#i do like how it turned out even if it was a struggle

[brittle-doughie]

Mercy (Shadow Milk Cookie)

“What do you want?”

You approached Shadow Milk Cookie, as his back was facing you. He turned his head over his shoulder to glare at you as he spoke.

“Haven’t you and your friends humiliated me enough? Have you come to gloat your victory over me? To see me like this?”

No, you were not here for that…

“Then what is it? You wouldn’t be here for no reason unless….”

You were here for him…

“….I thought…I thought after everything I had planned for us, that it could be ripped away from me. Poof! Just like that…”

“I really thought….”

He turned to look away from you, his voice cracking as he struggled to speak.

“I really thought that we would’ve been together…I finally had you after all this time….that I had finally found the one for me…”

“……until he ruined it.”

“So why are you here for me? I thought you’d be happy to have me out of your head at last! Isn’t that right? For our connection to turn to dust in the wind?”

“I wouldn’t have been able to bother you anymore…”

“And yet you still came to me…”

You walked to him, making him zip around and growl at you.

“Why? Why are you willing to look past everything I’ve done?”

“Do you not get it? Are you really that foolish?”

You keep walking to him, he tries to back away from you, but you outpace him in that regard.

“TAKE ONE MORE STEP AND I’LL…I’LL CRUMBLE YOU TO BITS!”

You kept walking.

“I’LL BE BACK…”

“I’LL CRUMBLE YOU…”

“I’LL CRUMBLE EVERYONE YOU LOVE…!”

….

….

….

You stop just before him…

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hate what you had done to me in my head…”

“I knew it-“

“But…I’d also be a liar if I didn’t any care for you.”

“W-what?”

You shock him with a hug. A tight one. He freezes up immediately upon contact.

“You’ve always been saying how you couldn’t wait to have me in your arms, right..?”

“You….YOU….”

It looked like Shadow Milk was getting ready to attack you then and there….

“I…*hic*…love you…”

You allow him to quietly weep on your shoulder as he held you even tighter then you did with him…

You never could turn away from a lonely heart…

[meanbossart]

Based on the latest art/the famous graveyard scene, or at least my version of it. CW: The usual durge-isms. Astarion's sense of humor.

The graveyard is appropriately silent - there isn’t a proverbial soul to be seen as you stroll through the headstones with lazy strides. You’re so often in a rush to get from one place to the next, how novel it is to meander.

You wonder if either of your souls could tick up the counter; Astarion, a corpse-walking, and yourself something else entirely.

His head, battered and bruised as the rest of your bodies scans through the names etched on their respective places of rest, uncharacteristically quiet ever since you left the Inn. You’re worried. It’s been a dreadful day, and now he’s brought you here - you speak. “Are we defacing any graves tonight?”

Astarion humors you with a stiff grin - no, he says, then he changes it to a maybe, and then he asks you to be patient. His eyes land on a simple stone, half-sunken into the dry ground and overtaken by weeds and vines - a small thing forgotten amidst drunkards and urchins in a dark corner of the dead’s park. He sighs, pushes up his sleeves and snaps the foliage away with his own hands, dusts off the shallow writing and rubs the grime off on his knees - standing back a few feet to look over at his handwork. You squint to read his full name off the rock.

“Ancunin?”

 “Astarion Ancunin.” He scoffs. “I haven’t seen this in… Well, in centuries. I was beginning to wonder if I had an em somewhere in there.”

His amusement dies down.

“I had to punch a hole in the coffin and claw my way through six feet of dirt.

“He must’ve had someone come and smooth out the ground- Cazador, I mean. He was waiting for me here, when I finally surfaced.”

The vampire's eyes have risen from his name. He looks past the rows of gravestones and into the brick walls that surround them, sight glazed over, face drained from feeling. His words, so victorious in choice, just bear a numb uncertainty. He is so tired. “From that day on I was his. Until now.”

You shake your head. “You were never his. Everything he had, he took by force.”

“Maybe. But he did take it. And I can’t get it back.” Astarion shoots you an assertive scowl. “There’s nothing left of the person I was anymore. Just a name on a rock. I need to figure out who I am now - and what I want.”

