#and like. the entire time i was there the WHOLE TIME

[tokoyamisstuff]

Random thought how good do you think each invincible variant would be at eating 😺 is there any of them who would be an actual munch

18+ explicit content

Sis, don't- it's not worth it...

Other variants under the cut!

Omnivincible is more skilled than most of them. I just feel like he's got a mature approach and wouldn't just mindlessly delve in like some horny teenager.

He'd take his sweet time, enjoying himself without necessarily wanting something in return. In general he takes great pride in causing you pleasure. Is also pretty creative. After all his strenght allows him to eat you out in positions you didn't even know were possible.

Thought you can only come once at a time? He'll prove you otherwise.

Movincihawk constantly brags about his 'superior technique' but at the bottom line he's not all that good at it, sorry.

It's not like he isn't skilled, but he's pretty selfish and impatient. Any kind of foreplay is not a priority for him in general, he likes to go straight to the point.

Fucks pretty well to make up for it though.

Sinister Mark acts like he's doing you a favor, but with how eager he buries himself between your legs it's evident to say he enjoys this as much - if not even more than - you.

This man pins your thighs apart and eats you out like a man starving. Your taste drives him fucking crazy, so yes it could happen that he bites down harder than he intended to.

Likes to eat you out on your period. No I will not elaborate.

Striped/Target Invincible is super vocal during the whole thing. His grunts and groans vibrate against your folds, he doesn't even notice the effect you have on him.

Hope you're ready for the whole range of dirty talk, mostly degrading but occasionally throwing in words of acknowledgement. Tells you how this is your place - beneath him, completely at his mercy.

Uses his fingers better than his tongue, but is fairly good at both. The combination will send you straight to heaven.

No Goggles Invincible is probably the biggest tease on the entire planet.

This man will push you to your absolute limits, reducing you to a whining, moaning, begging puddle of lust. But he's got no mercy, prolonging your sweet torture for as long as he can - you're only allowed to cum if he says you're done.

With him the thin line between pain and pleasure is blurred into a mixture of pure overstimulation, but goddamn it's worth it.

Viltrumite Mark isn't familiar with earth's customs of intimacy. In their culture, canonically, they solely have sex for procreation. Though we never saw Debbie complaining about Nolan either, so I'm confident he can learn.

Gets the hang of it pretty fast, and quickly grows insateable with this new form of closeness he never got to experience before. He's an absolute mess, almost breaking the bedframe as he pathetically humps the mattress, wanting more more more of you.

Needs lots of cuddles and to be told he did a good job afterwards, pretty please.

Prisoner Mark was in solitary confinement for over a year - prepare to be destroyed. R.I.P.

He'll dive in between your legs and won't leave this place until he's got his fill of you, which could take him a while so get cozy.

Not an inch of your body is left untouched, as if he intents to memorize every detail, just in case you'd slip from his grasp once again.

Be prepared to cum until your body gives up. Man's got to make up for the time he spent away from you.

Unmasked Mark is very gentle, almost cautious in his efforts as if you were a fragile flower one needed to properly care for or it'd wither. He still can't fully believe you're here with him, so he's extra anxious about doing something wrong.

You'll slowly and sensually be guided towards your orgasm, his eyes never leaving yours as he reverently observes your every reaction.

Expect some premium aftercare!

Fully Masked Invincible knows you inside and out, has memorized all the weak spots that make you sing for him. He is completely and utterly devoted to your pleasure, maybe even a little too eager in his efforts since he tends to forget himself in the process.

To him your body is a temple meant for worship, so you'd relentlessly get showered in praise and compliments while he explores your body.

Will initiate at every given opportunity, but never pushes it. He just wants to make you happy, really!

[oryou-condred]

Hear me out baby dragon Malleus and child Riddle meeting as a hypothetical

Cause the way you draw those two is either the cutest of children or CURSED CHILD

It happened beause... let's say time travel shenanigans. Malleus was sent to the future, landed straight into Riddle's head, and now, Riddle has fully shifted into Caretaker mode because he is fully convinced that Malleus is a baby. Let's also say this happens before he meets Trey and Chenya so he still has his 1 entire hour of free time.

I think that Riddle would try really hard to be rational about it, but man, he is also a kid that found a whole ass dragon. He is happy, enchanted, and he is having the best damn summer of his life. He can't tell it to anyone, because he has no friends AND he is sure his mom would take Malleus away AND he is sure the police would also just take him away, so he just tries to spend as much time with Malleus as possible and makes sure he has everything he needs.

They spend a lot of time together. Riddle believes he is finally making a little friend, and then, Malleus disappears. Magic is over, he is back in the past, but Riddle has no way of knowing this.

So, he just assumes he imagined the whole thing. Silly him, why would a dragon meet him like that? Those are super rare, and there are no faes around. He must have read something about dragon fae and dreamed something very sweet for himself. It's fine. He tries not to think about it. Hurts a little. Life goes on, regardless.

Years pass, he enters Night Raven and then...

...well, suddenly he is forced to remember that little lizard he met years ago.

[whosmariaaa]

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6 !

college! sukuna was indeed head over heels. he couldn’t stop thinking about you. you and your attitude, the way you didn’t take his shit. and maybe the fact that you were playing hard to get.

you were actually not, because you did not want him at all, and you hated his guts more than anything. especially right now.

“are you actually being for real? sukuna, the project is due in a week! and you haven’t done shit! you told me you would!” you told him in irritation. though you were growing more stressed than irritated. this project was a really big part of your grade, and if this wasn’t done right, you were screwed.

he was looking at your face with a lazy grin, though you doubted he was paying attention to anything you were saying.

“uh huh, just chill out, y/n,” sukuna shrugged, unbothered.

“chill out? i’ve been working my ass off for my part of the project, and you haven’t done a single thing!” you rejoined.

he raised an eyebrow. “are you sure? cause i’ve seen your part of the project, and it’s fucking shit—“

SMACK!

heads turned at the loud noise, but you couldn’t possibly care less. “i’m so fucking done with you! get your shit together! you finish your part of the project in two days, or i’m kicking your ass out!” you snapped before storming out of the library.

sukuna held a hand on the cheek that was starting to go a little red from the hit he just took. he wasn’t angry, or irritated. he just watched you go with a slight smirk.

no one ever dared to hurt sukuna and get away with it. that man was menacing, and could get people begging on their knees quickly.

but you? he let you. honestly, you were the most entertainment he was getting since forever. every single little thing you did out of anger, only made his infatuation for you grow. sukuna loved the thrill he got out of you.

two days later, he told you he finished his part of the project. which took a whole lot of weight of your shoulders, because you were starting to grow grey hairs at this rate.

and honestly, something in you told you to trust him. he had phenomenal grades, after all. so, not until a few hours before the deadline did you decide to check his part of the project.

you regretted it. spelling mistakes, grammar errors, nothing on the paper made sense. it was genuinely terrible. and suddenly, you felt as if you were growing grey hairs again. you called sukuna for nth time that hour, but when it send you to voicemail once more, you took it on yourself to fix this crap.

you spend your entire evening and night in complete stress, trying to fix what you could. and you eventually had to send it in, due to the dead line nearing. anxiety was surging through you. but maybe, the professor took mercy on grading projects.

the next few days, you avoided him altogether. no matter what he did or said, you ignored him and kept walking. you were too anxious about the project’s results to even start a fight with him.

and when your grade finally came in, you wanted to die. a 49%. all that hard work, and for what? and on top of that, now you were failing this class too.

after class you confronted him, angrily. but you struggled to conceal how you really felt about all this. you felt like crying, but you kept it in.

“you look pissed. what’s up, baby?” sukuna asked, leaning down condescendingly.

“what the fuck do you think? maybe the 49% on our project? you said you did your part of the project!” you retorted furiously.

he scoffed, “so? i never said i was going to try. i told you to not expect me to give a shit, didn’t i?” he taunted.

sukuna wasn’t taking you seriously at all. he just looked down at you with his stupid, stupid smirk.

you felt your legs go a little wobbly. you felt like shit, actually. and right now, you couldn’t stop the tears either as they welled up in your eyes.

“you’re a piece of fucking shit, sukuna! i hate you so fucking much! fuck you!” you snapped, your voice breaking slightly.

sukuna went silent for a moment at the sight of the tears pooling in your eyes, “shit, baby. i didn’t think you’d care this much,” he replied, though his tone was slightly less mocking.

you couldn’t take it anymore. you wiped your tears and got out of there. you couldn’t deal with all this anymore. and definitely not with him right now.

sukuna just stood there, with a weird feeling bubbling in his stomach at seeing you cry. he was quiet, with his eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“damn. what’cha do? cheat on her?” gojo chimed in, placing his hand on sukuna’s shoulder. but before gojo could react, he slammed him against the wall, and grabbed his collar.

“gojo, i told you to shut the fuck up about her. when the fuck are you going to get a hint? or should i beat the shit out of you first?” he threatened.

he felt himself get pushed off. “calm your ass down,” toji huffed. gojo just scratched his head. he was used to sukuna’s aggression, but not this kind of anger over a girl.

“whatever. watch what the fuck you say, gojo,” he warned firmly. gojo just shot his hands up in defence, “okay, okay. my bad. i won’t start talking about your girl again.”

sukuna’s eye twitched, but he sighed and just let it rest. he still felt like crap about you crying. he didn’t even know why, he made plenty girl cry before. but seeing you cry, made his heart feel heavy.

“fuck is wrong with you?” toji asked, though his tone was calm. sukuna stayed silent for a few moments.

“i fucked up,” he grumbled after a while. toji and gojo exchanged glances, not really sure what to do about all this. sukuna didn’t know either, and that made him feel even more shitty.

──★˙🍓̟!! hi babes!!!! thank you so so so much gor all the love, may God bless u all💞💞 and i’m so sorry i’m very busy with school rn i have a test week so pls forgive me if im a little slow w updates! ill also attempt to do a taglist in part 6, tysm for the patience!

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤUGLY LOVEㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Mark Grayson x Fem Reader Part 3

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : You couldn't do it anymore. You don't want this. You don't want this relationship, his love, him. And so you tried to end it...

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Mark was still holding you.

Still comforting you.

