#artie's writing

[eternalduos]

Hello vlog nation, today is the day I'm allowed to post my contribution to @empiropediazine !! Check it out if you're interested, I wrote all about ESMP1 Wizard Gem :D

[rainingpouringetc]

Alastair was going to strangle somebody. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or maybe it was the way he couldn’t turn his head to the left without it aching, or maybe it was just the utter incompetence he found himself surrounded by these days. Whichever way, someone was going to pay for fact that none of their project footage was organized, making it completely impossible for him to find the clips he needed for this editing endeavor.

This wasn’t even supposed to be his field. Directing, yes—and he’d done that, he had directed the whole short film, had poured his fucking heart and soul into this project. Acting, sure, though he was much more comfortable behind the camera than he was center screen. He would even go so far as to say that he didn’t mind dabbling in the storyboarding and scriptwriting aspect of filmmaking, either, and was willing to help in that area however possible.

But editing was the devil’s game, and Alastair knew he was going to lose sorely in this round. 

It was less than twelve hours until their deadline for the film festival, and the rest of his group was nowhere to be found. Alastair had called, texted, and emailed his way to a low phone battery, and still he couldn’t get in contact with any of them. He fought through the fog in his mind to remember who was supposed to be editing this project. It was someone from his scriptwriting class—Alicia, a last-ditch addition to their pathetic freshman group of five whom Alastair had offered up as an option after learning she had edited all the videos for her high school football team’s instagram page last year.

What a great idea of mine that was, he thought miserably, jamming the CMD+Z buttons on the media lab Mac, hunched over and defeated as the timeline tried to right itself. He couldn’t get the pacing of this scene right for the life of him. Everything he tried was either too fast to garner any real emotion or so slow that it seemed to drag on for eternity. There was a shot he was sure could make this scene a hundred times more effective, but nothing was labeled properly and it wasn’t sorted in a way that made sense to anyone but fucking Alicia.

Alastair had thought the hardest part was over. They had written the story from scratch over night and filmed it the next morning. They were even able to record some Foley and ADR, filling in the gaps they had missed during the original shooting. The plan from there was to meet at the School of Comms building this morning after breakfast so Alicia could get to work on editing together the footage she’d saved on Alastair’s hard drive and they could all have a say in the final product. 

But since when did things go right for Alastair?

Frustrated and half wondering if it was too late to withdraw from the contest, Alastair slumped forward and laid his head on the table he was working at in the media lab. Perhaps he just needed a break. Just a few minutes to himself to breathe and let go of everything bothering him. 

Or maybe he needed to put his head through the wall. It was difficult to tell which sometimes.

“Alastair?”

Yup. Definitely the head through the wall. That was the one.

Alastair picked up his head and lifted his gaze to the man who had just entered the lab. “Hey, Thomas,” he greeted, trying not to sound too much like he was thoroughly dying inside. 

Because he was, for the record. The man he’d been trying to keep at arm’s length for fear of falling hopelessly head over heels for had just walked in on him about to have a nervous breakdown. And to think Alastair had believed the day couldn’t get any worse.

“What are you working on?” Thomas asked, dropping into the chair next to him and logging into the computer. Thomas was a double major, music and photography, so their paths didn’t cross often, much to Alastair’s simultaneous relief and vexation.

“My group for the forty-eight hour film festival was supposed to get together and edit our project,” Alastair said as evenly as he could. “Unfortunately, it seems they’ve all left me to fend for myself, and now I’m stuck sifting through all our footage by myself without a clue of how to piece it together in time for the deadline.”

Thomas frowned, a little crinkle appearing in the skin between his eyebrows that told Alastair he felt truly sympathetic. It was absolutely adorable and should not have lifted Alastair’s spirits nearly as much as it did. 

“That’s rather awful of them,” Thomas said, navigating the computer as he spoke. He opened Photoshop and began importing his photos. They were absolutely splendid already from what Alastair could see—he couldn’t imagine how wonderful they would look after Thomas finished touching them up.

“Yes, well. I’d rather suffer through the agony of editing it myself than beg someone else for help.” 

Thomas grinned. “You film majors and your unshakeable pride,” he quipped. “No wonder your group left you to your own devices.”

Alastair clutched dramatically at his chest. “You wound me with your cruel words, Thomas.”

He received an eye roll in return, and, no, stop, you’re not meant to engage—he was definitely too far gone for this man already.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Alastair slowly being driven to madness by the inscrutable timeline, the unorganized footage, and, above all, the man sitting right next to him. 

It all became far too much, and Alastair was convinced he would combust if he sat still another moment longer. With a few resolute clicks of his mouse, he saved the work he had done and logged out of the computer. He checked his phone: almost noon and still no replies from any of his group members. Oh, well. He had better things to do with his time than wait here for them.

“Do you have lunch plans, Tom?” he asked before he could let himself think too hard on it.

Looking a bit taken aback, Thomas shook his head. “No. I was thinking of stopping by the smoothie stand after I finished with these photos, but...” He chuckled. “Well. I’m not quite in the right mood for homework right now anyway. Do you wanna go to Joe’s?”

Alastair smiled at the mention of the dining hall—it was what he was going to suggest, after all. Joe’s had fantastic french fries and outdoor seating, making it one of Alastair’s favorite spots on campus. “That sounds marvelous. Perhaps by the time we’ve finished our meal, my traitorous partners will have finally reached out to me.”

Thomas laughed as he stood, deftly closing out of the windows on the computer and shutting it down before stooping to grab his messenger bag. “Hopefully we can at least take your mind off things for a few hours,” he said with a wink, moving to hold open the door for Alastair.

Yup, Alastair thought dizzily as he aimed a smile at Thomas and turned off the media lab lights. Head over heels for sure.

[artyandink]

‘34 château margaux

SUMMARY: Spencer never knew to feel about you. Actually, he did. You were a career criminal, but also a liaison for the FBI, which prevented your arrest. You’re cunning, manipulative, persuasive and oh, so seductive. Spencer was warned against you, and he knew it. But even a genius profiler with an eidetic memory couldn’t resist you. Even a genius profiler with an eidetic memory can’t help but lose control around a woman like you.

TW: mentions of smoking, wine, seduction, badass reader, s7 Dr Spencer Reid, mentions of organised crime, mobs and mafia, Spencer’s weak for reader the poor baby, Hotch slander, smut

STW: Spence doesn’t stop the reader from kissing him, marking, oral (f. receiving), brief handjob, praise kink if you squint, dirty talk but Spencer style, degradation I think, wine play (I think), temperature play as subtext, ass slapping, profiling during sex, threat of exhibitionism, light choking, switch!Spencer, switch!reader, pussydrunk!Spencer, slight overstimulation, fingering

SONG INSPO: Greedy by Ariana Grande, Acapulco by Jason Derulo, I Did Something Bad by Taylor Swift and Make you Mine by Madison Beer

Femme fatales had a specific profile.

The "femme fatale" is typically depicted as a highly attractive and enigmatic woman in her late twenties to early forties, often characterized by a seductive allure that masks her manipulative and dangerous nature. Her primary weapon is her ability to ensnare men through charm, beauty, and sexual allure, ultimately leading them to their downfall.

While her motivations vary, she is often driven by power, revenge, or hidden trauma. Early literary examples include the biblical figure of Delilah, who betrays Samson, and Salome, who demands the head of John the Baptist. In classical mythology, Circe and the Sirens use their allure to seduce and destroy men.

The femme fatale's archetype is also evident in later works like Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth, who manipulates her husband to commit regicide. This profile of a femme fatale highlights her as a complex figure whose allure conceals a more sinister intent.

That was your profile.

Hotch had warned Spencer not to get too close to you, because you knew how to use your everything, and you had a sweet spot for the latter. Not because Spencer really was a likeable son of a bitch, but because you found him more fun than the other agents.

You were a pretty face, sure, but you were also a genius. A Dr Spencer Reid level genius, but you were the side of the spectrum that dissolved into a life of high crime and corruption.

Instead of becoming a federal agent - or law enforcement - you were the trusted advisor to a lot of the mafia and mob population, and even that was enough to put you away on charges of incitement/inchoate crime. But you were useful, extremely useful, so you also then became the liaison for the FBI whenever the mafia or mob circles became involved in an investigation.