You struggle to reach out to him. For the thing which he mourns. His words, when they echo within your own, perforated skull, sound to you like a statement of freedom, a relief; you’ve also left behind the person you were, and there is nothing there worth lamenting.

Astarion is different. As vague as his recollection of the past may be, or as favorably as you believe things have turned out for the both of you, eventually - you can’t help but feel like he would still trade it for a do-over. You don’t have it in you to ask if he would be willing to do it even if it meant your absence.

You know the answer.

You try to make your peace with it.

This person that your lover longs for, you didn’t know them, and you didn’t love them. But you do now; and so, you find yourself wanting for nothing.

“What is it that you want right now?”

“You.”

He’s caught in his own lack of hesitation, sullen face brought back to life by a small look of bemusement, of surprise. “I want you. Not just now, I… You were by my side through all of it - the bloodlust as well as the misery. You’ve shown yourself to be patient. And caring.” His words are staggered by chortles. “You are so sweet to me. A shock, frankly, given the most recent discoveries. I often wonder if this was always part of your nature, or just a happy consequence of your… ah”

Astarion’s finger prods uncertain around his own curly head of hair, prompting laughter to rumble up your throat. “Incident.” 

“Perhaps.” You’ve never wondered such things and you never will. “You’re beginning to sound awfully sweet yourself, mister concussion.”

He groans in response, reaching the short distance over to the throbbing bruise on the top of his forehead, next to his temple. It was a close call today, perhaps the closest yet - or you only felt the ever more desperate given what was on the line this time. “Anyway, I should probably fix this.”

You watch as Astarion crouches down in the dirt. With a small dagger he had tucked away in his waistband, he gets to work scratching irregular lines into his neglected headstone.

Astarion Ancunin

His father’s pride, his mother’s starlight, his friend’s joy.

229 NR - 268 NR.

He makes an addition below the numbers.

468 NR.

“Is that the year?”

“Yes.”

He pauses, then proceeds a little less confidently.  “... At least… I think so?”

You both exchange clueless looks before breaking into an ugly cacophony of snorts, Astarion leans with his hand on his memorial and hangs his head down in feigned exasperation, shoulders jerking. You kneel, joining him on top of his undisturbed plot. The vampire shakes his head “It doesn’t matter. I’ve been dead to the world long enough - whatever year it is now, I plan on living it. And I’m not letting anything stand in the way of that.”

He puffs his chest and breathes a lone sight - no subsequent following and no former to speak of. His body sits back onto his shins, hands fall limp on top of his thighs “Not him, not the sun, not some giant brain, and certainly not…

“Come here.”

There was less than a foot between your bodies that the elf now closed. He cups your jaw between his thumb and his pointer-finger, you feel a gentle pressure on your neck as Astarion uses you to leverage himself over - your mouths lock, you feel a scabbed-over cut on his otherwise soft bottom lip, a hard lump that splits and leaks into your gums. You turn,, grab onto him tight - hot palms on the cold nape underneath the collar of his shirt and chest against chest, a sore nose-bridge buried into his gaunt cheek. Your faces break apart and he presses his brow to yours, a passionate kiss turns into a tight embrace. 

You take a long whiff of the crook of his neck “You’ve got me in a kind of way I can’t begin to make sense of.”

Astarion’s hand becomes entangled with the hair at the back of your skull. “I love you too.”

You feel it. The desperation and the future echo of his cracking ribs, the hot, vivid flashes of your digits prying apart bone and reaching into the cavity of his heart - you can’t be close enough to him. You can never step into his skin and he can never leap down your throat. An anxious feeling sinks into your gut as you realise that there is one thing that you still want; even in your waking hours of clarity, even in crystalline sanity, even in moments like these, ones that you hold sacred and wish to shield from depravity.

He murmurs into the side of your face. “Lets have sex. Right here.”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to beg?”

The playfulness in his tone is brief. He feels it in your tense shoulders and stiff back - you aren’t teasing him.