Still treating you like something fragile, something breakable, something precious.

And you couldn’t stand it.

You pulled away.

Abrupt. Sharp. Cold.

The warmth of Mark’s hands slipped from your skin, and for the first time tonight, you felt cold.

The sheets pooled around your waist as you sat up, forcing yourself to breathe, forcing yourself to keep the words from getting caught in your throat.

It was now or never.

"I want to break up."

The words came out blunt. Flat. Devoid of hesitation.

Mark froze.

Like the whole world had just stopped.

Like he couldn’t comprehend the words leaving your mouth.

"...What?"

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

At the wide, confused eyes. The slight tremble of his lips. The complete and utter disbelief written across his face.

And you felt nothing.

No guilt. No hesitation. No regret.

Just exhaustion.

"I don’t want to be with you anymore," you repeated, each word precise, cutting, final.

Mark let out a soft laugh—short, breathless, like he thought this was some kind of joke.

Like you couldn’t possibly mean it.

"...Y-You’re just tired," he said quickly, stepping forward, reaching for your hands. "I—I get it, tonight was a lot, and you’re overwhelmed, but—"

You yanked your hands back.

His smile faltered.

His brows furrowed. "Wait—"

You clenched your jaw.

Of course he would do this.

"You’re not listening," you muttered, shoving the sheets off you and standing up.

"Y/N—"

You ignored him.

Started dressing.

Pulled on your underwear, your pants, your shirt—quick, efficient movements, not looking at him, not saying another word.

But Mark was following you.

Hovering.

Like a lost puppy.

"Wait—wait, please just talk to me," he said, his voice rising slightly, cracking at the edges, desperation leaking in. "Tell me what’s wrong—tell me why—"

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t even spare him a glance.

You just grabbed your things and headed for the door.

But before you could reach it—

Strong arms wrapped around you.

Tight. Unyielding.

A desperate, suffocating embrace.

Mark’s face buried in your hair, his breathing uneven, shaking.

And when you opened your mouth to yell at him—

He cut you off.

A soft, broken whisper—

"Please... Please don’t go."

You froze.

Because his voice—

It was wrong.

Fragile. Trembling.

Utterly, completely wrecked.

And then you felt it.

The way his body was shaking.

The wetness against your hair.

Mark was crying.

"I love you," he whispered, voice raw. "I love you so much—I can’t—I can’t do this without you—"

Your stomach twisted.

"Please don’t leave me," he begged, pressing his face deeper into your neck, his arms tightening around you like if he let go, you would disappear. "I don’t care if you’re mad, if you hate me—just don’t go—please, I’ll do anything—"

You shut your eyes.

Felt his tears against your skin.

Felt his hands trembling as they clung to you, gripping your clothes like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

He was pathetic.

Completely and utterly pathetic.

And for the first time—

You felt sick.

Not at him.

But at yourself.

Because deep down, you had always known this would happen.

You had always known how much he loved you.

How much he needed you.

And still, you had let it go this far.

Still, you had taken everything from him.

And now, standing there, trapped in his arms, feeling his entire body shake against yours—

You didn’t know how to undo it.

Mark was seven years old when he lost his favorite comic.

And it was not just any comic.

Not just some random issue.

It was "Science Dog #1."

His prized possession. The one comic he loved more than anything. The one his dad gave him for his birthday, the one he read every night, the one he took everywhere—and now it was gone.

He sat on the curb outside the store, miserable, blinking fast to keep from crying.

He was not gonna cry.

He was not—

"Oi. The fuck’s up with you?"

A voice.

Mark looked up.

It was a girl.

She stood in front of him, arms crossed, chewing on a lollipop stick.

Her hoodie was too big for her. Her sneakers were busted. And her knees was absolutely destroyed—bruised, scraped, covered in Band-Aids like she got into a fight with a sidewalk and lost.

Mark blinked. "...What?"

She squinted.

Then—without asking—she dropped down next to him, legs sprawled out, rocking back on her hands like they’d been friends forever.

"You deaf?" she said. "I said— the fuck’s up with you?"

Mark’s brain short-circuited.

He just stared.

"...You cussed."

"Yeah?" She raised a brow. "And? Your dad gonna come outta nowhere and beat my ass?"

Mark frowned. "My dad doesn’t beat children."

"Well, mine does."

Mark had no idea what to say to that.

"Why you look like you just watched your dog get shot?"

Mark gasped. "WHAT?!"

"I’m asking why you look sad, dipshit."

After an awkward silence, he just mumbled, "I lost my comic."

She tilted her head. "Okay?"

"It was my favorite one," he muttered.

She let out a long, exaggerated sigh.

"Jesus Christ. You’re seriously out here looking like your whole family just got shot ‘cause you lost a comic?"

Mark flushed. "It was Science Dog #1!"

She froze.

Eyes widening.

Then—

"PFFFT—"

She started laughing.

Mark’s face burned. "It’s not funny!"

"Yes, it is!" She wiped a fake tear.

Mark grumbled, crossing his arms. "You're rude."

"And you suck!" she shot back instantly, shoving his shoulder. "Damn, you’re a whiny little bitch."

Mark’s mouth dropped open. "You can’t just say that!"

"Yeah? What are you, my mom?"

He gawked. "You smell."

"And you’re still crying over a comic book."

Mark huffed. "It was important."

"...Tch." She clicked her tongue, thinking. Then, she stood up.

"Alright, Crybaby, let’s go."

Mark blinked. "Huh?"

She shrugged. "I got money. You in or what?"

Mark lit up. "Really?!"

"Yeah, yeah, don’t nut yourself over it, Jesus." She cracked her knuckles. "Let’s go, before I change my mind."

Mark practically jumped to his feet.

He followed her across the street, into the tiny comic book store he loved so much, his heart racing with excitement.

The comic shop was small, but perfect—rows of shelves stacked with old issues, that perfect scent of paper and ink filling the air.

Mark immediately found the new Science Dog #1 reprint.

His heart soared. "I found it!"

But when he turned—

She was gone.

Mark blinked. "Uh—?"

Then—

"HEY!!! YOU LITTLE BITCH—!"

Mark jumped.

The store owner yelled from behind the counter, scrambling out of his chair.

And then—

SHE CAME SPRINTING OUT.

Laughing.

"RUN, LOSER!" she screeched, grabbing his wrist.

Mark didn’t even have time to react.

He just ran.

His legs scrambled to keep up as she dragged him down the street, the old man behind them shouting, "GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE SHIT!!!"

Mark panicked. "WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

"I GOT YOU THE FUCKING COMIC!" she cackled.

Mark’s heart stopped. "YOU STOLE IT?!"

"YOU SAID YOU WANTED IT!"

"NOT LIKE THIS!"

But she was laughing—laughing like she’d never had more fun in her life, gripping his wrist as they ran through the alley, dodging trash cans and stray cats until—

They finally stopped.

Panting.

Gasping for breath.

Mark was wheezing.

"You—" he gasped. "You—stole it—"

"Duh." She smirked, holding up the comic. "Here ya go, loser."

Mark stared.

"Don’t say I never did anything good for ya," she said, giving him a mocking little salute.

Mark hesitated.

Then—very slowly—he reached out and took it.

Held it in his hands.

It was real.

He looked back at her. "...Thanks?"

She grinned.

Then—

He saw the other two comics.

The special edition ones.

The glass-case ones.

The ones that were not for sale.

His soul left his body.

"YOU STOLE THOSE TOO?!"

"I— didn’t want you to feel like a broke bitch," she shrugged. "Figured I’d grab the good shit while I was at it."

"WE’RE GONNA GO TO JAIL!"

"Relax, nerd, no one’s gonna catch us." She patted his cheek. "Now take ‘em before I change my mind."

Mark wanted to die.

He looked around, panicking. "We have to take them back!"

She snorted. "Yeah, no."

"WE STOLE FROM HIM!"

"I stole from him," she corrected, poking his chest. "You just stood there looking pretty."

"WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?!"

She sighed dramatically. "Damn, you whine more than my little cousin." she shoving the comics into his hands. "Just shut up and take ‘em."

Mark stared at them.

Then back at her.

"...Why?"

She blinked. "Huh?"

Mark swallowed. "Why’d you steal them for me?"

She stared.

Then she rubbed the back of her neck. "...I dunno. You looked pathetic as shit."

Mark froze.

Before he could say anything—

She punched his chest.

Not hard. Just a light fist bump.

"Atta boy."

Then she grinned, stuffing her hands in her hoodie pockets.

"See ya around, loser."

And then—

She just walked off.

Laughing.

Mark stood there.

Holding stolen comics.

Heart pounding.

Mouth slightly open.

That was the first time he ever saw her.

And even though he was horrified—

Something in his chest...

Felt warm.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— NEXT ☆ Part 1. Part 2.

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, repost or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[littlesoulshine]

title: flashing sam

warnings: 18+, language

you’re both soaked in sweat and grime, adrenaline still sharp in your veins, lungs burning from the sprint through the darkened corridors of the abandoned house. sam’s pacing, hands on his hips, jaw clenched so tight you hear his teeth grind. he’s pissed. at you.

“what the hell were you thinking?” his voice is low but edged, dangerous. that’s the voice he uses when he’s trying not to yell. “you jumped in front of a fuckin' bullet, you could’ve—”

“saved your ass,” you cut in, breathing hard, heart still hammering. the words don’t really help. his nostrils flare, his fists clench and unclench, his whole body tense, radiating heat and frustration. he looks like he wants to shake you. maybe strangle you. definitely lecture you to death.

but fuck that. you’re still alive. he’s still alive. and right now, all that pent-up frustration is curling in your gut in a way that makes you all types of horny.

so you do the first thing that comes to mind. you grab the hem of your grimy, blood-speckled shirt and yank it up, flashing your tits at him, bare skin gleaming under the dim fluorescents, nipples tightening in the cold air.

“are we still fighting?” you ask, voice saccharine, and defiant.

sam makes a noise—somewhere between a strangled inhale and a full-body malfunction. his gaze snaps down, eyes going wide, mouth parting like his brain just short-circuited. for the first time in ten solid minutes, he’s silent.