This time, you were, as the unsub of a case in Las Vegas, Nevada seemed to be purchasing drugs like M99, ketamine and small doses of chloroform, mixed with LSD. It was a powerful mix and the dose was enough to cause immediate system failure and then death. The drugs were being purchased from casinos which were rumoured to be the cover of Vegas’ mob circles.

Your hotel room was the kind of thing Spencer only hoped to see in movies, with warm lighting, patterned red wallpaper, mahogany flooring with underfloor heating, glass and gold tables, mahogany dressers and a huge king-size four poster with curtains the same colour as the walls. There was a liquor cabinet as well as a fancy looking cooler, and it was nothing like Spencer had been used to seeing as he grew up in this very city.

It didn’t feel like his territory anymore. He wasn’t as comfortable as he usually was around these parts. He took the couple steps in, having closed the door behind him, now standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

Maybe you weren’t in. Phew.

“Dr Reid.” Came the voice that made Spencer feel like he was on fire, a perfectly manicured hand brushing over his shoulder as you walked up from behind him, having come from the bathroom that was no doubt as fancy as the bedroom itself. After all, this was the penthouse.

You lived it big as a career criminal.

You stepped out from behind him, lips that he’d unintentionally imagined on his body stretched into a smirk as you picked up a quarter-full wine glass from the table and took a sip. You were killing him, wearing a black silk robe with just the right hint of lace, which stopped at your mid thigh and had a neckline that had his eyes dropping briefly before he schooled them and gave himself a very firm lecture inside his head.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Again, that voice, the cadence of it, Spencer couldn’t understand how something as simple as a damn voice could have him so unbelievably weak for you.

Spencer raised his hand in greeting with his bravest attempt at a smile, like he usually did.

“It’s a case.” He dug in his messenger bag, handing you some photos of some bodies. “Someone’s targeting bank workers around Vegas. It’s a ‘drug smoothie’ of M99, ketamine and small doses of chloroform, mixed with LSD. Morgan dubbed it that. Actually, smoothies are meant to boost the health of the drinker and contain nutrients from a liquid base such as yogurt or milk puréed with fruit, vegetables or items in a mixer, so I don’t see how this particular drug mix is a smoothie— a milkshake perhaps, as it hasn’t got as much nutritional value beside providing substantial energy through the intake of sugar and carbohydrates.”

He paused, seeing the soft, amused smile on your face, the light of the room casting a perfect shadow on the curve of your cheek. It felt like you were ethereal. “Did I say too much?” Spencer said meekly, rubbing his jaw.

“Not at all, Dr Reid, I completely agree. You can tell your friend Morgan to change it and you have my wholehearted support.” You gave him a nod, your head tilted and eyes looking big with the way you were looking at him. “You have no clue just how much your knowledge turns a girl on, baby, no clue at all.”

Spencer cleared his throat, realising that he was veering off topic and also almost salivating at the sound of you calling him baby. Having to lecture his eyes once again for looking at your legs that seemed to go on for days and seemed to also be calling for him to grab, knead and grip. “We need to stay on topic. Hotch needs the information about the case, and you need to give it.”

Spencer couldn’t help but always let his mind drop into the gutter at the sight of you. It was a Pavlovian response at this point— pure, unbridled instinct.

He couldn’t help but notice that with the way the robe draped on your body, you had nothing on underneath. That kind of assumed information had Spencer reeling.

You waved a perfectly manicured hand with scarlet nails, dismissing the idea of maintaining professionalism. “Hotch needs this, Hotch needs that. No offence to him, but he’s got a lock on you, Dr Reid. Enjoy for a night, let your hair down.”

“Well, t-the phrase ‘let your hair down’ originally was meant literally back in 1850, which was its first recorded usage but it has its roots in the 17th century. It was taken literally because women wore their hair pinned up in public, but the meaning of the phrase was to ‘get familiar’.”

Oh.

“Sorry, I can’t.” Spencer added hurriedly, searching for a notebook and pen in his bag. Licking his lips subtly at the sight of your v-neck and the way your hair framed your face. The curve of that pretty neck he wanted to kiss and lavish so it made those pretty lips fall open—

Jesus, keep it together.

“Anyway, do you want some wine?” You asked, tapping the bottle. “‘34 Château Margaux. This hotel really does have good taste.”

“I don’t drink on the job.” Spencer answered coolly. “And definitely not with criminals.” He would had Hotch not warned him— bad Spencer.”

You pouted, feigning upset. “That just breaks my heart. Putting my job against me? I’m only the advisor to some very powerful forty-and-above men who want some sexual gratification and overall ego boosts and also carry some lovely baggage with mommy issues written all over it. They want a pretty face to spill their secrets to, I give them that and get some cash in return.”

You saw the look on his face. “I’m not apologising for being a career woman.”

“Yet you liaise with the FBI about all that these forty-or-older sexually frustrated men tell you.” He countered quickly, firmly looking you in the eye. Not down at your lips, not at your tits, nor your thighs.

Spencer shook his head in exasperation, even though a shiver ran down his spine at how you advanced towards him, undoing his tie with a practiced hand. “What- ma’am, you can’t do that—”

“Ma’am?” You laughed, getting the maroon tie off and dropping it to the floor, unbuttoning his collar deftly. “Jesus, sweetie, that makes me feel old. Call me by my name, don’t be shy.”

Your name slipped off his tongue in barely a whisper, and became his only known prayer when he felt the warmth of your hands through his shirt, sliding up and up until the searing heat ran over his neck, resting in his hair and trailing down his arm, your nose brushing his before slotting in place.

Oh, God, he thought as you took his hand in your own soft one and guided it to press against your thigh, the fingertips of his index, middle and ring finger feeling silk while his palm, thumb and fifth finger felt smooth, creamy skin.

Oh, fuck, he thought as your lips got close enough to his to be a teasing venture into the cracks in his walls and defences that he’d flimsily put up against you.

“I’ll give you the information you need.” You said softly, in a way that had Spencer’s breath hitching. He should have looked away. He should’ve removed his hand from your thigh, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He was stuck like that, entranced by you. “You just need to let loose for me. For one night, I’m all yours. Drop that professionalism, Dr Reid. Let yourself go.”

“You’re a career criminal.” Spencer murmured, his hand beginning to rub your thigh, gripping slightly at the end of the downward stroke. Bad hand.

“Semantics.” You smirked, biting your lip— oh, hell, that did nothing for his self control. It made him want to kiss those lips until they bruised or swelled, until they numbed. His hand on your thigh made his tongue long to devour your pussy. The way you were looking him made him feel like he was merely a puppet on strings. “Come on, Dr Reid. Don’t deny yourself a good time, hm?”

Spencer would’ve answered, but then your lips pressed against his, and suddenly, he had clarity. That this was wrong, so very wrong. But it felt so damn good. His hand now kneading your thigh was wrong but felt electric.

He pulled back, but his mouth didn’t need to do the chasing that they ached to do. You did it for him, silencing any bubbling protest. You kissed him for the sake of coaxing him to give in, to just kiss and touch until his lips and conscience went deliciously numb.

“We can’t-” He felt your lips against his, a hum replacing his words, unknowingly stepping back towards the bed. Or maybe he knew. “We - mm - Hotch will - mhm—”

“Baby, what Aaron Hotchner doesn’t know what hurt him.” You murmured, pushing him back onto the bed. Spencer fell back without a protest, taking you in, especially as you straddled his lean form that had scooted up the bed, set his messenger bag aside and began popping the buttons of his shirt while grazing his lips with your own, teasing him, taunting him and daring him to let go as you rolled your hips slow and steady against his.

A grinding motion that drove him insane and made him moan and gasp. The fabric of his trousers really did nothing to alleviate the friction and pressure.

Spencer’s hands shot to your hips, unknowingly helping you and guiding your movements under the guise of getting you off him. “Ma’am, I mean—” He whimpered your name instead of saying it like a normal guy would, “please, d-don’t—”

Saying don’t stop was the intention, but he held himself back with the rapidly fraying thread of control. His eyes screwed shut then opened wide with a gasp, wanting to lose himself in you.

He wondered if this was his state with every woman or just you.

Definitely you was the answer when you took your mostly empty glass of wine, pouring the remaining contents over his chest. Your cold hand cupped the side of his neck, a shiver flitting over his warm skin as you then bent forward, lapping up the liquid from his chest. Sucking, drinking the earthy-noted wine with a suspiciously high efficiency. A moan that even surprised him left his mouth when you ground down against him again, your tongue on his skin, and he never hated his trousers more than right this moment as the fabric strained against his clothed need.