You only pull away enough so you can look at him, hands remain latched to his waist. “I’m still afraid of what I might do.”

“I understand.” He doesn’t seem disappointed, only sobered. “Well that puts a slight damper on my plans. No matter.”

“You can help yourself once you’ve tied me up for the night.”

“If I wanted to make love to a rabid mastiff I’d go find a new maniac to lord over me.”

“We could still just… Stay here a while. Together.”

You come off a little pleading. Astarion’s eyes squint when he smiles - “Yes, I… I think I’d like that.”

It’s a little clumsy, the way you sway apart and try to find your footing on the gravel, how your hands slide down each other’s elbows and then lock tightly at the fingers, refusing to let go, new amateur joints; as if men like yourselves who’ve more battles than many do in entire lifetimes couldn’t dream of standing up without the leverage - it’s ridiculous. You’re like little children bumbling to your feet, giggling, trying to catch each other staring as you dangle your locked hands over gravestones and step over rogue bouquets blown by wind.

Everything is fine, everything is well. Your future is certain as is your happily ever after - whatever it may imply. You peruse the cemetery, mocking the dead for the names their parents have given them, their uninspired eulogies and whether or not their dirt happened to smell of piss - you make up stories about the lives they lived and both the horrific or the banal circumstances in which they died. Astarion skips up the stairs to the coffin-maker’s abode, overlooking the scenery - he calls for you to come admire your kingdom, death prince. You laugh, and he laughs, and it all seems so awfully benign.

“That will be king for you soon.”

“Oh, gods - get away from me.”

He knows you aren’t serious. This world has brought you too much joy for you to end it. There hasn’t ever been a moment where you were tempted to do your fathers bidding.

But there’s been moments where you questioned what other choices you had.

Not tonight, however.

Astarion rolls his eyes and takes the hand you reach out to him with. You are yanked towards the paved terrace up the stairs, and you pull him into yourself in a lazy sway by the balustrades. “We will figure something out” You say.

“As always,” Astarion confirms with an emphatic nod of the head, but his gaze is low - he stares at your moving feet. Hand-in-hand and hand-on-hip he’s picked up on what you’re doing; “It’s - left forward, right back, close left, close right, right?”

“That is only if you’re leading.”

“Well then, I guess I’m leading.”

“Be my guest.” 

He places a hand on your waist, you put yours on his deltoid, your boots bump into each other on occasion as you both waltz over uneven stone tiles, first with careful attention until you’ve caught yourselves in a sound-less rhythm. When you raise your eyes you find your partner-in-dance staring on with a rivalling smirk.

“So, you remember how to ballroom dance, yet haven’t got a clue about your own name?”

You ask if that disappoints him, Astarion assures you to the contrary. You both rehearse a dance for an event you will never be going to, and you enjoy every second of it.

[siri-ike]

@it-veries023 @crimes-against-cobblers

Someone must've knockout-spary(Tm)ed him because Tim woke up, in his bed for once, to a spooky howl. It's his notification sound for reanimated food. It's happening! HE KNEW IT WOULD! He dashed over to - oh, dear - he stumbled over to his computer, but on it wasn't a video of one of the many kitchens he'd bugged. Instead, it was the streaming platform, telling him SpookySpaceEats is live.

3 viewers / 0 likes / 14 comments

Danny: Hey, crew. Sorry it's been so long since I posted anything, my sister banned me from cooking,

The camera shook as he freed one hand to mime air quotes.

She thought it was "having negative effects" on my "sanity". Anyway, I'm still not alowd to cook but that dosnt mean we can't put ourselves in food related danger;^>

He pulled out a fast food sauce packet. The brand was unfamiliar.

This is Nasty Burgers seacret sauce. You know how your teachers, reporters, secret agents and even the mayor that one time, are always telling you how you'll end up flipping burgers if you don't stop whatever it is you're doing. Like breaking into the zoo, joining a circus, time travel, etc. Well what they don't tell you is if you do end up working with fast food, you might just be responsible for causing and or preventing the end of the world. Behold.