“that’s what i thought.” you drop your shirt back into place with a smirk, turning on your heel, heart racing for an entirely different reason now. “next time, maybe say thank you.”

behind you, sam finally finds his voice, but it’s wrecked, hoarse. “you’re out of your goddamn mind.”

maybe. but you’ve def won this round.

tags: @soldiersgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend @figthoughts @sunsbaby @ambiguous-avery @bocadelinfierno @sunnyteume @bejeweledinterludes @k-slla @lunaleah @pieandflannel

[notenoughdramaaa]

Wow, and I thought my mom overreacted.

For context: My mom’s kind of a hippie. She was convinced I was gay since I was born. She tried so hard to be accepting that it pushed me deeper into the closet. I was so deep in the closet I wanted to propose to my girlfriend at the age of 18.

Needless to say my mom shipped me to college the second she could. Then I accidentally chose the most conservative state for school, met my over the top gay roommate, and ended up coming out to my mom when I brought him home for my birthday weekend. We weren’t even a thing at the time, but she figured it out in two seconds and went full crazy mode.

She wanted to throw me a Quinceañera-style party (we're not even Hispanic), she talked about putting up a banner on our lawn, she called my dad (who lived across the country) before proceeding to inform the ENTIRE family. It almost felt like I had won an award.

She even dug out old photo albums from when I was 16, decided I could’ve been a model, and showed them to my roommate (NO ONE IS CUTE AT 16) I spent my whole birthday weekend clarifying that I was bi, not gay, and that my roommate wasn’t my boyfriend (only for him to sit on my lap a week later, declare we were dating, and call my mom to make it official.)

It was awkward. I wanted to die. Then my dad called me for the classic "use protection" talk.

But after reading this shit, I don’t think she overreacted at all

i really hate coming out but still want my extended family to know, so my mother took it upon herself to invent the game “guess which one of my kids is gay.”

the rules are simple.

sit down with uncle so-and-so

he says something about gay people in passing

my mom says “there’s a gay person at this table right now. guess which of my kids it is!

he looks frantically between the three of us trying to figure out if she’s joking or not and trying desperately not to offend anyone but also she won’t continue with the conversation unless he makes a guess so he has to make a guess

we all enjoy his discomfort immensely

[rafes-slut]

rafe and squirting plsoksolsols

Squirting

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Female!Reader

Warnings: Smut, fingering (f receiving), squirting, overstimulation, dirty talk, praise kink, possessiveness, slight dominance, use of pet names (baby, pretty girl), Rafe being cocky/proud, language, reader is shy and inexperienced, Rafe loves that, slightly toxic undertones, safe word implied but not used.

You weren’t prepared for it.

You didn’t even think your body could do something like that—let alone because of him. And the way Rafe looked at you after it happened? Like he owned you. Like he was the only one who could ever make you fall apart like that.

Because truthfully. He was.

It started innocent enough—if being pinned underneath Rafe Cameron could ever be considered innocent.

You’d been teasing him earlier, curled up next to him in nothing but one of his shirts, legs bare, toes brushing against his calves as you claimed to be "too lazy" to do anything. He didn't believe that for a second—not with the way your thighs kept shifting, rubbing together, your lip caught between your teeth every time his hand landed on your thigh.

"You needy, pretty girl?" he murmured, voice low and rough, lips ghosting over your jaw as he leaned into you. His fingers pushed the hem of the shirt up slowly, grazing your hip like he had all the time in the world.

You swallowed hard, nodding, because lying was useless. Not with the way Rafe could read you like a book—especially when you were practically melting in his hands.

He didn’t waste time, guiding you onto your back, hovering over you with that smug little smirk like he already knew exactly what he was about to do to you. Like he’d already planned to wreck you.

You were already breathless by the time his mouth got on you—his tongue tracing slow, teasing circles that had your back arching off the bed. But it was his fingers that took it to another level.

Thick, long, and skilled as hell, they moved inside you in a rhythm that had your head spinning. He watched you the entire time—blue eyes dark, focused, full of this wild pride like he was watching a masterpiece fall apart right under him.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, thumb pressing into your clit in time with the thrusts of his fingers. “So fuckin’ good for me. You feel that? How tight you are around me?”

Your answer was a whimper, breath caught in your throat as your legs trembled, thighs twitching with every motion. You felt like you were right there, like the tension in your core was about to snap—but it didn’t feel like it normally did. It was… more. Intense. Overwhelming.

“Rafe,” you gasped, fingers digging into his forearm as your body jolted with each curl of his fingers. “I—something’s— I don’t—”

His grin turned devilish. “You don’t know, do you?”

You shook your head desperately, overwhelmed and chasing that high, even though it felt too much—like you could barely take it.

Rafe’s lips grazed your ear. “Let go, baby. Trust me.”

And you did. Because it was him. Because the way he touched you, praised you, worshipped every inch of you—it left no room for doubt. Only the fire building in your stomach and the way his voice made your whole body respond.

When it happened, you couldn’t believe it.

Your body snapped, every nerve on fire as the wave crashed through you. But instead of the release you were used to, it was something else—something that left your legs shaking uncontrollably, your mouth open in a silent scream, wetness flooding down your thighs.

“Holy shit,” you gasped, panting, looking down at the sheets now soaked beneath you.

Rafe froze for a second, staring at you like you’d just handed him the fucking world. Then the smirk tugged at his lips, cocky and so proud.

“You squirted, baby.”

Your eyes widened. “I—I didn’t know I could—”

“I did.” His voice was low, dripping with satisfaction as he slowly pulled his fingers out of you, glistening and slick. “Knew I’d get it out of you one day. All me, huh?”

You flushed, chest heaving, still not fully recovered from the high.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple before letting his hand trail over your shaking thigh, smearing your release along your skin, watching it glisten in the low light. “Look what I did to you,” he murmured, almost to himself, like he couldn’t believe it either. “Fuck, baby, you don’t even know how hot you looked when you let go like that.”

You whimpered, still sensitive, legs trying to close—but Rafe slid between them, keeping you open, needy, even though you were spent.

His fingers ghosted your clit again, and you gasped.

“Rafe—too much, I—”

“You think I’m done?” His grin was pure sin. “Not even close. Now I know you can do that for me? I want it again.”

[animalphotorefs]

Quickly boosting the repository's Patreon! This is where the magic happens (aka where you get sneak peeks of upcoming photos, plus exclusive videos)!

The art reference project is run entirely on donations. Contributions from users like you make it so I can continue expanding the species and photosets.

Here's a quick cost breakdown of my recent day-trip to go add newborn elephant photos to the repository:

Gas - $75

Camera lens rental - $45 (needed for specific building/lighting conditions)

Zoo ticket - $26

Parking - $10

Food - none, brought it with me

Lodging - none, day-trip

Time - 6.5 hours of driving, 6 hours at the zoo

Total: 12.5 hours of time and $156 for day-of trip costs. All covered by one month of support from current Patrons!

What it contributed for site (online soon):

Newborn Asian elephant photos

At least five new species (insects!) for a whole new site category

Nesting behavior in red-billed hornbills

Two new amphibian species

Way better photos of a crocodile monitor than currently on the site

Wing references for California condors in flight!

Harbor seal banana pose, 1-800-r-u-slapping pose, and face/flipper closeups

Some stellar mountain goat shots

Right now the Patreon funds one day trip like this a month, as long as it's within a couple hours drive from my home base. My current goal is for the Patreon to reach maybe... 350 a month? $350 a month would let me travel further afield this summer - driving and car-camping a couple days at a time - to capture species not in human care in the PNW. Can we make it happen? There's a reptile place with over 80 species of snake I'm itching to return to... and baby bongos just begging to be photographed...

Thanks so much to all of my current Patrons! You're literally why I can keep doing this work and running the site.

[ineffabildaddy]

i find it baffling, and at the same time completely predictable, how so many good omens fans just don't seem to actually like aziraphale (especially ones on twitter tbh, but i also see it on here a lot). they'll almost never come out and say it, but the way the final fifteen is spoken about especially is a dead giveaway.

there are dozens and dozens of supposedly 'funny' posts whose only so-called 'jokes' seem to centre around the fact that aziraphale broke crowley's heart. do these people genuinely not think crowley broke aziraphale's heart too? in so many ways, in such short a moment?

crowley's a simpler character to understand, and because people are shallow and normative about looks, a simpler character to find hot, too, which is obviously a huge part of fandom. it's never been a surprise that he's the more popular character of the two of them, and generally speaking i do get that having one particular favourite is normal. but i still wonder how someone can say they love good omens if they don't love aziraphale.

part of me can't believe this behaviour is still something i'm seeing almost 2 years after the release of season 2, to be perfectly honest. this was something we discussed so many times in the wake of the final fifteen, and yet it's still such a huge part of the way fans engage with each other. it's kind of sad tbh. and i don't care if i sound mean when i say that if you believe crowley and aziraphale didn't hurt and wrong each other on the same level during the final fifteen, you're missing the entire point of that scene after you've had almost two whole years to analyse it

[libertineangel]

Whole lot of comments in the notes arguing about whether it really is the most influential indie of all time but the argument seems entirely rooted in the 2010s, like there's a whole era of indie development long before it without which the modern gaming landscape would not exist, like I think ultimately the title has to go to Colossal Cave Adventure (1976) but even if your criteria require some level of graphics you'd have to give the crown to Rogue (1980), maybe Star Trader (1974).

Still can't get over the fact that Toby Fox dreamed up a game ending, but he decided he wanted to make something a little less ambitious first, so instead he made the most influential indie game of all time

[reiding-writing]

Can you write something for Spencer and cold reader where they’re on a case and a police officer has been flirting with Spencer heavily the whole time and he’s just been laughing it off and being his typical self but reader is jealous and finally realizes she wants to be more than friends who kiss. Ur cold reader fics r soooo good btw like u ate.

MAKE IT OFFICIAL. /spencer reid/

the limits of your patience are pushed further than usual seeing spencer’s oblivious kindness whilst being flirted with.

cold!reader 1.7k flangst series masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | thank you girliepop 💅

You’re halfway through a sip of bitter coffee when she laughs again. It’s the same laugh she’s been using all morning—breathy, melodic, and entirely directed at Spencer.