He loathed them when you reached for the sash of your robe, untying the waves of tantalising silk fell off your shoulders and over the side of the bed, revealing nothing underneath.

His mouth went dry.

He swallowed.

He snapped.

Within a second, you were flipped over, Spencer’s lips crashing down on yours as he kicked his shoes off, toed his socks off as he kissed you like he was going feral, hand tangling in your hair as he practically rutted against you, hard and fast and oh, so relieving.

He was gripping your face, free hand pushing the loose strands of hair out of your face, nipping at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue and making the blazing journey down your neck, which you bared to him gladly.

“Is this what you wanted?” Spencer panted, sucking at your pulse. “You wanted me to lose control, baby? Yeah, you got it. You. Got. It.” He punctuated the last three with nips to your collarbone and followed up with presses of his mouth on the swell of your tits.

You couldn’t even think, just letting out moans and sighs and needy whimpers of his name and unintelligible sounds, which did good to satisfy his frustration. Spencer’s mouth enveloped your nipple, sucking while tweaking the other between his fingers to have you arching into him and a smirk forming around his temporary fixation.

He switched his attention, pushing you down by your waist with his free hand to keep you from arching up. “Sit pretty and take it.”

Oh, those words sent a hot shiver up your spine. And then back down again, straight to your already soaking pussy.

He let your tit go with a small gasp, his eyes zeroing in on the prize and prompting him to start kissing down your stomach and nipping at your thighs.

If you chose to wear that robe for another person in the near future, they’d see his marks on your thighs. His. That was a thought that had a warmth swelling in his chest and cock.

He pushed your legs apart, holding them apart with his elbows and biting his lip at the feel of your hand in his hair. Testing the waters, his middle finger pushed with no resistance into your throbbing pussy, which had you gasping and moaning his name, while Spencer groaned yours upon feeling how you squeezed merely one finger.

Spencer had long fingers. Imagine what that meant for all you ladies out there.

He would’ve began pumping it, but he withdrew it and began licking it clean, tasting you on his tongue and almost whining at how good it was. Ignoring your whimper at the loss of contact, he maintained very intense eyes contact with you as he licked one long stripe up your cunt.

That didn’t last very long. The moment he got one proper hit of you, his eyes rolled back, then closed, mouth fell open, and he properly got to work, drinking you up like you did that wine on his body.

You’d honestly never been with a man as dedicated to eating pussy than Dr Spencer Fucking Reid.

“I’ve profiled you, y’know.” He murmured, still lapping at you and acting as if you weren’t writhing, moaning and arching your back - a complete mess - while he was having a fucking casual conversation with you and being the little shit that caused it.

He paused to suck at your clit as if it was all casual and part of a daily routine, little hums and encouragements between words where he’d absolutely devour you and make it look like him playing poker. Easy. “You’re promiscuous - mmh - like Lady Macbeth, except without the - mhm - implied infanticide and insanity.”

Spencer used his elbows locking your thighs in place to spread you open and get a new angle, and god damn it worked, because while you were crying out his name to Jesus and the holy mother Virgin Mary he was acting like this was another day at the office. “You use your body to get what you want - that’s it, be loud, baby - and on all counts it works. You also know how to play into people’s - fuck - psyche. It’s what makes you a textbook femme fatale.”

His middle finger slid in again, along with his index - both ridiculously long - and he crooked them just right, reaching places you didn’t even know existed and hitting the bullseye that was your g-spot all while tracing his name on your clit. Again, acting like you weren’t a complete and utter mess by now, but you were too far gone to care.

“You have an ability to see someone’s emotional desires— now, for example.” Spencer glances up at you, his free hand massaging your thigh and his fingers working you, pumping in and out and making sure his thumb got your clit while he talked. “It makes you highly manipulative, a-and your confident demeanour makes it - so tight, pretty girl - easy for people to trust and confide in you, hence why you’re the advisor to a lot of the mafia bosses on the FBI’s most - mmh - wanted list.”

Upon feeling and seeing how close you were, even if you didn’t know it yourself, Spencer smirked up at your face, looking like the prettiest picture with your eyes rolled back, mouth open, hand holding the sheets and your cheeks as pigmented as they could go. “But you’re easy to read when you’re in a vulnerable position. So why don’t you be a good girl, and come for me?”

You came apart easily at his cue, your high crashing over you like a fucking tsunami, feeling him lap at your pussy to clean you up— or so you thought. He actually didn’t stop, murmuring something about “one more” as his brow furrowed in concentration, really zeroing in on his target.

Not stopping, not letting up.

You were pretty sure you saw God and his army of angels frowning upon the sinful deed you two were partaking in, and how you were partaking of each other, while Spencer continued to steal your thoughts with that damn talented tongue and fingers.

He moaned at the taste of you, feeling drunk on everything you were giving him. Your sounds, the feel of you, the taste of you— you consumed all his senses.

You were a forbidden fruit. He was eating it. Except he was taking more than just one bite of the apple.

When you came again after a few more practiced licks, you felt a lot more sensitive then usual, but the satisfied look on Spencer’s face told you he’d made you come twice instead of once.

Testament to his skill, you guessed.

Spencer wiped all the residue of you off his chin with his thumb, licking his lips and quickly sucking the slick off by popping the thumb into his mouth. He made it look like his everyday Tuesday.

Then he undid his belt buckle and dropped it aside, his trousers and boxers going with as he pressed kiss after kiss to your body on the slow journey up. Spencer groaned as your hand wrapped around his cock, your thumb teasing the head before your hand began to move up and down… until he stopped you.

“Not right now, baby.” He chuckled. “Another time. Statistically, I’m fifty percent more likely to come if you do that.”

“That’s the idea.” You winked, but removed your hand off his dick anyway.

“I’m sure it is.” Spencer smiled, then looked around. “Do you have condoms? J-Just cause using protection during sex, particularly condoms, is crucial for several reasons, both from a-a health and social standpoint. First, condoms are one of the most effective methods for preventing the transmission of sexually transmitted infections, i-including HIV. These infections can have long-term health consequences, some of which are irreversible or even life-threatening. By using a condom, you're significantly reducing the risk of both contracting and spreading these infections to your partner. Second, condoms are a reliable method of birth control when used correctly. They prevent sperm from reaching the egg, thereby reducing the likelihood of unintended pregnancies.”

Then you pulled out the top drawer of the bedside table, which was full of condoms of all sizes. Which had him both slightly jealous and sheepish. “Oh, uh, thanks.” Spencer grabbed one, tearing the foil off with his teeth and expertly sliding the rubber on and entering you so fast your moan came in delayed timing.

“Fuck.” You gasped, especially as you adjusted to him and even better when he started moving back and forth at a steady rhythm, pulling out almost completely before pushing back in, feeling your pussy practically mould to him in a way that had his eyes rolling back and hips snapping forward harder.

It made your nails claw at his back, which made him bite his lip and release it, claiming your lips in a hungry kiss. ‘34 Château Margaux. It had an earthy taste to it.

Your perfume was intoxicating, and he smelt of new books and a cologne that drove you mad. You also got notes of butter popcorn from his time watching Russian movies and his lips distinctly tasted of you and you only.

It felt like your claim on him.

Next thing you knew, he’d pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach and thrust into you again, his mouth latching to your shoulder and leaving marks as he took your neck by his hand, not squeezing hard, but just enough to let you know he was there.

“So tight. How’re you gonna look - shit - all those mafia bosses in the eye, huh?” He panted, punctuating his words with a snap of his hip while you were reduced to cries of his name. “When you can’t walk because of an FBI agent?”

“Spencer, fuck!” Was the only admittedly pathetic thing that came from your mouth, along with a whimper when his hand came down on the side of your ass, soothed by a rub.

“That’s right, baby, call out for me.” He murmured, sucking a mark under your ear. “Make sure everyone in this hotel can hear.”

You found yourself coming at the words, gripping the pillows with your eyes rolling back, Spencer’s own copying as he felt your cunt clamp down on him like a vice. His hand on your throat squeezed a little tighter - but he was aware that it wasn’t enough pressure to cut off an airway - with his head dropping to your shoulder, pressing kisses to the heated flesh as he followed with a few clumsy, shallow thrusts later.