He placed the packet on a table. Through the cameras movement Tim could make out parts of the decrepit kitchen he was using. And in one frame you could see a window with a green glow on the outside.

Danny tried multiple times to light a match but ended up having to put the phone down and use both hands. With the camera facing straight up Tim saw the ceiling was mostly missing. The chat was seeing it to but Danny wasn't paying any attention to the chat. Through the hole you could see some faces watching intently. They were clearly teenagers but their hair and clothes were so 50s. Some of then were holding books, too. Was this a school?

Don't mind the spooktators.

He said as he picked up the camera and pointed it at an on fire match box. He placed the packet on top without opening it. In a few seconds it popped.

Haha-haa! See that?! Now picture this,

Danny turned the camera back to himself.

Nasty Burger keeps an entire boiler shaped and sized container full of this in their restaurants. I don't know what the thought process was on that decision, but all it takes is one to overheat, killing just 5 people, or 6 if jazz is there, and that's it. End of the world right there. Isn't that crazy? HOW CAN THE FATE OF THE WORLD REST IN SAUCE?!? IT THAT WHY HE WAS ALWAYS SUROUNDED BY FIRE???! *sniff* It, it wasn't even their fault. It was my fault. Ok?! I cheated! I asked Plaz for help! *he struggled for breath* the'ey d-didn't des'herve any of-f th'that.

The phone slipped out of his hand, landing on the floor with an audible *crack*. Danny picked it up again. Stroking his hand over the long line straight through his screen, but he couldn't feel a groove. He looked closer and... oh, great it's on the lense, not the screen.

Uhm, anyway. I'm not going back to cooking, this was probably just a one time thing. Bye.

The screen didn't go black. Instead it stayed on the final image of the feed. On right side of the crack was Danny's normal face. On the left side, the smaller side, he looked pale, part of his right eye was in it and slightly, green? Along with a tuft of black hair, outlined by a white sheen.

Viewers 793k / 850k likes / 7269 comments

Dc x Dp prompt #1

Danny open a YouTube channel teaching how to cook.

Bonus point : During the live, the food came to life. And he had to fight the food while chats were watching him.

[asterafroditis]

𐔌 . ⋮ be my valentine? ♡ .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆First Years x gn! reader

𓏵 729 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcannons, no pronouns used, fluff, a bit ooc(?)

Second Years and Third Years coming up next! feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

I think Ace would pretend he doesn’t care about Valentine’s Day, but he actually thinks about it way more than he lets on. He’s the type to act like he totally forgot, just to see your reaction, only to pull out a small but thoughtful gift at the last second.

Ace likes to tease and play it cool, but deep down, he actually gets a little nervous. He doesn’t want to make it too obvious how much he cares, but if you show genuine happiness over his gift, he’ll get all smug about it—though his ears might turn a little red.

"Hah? You really thought I forgot? Please, I always come through! Here, take it. It’s not a big deal or anything, just a little something I threw together... H-Hey! Don’t look at me like that! Ugh, you’re making me blush or something!"

─────────────────────────

I think Deuce would take Valentine’s Day way too seriously. He’d spend weeks planning, overthinking every detail because he wants to impress you. He probably buys a classic box of chocolates but then panics because he feels like it’s not enough. So, he adds more—a handwritten note, maybe even a little charm or trinket he thought you’d like.

Deuce likes to be upfront, but when it comes to romance, he gets so flustered. He stumbles over his words, gets embarrassed over small things, and is a total mess when handing you the gift. If you thank him sincerely, he might turn bright red and awkwardly try to downplay it.

"U-Uh! Here! I mean—um—I got you something! Wait, I’m saying this all wrong—ahem—I just thought, y’know, since today’s special, I should get you something nice. Uh. Do you… like it?"

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I think Jack would pretend he doesn’t care about Valentine’s Day, but he totally does. He doesn’t like all the flashy, romantic gestures, but he does want to do something special for you. His way of showing affection would be through actions—like carrying your things, helping you with a task, or offering you a snack from the cafeteria.