It flutters too long in the small space of the precinct, stretching over the clatter of keyboards and the low murmur of detectives briefing each other. You tilt your head slightly, observing from your spot near the evidence board.

The officer—Mitchell, her name tag says—leans closer to Spencer than necessary. She rests her hand on his forearm, which should be a brief touch but somehow lingers long enough to make your fingers tighten around the paper cup in your hand. Spencer’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles at whatever nonsense she’s just said.

You press your thumb against the edge of the cup, hard enough that the cardboard buckles slightly.

“Wow, you’re really good at this,” she purrs, too saccharine, too eager, watching him fill out some report. “All those big words,” She laughs again.

You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling the sharpness of it cut into your skin. The burn is grounding.

Spencer just chuckles softly, light and disarming, probably completely unaware of how deliberately she’s touching him. He barely reacts when she pushes a strand of hair off his forehead, her fingers lingering too long for a casual gesture. His attention is on the paper, and he doesn’t pull away. Of course he doesn’t. He’s Spencer.

You glance at the clock. 3:37 PM. You have been here for hours. You’ve combed through reports, stared at maps, gone over timelines—and still, none of that has been as frustrating as standing here watching her flip her hair over her shoulder every time she speaks to him.

Spencer looks up and catches your eye. His smile brightens automatically, a familiar warmth in his eyes. But you turn away before it has a chance to land. You shove the rest of your coffee into the trash and stride toward the conference room without a word.

—

You hear Spencer before you see him. His voice carries softly into the conference room, spilling through the half-open door.

“Hey,”

You don’t turn. You’re shuffling papers across the table without focus, avoiding looking at him as he steps inside. You hear the faint click of the door closing behind him.

“You okay?” he asks lightly, but there’s that soft edge of concern under the surface.

You nod, once, briskly. “Fine.”

You’re not.

Spencer hesitates for a moment. You know he’s searching your face, trying to interpret the sharpness in your voice. He’s always been annoyingly good at reading you. It doesn’t stop you from keeping your eyes on the case files, scanning words you don’t actually see.

There’s a long pause before he speaks again. His tone is teasing. “You stormed out of the room so fast, I thought maybe you remembered you left the car on or something,”

You exhale sharply through your nose. He’s trying to lighten the mood. You know it’s meant to be endearing, but it irritates you instead. You stack the papers into a neat, rigid pile and stare at them.

“Why didn’t you just give her your number?” The words slip out before you can stop them.

Spencer blinks. “What?”

You don’t look at him. “The officer. Mitchell. She was all over you. You could’ve saved her the effort.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

You finally glance at him, and his expression is one of genuine confusion. His lips are slightly parted, his brows furrowed just enough to create that little crease above his nose. The one you’re too familiar with.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Your voice is flat. Measured.

Spencer’s head tilts slightly, blinking at you in that slow, owlish way he does when he’s processing. “She was just being nice,”

You let out a short, humourless laugh, shaking your head once. You stare down at the case file again. You’re gripping the edge of it so tightly that the paper threatens to crumple.

“She touched you like four different times,” you say, tone clipped. “And you didn’t seem to mind.”

Spencer frowns. “I didn’t even notice,”

Of course he didn’t. Because he was too busy being Spencer—kind and soft-spoken and so oblivious that he doesn’t even register when someone’s blatantly flirting with him. The worst part is that he probably doesn’t even realise why you’re angry.

There’s a stretch of silence. His eyes are still on you, searching.

You finally look up at him and hold his gaze. Your voice is steady, cool, and unyielding.

“I want you to be my boyfriend.”

The words come out without any warning. Blunt and matter-of-fact, like you’re stating a weather report. There’s no emotion in your voice, no softness, no trace of vulnerability.

Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. He blinks once. Then twice.

“What?” he says softly, and you can see the confusion flit across his face. Like he thinks he misheard you.

You exhale sharply, irritated by the way your chest tightens. You keep your eyes on him, refusing to look away, even when you feel the weight of your words hanging in the space between you.

“I want you to be my boyfriend.” you repeat evenly.

There’s no flourish to the statement. No tenderness. It’s clinical and cold, like you’re stating a simple fact. Like you’re asking him to pass the salt.

Spencer blinks again. You watch his throat bob slightly as he swallows. His voice is careful when he speaks, slow and measured.

“Why… are you saying it like that?”

You cross your arms loosely, feeling exposed despite your detached tone. “Does it matter how I’m saying it?”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Yeah, it kind of does,”

You clench your jaw. You’re suddenly aware of how loud the blood is in your ears.

“It doesn’t have to be a big thing, Spencer,” you say plainly. “I’m just… telling you what I want.”

His eyes are soft, searching. His brow furrows slightly, and you can tell he’s trying to read between the lines. You hate how easily he can see through you.

“Do you—” He stops himself and exhales slowly. He tries again, quieter this time. “Do you mean that?”

You scoff softly, feigning exasperation, even though your hands have curled into fists at your sides. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

He takes a half step closer. The warmth in his eyes softens into something gentler, something achingly familiar.

“Hey,” he says quietly. His voice is so soft it almost makes your throat tighten. “Your tone isn’t really… reassuring,”

You roll your eyes slightly, trying to keep your voice steady, unaffected. “I didn’t realise there was a proper tone for this sort of thing.”

But Spencer’s still watching you, gaze steady, almost too steady. His voice is barely above a whisper when he says, “You sound like you’re scared of it,”

Your stomach tightens sharply, and you hate how exposed you feel. You glance away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

“I’m not scared,” you say quietly. It’s almost convincing.

Spencer steps closer, slow and deliberate, until he’s right in front of you. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body, close enough that his scent—faintly woodsy, familiar—pulls at you.

“Then say it again,” he murmurs softly. “But… more— genuinely? Vulnerably?”

You let out a sharp breath, heart tightening. You stare at the floor, feeling your pulse in your throat. Your hands are cold and damp, and you want to shove them into your pockets, but you don’t.

You force yourself to look at him, and the moment you meet his eyes, your voice comes out barely louder than a whisper.

“I,” You breathe. “would like you to be my boyfriend,”

It’s softer this time, but the edges of it are still stiff and unfamiliar. You sound uncertain, and you hate it.

Spencer’s lips part slightly, and he exhales slowly, eyes impossibly gentle. He reaches out, carefully, deliberately, as if giving you time to pull away. But you don’t. His hand skims over yours, fingers brushing lightly against your knuckles, and his touch is steady, grounding.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You blink at him. “Okay?”

His mouth curves into the faintest smile, and his voice is barely above a murmur.

“Yeah,” He nods. “Okay,”

For a moment, you just stare at him, unsure if you’ve even heard him right. But then he’s leaning down, slow and deliberate, and your breath catches when his lips brush softly against yours.

His hands frame your face, tentative at first, as though afraid you might bolt. But when you don’t, his fingers settle more firmly along your jaw, thumbs brushing lightly over your skin.

And when you pull back slightly, breath unsteady, his eyes search yours with a quiet intensity.

“No one’s going to see,” he murmurs softly against your lips. “It’s alright,”

Your chest tightens sharply, and you hate how warm his words make you feel. You pull him down again, into a kiss that makes the papers on the table blur into nothingness.

And this time, you let yourself want it.

[sweetiebabielovie]

eddie joins

2k, daddy kink, praise kink, subspace, aftercare

“You like that, pretty girl?” Eddie whispers in your ear. With your position in his lap, he pulls back your knees even further against his. “You like it when your daddy fucks you like that?”

You can only whimper in response.

“She loves it, dontcha baby?” Steve grunts from above you. “Always takes my cock so well.”

It was too much. It was everywhere and everything all at once. And it was amazing.

“Pinch her nipples, Eddie.” Steve tells the boy holding you as sweat drips down his brow. “Her pretty tits get so sensitive.” His own pretty noises have you clenching around him, unable to control how your body reacts to him.

“These sensitive?” Eddie’s tone is almost condescending as his hands leave your knees in favor of your nipples, he pinches them roughly between his forefingers and thumbs. “He’s right though, prettiest tits I’ve ever seen. You should see ‘em from here, big boy. They jiggle every time you thrust. Pity I can’t reach down and bite them.”

Steve’s vocal, you’re plenty used to it. But Eddie? Eddie rambles. And it’s intoxicating.

“Daddy,” You whine. For what? You’re not entirely sure.

“Such a whiny little girl,” Steve pouts at you, “You want more?”

“Uh huh,” You nod, eyes squeezed shut. “More, more, please.”

“What d’you want, hun? Tell me. Use your words.” Steve pants. He’s got one hand on your knee and the other against the back of the couch you’re sitting on. “Be a good girl and use your words f’me.”

“My clit.” You beg. “Please, daddy.”

“Munson,” Steve looks at him, “Spank her clit for me, will ya?”

“Oh,” You hear the smirk painting his face, you don’t need to see it to know it’s there. “Slut likes it rough.”

You pout and furrow your brows. “No.” You shake your head against Eddie’s chest.

“Not a slut,” Steve speaks for you between thrusts, pretty eyes looking into yours reassuringly. “She’s a good girl. Isn’t that right?”

“Good girl, good girl.” You mumble as you nod. “Your good girl.”

“Oh, I’m sorry baby.” Eddie says as he kisses your temple, trying to rectify his mistake. “I’m sorry, you’re not a slut. You’re the best girl, I’m sorry.”

“Iss’okay.” You gasp. “You didn’t mean to, daddy. It’s okay.”

Eddie isn’t sure if he misheard you or if you misspoke, but the moniker makes his cock jump nonetheless.

“You want me to slap your clit, baby?” He asks, returning to Steve’s command. “Want me to make it hurt so good while daddy fucks you?”

“Yesyesyesyes. Please!”

“What was I thinking? Of course you’re a good girl, you use your manners so well.” His right hand leaves your nipple to reach downwards while his left hand stays put. “Didn’t know you two were into this kinda thing.”

“Don’t fuckin’ underestimate me, pretty boy.” Steve chuckles. He pulls back only slightly to stabilize himself as he brings the hand on the couch to your face. He strokes your cheeks so lovingly as he speaks. “You close, sweet girl?” You nod vehemently in response. “Eddie, I thought I told you to do something.”