Oh, he knew what he did was wrong. He just couldn’t help himself when presented with you.

Spencer pulled out of you, both of you practically spent of all your energy. You rolled onto your back, wiping away a forming tear due to your sensitive pussy being wrecked by Dr Spencer Reid, but it was worth everything.

“I forgot one thing.” He murmured, moving so he could pull you into his chest and kiss your hair. Remarkable how this man can go from a hot dominant to a hot nerd. “From your profile, I mean.”

“Yeah, Dr Reid?” You smiled, kissing him softly yet intensely, drawing a hum of contentment from his lips.

“You, ma’am,” Spencer cheekily emphasised between kisses, “are very sexually proficient.”

That got a laugh from you, breaking away to playfully swat his chest, which got a noise of surprise from him and a small "son of a bitch!". “Is that your way of telling me this was mind blowing sex?”

“That isn’t how you tell someone that?”

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[mushroominaforest]

More things from the au!

like I said, this au is cantered around three sets of siblings.

first, we have Saint and Inv. They aren’t biologically related, but they were both made by the same Iterator, which is close enough.

Monk and Survivor are Gourmand’s two kids in this au, and are the only semi normal people in this group.

Hunter and Artificer are twin messengers made by NSH, and are biologically related to each other.

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 106

Geralt has a hobby he only allows himself to partake in during the winter, alone in his room. Everyone knows Geralt sketches and scribbles monsters, beasts, and relics alike in his journal, but his secret is he also sketches down Jaskier. Jaskier's best poses, and outfits, and the best scenery he stood in front of. When winter comes, Geralt goes through and picks the very best one to turn into a full-fledged painting, of which he'll hang in his room with the others from all the years before. When he's lonely and sad, he simply turns to the evidence that the world is worth it all. Happy, sunny, sweet Jaskier. Stupid, reckless, loud, noisy, annoying, slutty Jaskier. He wouldn't have him any other way. He always paints him smiling, surrounded by flowers and lush foliage. Scenic views and beautiful lighting, all the better to compliment the bard's beauties. All is well until Lambert comes in one day and laughs. "Whoa. When you said you doodled, I didn't know it was to make a shrine for your bard!" "Lambert, he's not my bard." "You have like a dozen paintings of him smiling at you with half-lidded eyes! Is this how you get off at night?" "LAMBERT" "Sorry, you're right, don't tell me, I don't wanna know. Even though I can guess pretty easily-" "Just fuck off!" "Fine! Jeez.. So twitchy." This small event means nothing to Geralt. It's meaningless. Or at least it was. Until he and Jaskier bump into Lambert in the summer, and Lambert playfully elbows Jaskier in the side, and says to "Ask loverboy about his art collection!" Jaskier cocks an eyebrow and turns to Geralt with confusion, and if Geralt wasn't currently thinking about how to put his brother's head on a pike, he might've been tempted to draw the bard's lovely expression.

[maskedbutsilly]

i miss tntduo so much can i just draw them for the rest of my life

they fill me with joy

[icarus-star]

just came

[radawayghoul]

His Little Dove | Chp. 2 Sneak Peek

Pairing: Lee Russell x AFAB Reader

Warnings: none really...slight yearning?, the usual cursing, that's all really

A/N: Okay, I know this isn't much by any means BUT, I wanted to give y'all something because it's been WAY too long and y'all deserve it for being so kind to me and being so very patient!! There isn't much more left to write. This chapter is pretty hefty though I will say that, haha!! Love you!! Thank you for your patience!! -Artie✨

That evening after showering, ordering some takeout, and dressing in her nicest, skimpiest silk PJ's, Y/N was settled onto her couch with her comforter to do her usual rewatch of Pride and Prejudice when there was a sharp knock on her door.

Rolling her eyes, Y/N let out a loud groan which was met with, "Oh shut up, I know you ain't doin' nothin' important, now come let me in!" from none other than Lee Russell on the other side of her door.

Placing her food on the table and throwing her blanket off of her, Y/N stomped to her front door and ripped it open. "You're cutting into my personal time, Lee, what do you want? Aren't you supposed to be having dinner with your wife?" Y/N crossed her arms over her chest, raising a brow.

Lee sighed, dressed in his casual clothes, giving her his puppy dog eyes, "We got into another fight. We ain't been doin' well." He shook his head, ushering himself into Y/N's house.

Sighing, Y/N closed and locked the door, following Lee over to where he had taken her seat on the couch.

"She doesn't like our neighbor, Jackie, and she doesn't think I'm man enough to handle it," Lee continued, sighing, "I don't know what else to do."

Y/N studied him for a moment. She could see how much stress he was carrying. He looked so tired.

"You could just kick his ass," Y/N joked, poking Lee in his side which made him squirm but he cracked a smile, "Hmm, that's better. I like it more when you smile."

Lee's eyes softened as he stared at her. Slowly and hesitantly, he lifted a hand to brush her cheek. His eyes drifted along her face, committing every detail to memory the best he could.

-

Tag List: @one-of-thewalkingdead @itsyellow @ajeff855 @vulgarfuckinvirgo77 @casiaregina @dried-mushroom @justme12200 @wtfwhyanyway @sequoiassoul @saturnbourne @ryankaylamartin96 @avidreadee123 @theweirdoneee @saltysultry @radskull-69 @deviantgamergirl @caligrl1992 @littlenosoul @toogaytofunctiondangit @its-in-the-woods @castle-of-ruin @hiddlebatchedloki @blackwoodtree @cherrybonbonss @aliisa-jones @looneylooomis @harmfulb1tch @sir-henry-may @danveration @lacey-mercylercy @piper570

if i missed anyone or you'd like to be removed, please don't hesitate to let me know!!

[artisplatters]

My contribution to this

yes its based on the "burnt water" audio

[skyward-floored]

Febuwhump collab day 18 - too weak to move

Hi yep I’m still working on febuwhump XD I’ve got two more fics after this in fact! Expect the next one up either later today or tomorrow >:)

This was suggested by an anon, thank you! They wanted Warriors or Sky, so I kinda did both. It ended up taking a turn I didn’t expect, but I hope you like it.

Warnings: Heat exhaustion, a brief discussion about infertility

Today’s lovely art

Ao3 link

————————————————————

“Aunt Sun! Aunt Sun Aunt Sun where’d you go we need you!”

Sun looked up from the lemonade she was mixing, and saw Wind run into the kitchen, almost tripping on his flip-flops but catching himself.

“Aunt Sun!” he gasped, and Sun looked at him in surprise.

“What’s the matter Wind? Did Sky and Warriors finally get tired of hucking snowballs at each other?” she asked, leaning on the counter. “I’m all for a snow day, but it’s just too hot to be out there, even with snow.”

“No, no they didn’t, b-but Warriors was making a really big snowball and then he fell over and now he won’t get up, and Uncle Sky told me to get you,” Wind stuttered, and Sun froze, then immediately dropped what she was doing.

“Lead the way,” she said quickly, and followed Wind outside, the heat hitting her like a physical weight.

The area was suffering through a horrible heat wave, and everyone was desperate to cool down, in any way they could manage. Warriors had brought Wind over to hang out with Aryll for a while, and offered to generate some snow for a snowball fight. It had helped a lot with staying cool, but Sun had gotten to the point where she hadn’t been able to handle the heat any longer, even with snow, and she’d gone in to mix up a more reliable way of cooling down.

She was wondering now if she should’ve stayed out, though.

Wind led her to the backyard, where several rapidly melting piles of slush lay, Sky kneeling among them and apparently uncaring of how wet he was getting. Aryll sat next to him, her eyes wide, and Warriors lay collapsed beside them both, parts of him pale while others were flushed with heat.

A sharp spark of fear hit Sun’s chest.

“What happened?” she asked quickly as she kneeled down beside the two, Sky frantically shading Warriors with one wing while the other fanned air towards him.

“I don’t know, he was just making some more snow, and then all of a sudden he just...” Sky gestured helplessly, and Sun leaned over Warriors, unsure of where to start.

“He sleeping?” Aryll asked in confusion, and Wind picked her up, looking shaken.

“I don’t think so Aryll,” he said quietly.

Warriors’ eyes flickered open then, and they all leaned forward to look at him, his expression confused as he blinked up at them all.

“Wh’ happened?” he mumbled, and twitched a little like he was trying to sit up. He didn’t make it more then maybe an inch though, and Sky and Sun both pushed him back down, Wind and Aryll looking on with wide eyes.