Jack likes to act tough, but when it comes to romance, he’s a total tsundere. He’ll say it’s not a big deal, but his tail betrays him by wagging slightly when you accept his gift. If you call him out on it, he’ll get so flustered and grumble about how you’re "imagining things."

“Here. It’s from my hometown. Don’t think too much about it—I just figured you’d like it. …What? Why are you looking at me like that? I’m not blushing. You’re imagining things. Seriously, quit laughing.”

─────────────────────────

I think Epel would want to be smooth and romantic, but he struggles to pull it off. He tries to write a love letter? Ends up crumpling it up because it sounds too cheesy. He thinks about giving you roses? Freaks out because it feels too formal. In the end, he sticks to what he knows and gives you something handmade—like an apple-based treat from his hometown.

Epel likes to play it cool, but if you compliment his gift, his accent slips out, and he turns into a flustered mess. He wants to be the cool and mysterious type, but deep down, he’s just a sweet farm boy who cares about you a lot.

"Here. I made this myself. And before ya start teasin’ me, I was not thinkin’ too hard about it! …D’aww, quit smilin’ at me like that! Yer makin’ me feel all soft ‘n stuff."

─────────────────────────

I think Sebek would treat Valentine’s Day like a sacred ritual. He’d act like he’s doing you a great honor by acknowledging this "human tradition," but truthfully? He spent hours making sure his confession was perfect. He’d go way too formal with it, talking like he’s making a grand proclamation, only to panic if you tease him even slightly.

Sebek likes to be loud and dramatic, but when he’s truly flustered, he does not know how to handle it. If you thank him sweetly or call him cute, expect him to go completely red and start sputtering about how he is "a knight of unwavering resolve" (while avoiding eye contact).

"Human! You should consider yourself fortunate to receive my affections on this day of sentimentality! I—WAIT, STOP SMILING LIKE THAT! I AM BEING COMPLETELY SERIOUS! H-Hey! D-Do not pat my head!! I am not blushing!!"

[lazilybeinglassie]

Silly Little Dummy (Shadow Milk x Reader)

CW: Hypnosis, possessiveness, bad ending

You get what you read and you read what you get, this is your only warning!

The halls were endless. Stairs with no beginning or end. You had no way of navigating the chaos. You were so certain you found a way out, only to be tricked by those minions of Shadow Milk.

Of course you had to screw up and find your way trapped in this hell hole. Why couldn't you have left with the others.

After a couple of turns however, you found yourself at a dead end. Frustrated, you hoped to turn around and try again. Only for a familiar face to appear in front of you.

"My my, what do we have here~?"

Reflexively, you stumble back, hitting the wall behind you. Fear crawling through your skin as you stare wide eyed at the beast. His expression delightful as though he were playing an innocent game.

"Another one of Silly Vanilly's buddies? Lost and alone? Strayed from the path?" Shadow Milk snickered darkly. "I will admit, amongst those on the list, I didn't expect you to show up. Ah well! That's what improve is for!"

Looking around for a way to slip away, you don't even notice the vines on the stone wall crawling out. In an instant they snag your limbs and hold you still as you struggle. You're growls of protest are not lost to the villain as he hovers closer.

"There's no need to fret. I'll give you such simple stage directions. All you need to do is listen and watch me."

His hand grabs your chin as he turns your face to look at him. Eyes making contact, you glare in defiance. As you watch him, you notice his bright eyes and how they seemed to be glowing. An intense, radiating glow that wasn't blinding, but it was distracting.

The pupils seemed to dilate a little, looking a little fuller than usual. Then they started to pulse. Rings of blue, white and black growing like ripples in water. At a steady beat, it continues on and on in a mesmerizing pattern. Ring after ring, you couldn't do anything aside from watching it continue.

Your heart beat slows, and your panic seems to diminish. What for? Aren't you in trouble? What was it that was calming you down?

Another pulse. You breathe calmly.

Shadow Milk hums. "There we are. No need for all that fuss. All that running just seemed to have worn you out, hasn't it?"

