting, “c’mon, sweetheart, gotta relax for me. Don’t know how I haven’t stretched out your pretty pussy yet— god, still so fucking tight.”

“Dean— ah, ‘s too big,” as if you don’t cry it out every single time. You’ll never get used to him being so much bigger than you, manhandling you, but most of all, forcing you open with his cock enticing way too loud sounds out of you that he has to swallow down.

“Still in the parking lot, baby.” He reminds you, his fingers brushing against your nipple roughly on their journey down to your clit where he rubs slow circles. He already ate you out, he doesn’t know what more preparation you need, but anything to get his girl there, to make this a little easier for you ‘cause under all that moaning and pleasure, Dean knows it might hurt sometimes. 

“I know, i’know Dean, need you to go faster though, please, baby, need you inside.” And he ain’t stupid enough to refuse as he pushes into you then starts rocking his hips back and forth, groaning into your mouth then he lands in between your shoulder and jaw, kissing every part of you to try and ground himself if even a little.

Having sex with you? Great, awesome, unreal. Having sex with you in Baby? “Fuck, sweetheart, so fucking good.”

“Too much— De, wait, wait,” he slows completely, worry filling his eyes.

“You okay? What’s wrong?”

“Can I— I wanna try something. Please.” Like he would argue with that. You tell him to sit up and he does, back against the leather (after he put his jacket under the both of you, Baby’s a national treasure), and you slowly get on top of him. Dean can’t help the groan that escapes when he feels your hot core slide against his dick, his hands shooting to your waist. But you don’t exactly have time for foreplay, so you adjust yourself until he’s inside you.

Dean’s eyes shut closed as his head rolls back with a grunt. Jesus, you’re so beautiful and there, riding him, slowly like you’re trying to find a rhythm but two minutes in Dean can’t wait for you to, he grabs your hips roughly to move you and you bite down on his shoulder only slightly, knowing he likes it. 

“Jesus, you close, baby? You gonna come?”

With his hard thrusts and fingers playing with your nipples, both of your orgasms are close— until oh God, finally— you let go with a scream that Dean swallows in a kiss, him bucking his hips into yours further. 

You’re still catching your breath, head laying on Dean’s shoulder, when his phone rings and he takes it, his voice thick. “Hello.”

“I’m in the morgue, where are you?”

“What morgue—” You slap his arm before he remembers, “oh shit, yeah, we’re there. We’re here— never mind, Sammy, we’re on our way.”

He hangs up with a breathy laugh and you pull away to look at him. “No wonder you spend all your time in this car.”

“Mm,” he hums, looking up at you, “she’s one a kind, isn’t she?” And you’re not sure whether he’s talking about the car or you.

[spaceroadtrip]

“Don’t you dare. I won’t lose you, Ellie-Bob. Not to this. Not when you’re only here because of me. I’m not going back home without you.”

“You won’t be,” Eloise says and her voice is strangely thick. “I promised Mum that I'd come home with you. So, I’m going to rescue Rebecca and the guys from the medbay and I’m going to bring all of us back safely. I promise.”

I'm shamelessly stealing this from twitter, but writers !! Quick, reblog with the last line or two that you wrote, no cheating.