“Your daddy’s a bossy pants, babygirl.” Eddie whispers in your ear conspiratorially. “Sir, yes sir.”

The hand that was unhurriedly circling your clit pulls away and comes back quickly, smacking your clit lightly. You let out a surprised ‘Oh’ at the hit.

“Come on, Munson.” Steve scoffs. “Our girl can handle much more than that. Harder.”

Another harsher hit comes down on your clit and your whole body jumps. “Oh!”

“You like that?” Eddie smiles, his surprise easily melting into excitement. “You want some more?”

“More.” You confirm. “Faster. Please.”

“Fuckin’ love it when you say please.” Steve growls as he thrusts into you faster. “Oh fuck. Eddie, please. Gonna cum.”

Eddie’s harsh swats at your clit grow faster and faster along with your and Steve’s moans.

“Daddy! Daddy gonna cum!” You squeal at the stimulation. “Please, please can I cum?”

“Just a bit longer, honey.”

You damn near cry at the refusal, but you’re a good girl and you always listen to your daddy.

“Come on, Steve. You won’t make the pretty girl wait, will you? You’ve been fucking her so good, she can’t help it.”

“So good, daddy. Always so good.” You nod along with Eddie.

“How much do you like it, sweet thing? How much do you like Steve’s big cock in your pussy, stretching you so wide?” Eddie’s goading Steve and you know it. But the way he pants at his words shows just how much he’s loving it. “It’s a miracle it even fits, it’s so big. You love daddy’s big cock filling you up?”

“Love it so much. Want him in me all the-all the time. Can never get enough.”

“Fuck!” Steve grunts as he spills himself inside of you. But he doesn’t stop his assault on your pussy, knowing you aren’t far behind him. “Fuck, fuck. Oh god. Come on, sweet girl. Come on, cum for me.”

“Come on, pretty girl.” Eddie moans, the scene in front of him almost too hot to handle. His hand smacks your clit even faster as you approach that precipice. “Cum for daddy.”

You tumble over the edge with a scream you barely recognize as your own.

It’s almost instant, the way you float away. Your eyes glaze over and you go limp in Eddie’s lap as the warmth of your post orgasmic haze washes over you.

“Oh, my sweet girl.” Steve murmurs as he gathers you into his arms, his soft cock slowly slipping out of your bullied hole. You unknowingly groan at the loss of him. “I know, I know. It’s okay.”

“Felt so good, daddy. Was so good, thank you.” You babble as your boyfriend dotes on you.

“It’s Steve, baby. Not daddy right now. Just Steve.”

“Steve.” You nod, nuzzling into his cheek. ���My Stevie.”

“Yeah, baby. Your Stevie.” Steve smiles, completely lovesick. “Lay back, hun.”

Eddie watches in awe as Steve lays you down on the opposite end of the couch, his actions oh so loving. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. His own need for aftercare makes him feel alienated. It’s his first time doing this with the two of you and he no longer knows his place in the equation. Should he leave now? Was this it? How awkward would it be if he started getting dressed-

“Eds,” Steve calls to him softly, breaking the ugly cycle of his thoughts. “Lick her clean for me?” He asks as he spreads your legs in Eddie’s line of sight.

“Really?” Eddie asks, both in surprise and exhilaration. Your pussy is a leaking mess in front of him and he can’t take his eyes off of it. Eddie’s cum from his previous round mixes with Steve’s and your juices and it paints a glorious picture. “It won’t be too much for her?”

“Just a bit.” Steve nods as he smooths out the hair stuck to your forehead. “But it brings her back. Be gentle, though. Kitten licks.”

Eddie lays down on his stomach between your legs and kisses your inner thighs as he settles in. He slowly inches towards your aching center. “Such a pretty pussy.” He whispers, placing a soft kiss to your puffy clit.

“The prettiest.” Steve agrees, he gathers Eddie’s hair out of the way for him and squeezes his shoulder gently. “I’ll be right back.”

Eddie languidly kisses and licks your folds, gathering all the evidence of the night on his tongue. He makes sure to be gentle, just like Steve said. He knows you’ve come back when your hands tangle in his hair. You gently tug him up by his roots and he obliges to the wordless command, crawling up into your embrace.

“Hey, pretty girl.” He smiles at you softly and positively glows when you smile back. “Feel good?” You nod and close your eyes, content. “Did so good, pretty. So good.”

“Thank you.” You peck his lips and he hums in gratitude. “You took care of me so well. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He grins, knowing that you caught onto the pun. “‘M sorry, by the way. For what I said.”

“No, Eddie.” You frown at him. “It’s okay, you didn’t know. I promise, it’s fine.”

“Okay,” He smiles softly and kisses you again, deeper this time. “I did good?”

“So good.” You nod at him, hands still tangled in his luscious locks. “Always knew you had a way with words, but damn.”

“Yeah?” He smiles pridefully.

“Mhm,” You hum and nod your approval. “Steve never finishes so quick.”

“He’s so easy to read.” He giggles.

“Tell me about it.” You laugh. “He gets this little furrow between his brows right here.” You thumb at the spot you’re referencing on Eddie’s forehead. Between the brows but a bit closer to the left one. “That’s when you know he’s close.”

“Stop exposing all my secrets.” Steve groans as he walks back into the living room. His arms are full of water bottles and a rogue pack of lemon biscuits he must have found in the back of the pantry. A towel wet with warm water hangs against his forearm like a butler in a fancy restaurant. “Gotta stay hydrated.”

“Thank you, Stevie.” You smile as you and Eddie sit up, your arms out in want of a water bottle. Steve hands you one and Eddie the other, placing his own and the biscuits on the coffee table.

“Lean back, baby.” Steve instructs Eddie, whose eyes stay on you as you guzzle your water.

“He means you, Eds.” You giggle as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, reaching over for the biscuits.

Eddie’s eyes grow wide as he looks at Steve, who only nods at him and gently pushes his shoulders back. Steve gets down on the floor and situates himself between Eddie’s knees.

He gently drags the warm towel over Eddie’s still semi-hard cock and down along his balls. “Want me to take care of you?” Steve asks, eyes all round and sincere.

“No, that’s okay.” Eddie shakes his head. “Twice is more than enough for one night, three times would be greedy.”

“No such thing.” You shake your head as you dust off your hands from the biscuit you stuffed into your mouth, coming over to drape yourself against Eddie’s side. “You did so well for us today, Eddie baby. If you want one more, we won’t say no.”

“Yeah, promise.” Steve nods as he cleans up his own cum from Eddie’s stomach.

“No, no, I’m serious. I’m not shy, I’d tell you.” He shakes his head. “It’s too sensitive right now. Besides, he’ll go down in a couple minutes.”

“Alright, if you say so.” Steve sighs, shuffling on his knees to come in front of you. “You too, sweet girl. Lean back, let me assess the damage.”

“Always so nice to me, Stevie.” You smile as you listen to his instructions. “Almost like you love me or something.”

“Yeah,” Steve huffs in amusement, “Almost.” He drags the other side of the towel against your inner thighs, the rough fabric getting cooler by the second. He cleans up what Eddie didn’t get and then some. “All done.” He pats your thigh and gets up, grabbing your hand to pull you up with him. “Go to the bathroom, then meet in my room, yeah?”

“Okay.” You nod happily, pecking Steve on the cheek and Eddie on the head as you happily strut off.

“Come on, let’s go.” Steve grabs Eddie’s hand this time and drags him upstairs to the bedroom. It happens so fast, Eddie barely has the time to think himself back into that spiral.

By the time the boys are settled in bed, curled up around each other, both in a pair of Steve’s boxers, you’re back.

“Oh,” You pause as you take in their outfits. “I wanna be matching, too.” You decide, and turn to rummage in Steve’s drawers. The boy in question only chuckles at your antics. You quickly shuffle into a pair of blue plaid ones to complement Steve’s choice of red and Eddie’s choice of black before climbing into the bed, making a place for yourself between them.

You curl into Eddie and nuzzle your face into his neck, Steve quick to follow and sandwich you between the two of them, his arm thrown out across your waist and onto Eddie’s to pull him closer.

Eddie doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring, but right now, he can’t bring himself to care.

[randomshyperson]

The Pinning Problem - Wanda Maximoff Oneshots

Summary: There are several ways to resolve the rivalry between the Avengers that does not involve fighting. Or, the one where Wanda Maximoff likes to be pinned down by her not-so-secret crush, and somehow this becomes the whole team's problem.

words: 2.944k | warnings: a lot of sexual tension, kissing, hints of rivals to lovers, this is a crack fic - nothing here can be taken seriously, another alternative solution for civil war that’s better than what they did, nothing explicit but hints of sub!wanda.

A/N-. I found this on my draft, had to translate, and I have no idea what was the inspiration or writing process but I thought it was so funny, so here it is. The name is actually quite self-explanatory.

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

In Wanda's defense, a sequence of events led to this unsustainable situation.

It probably started a year ago, when she had mind-tricked the team of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes and felt confident enough to try it on someone who was notoriously known for being invulnerable. It was the first time Wanda had been pinned against a wall by another person, and it was the most inopportune situation possible for any feelings other than anger and fear, so of course Wanda had never been so aroused. Things didn’t get any better after that, and in her interactions with you in the Avenger routine a while later, she would probably describe you as having some obscure desire to pin her against things.

In training, against the mat.

In the kitchen, against the counter or the fridge, with bad excuses to reach things or just because you wanted to see her blush or traumatize any team member present.

And one notable time, one that haunted her in wet dreams for weeks, against the door of the motel room you were staying in for one of the countless stakeout missions in search of clues about the Winter Soldier.

Wanda was never so grateful for a shared bathroom as the day she saw you in just a towel, hair and wet muscles exposed.

“Damn, wrong door.” You said with an innocent tone, but it didn’t seem like you had made any mistakes, the little smile giving away your true intentions.

Wanda, who had just emptied the bathroom for the next in line for the shower, clutched the towel to her body tighter, a nervous giggle escaping her.

She's never felt as powerful as she does now, using all her mental and spiritual control not to rip off those towels and grab you with the entire team to witness.