You stammered as you blinked. "Wh-No! I-"

He uses his other hand to shush you. "Shhhhhh. No more talking. Just listen and watch."

Another pulse. Your attention is drawn back to his eyes. The aura appearing bright and soft. You don't know why, but it's all so captivating in the moment. Blue, black and white, looping over and over and over.

Your body tenses when it feels something brush your cheek. "Listen closely. Listen to every word I say now. Focus on my voice and do not stray. Feel yourself drawn to my enchanting voice."

Another pulse. Your body relaxes. Shadow Milk's tone was gentle and sweet. Caressing your eardrums as you continue to stare. There was hardly anything else you felt like doing. Just staring into those eyes. Those captivating eyes.

Blue, black and white.

A small part of you tried to speak up. Not much came out. Stutters and noises. But hardly any words. "I- . . . uh, I . . . "

"Awwww, look at yourself. Trying to tell me something?"

"I . . . um . . . "

"Do you feel tired, perhaps? You've been running for a while now. So much running, so much worry. Doesn't it feel exhausting?"

The feeling of something holding your chin disappears. You don't look away from his entrancing stare. The beast's head nods, you mimic the movement. He giggles at that.

As that happens, the vines start to coil you more and more. Pulling you away from the wall as your wrapped in a cocoon of plants. Leaves start to fall off of them and scales start to grow. Changing into serpents that wrap around you from your shoulders to your feet.

Another pulse. You sigh as your body sinks into the cocoon.

"Just too many thoughts in that little head of yours. Crowding all that space up there." Shadow Milk places a hand on the top of your head. Then slowly strokes down the back soothingly. Once he pulls his hand away, he puts it back on top and repeats the motion. "Let them go for now. Little by little, piece by piece. Empty your mind for me."

Each stroke, you feel yourself settle and sigh. Your clouded mind, so fuzzy and blurry, starts to clear bits at a time. Parts where you were worried and scared start to fade away. Parts where you thought of escaping dim to nothing. Pure Vanilla. Gingerbrave. Strawberry. Wizard. White Lily. Those names slip from your consciousness one by one.

Shadow Milk grins as he tilts your face up. Looking deeper into his eyes, you feel as though the light had enveloped your vision. Endless ripples, colors bleeding into every direction. What once there were two pupils, now merged into one as they continue to captivate your mind.

Breaking eye contact, Shadow Milk floats genlty to your side. You remain focused in one direction as though he never left. But the beast leans close to your ear as he whispers to you softly.

"Nothing left in there now, huh?" You don't respond. "Why don't I take things from here? Does that sound nice?"

Absent mindedly, you whimper as though you want to say something. Whether it was a yes or a no, you couldn't tell.

"Oh I bet it sounds wonderful. You love hearing my voice, don't you?"

Another noise comes from your throat. "mmmmmhmmmmmm . . . "

"You don't mind my touch either. It makes you feel happy, right?"

Stroking your cheek, he looks to you for a reaction. You exhale and smile contently.

"There is nothing more you want to do that hear my voice and let me hold you close. Your mind is always open to me, and you always will obey my will. Because it's everything you could ever want."

Another pulse. Your will shatters.

It doesn't take long before your own eyes start to glow blue with their own ripples dancing inside. Looking dazed and empty, you stare at nothing as the colors claim what is left of you.

Shadow Milk grins in victory. "Much better, my dear."

The serpents slowly release you, placing your body standing up. You lean forward, slouching a bit, only to feel threads straighten you up.

"Now then, I believe we have an audience to appeal! You know your place, right?"

He strokes your chin. Leaning into the touch, you blush and melt. "Uh-huh."

Shadow Milk's grin widens. "Wonderful~!"

[vi0lentquiche]

Bryan Fuller on The D-Con Chamber podcast

Some actual revelations here, I gotta say!

We went to a lot of actors and they all said no, and Mads said he wanted to do it. And I was like, here's a person who wants to do it, who is amazing, and they're like, he's sort of weird? He just seems very Euro-weird, shouldn't he be sexier? And I'm like, he's sexy as fuck! There's nary a sexier!