“You just collapsed Wars, take it easy,” Sky said worriedly, still fanning him. “How are you feeling? Does anything hurt?”

It took Warriors a moment to respond, all of them watching him carefully. And when he did finally speak, his voice was unusually quiet and raspy.

“...dunno,” he murmured, blinking dizzily at them all. “Sort of... s-sick, I-I guess...”

Sky leaned over and put a hand on Warriors’ forehead, and the worry on his face sharpened.

“...you feel warm. Warriors, you’re never warm,” he said in a voice that was on the verge of panicking.

“‘parently I am today,” Warriors slurred, looking dizzy as he closed his eyes again.

Sun tugged Sky’s hand out of the way so she could feel Warriors’ forehead as well, and she frowned at the heat that met her fingers. Warriors wasn’t burning up or anything, but for someone who always ran cold, the fact that he was warm to the touch at all was worrying in more ways than one.

Sun made quick eye contact with Sky, and the look on his face confirmed her own thoughts.

He pushed himself too far.

“Wind, would you take Aryll inside and get a wet washcloth? There’s some clean ones next to the sink,” Sun said, and Wind nodded and went back into the house, Aryll still looking back with a curious look. “We should get him inside, it’ll be cooler in there.”

“Yeah, yeah that’s a good idea,” Sky said with worry thick in his voice, and Sun gave his hand a quick squeeze.

Sun then helped him sit Warriors up, his head lolling a bit. They each pulled one of his arms over their shoulders, Sky pulling his wings in, and lifted him up, slowly carrying him inside. Warriors didn’t move much during all this, looking blearily around as they moved him, and the lack of anything else only worried Sun more.

Normally Warriors would’ve cracked a stupid joke by now, or at least reassured them he was okay, especially earlier with Wind and Aryll watching. Instead all he did was remain slumped in their arms, and Sun and Sky wasted no time in bringing him into the house.

They laid Warriors on their couch, Aryll watching curiously from the floor, and Wind returned after a minute with a wet cloth like Sun had asked. She quickly wiped it over Warriors’ face, dripping it in his hair and dampening his skin, then placed it on his forehead.

“Is he okay?” Wind asked once she’d finished, and Sky ruffled his hair.

“We think he just overheated a bit buddy. He should just need to take it easy,” Sky reassured, though Sun could still see the worry plastered all over his face.

“Can I help at all?” Wind asked, anxiously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Sun looked at her nephew, and nodded, seeing the worry bright in his eyes.

“Yes, I think you’re exactly who we need,” she said kindly, and gestured him over. “Would you blow a bit of air on Warriors? It doesn’t have to be a lot, but it’ll help him cool down faster.”

“Yeah, I can do that!” Wind said eagerly, then sat down in the chair beside Warriors, blowing a gentle breeze through the air.

Warriors shifted as the air brushed him, and he let out a quiet sigh, turning his head towards the breeze. Sun and Sky watched him in silence for a moment, and Aryll wobbled over and poked her head up by Warriors’, smiling when the air blew past her own face as well.

“Sleep?” she said, poking him with a chubby hand, and Sky tugged her away.

“...yes, he’s resting right now pumpkin, so let’s leave him alone, okay?” he said, and Aryll blinked, Sky gently pulling her back from her uncle’s side.

He picked Aryll up and set her over by some of her toys, trying to get her distracted, and Sun busied herself with wiping the cloth over Warriors’ face again, feeling his skin. Still too warm.

She held back a sigh, watching Warriors’ hair be tousled by the breeze Wind was making. Warriors and Sky had both been the ones to push themselves the most back during their hero days, often further then they should... but while just playing with his family, Warriors never gone so far as to pass out.

Something must be up.

Sky came back after a little while, Aryll happily stacking some blocks, and he looked down at his brother, still motionless and pale.

“Should we call a doctor?” he asked quietly, and Sun hesitated.

“...I don’t know. It seems like he’s just too hot, and I don’t think they’d be able to do anything for him that we can’t,” Sun said finally, wiping the cloth over Warriors’ forehead again. “Let’s give him a little while.“

“Alright. We should probably call Artemis though,” Sky mused, and Warriors cracked his eyes open.

“Don’ need to,” he murmured. “She doesn’t... need more problems. Leave ‘er be.”

Sun and Sky both raised their eyebrows at that, and Wind paused in his blowing, giving Warriors an odd look.

“Warriors... you’re not a problem. Especially not to Artemis,” Sun said, and Warriors closed his eyes, not replying.

Sky frowned.

“...Have you had any water to drink today Wars?” he asked suddenly, voice suspicious.

“I guess..? ‘lil...” Warriors mumbled after a moment of silence, and Wind looked down at him worriedly. “Don’... really remember...”

“So you spent the hottest day of the year making snowballs in our backyard, and you haven’t had any water all day. Is that what I’m hearing?” Sky asked with a bit of a bite to his voice. “Did you just forget you get dehydrated when you use your powers too much?!”

“I don’t know,” Warriors murmured. “...sorry.”

The fight went out of Sky all at once, and he sighed, wiping some sweat off his brow. He lightly nudged Warriors with a wing, and didn’t say anything for a moment, obviously thinking.

Sun decided to cut in. “Well you should drink something now, you need to get all that water you used up back in you, and it’ll help cool you down,” she pointed out, and Warriors gave a small nod.

“I can get him some!” Wind offered, and hopped off his chair, running into the kitchen before anyone else could offer to go.

Sun and Sky watched him scamper off, then turned back to Warriors, who was trying to sit himself up again. His arms shook, and Sky quickly grabbed him before he could fall, helping him up without a word.

Warriors leaned his head back once he was sitting upright, and closed his eyes, his face worn. Sun studied him for a moment, fixing the cloth when it tried to slide off. Warriors looked tired, but in more ways then one, a weariness apart from dehydration and overheating evident on his face.

Adding that to how he’d overused his powers, forgotten to drink anything during the worst heatwave they’d had in years, and his reaction at the mention of his wife...

“Warriors... is everything alright with you and Arty?” she asked finally, looking at her brother in-law.

Warriors remained silent, his face creasing a bit further, and Sky and Sun gave each other looks.

Hit the nail on the head it seems.

“Alright Wars. Something’s eating at you. You never push yourself like this unless you’re really out of it, or something’s wrong,” Sky said as he sat down beside him, and Warriors softly huffed.

“Do not.”

“Do too. And I can think of at least three times off the top of my head,” Sky said pointedly. “Come on. What’s going on with you and Artemis?”

Warriors stilled, and the quiet buzz of the ceiling fan was the only noise in the room for a few moments. It was occasionally punctuated by Aryll’s giggling and the sound of Wind clattering around in the kitchen looking for a cup, and Sun was about to threaten to call Artemis and ask her for answers when Warriors let out a sigh.

“Things’ve just... been hard,” he said, voice still faint. “We’re okay, we haven’t... fought ‘r anything, but...”

He hesitated, then exhaled again.

“...We’ve been trying so hard,” Warriors murmured, eyes still closed. “For kids. But we...”

Sky put his hand on his shoulder, and Warriors swallowed.

“...I don’t know. Maybe it’s a sign we’re just not meant to be parents,” he whispered.

“Warriors, don’t talk like that,” Sun said softly, her heart falling at the grief in his voice. “You and Arty will be wonderful parents.”

Warriors didn’t reply, and Sun put her hand on his other shoulder, wishing she knew what else to say.

“Overextending yourself isn’t going to fix anything Wars,” Sky said softly, drawing his wings in. “This... this isn’t your fault. You can’t punish yourself for things outside your control.”

Warriors seemed to droop further where he sat, and his eyes remained stubbornly closed.

“I want... to fix it,” he said in a voice so quiet Sun could barely hear it. “But I can’t. It’s a problem I can’t... solve, and Arty’s suffering for it.”

“And it isn’t your fault,” Sun reminded him. “You can’t control this Warriors, and you’re suffering just as much as Arty is. Don’t minimize that.”

Warriors stilled, and Sun fixed the wet cloth on his forehead where it had fallen slightly.

“I’m sorry Link,” Sky said quietly. “I knew you two were struggling with it, but I didn’t realize...”

“It’s all right,” Warriors murmured, and Sky squeezed his shoulder.

“Still. If there’s anything you two need... just ask, okay? We’re here to help Wars, but we can’t if you don’t let us.”