“Did you save some hot water for me, witchy?” You teased with your hand on the doorframe, too close for Wanda to breathe properly. She had to blink her concentration back, her brain barely able to focus on anything other than your inviting lips.

“Hm, I can’t say I have it.”

You lick your lips, a smile threatening to escape as Wanda's eyes followed the movement. "No problem, I need a cold shower anyway." That's what you said, using much more of her personal space than you needed to exit the room.

And for the next few weeks, Wanda could only remember that feeling, her fingers tucked deep inside her pants as she bit her lip to keep from whimpering your name to the ceiling.

The fight between Steve and Tony escalated into a catastrophe shortly after that, and Wanda had a little time to focus on other things.

That is until Clint picked her up at the Tower, and informed her that he had two stops to make. Ant-Man was the easy part, he was loud and energetic and kept Clint busy with excited questions about his life as an Avenger.

You were the proof of the gods.

With a leather jacket you got as a gift from Natasha hiding a band t-shirt that in Wanda's opinion, made you look like the most attractive person she had ever laid eyes on, you threw your backpack on the bench and squeezed in next to her.

You didn't have to press your lips to her cheek, but you did it anyway, as if you and Wanda were great friends, and you had missed her a lot in the last few weeks you hadn't seen each other with all the team's drama.

“What’s up, witchy?” It was so casual that Wanda almost believed that you two had a real relationship and not a history of arguments, teasing and staring challenges.

Clint didn't pay a second thought to the matter, he was stressed with everything that was happening to the team, and he was pleased that you were joining the fight, especially on his side. Having a demigoddess should mean an easy victory, and hopefully, without much fighting.

Staying under wraps in Europe until it was time to meet Steve at the appointed point was a minefield. Four people sharing a van, two of whom were hormonal teenagers, with some sort of battle going on over who would give in first could easily be one of the reasons Clint Barton wanted to stay retired.

Three hours into the ride, and Wanda let out another sigh from the backseat, and he had enough.

“I swear to god I’m going to make you walk all the way there.” The hawk warned, stealing a glance in the rearview mirror, quick enough for him to see you move your hand away from Wanda’s thigh. He snorted in disbelief. “That’s so inappropriate. And disgusting.”

“Don’t be homophobic, Clint.” You immediately retort, but the Avenger shook his head, chuckling reluctantly.

“I’ll tell your cousin what kind of things you do while other people are around you, young lady.” He threatened but you shrugged, an easy laugh escaping you.

“Good luck trying to slut-shame me to the god of fertility.” Your bratty response made Wanda and Scott hide a giggle.

Clint huffed in irritation. “What the hell, that’s not what I’m doing!” He defended himself, offended. “I just don’t want to be there while you make out with your girlfriend.”

You shrug. “Sounds like homophobia to me, man.”

Clint shakes his head indignantly, and tries to look at Scott for some support but the other just shrugs, with an expression that he agrees with your words. The Archer lets out a humorless laugh, and announces that he will stop for food at the next gas station he drives by.

When the stop finally happened, almost an hour later, Clint and Scott practically fled the car.

Wanda thinks she should have at least changed seats.

“Can I ask you something?” She ventured as the noise of the older Avengers talking grew more distant, as they were going to buy food at the convenience store. You hum in agreement, and Wanda swallows hard because she feels your gaze on her. “How did Barton convince you to join the fight?”

The question takes you by surprise. You change seats, and Wanda almost regrets it, but you do it just to look at her and it's more disconcerting than before.

“Why wouldn’t I join? I’m an Avenger too.” Apparently, you wanted to see her reaction. Sometimes, Wanda forgot that not everyone could read minds. Especially you, who, although you could resist any of her magic tricks, didn’t have the same abilities to do them on other people.

“I know, I meant…” She thought for a moment about the right words. “I just got the impression that Thor advised you to stay a little distant from things like that. He himself doesn’t seem to be around much for this kinda of… human and bureaucratic stuff.”

You click your tongue. “I’m human, Wanda. Half, but still.”

“I know!” she snaps back, her cheeks hot. “I just meant—”

“I know what you mean, I’m messing with you.” You cut her off with a giggle, gesturing slightly. “I’m flattered, you know? That you think I’m so strong and amazing, so superior to all of this.” You make an exaggeratedly theatrical expression, and Wanda laughs with an eye roll.

“Oh, shut up.” She retorts, and manages to make you smile too. The lightness of the interaction changes the second after this dialogue ends. You look at her in a different way, more intense and vulnerable, and Wanda swallows hard. She feels like she wants to say a million things at once, but it’s you who speaks first.

“You’re right though, I wasn’t going to get involved.” You say, your typical confidence failing for the first time since Wanda met you. “Diplomatic immunity and Asgardian royalty perks or something like that.” You joke with a weak laugh, but something about the way you’re saying it makes it impossible for Wanda to laugh, let alone breathe properly. “Clint only had to use two magic words to get me on the team.”

She swallows hard, her stomach flipping. “What words?”

You smile at the corner of your mouth, not meeting her eyes for a moment. And then you sigh deeply, and look at her. “Wanda Maximoff.”

The breath that escapes her is shaky and faltering, and you hold her gaze until she gathers her courage. You wait patiently for Wanda to approach, and you don't move at any of her hesitations, until she sighs and grabs the collar of your blouse, pulling you in with determination. Despite the urgency, the first kiss is not rushed. You let her get used to the feeling first, and pull away before Wanda has a chance to protest.

But when you dive back in the next second, you take control. Your hand cups her jaw and your mouth is hungrily against hers, teeth and tongue, devouring every whimper of need she gives you. You’re not immune to Maximoff’s charms either.” You gasp at Wanda’s taste, brow furrowed as if you’re physically unable to pull away.

But you have to, because Clint and Scott can't make a purchase longer than eight damn minutes.

The veterans climb into the car, and the archer turns to the back of the van to deliver the food and catches a glimpse of your disheveled appearances and uneven breathing and grunts of disbelief.

“For the love of god, I don’t even want to know. And don’t you dare touch my stuff!” He says, throwing the snacks into your laps as you and Wanda struggle to hide your giggles.

-&-

The plan was to sneak out, but Stark closed the airport. Steve's order was for everyone to put on their suits and follow him, but Wanda ended up trapped between the closed door of the van and your body.

“Everything okay, girls?” Captain America asked uncertainly, and without moving away, you forced a smile at Steve.

“Sure, Cap. I’ll just wish Wanda a good fight. We’ll catch up with you for a grand entrance, I promise.” It’s practically a warning that you’re going to do this regardless of Steve’s permission, so he clears his throat and waves for the team to follow him ahead.

The Avengers have barely finished walking away - she can still hear Clint complaining that the two of you haven't let go of each other when you lean your face down and kiss her.

She doesn't know what she expected, but she certainly doesn't feel prepared for this kind of kiss. Sloppy and charged with lust, just a few hours after she experienced the sensation of having your lips for the first time.

Your firm hands on her waist and the extra support of the van are the only things keeping her upright. Her wobbly legs gave out at the first bite of her lip, three kisses ago.

Between one gasp and another, and this because neither of you wants to let go, Wanda tries to remind you of what they are doing in Germany.

“We have to go. The others. The fight.” Each word comes between one kiss and another, and she’s not even trying to open her eyes, because you drag your mouth down her jaw and start pressing your lips to her neck with enough intention to make her arch her body towards you and forget the world around her.

Though you look equally affected, you manage to break the caresses with a husky chuckle. “Who the hell came up with the idea of adding a damn corset to your uniform, Wanda?”

The question makes her bite her lip, especially since she catches the way your gaze is fixed on her collarbone.

“I chose it myself. Don’t you like it?” She teases with false innocence, baiting you by puffing out her chest in your direction.

Your fingers reach up and pull at the limit of what the corset's laces will hold without opening, the gesture being suggestive enough for Wanda to tremble.

“I loved it, that’s the problem.” You murmur, evidently aroused, your mouth marking her skin again. “How do they expect me to fight with you looking like that around me. All I can think about is undressing you…” A soft bite on your lobe, and Wanda moans directly into your ear. “God, I could fuck you right here.”

“There’s no time.” She pants back, but your grip tightens a little and Wanda is sure that if you try to take her clothes off in the middle of this parking lot, she’ll help you.

“We can make time.”

But your whispered phrase carries a meaning she can’t ignore. She struggles to push her arousal away and manages to retort a hoarse “What?”

Your hands reach inside the suit's jacket, and move downward. Wanda gasps as she feels them on her ass, squeezing the flesh and forcing your hips together. The sensation is so delirious that she almost forgets she asked a question.

“We can kill time if we let the boys fight alone.” Your voice combined with all the attraction she’s kept secret for so long is like a siren song taking her mind to places far removed from Avengers intrigue, and more like beds or mats. Or anywhere you can press her, including this car. “Romanoff knows how to take care of herself, and the others wouldn’t even notice.”

“Yes, they would.” She retorts with a soft laugh before pulling your mouth back to hers. Kissing her again wakes something in you. Your hands go frantic, tugging and squeezing, and Wanda finds herself pressed completely against the iron door with one of your legs between hers. The softest press of your knee against her core makes Wanda gasp in a whimper.

You break the kiss to rest your forehead against hers. “You sound so beautiful when you make those sounds.” But she needs to put more distance between you, because she won’t be able to stop if she doesn’t do it now.

“We can’t.” She insists, one hand on your stomach to gently push you away. “Not now. And not here.” She sighs at the dark look in your eyes. “We gave you our word that we would help.”

For a moment, it looks like you’re going to ignore it, your lips brushing together, teasing away whatever sanity she has left. But then, you kiss her cheek and pull away, and Wanda would have slid down to the floor if it weren’t for van’s support.

“Okay, I’ll help.” You declare with a determination that makes Wanda swallow hard.

She barely has time to work on her appearance and has to rush to catch up with you, sprinting towards the team.

You missed the grand entrance - Things were about to start, and you interrupted a spider-clad teenager with an energy pulse that threw him away and kept him pinned to the ground.

“Sorry guys, I’m really busy today.” You announced. Everyone looked at you in shock, Tony seemed genuinely surprised to see you pick a team, and Steve seemed worried that you had changed your mind. When you started fighting with everyone, things got even more serious.