The casting process is so degrading for everybody, but I reached out to Mads and said, "Would you audition? I hate to ask you this, but I just can't get them there." And he said of course, came in and auditioned, was amazing, and they went, nah, he's sort of creepy. ??HE'S EATING PEOPLE. And finally the last person had said no and I called Jen Salke who was running it and said, "Jen, I have to write this, I have to craft this show and believe in it. I believe in him, that he can do this, I see him in the role, it's hard for me to see anybody else." And she said, "I trust you, I trust your vision, let's do it." So that was her response. Her boss's response was, "Well, you got what you wanted, you're on your own." And they halved our marketing budget. It was a little spiteful.

Jen was amazing, she kept us on the air although we didn't have great ratings, but Jen, who is now running Amazon, thought the show was great. They were paying nothing for it, the licensing fee was the smallest that they had. And the show was very cheap, our budget was 2.25 million in the first season (we turned everything dark so you couldn't see how cheap everything looked), second season was 2.5, third season was 3.2, so it was a very economic show, and our scripts were like 33 pages long. Because all that atmosphere, and also Gillian Anderson made the most fantastic unnerving choice to speak very deliberately, so you could give Gillian a page of dialogue and it was 6 minutes of screentime, and you don't want to cut away, because she grabs you and doesn't let go.

So it was economic for lots of reasons. But Jen said, "I'll keep you on the air, it doesn't cost us anything, do whatever you want. Do the show that you want to do." And NBC didn't give us a ton of notes! The Standards and Practices was one of the best relationships that I had. Joanna was our S&P executive, and I would say, "Hey, Joanna ☺️, we have to have a guy cut off his face and feed it to dogs ☺️ howwww do we do that?" and she'd say, "Just make the blood black and turn down the lights." The only thing she didn't know how we could do was, Eddie Izzard had hooked someone's intestines up to a ceiling fan while they were still alive, so when somebody came into the room and turned on the lights the ceiling would disembowel them. And she said, "I just don't know how you're gonna do this!" and production said, "We can't afford it, you get one shot and if you don't get it there's no way for us to do a reset." So she was willing to let us try the ceiling fan disembowelment, she was the coolest lady. My assistant at the time made a book of all the S&P emails, like "When you're doing this please keep in mind that the blood needs to be black," because the redder the blood the less likely that you can put it on TV. So if you darken the blood, even if it's a dark burgundy, you can get away with it. The food that looks like blood is fine, because you're gonna eat it and it looks like meat, and Jose Andres is helping you out.

Hannibal was creatively a great experience because the stakes were so low that Jen was like, "How great for me to be able to tell you to do whatever you want!" We should have been cancelled after the first season, because our ratings were so low. I think we had 3 million, and that was at a time when 3 million wasn't enough. No, we started with 5 or 6 and it got down to 3 by the end of the run. But it was great that she gave us the opportunity, and was a great executive who supported the show when her bosses didn't because we didn't cast who they wanted.

Pushing Daisies was actually more of a struggle creatively with the network, they would say it was too weird and to make it more mainstream. And they were probably right, we would probably have had more numbers, but it wouldn’t be my show. I really don't mean to be difficult with a lot of executives, but when I resist those notes it's becase I don't know how to do them, like my brain doesn't compute. I've gotten better the older I've gotten. I've also gotten more like, it's perhaps not a hill to die on? Whereas before I'd go, noo, the art must speak for itself! It's that singular understanding for something, where it comes out and you accept it for how it is. And it's probably a little bit about being raised in a Catholic environment where you're told how to be, it’s the rebellion, and it's the intrinsic queerness of choosing something that's different, or relating to something that's different and that being a guiding principle more than an edict.

[zezacle]

One day there was a knock on the door. Having just made a cup of tea, I joyfully opened the door. "Who is it?"

"Federal Bureau of Investigation, Agents Davies and Rhine. We have a warrant to search the premises." I felt the man slap a piece of paper on my chest as he pushed past me.

"Hey! Woah woah woah woah!" I yelled, trying to corral them in my foyer.