“Or if you make bad decisions such as creating too much snow in the worst heatwave I can remember,” Sun added, and Warriors’ mouth twitched into a faint smile.

“I’m already... regretting that, trust me.”

Sun smiled back, and Warriors finally opened his eyes, looking between the two of them. He still looked unusually subdued, but he seemed a little better then before, and Sun counted it as a win.

“We should let Artemis know you collapsed though,” Sun said, brushing some hair out of her face with a sigh. “And somebody is going to have to drive you home... then maybe we can discuss this a little more. But right now you need to rest, and focus on cooling down.”

Warriors sighed. “Yeah. I know.”

Sun gave his shoulder a squeeze, then withdrew it, resolving to bring things up with Artemis next time they had some time to talk. If Warriors was feeling this badly, she could only imagine how Artemis was doing.

“I got your water!”

All three adults looked up as Wind finally walked back into the room, carefully holding a mug in his hands and looking a little frazzled.

“I couldn’t reach your water cups and I didn’t want to break them by blowing them so I just got a mug cause it’s basically a cup, and I know this one is kind of weird but I it was the first one I found,” Wind rambled, and looked at Warriors anxiously. “Are... are you feeling better, Warriors?”

Warriors took the garishly colored mug with a trembling hand, then took a long sip of water. Some color seemed to come back to his face as he drank, and when he lowered the mug, he gave Wind a small smile.

“Yeah bud, I am,” he said quietly as he looked at his hands. “Sorry for scaring you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Wind said quickly, then climbed up on Sky so he could be next to Warriors. “Just... don’t do that again.”

Warriors let out a soft chuckle. “No promises. But I’ll do my best.”

Wind flicked a puff of air at Warriors’ face with a grumpy huff, but after a moment he went back to blowing a soft breeze at him like he had earlier, looking relieved.

Warriors relaxed as it hit him, and closed his eyes, looking much better then he had before.

Sky gave Warriors’ shoulder one more gentle nudge, but didn’t say anything further, and Sun got up to go phone Artemis. Wind started in on some kind of story about what one of his brothers had done recently, Aryll toddling back over to sit beside them and listen, and Sun looked back and watched them for a moment, a somewhat sad smile on her face.

Then she headed for the phone, Aryll’s giggles following her.

[eternalduos]

Summary: BigB faces his final moments at the end of Secret Life.

This is my contribution to the 5th Edition of @trafficzine !!! I had so much fun working on this, so give it a read a let me know what you think! Check out the full zine down below, download it and see all of the fabulous art and writing!

[rainingpouringetc]

🌹 (Happy valentine's day!!)

thank you <33

"Alastair barely concealed his annoyance at his mother’s wearisome monologue, biting out a short, 'Please, Mâmân, it is ten in the morning,' as she got on to remarking the importance of them marrying before she and her husband were dead and buried."

[ x ]

[artyandink]

the art of heresy forged 2022

SUMMARY: Modern day, 2022, and you have no clue what’s going on. You knew what you went through. You knew it was real, but why were there people trying to convince you that everything that happened to you wasn’t real. Hell, you called bullshit. But you get your chance to fight back when you get a call at your door.

TW: psychological torture, trauma, angst, smut, drinking, consumption of drugs, smoking, mentions of sex, blood, murder, gore, Ben (cause he’s an individual warning), derogatory remarks, gunfire, murder, killing, lots of it, it’s The Boys so be careful guys, really creepy shit, crack, literal crack

STW: fingering, Ben being Ben, degradation, explicit spoken detail, practically manhandling

A/N - divider by @chachachannah

Song Inspo: Look What You Made Me Do by Taylor Swift

keep it quiet

NICARAGUA, 1983:

The sun hung low in the Nicaraguan sky, casting long shadows over the dense jungle. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to every leaf, every blade of grass, and every breath the small town's inhabitants took. A deep, unsettling quiet had settled over the place, punctuated only by the occasional call of distant birds or the rustle of leaves. The tranquility of the town was deceptive, however, masking the turmoil that had gripped the world beyond its borders.

In the heart of the town, a small news station buzzed with a rare energy. Reporters shuffled about, their voices tense, their faces drawn with concern. The camera lights were harsh against the evening gloom, casting sharp shadows on the walls of the makeshift studio. Outside, a handful of locals gathered, their curiosity piqued by the unusual activity. News had traveled fast, as it always did in small towns, and the disappearance of Soldier Boy was no exception. For the people of this remote corner of the world, the arrival of a famous superhero—however dire the circumstances—was an event worth witnessing.

Inside the studio, the main anchor, a seasoned reporter named Esteban Garcia, sat behind a worn wooden desk, straightening the stack of notes before him. His dark eyes were set with a determination that had been honed over years of covering stories that often blurred the lines between the ordinary and the extraordinary. But today, the story was unlike any other he had ever covered.

Esteban had been one of the first to receive the report that Soldier Boy, the legendary superhero and symbol of American might, had gone missing during a covert operation in Nicaragua. The details were still murky, shrouded in a haze of classified information and official denials. What was clear, however, was that the man who had once been invincible, the man who had been the living embodiment of strength and bravery, was now feared dead.

As Esteban shuffled his notes one last time, the door to the studio creaked open, and in walked a woman who seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. Crimson Countess was a striking figure; her red hair, usually fiery and untamed, was pulled back into a tight bun. Her crimson suit, once a beacon of power and confidence, seemed to have lost its luster, the fabric dull and wrinkled as if it, too, had been drained of life.

She moved with a heaviness that Esteban hadn't seen before, her every step measured, her every breath labored. As she approached the interview chair, he could see the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hands trembled ever so slightly. This was not the Crimson Countess the world had come to know—the fierce, unyielding force that had fought alongside Soldier Boy for years. This was a woman on the brink, teetering between despair and the desperate need to hold herself together.

"Thank you for coming, Countess," Esteban said, his voice gentle but firm. He gestured to the chair opposite him, and she lowered herself into it, her movements slow and deliberate. "I know this must be an incredibly difficult time for you."

Countess nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, she seemed unable to speak, her throat working to push down the grief that threatened to spill over. When she finally did find her voice, it was hoarse, raw with emotion.

"Difficult doesn’t even begin to cover it," she murmured, her eyes fixed on some point in the distance, far beyond the walls of the studio. "I’ve… I’ve been through a lot with Soldier Boy. We all have. But this… this is different."

Esteban nodded, giving her the space she needed to gather her thoughts. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words, with the weight of shared history and the looming specter of loss. Outside, the gathering crowd pressed closer to the windows, straining to catch even the faintest whisper of what was being said inside.

"He was… he is," she corrected herself quickly, as if to banish the thought of his death from existence, "the strongest person I’ve ever known. Indestructible, or so we all thought. To think that he could be… gone… it’s like waking up in a nightmare you can’t escape from."

Her voice cracked on the last word, and she closed her eyes tightly, as if that could somehow block out the pain. Esteban felt a pang of sympathy. He had seen many interviews like this before—family members of the missing, the grieving, the lost. But this was different. This was Crimson Countess, a superhero, someone who was supposed to be beyond the reach of such ordinary, human emotions. And yet here she was, broken in a way that no enemy had ever managed to break her.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Esteban asked softly, careful not to push too hard, but knowing that the world was desperate for answers. "Anything at all that you know?"

Countess opened her eyes and looked at him. For a moment, she seemed to be weighing her words, deciding how much to reveal, how much to hold back. Then, with a deep breath, she began to speak.

"It was supposed to be a routine mission," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "We’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times before—go in, neutralize the threat, get out. But something went wrong. I… I wasn’t there when it happened, I was in a different part of the field, but I spoke to him on the comms. He was… he was confident, as always. He didn’t think anything could go wrong."

She paused, swallowing hard, as if the memory of that last conversation was too much to bear. "But then we lost contact. Just like that. One minute, everything was fine, and the next… nothing. No signal, no word. Just… silence."

Esteban leaned forward, his brow furrowing in concern. "And you haven’t heard anything since? No communication from Soldier Boy or anyone else on the mission?"

Countess shook her head, her expression one of helplessness, an emotion she was clearly unaccustomed to. "Nothing. It’s like they vanished into thin air. The government’s been tight-lipped, as always. They’re saying it’s classified, that they’re ‘looking into it,’ but I know what that means. They think he’s dead. They just don’t want to say it."