But Wanda didn't even have time to think about what it all meant; she realized that you weren't hurting them. You were bringing them together, to face them all at once.

Vision was probably the only one there who could do any damage due to the Infinity Stone, so she needed to keep him under control.

And with Spider-Boy safe and immobilized just like Vision, you screamed to the heavens.

“Heimdall, let’s take my friends for a ride!”

The Avengers only had time to widen their eyes. The transport was almost immediate.

Wanda closed her eyes, as shocked as the others, but the trip was actually smooth. While half the team was still fighting on the rainbow that led to Asgard, you held her by the waist, and the landing was calm and coordinated.

Steve was the first to approach you, as furiously as everyone else. “What do you think you’re doing? Send us back right now! We have to-”

“Sorry, I’m on vacation.” You cut him off, shrugging. Your hand is clasped in Wanda’s, who’s standing behind you.

The team all stands around, angry and surprised. Steve gives an incredulous laugh, but Tony actually laughs.

“Wow, that’s impressive, Rogers. Seriously, this time you outdid yourself in the worst decisions you could make. You didn’t think about what could happen when you called her to fight, she has the maturity of a ten-year-old!”

“Wow, and you can talk about maturity, can’t you Tony?”

You rolled your eyes, leaving them behind, cursing each other. Natasha was trying to stop King T'Challa from attacking Bucky, but none of them had a way out of here. Rhodes took off his armor helmet and was commenting on how huge Asgard was with Sam, while Clint tried to get a cell phone signal to warn Laura that he would most definitely be late. You think Ant-Man was trying to take pictures, but you got distracted by Wanda on the way through the Bifrost.

“Are we just going to leave them?” She asked, glancing at the irritated team.

You shrug. “Yeah, Heimdall will keep an eye on them. And when they calm down, the palace awaits. And you will see my royal chamber now.”

Wanda purrs, her cheeks flushed. “You’re getting pretty confident.” She teases, making you smile.

“I’m just inviting you to a late-night fondue.” You joke, and it’s Wanda’s turn to chuckle before pressing her lips against yours.

Some of the Avengers complain in the background but none of you are paying attention to them anymore.

[circledwithaheart]

Buck is a few shots deep (when did he switch to shots?) with his new bar buddy. An attractive older guy who, as it turns out, also used to work at the 118 under Captain Nash.

"You worked with Bobby?" Buck lights up and rambles on before the guy can answer. "That means you must've worked with Hen and Chim, right?"

The guy mumbles a few things that Buck can't hear, and probably doesn't want to, before confirming he worked with Hen and Howie.

"Yeah, right. Howie. You know he married my sister? Gave me the cutest little niece." Buck beams and pulls out his phone to show off the album of Jee Yun photos. And then the other thought strikes again.

They look about the same age. It's possible, he thinks. Well, it's not impossible. Buck goes to pocket his phone again, only he misses his shirt entirely and it clatters on the table.

"Sorry 'bout that, uh, so if you worked with them- did you, uh, work with, uh, T-tommy? Tommy Kinard?"

Why is the name that used to slide off his tongue so easily now trip and stutter like it doesn't belong there?

The guy laughs, not seeming to notice Buck's elocution issues, and takes another shot. “Fuck, I’m getting too old for this shit.”

He spins the empty shot glass like a top. “Kinard? Yep, sure did. One of the best partners I could've asked for. At least he got to leave on his own terms.”

Buck furrows his brow, something familiar scratching at the back of his tequila addled brain. “What, uh, what did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t,” the guy says matter of factly.

“But, you seem like a nice guy, so I'll tell you," he adds with a wink. "It’s Deluca. Sal Deluca.”

Buck's heard the name, a few stories here and there. Heard he moved to the 122, but doesn't know why.

"You transferred, right?" Buck asks cautiously.

The guy - Sal - shrugs his acknowledgement. "More or less. Anyway, I guess I better amend my introduction then. It's actually Captain Deluca. But Sal is fine. Or just Deluca."

"Buck."

Sal looks at him like he's got three heads. "Is that something new the kids are saying these days or...?"

"No, uh, 's m'name. Buck. Well, Evan Buckley, but you can call me Buck."

Sal studies him for a second before holding a hand out. "Nice to meet you, kid."

They shake hands and Buck thinks about the way Sal called him 'kid'. It's not like when Tommy said it. More like Bobby or Chim. Familial.

"Sorry to drink and run, but I gotta get home," Sal says, pushing out of his chair. "Wife's gonna kill me if I'm home too late."

"Oh, yeah. Sure. Maybe I'll see you around."

"Yeah, maybe." Then he's throwing some cash on the table and walking away.

~~~~~

As soon as he's out of sight, Sal taps on the camera app. It's probably a little unethical to surreptitiously be taking photos of the kid- Buck- but it's for a good cause.

Once upon a time he might have tried to pick him up, something about the kicked puppy look pulls at his heartstrings. Among other things. But now he's a happily married man with a whole brood to think about. Gina really would kill him, decorated fire captain or not.

He swipes over to messages and fires off a quick text.

Met your boy tonight. Christ Kinard he’s as bad as you. Should really put yourselves out of your collective misery.

It doesn't take long before the bubbles appear.

I did, remember? It's better this way.

Sal attaches the picture this time.

Better for who, exactly?

The bubbles appear and disappear again, until his screen eventually goes dark and no more responses come. Sal sighs and gets in the cab of his truck, contemplating another text, but ultimately decides against it. Tommy will talk when he's ready.

He steals another glance through the giant plate glass window where Buck is still sitting, sullen and lost, albeit with what looks like water this time.

"I hope it works out, kid, and he doesn't wait too long." Sal pushes aside the phantom acrid scent of a dinner forgotten in the oven while they fucked on the kitchen floor, the fear in Tommy's eyes when Sal asked when they could tell people about them. Because it had been months of sneaking around to each other's apartments. Of being more than just work partners- or so he thought. "Maybe he'll get his head out of his ass before it's too late this time."

[gf2bellamy]

Could i request getting stuck in an elevator with Spence after hours at the BAU and the lights go out (we all know his scared of the dark) and the reader is as scared as him because she's afraid of elevators (this is a genuine fear of mine) so imagine them trying to comfort each other. just some hurt/comfort ig? I live and breathe your content <3

scared — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: they're stuck in an elevator , lights go out , mention of claustrophobia a/n: hiii !!! hope you like this :)

"I don't think so," you mumbled, deep in thought as you walked beside Spencer toward the elevator. 

"I disagree," Spencer countered without hesitation, reaching out to press the button. The faint ding of the call confirmed the elevator’s arrival. 

You sighed, already anticipating a full breakdown of his reasoning as to why he thinks Hotch has been dating someone. "Of course, you do." 

Spencer turned his head slightly, giving you that all-too-familiar Reid look—the one that said, I have evidence, and you’re about to hear all of it. "Hotch has come in two minutes later than usual. Twice this week alone." 

You raised an eyebrow. "Two whole minutes?" 

"And," Spencer continued, ignoring your sarcasm, "he’s left work earlier than usual." 

The elevator doors slid open, and you both stepped inside. You smirked as you pressed the button for your floor. "Define 'earlier.' You mean, like, 2 AM?" 

"Actually, 1:30 AM," Spencer corrected matter-of-factly. 

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Right. Because that extra thirty minutes is so telling." 

Spencer crossed his arms. "Patterns matter." 

Before you could tease him further, the elevator lurched to a sudden stop. In the same instant, the dim glow of the overhead lights flickered and died, plunging you both into darkness. 

For a second, neither of you moved. 

"...Okay," you said slowly, shifting slightly. "Did we just—" 

"Yes," Spencer cut in, his voice unusually tight. 

"Okay. Okay," you whispered, your voice trembling. "We're okay." You repeated the words as if saying them out loud would make them true. 

Fumbling in the dark, your hands searched desperately until they found the emergency button. You pressed it. Once. Twice. Then over and over. But nothing happened. No reassuring buzz, no static-filled response. Just silence. 

"Oh my god," you muttered under your breath, pressing your back against the elevator wall. 

Spencer wasn’t talking. 

Your stomach twisted. "Spencer, what do we do?" you asked, your voice still unsteady. 

Nothing. 

You could barely see in the pitch-black space, but you knew he wasn’t moving either. 

"Spence," you called again, softer this time, hoping—praying—for a response. 

Finally, he spoke, but his voice was barely a whisper. "I'm sure it’ll work soon." 

That was when it hit you. His fear of the dark.

The quiet strain in his tone. The way he hadn’t moved an inch. 

Your fear of being trapped was bad enough, but his fear was the one you hadn’t considered. 

Swallowing hard, you shifted slightly, reaching out blindly in the darkness. "Spencer," you murmured, your hand brushing against his. He flinched, just barely, but he didn’t pull away. 

"You’re okay," you whispered, echoing your own words from earlier—this time, meant for him. 

A shaky breath. Then another. His fingers tightened around yours. 

"Let's sit down," you murmured, your voice just as unsteady as his. 

Carefully, you stepped back until your back met the cool metal wall, then slid down to the floor, gently tugging Spencer down with you. He followed wordlessly, his hand still clasped in yours. His shoulder brushed against yours.

"Are you okay?" you asked softly. 

Spencer barely responded, letting out a small, noncommittal "Mhmm." It was so quiet you couldn’t tell if it was a yes or a no. 

Your heart clenched. 

So, you did the only thing you could think of: you started talking. Quickly. Without pause. Not entirely sure if you were distracting him or yourself. 

"You know, I'm actually terrified of elevators," you blurted, tracing absent patterns over the back of his hand with your fingertips. It was meant to be a casual confession, but your voice still trembled. 

Spencer shifted slightly beside you. "Really?" he whispered. 

"Yeah." You exhaled a small laugh, shaking your head. "I hate being stuck in small spaces. Something about the walls closing in. And, well—" You gestured vaguely in the darkness. "Here we are. Living my worst nightmare." 

There was a pause, then—so quietly you almost missed it—Spencer said, "Mine too." 

Your hand instinctively tightened around his. 

Neither of you said anything for a moment. 

Then Spencer’s voice broke the silence, his words coming out in a rush. "The likelihood of something happening in an elevator is actually incredibly low," he began, his usual rambling tone filling the dark space between you. "In fact, only about one in ten million elevators experience a malfunction that leads to an accident. The technology has improved drastically over the years. In the last decade alone, elevator-related fatalities have dropped by nearly 70% due to modern safety protocols, like automatic brakes, emergency communication systems, and—" 

He trailed off, and you could feel the way his hand gripped yours a little tighter. His usual enthusiasm for facts seemed to be lacking the usual comfort he drew from them. 

You couldn’t help but notice the subtle tremor in his voice , so you gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. 

Then, he cleared his throat softly. 

"You know," he began, his voice still quiet, "statistically speaking, the odds of us being stuck in this elevator for more than an hour are incredibly low. Most malfunctions are resolved within 30 to 45 minutes. And, uh, even if it takes longer, we’re perfectly safe. The oxygen levels in here are more than sufficient for two people for several hours. Not that I’ve calculated it or anything—" He paused, and you could almost hear the faint blush creeping into his cheeks, even in the darkness. "Okay, I might have calculated it. But only because it’s interesting. Not because I was worried or anything." 

You couldn’t help but smile. "Of course not," you teased gently, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. "You’re never worried." 

"Exactly," he said and you could practically hear the awkward smile in his voice. "And, um, even if we were stuck here for a while, which we won’t be, I’d… I’d make sure you were okay. I mean, not that you need me to, obviously. You’re perfectly capable. But, you know, just in case. I’d… I’d be here." 

His words were stumbling, awkward, and so utterly Spencer that it made your chest tighten. You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him beside you.

"Thanks, Spence," you murmured. "That means a lot." 

He shifted slightly. "And, uh, if you’re scared of small spaces, maybe we could… I don’t know, distract ourselves? I could tell you some facts. Or, um, we could play a game. Like… 20 Questions. Or…" He trailed off, clearly unsure if he was helping. 

You chuckled softly, the sound easing some of the tension in the air. "20 Questions sounds good. But only if you promise not to ask me something impossible, like the atomic weight of uranium or something." 

He let out a small, nervous laugh, his fingers tightening around yours. "I wouldn’t do that. Probably. Maybe. I'll try not to." 

"Deal," you said, grinning despite the darkness. "You start." 

There was a pause, and then Spencer’s voice softened, his tone shifting from awkward to something warmer, more sincere. "Okay. Um… what’s your favorite memory at the BAU ?

You smiled softly, pressing your head against Spencer’s shoulder as you thought about his question. Your favorite memory at the BAU? There were so many to choose from. But one memory stood out, and it was impossible not to think of him when it came to mind. 

"My favorite memory at the BAU…" you began, your voice warm and a little nostalgic, "was that time you stayed late with me to help reorganize the case files after Garcia accidentally knocked over the entire shelf. Remember that?"

Spencer let out a small, breathy laugh, his shoulder shaking slightly. "How could I forget? Garcia was so upset she brought us an entire tray of cookies the next day. And then she knocked over the coffee machine trying to apologize." 

You grinned, the memory vivid in your mind. "Yeah, but… it wasn’t the cookies or the chaos that made it my favorite. It was you. You stayed with me for hours, even though you didn’t have to. And you kept making these ridiculous jokes. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that hard at work before." 

Spencer was quiet for a moment, and you could feel the way his hand tightened ever so slightly around yours.

"Oh," he said softly, his voice tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. "I, um… I didn’t realize you remembered that." 

"Of course I do," you said, your tone gentle. "You made a boring, tedious task into something fun." 

There was another pause, and then Spencer cleared his throat, his voice a little higher than usual. "Well, um… your turn. Ask me something." 

You thought for a moment. "Okay… what’s something you’ve never told anyone at the BAU?" 

Spencer was silent for so long that you almost thought he wasn’t going to answer.

But then he said, his voice so quiet you had to strain to hear it, "I… I’ve never told anyone this, but… sometimes, when I’m working late and the office is empty, I talk to the files. Like, out loud. As if they’re people. It helps me think." 

You blinked, surprised, and then a laugh bubbled up from your chest. "You talk to the files?" 

"Yes," he said, his tone defensive but playful. "And before you laugh, it’s actually a proven psychological technique. Vocalizing thoughts can help with memory retention and problem-solving." 

"Uh-huh," you said, still grinning. "And what do the files say back?" 

"Nothing," he said, his voice dry. "They’re very good listeners." 

You laughed again, the sound filling the small space, and Spencer chuckled softly beside you. For a moment, the darkness didn’t feel so oppressive. 

"Your turn," you said, still smiling. 

Spencer hesitated, then asked, his voice soft and tentative, "What’s… what’s something you’ve never told me?" 

Your breath caught, and you felt your cheeks flush. There were so many things you’d never told him—things you’d been too afraid to say, too unsure of how he’d react.

"I’ve never told you," you began, your voice trembling slightly, "that I’m really glad you’re here. With me. Right now. I mean, not here here, stuck in an elevator, but… just… in general. You make everything better, Spencer. Even when it’s scary. Even when it’s dark and small." 

There was a long pause, and then Spencer’s hand tightened around yours. "I’m glad I’m here too," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "With you." 

But before either of you could say anything else, the elevator jerked suddenly, the lights flickering back on. 

You blinked, squinting against the sudden brightness, and then the elevator began to move again.

Spencer let out a shaky breath, his hand still clasped in yours. "Well," he said, his voice a little unsteady, "that was… an experience." 

"Yeah," you said, your voice just as shaky. "But… not a bad one." 

He turned to look at you, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment, it felt like the world had stopped. Then the elevator dinged, the doors sliding open to reveal the familiar hallway. 

Spencer hesitated, then stood, pulling you to your feet with him. "Come on," he said, his voice soft. "Let’s get out of here." 

You nodded with a small smile, your hand still in his as you stepped out of the elevator.

[sixty-silver-wishes]

ADHD and not autism here, but that story about the English teacher hit me like a truck. It also didn't surprise me at all, because when I was in high school, that was my experience with several English and humanities teachers. They'd bill themselves as accepting and "quirky," and go on huge spiels about how "everyone is welcome." And the second you're the wrong kind of quirky, they immediately make it known how much you'll never fit in.

anyway I have a personal experience with that but it's long and emotional so uh. under the cut if you don't mind

this isn't to detract from the fact that the post is specifically about autism ofc. but this is something I can really relate to and I think is a familiar experience for many nd people

Growing up, I was super into English and literature. (Still am- it was my degree and is a huge part of my current career!) As such, I DESPERATELY wanted these sorts of teachers to like me. They wanted "inspired, involved, enthusiastic students who always asked questions and thought outside the box?" Well, that was me, I thought! I had a place where I could finally feel welcome, an adult I could look up to!

Except that wasn't the case. I could tell these teachers didn't like me. I saw how they treated me vs. the other students. I saw how they were silly and joking with everyone else, and dismissive towards me. I thought, if I was witty enough, if I gave the right answers, if I asked the right questions, then they could clearly see that I was exactly what they said they wanted. And it was never enough; if anything, it only made things worse. And because I looked up to these people, because I was obsessed with their approval, I decided to switch tactics. I HAD to be normal now. So I became obsessed with being quiet, with not speaking up, with sitting still and not being too loud when I did speak. Except it was hard. I had these impulses I didn't know how to control, and I didn't know where they were coming from. I kept wanting to speak up and talk about whatever we were learning about, because I was interested in English, goddammit. It didn't come from a place of pretentiousness or intellectual superiority; it came from the fact that I was an excitable kid who really wanted to be a writer at the time. And because I had to keep talking, and because I wanted approval so badly, I ruthlessly policed every single thing I said. I graded and evaluated all my questions and answers, all my interjections I hoped were clever or would score me friends. I developed really bad anxiety; I liked those teachers, and I knew they would like me too if I just acted differently- except I didn't know how to do that.

Fast forward to college. I was taking Russian classes for a few years, because I was hyperfixated on Soviet classical music history at the time and I wanted to read some historical letters in the original language. Once, I was trying to translate some letters I found online, and I came across a word I couldn't find a single direct translation for. I wanted to ask my professor what it meant, but I remembered what high school had been like. I didn't want to be the pretentious, disruptive kid who asked annoying questions in class and irritated the teacher. So I sent her an email to ask about the translation, and the next day, she announced to the entire class that I had a great question. I was MORTIFIED. I wished she'd just email me instead; now, she was telling the whole class about how I was reading Dmitri Shostakovich's letters and asking how to translate 'blagopoluchen.' That's like, two nerd points right there. She explained what the word meant and talked about how impressed she was with me, and i wanted to die right there. Which is weird, because like... wasn't that what I wanted? Didn't I want my teachers to be proud of me for years? My high school desire to be quiet and fit in was so deeply ingrained, I was terrified of praise, maybe moreso than I was of irritating my teachers as I had been before. No matter what, I always stood out.

My experience clearly wasn't as bad as the kid's in the above story. Nor is it probably as bad as many people's in the notes. I ended up having a great time in Russian class, and in college in general. But it took a while before I was able to feel that way. I don't think I can call myself traumatized, per se, but the way those high school teachers treated me while waxing about how "it's great to be different" had repercussions. I'm still dealing with the anxiety I developed trying to please them; that's why I told that anecdote about Russian class. What should have been a good experience for me was a terrifying one.

So, I guess my point is this. For all those teachers and authority figures who paint themselves as trustworthy, progressive, accepting people, we will believe you. People who need acceptance, who are desperate for validation, will believe you. We may let our guards down and maybe act a bit weird- and sometimes that's weird in a different way than you might want. And why shouldn't we let our guards down? Why shouldn't we view you as a sanctuary for our weirdness? That's what you said we could do.

By touting yourself as a safe space, you have a lot of power over the mental well-being of people like us. You have the opportunity to be the refuge you say you are, or you could cause lasting damage. So you'd better stick by your words, and use that power fucking responsibly.

every piece of ""autistic representation"" in hollywood sucks not just because of the infantalization and inspiration porn but because movie executives always fail to realize the real universal autistic experience: spending your childhood slowly and unfalteringly realizing all of your friends not so secretly hated and/or merely tolerated you at best and you've missed every social signal about it ever