The words hung in the air, heavy and ominous. Esteban could feel the tension in the room rising, the weight of the world’s expectations pressing down on this woman who had spent her life fighting battles that most people couldn’t even imagine. And now she was fighting a battle of a different kind—one that she had no idea how to win.

"What does this mean for you, Countess?" he asked after a long moment, his voice soft with understanding. "For the team? For the world?"

Countess looked at him, her eyes filled with a deep, abiding sorrow. "I don’t know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I really don’t know. Soldier Boy was… he was the heart of the team. The backbone. Without him… I don’t know how we go on."

The room fell silent again, the weight of her words sinking in. Outside, the crowd had grown larger, their faces pressed against the glass, their eyes wide with fear and fascination. They had come to see a superhero, but what they were witnessing was something far more profound—a woman laid bare, stripped of the armor that had always protected her, struggling to make sense of a world that no longer made sense.

Esteban knew that he had to tread carefully now. He could see how close she was to the edge, how fragile her composure had become. But he also knew that the world was watching, waiting for answers, for some kind of closure. He took a deep breath, choosing his next words with care.

"Countess," he began gently, "the world has always looked to people like you and Soldier Boy for strength, for hope. In times of crisis, you’ve been the ones to lead us, to show us that even the darkest times can be overcome. What would you say to those who are watching right now? To those who are afraid?"

Countess stared at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face as if looking for something—perhaps a lifeline, perhaps an escape. When she spoke, her voice was stronger, more certain, as if she had found some small reserve of the strength that had always defined her.

"I’d say that fear is a natural response to the unknown," she said slowly, the words coming out measured and deliberate. "But fear can’t be the end of the story. Soldier Boy… he wouldn’t want us to give up, to let fear consume us. He’d want us to fight, to keep going, no matter how hopeless it seems."

Her voice grew steadier as she spoke, the words seemingly giving her strength. "I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I don’t know if Soldier Boy is… if he’s really gone. But I do know that he wouldn’t want us to stop fighting. He’d want us to keep pushing forward, to keep believing that there’s a way out of this, even if we can’t see it right now."

Esteban nodded, feeling a sense of respect for this woman who, despite everything, was still finding a way to inspire hope. "Thank you, Countess," he said quietly. "I know that wasn’t easy."

Countess managed a small, tight smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Nothing about this is easy," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "But it’s what we have to do."

As the interview drew to a close, Esteban could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the way her body seemed to sag with the weight of it all. He knew that the moment the cameras stopped rolling, she would retreat back into the private hell she was living, the grief and uncertainty gnawing away at her resolve.

"Do you think he could still be out there?" Esteban asked, unable to resist the question that had been on his mind since the beginning of the interview. "Do you think Soldier Boy could still be alive?"

Countess looked at him, her eyes filled with a quiet desperation. "I have to believe he is," she said softly, the words laced with a fragile hope. "Because if he’s not… I don’t know how we move on from this."

The camera panned out, capturing the room in its entirety—the small, stark studio, the gathering crowd outside, and the lone figure of Crimson Countess, sitting in the harsh light, her face a mask of controlled despair. The broadcast would soon be over, but the impact of her words would linger long after the screen went dark.

NOW:

“Whatever you’re experiencing, it’s not real.” Your shrink - you still didn’t know whether her name was Emily or Earhart - assured you, but you knew better. “Vought only wants to help you get better.”

“They’ve been so called helping me for forty fucking years.” You gritted out, your fingers gripping the chair you were sitting on. The maroon chair, with some fugly beige cushions in this fugly beige room. You hated it.

Fuck all.

She sighed, leaning forward. “You exhibit signs of anger issues and PTSD. Vought is merely facilitating your recovery and return to glory.”

“They’re fucking with my head!” You burst out, standing up abruptly, surging forward and grabbing her throat, your eyes turning black, gleaming with wisps of purple. “Tell me the truth.”

Tell me the truth. It resonated through Eleanor’s head, and her eyes turned the same colour as yours, her jaw going slack as she stopped resisting.

“You’re not crazy.” She whispered, her eyes wide and unfocused. “You never were.”

You let her go, and her eyes returned back to normal, a shaky gasp escaping her lips. You bent forward, trapping her between yourself and the chair.

“You tell anyone what I just did, sweetie,” You warned lowly, “and I’ll snap your neck by the time I next come in here.”

“Of course.” She whispered, her voice cracking.

You sat back down on the armchair, cracking a smile as you examined the fear in her eyes. Good. “Shall we continue?”

They’d gotten into some weird shit.

“Is he always gonna be doing that?” Hughie whispered to Butcher, watching Ben crush some medicine and snort it like it was nothing. They’d broken him out of his cryogenic capsule, and it’s safe to say that he was an incredibly pissed off individual. Understandably so.

“Just let ‘im, it ain’t killing us.” Butcher replied under his breath, and then snapped into suave gent action when Ben cleared his throat and looked up. “Everythin’ alright, there, guv’nor?”

“Gotta add another name to my kill list.” He cleared his throat again, grunting distastefully.

“One more?” Hughie asked, eyes widening slightly, but he recovered. “Uh, w-who is that - the one you want to kill - who?”

Ben grunted again, snorting up more crushed pills. “Tricky bitch, she is. Superhero by the name of Psyke, she was my co-leader and fuck buddy. Real tricky to get past. She can create illusions that you’ll fall for if you’re a dumb piece’a shit, and if she gets her hands on you, game over.”

Butcher crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

“One, she’s hot as fuck. And a great fuck.” Ben chuckled, reminiscing the days. “Second, she’ll just whisper a command and you’ll do it no questions asked.”

“No problem, guv.” Butcher smirked confidently, but Hughie raised his hand. “Put your hand the fuck down, we ain’t in school.”

“Cocksucker.” Ben snorted - not recreational drugs this time - drinking his beer. “What is it?”

“Psyke, she… she’s impossible to get to.” Hughie revealed, scrolling on his phone. “Apparently she had a psychotic outbreak after you were put in the freezer in ‘83. Vought’s holding her for rehabilitation and therapy. Has been for forty years.

Ben saw the picture of the old newspaper, the title blaring in his face. ‘Psyke in Rehab for Violent Behaviour’, but no explanation. It told him one thing— that you must have known something was wrong.

And Vought imprisoned you for it, the bastards.

There wasn’t a world in which Vought would imprison their darling, their golden girl. Not unless she went rogue.

“That means she’s deep in a Vought facility.” Butcher smirked, glancing between the two others. “We get the team together, launch an attack on the cunts holdin’ her, we can get her out quick an’ easy.”

Ben’s protective instincts over you flared up when he thought of what Vought could’ve done to you. “She gets out unharmed, y’hear?”

“Loud and clear, guv. Not a scratch.”

Oh, fuck. You could go for one of those at the moment.

You were left on the ground, on your back, trembling. Your brain felt like it’d been stretched and then left to rebound against all four walls of your brain, close to turning into mush had you not been fighting the drug injected into your system with everything you had.

“She’s resisting.” You heard one doctor mutter to another, just as searing, white hot pain made the corners of your vision turn black.

And then they shaped into the nightmare land, taking over your vision until it was half reality half illusion, messing with your perception until you weren’t sure which was actually happening.

You could see Nicaragua.

The blood, being distracted by a legion only to find Ben being subdued by Novichok.

Fighting off every member of Payback, making them turn on one another with nothing but a hand on their shoulder and a persuasive whisper.

Getting hit with a cheap shot from behind, and both yours and Ben’s bodies were dragged across the dirt.

Only difference was that you were barely awake. Awake enough to see his unconscious face as they took him away and put him God knows where.

“Have we tried giving her a stronger dose?” A male doctor replied, the corners of your vision blinking from reality, back to nightmare, reality, nightmare, reality- nightmare—

Keys jangled. “We give her a stronger dose and she’ll go up in a stroke. Homelander wants her alive.”

“I don’t understand why, she’s a walking weapon.”

“Talking like I’m not there.” You rasped out, like you hadn’t spoken in a hundred years. A rough chuckle left your mouth as you shakily pushed yourself up, the pounding in your head still there but finding it easier to regain muscle control. “Ballsy move, especially for a couple of dickless scientists.”

You pointed at the lady. “You’re already dickless, so you don’t count.”

The two doctors looked between each other, getting more and more anxious as you found your feet, staggering towards them, almost shuffling, footsteps uneven.

“Uh, what are you-” They froze when you clapped your hands on their shoulders, leaning forward so you were speaking in their ears, your iris turning into gleaming purple mixed with black.

“Kill each other.” You whispered, and the command resonated. The urge to pick up their pens and go postal overtaking them.

Kill each other.

Kill each other.

It went through their mind, body, soul. Clipboards flattering to the floor as their irises turned black and swirled with purple, turning to each other slowly. Teeth gritting, veins popping as the two doctors looked into each other’s eyes with pure hatred and a chuckle left your lips as you watched them click their pens and go straight for the jugular.

Over and over again.

“Sleep tight, bitches.” You muttered in satisfaction just as armed Vought soldiers burst in, two forcing you to your knees while two others went to check the tangled, lifeless bodies of the two doctors running rampant.

And you did that.

It felt amazing.

1980:

Mmh, fuck.

“Bet you’re so wet for me, pretty thing.” Ben chuckled against your lips as you stumbled back into the his hotel room, the rapid undoing of clothes not privy to the two of you as the curtains were wide open. Everyone in the street below could see the filthy way yours and Ben’s lips joined together over and over again, eyes closed but hands familiar with where they needed to go to make the other moan.

Ben separated from you to go and close the curtains, leaving the taste of whiskey on your tongue, still in his slacks from the press conference while he’d ridden you of everything but that delicious fucking lace you’d worn under your dress.

He’d been eyeing you all day in that thing, and all he thought about was having it off.

“Didn’t have enough after coming like a faucet on my cock this morning, hm?” He added, toeing his shoes off and working on his belt, his lips descending to your neck and leaving hot trails of kisses and rough sucks. “Nah, you didn’t.”

Your hands slid up his chest, and then one went down to palm him over his slacks, which had the vein in his neck popping, jaw tensing as his head fell back for a quick second.

Then he took control of the situation, tearing your panties off and throwing you onto the bed, the bra going with it as he sank two thick fingers knuckle deep in your pussy.

“Shit-” You gasped, arching off the bed, your legs widening instinctively as he set a brutally delicious pace, leaning forward to lick and suck at your nipple, biting and tugging at it with his teeth at his fancy.

Ben only laughed, manoeuvring your body how he wanted, rocking your hips in time with his fingers, hearing your moans, seeing your eyes roll back, knowing you were close-

NOW:

“TMI.” Hughie groaned, putting his hand out and shaking his head. “Really, dude. Ew.”

Ben frowned. “TMI- the fuck does that mean?” He thought for a second, then waved Hughie off. “Eh, I don’t give two shits.” Then he chuckled at the memory, nodding and hitching his shield higher on his arm. “Psyke, man. Best fuck you could ask for. She’d ride me like a damn champ, knows how to suck you off too. Had a mouth like a goddamn vacuum-”

“As much as I want to hear about your old buddy’s jerkin’ off talents, guv,” Butcher cut in with a wave of his hands as they walked, “we have half an hour to get in an’ out.”

“We’ll get her.” Ben assured, finding a Vought guard and slamming his shield into their face, successfully breaking their nose and making them drop, crumpling like a wet sheet of paper.

“Fuck you.” He added, sneering at the unconscious guard before trudging further through the halls, Hughie and Butcher keeping up right as the alarms blared red.

The moment they did, you - in your cell - smirked, finding an opportunity. The guards were about to restrain you, but you used their grip on your arms to knock them into each other, rolling out of the way and grabbing their handgun, shooting them both once each in the head before anyone could react.

You barely dodged a bullet (literally), jumping and spinning, whipping your leg around so your heel could connect with the side of one’s head, snapping it sideways and sweeping another guard’s legs out from under them, grabbing their head and snapping their neck.

All the guards were down, so you got up, looking at the massacre - the art - you’d created with a small smile on your face and an approving nod.

“Cocksuckers.” You muttered under your breath before shaking your head, clearing the corners of your vision of Nicaragua, induced by whatever shit they put into your system. Wasn’t the good shit either, it was bad shit.

You really needed a smoke round about now.

But now wasn’t the time, so you picked up the guard’s assault rifle and pocketed a few rounds, making your way through the clinically white halls with it held up, popping a few rounds through the heads of the guards you met.

Eventually, of course, all your rounds were depleted soon enough, and you resorted to using your hands (and not in the sexy way), Nicaragua threatening to take over your vision

“You can check that way, guv, she might be there.” A voice with an accent said gruffly, and when you looked around the corner, you saw a boot disappearing down a side corridor, and two other guys. You stepped up behind the smaller one, your bare feet silent on the cold floor.

With a sharp movement, you grabbed the smaller one’s shoulders, yanking him against you as your powers activated again, ready to strike. “Move a muscle and I tell this one to dislocate his own shoulder. Maybe break a leg.”

“What the fuck- I don’t wanna break a leg!” The dude held to you squeaked to the taller guy, who turned around, taking one look at you and smirking.

“Guv, we found ‘er!” He yelled, and a large red and brown boot stepped out, connected to a much larger body that you knew all too well. Only difference was that his hair was darker and he had a trimmed beard. Oh, you’d have fun with that - you mused, right as a grin spread on your face.

“Son of a bitch.”

©️ 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐤 / 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨

𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝/𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝

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[katieaki]

My ✨ post-apocalyptic Lesbian Cowgirl Mailman choose-your-own adventure✨ has just updated! Read it here for free on my Patreon and vote in the poll! There is a summary of the first part, here, the second part, here, and the third part, here. They have everything you need to know about Lou, her requited-but-complicated love, the religious assassin who just beat the tar out of her, the worst person she's ever met, and the ill-advised journey she is on! There is also now a discord where Pony Express readers from all across god's green internet can gather, here!

Two girls stay in camp to do mean girls sleepover activities and one girl runs out into the wastes to scream herself hoarse. Bet you'll never guess who!

Read it for free on my patreon and vote on what happens next! Excerpt below the cut.

Holliday clicked her tongue in disappointment. “You were supposed to take one for the team,” she said.

“I don’t know where in tarnation you got the impression that we’re a team from,” Lou said. She held up a finger. “And if we are a team, I’ve taken a hell of a lot. More than my fair share. Why don’t you get out there and ask the Knife Church cannibal what happened to her?”

“I wouldn’t like to be impolite,” Holliday said.

“Me neither!” Lou objected.

“Please, Lou, since when?” Holliday asked.

Lou scoffed. “‘Since when’ back at yourself! Sakes alive,” Lou said. “Listen, help me undo my chaps, will you? I’ve had a mite of trouble doing up buckles and buttons and tying knots and riding and eating and sleeping and wiping my own ass since taking a real big one for the team. Remember that? The real, real big, Artie-shaped big one I took for the team? Our team, right?” She gestured between herself and Holliday.

“You could lay it on a little less thick,” Holliday said. Still, she removed her own bandana, unfolded it, and laid it on the dirty ground to kneel on so she could undo Lou’s chaps. 

[mushroominaforest]

A bit about Arti’s characterization!

NSH wasn’t the type of parent to sit his kids down and explain the importance of kindness, and treating others how you want to be treated. None of that “sharing is caring” stuff they teach you in kindergarten. Nobody ever told Arti that it was wrong to be mean to other people. That was her dad’s job.

(I see this all the time, mostly in entitled guys. They never got told off for being jerks when they were kids because “boys will be boys”, and now they’re assholes. You have to teach kids right and wrong.)

Arti struggles with empathy. She can’t easily understand what other people are feeling, or how her actions might impact another person emotionally. She’s impulsive, and often acts before she thinks. When she lost her kids, she didn’t know how to process her grief. She doesn’t have the best emotional intelligence, so all those feelings were too much for her, and she went a tiny bit crazy. 

Basically, she reacted with so much violence because she didn’t have any sort of “hurting people is bad” notion ingrained in her moral code that would have stopped her.

It isn’t Arti’s fault that she’s always so quick to be violent, but that doesn’t make it okay. She’s an adult now, and it’s her responsibility to learn how to be a better person.

[maskedbutsilly]

more fem!q trad art + announcement !

hi you guessed it. im gonna be on a short hiatus :,) im in much much (physical) pain rn and i also caught a cold. yay

ill be fine dw, just need to get some rest. idk when ill start posting again (2 weeks minimum) but ill be online :)