"Read the warrant, interfering with our search is grounds for arrest." The other voice sounded.

"Do you know who I am? Because you should, if you're searching my place, which means you should know that I can't read this sheet of paper." There was a moment of silence. "Which means you assholes could be anybody. I wanna feel your badges and I want someone other than you to read this paper to me."

"That's not how it works." They pushed passed me, spilling a bit of my tea on the floor.

"I'm calling my fuckin' lawyer." Flustered I set my tea down and rushed to the phone. My voice recorder and most of my research was in the safe. I hope I locked it.

Silhouetted in the light of the window I could see the two of them begin to dismantle my study, which only stressed me out even more. "Yes, hello? I need to speak to Damien Boone immediately, I have two federal agents RAMPAGING through my house and a search warrant I physically can't read. Yeah- fine I'll hold."

"What the fuck is that?" One of the men asked alarmed. I heard him draw from his holster and saw his arms extend from his silhouette. The other one turned and quickly followed suit.

I let the phone dangle from the cord and stepped forward. A black blur with two yellow dots. "That's Frank, my cat."

"That's not a cat!"

Tears welled in my eyes. "Please don't shoot Frank."

Suddenly, the blur streaked forward towards the men. Both of their guns rang out. The noise was so deafeaning and startling, I fell backwards to the ground. Muffled screams and panic. "Lucas! Pull it off, man! I can't shoot it with it on your face!"

But another shot rang out regardless. The muffled screams went from terror to agony. I curled up and covered my head.

"Oh fuck!" Two more shots rang out and now the second man's voice became muffled screams.

"You shot me!" The first cried out.

There were some grunts of effort that sounded like kicking. "Get it off!"

"I'm trying!" There was a loud thump at the end of the struggle and screams.

"What is that thing?!"

"Just fucking run!!" I heard their pounding footsteps retreat out my door and down the sidewalk. Car doors slammed and engine roared to life and tires screeched down the road.

I lifted my head with shuddered breath. Shakily, I rose to my hands and knees. I crawled forward around the counter. "Frank?" I called with a broken voice. There was a black blur at the foot of the barstool. I worked up the courage to crawl towards it ever so slowly. Then with a trembling hand I reached out and for the first time, touched my "cat".

He didn't have fur, or rather if he did, it wasn't soft. It was stiff and slick and it left and oily residue on my hands. "Frank?" I whispered as the sensations on my fingers rattled through my brain.

Suddenly, he jerked awake. He lept away and turned back to me. A black blur with two yellow dots. Then, he turned and stumbled away towards the door. "What the fuck?" I breathed in disbelief.

The house was quiet once again. Except, faintly, I heard a distorted, "Hello?! Hello!"

I frantically crawled back and reached up to grab the dangling phone. "Damien?"

"Hello? What the hell just happened, were those gunshots?"

"I think my cat just attacked two FBI agents and made them run out of my house."

"What??"

[End part 2/3]

You have a cat. It's... it's not exactly a cat, but still - it did save you that one time government agents tried to capture you.

[kiwriteswords]

I was listening to Diet Pepsi by Addison Rae (it gives me so much Hotch vibes for some reason??? I love it) and I thought it would be the perfect occasion to make a request for your Thirsty Thursday 👀 I don't have much idea but I guess something in the car, maybe a younger reader so we have a lovely age gap and maybe something that goes with the lyrics "I write my name with lipstick on your chest I leave a mark so you know I'm the best" (don't need to be the name writing of course ahah but I love the idea of lipstick stains on his chest)

You're the absolute best and congrats on your 2k btw!! you deserve thousand more 🫶

Fog up the windows in the parking lot [Aaron Hotchner x Age-Gap!Reader] **

Ki2k Masterlist||MainMasterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 3k|| AN: Hii! Thank you so much for this request--I still can't believe I was listening to this song when you sent this, haha. Great minds think alike!! I hope you like this (I can't write smut to save my life, but here i am doing a smut day.)

Tags/Warnings: female reader, porn without plot honestly, smut, mdni, unprotected sex, car sex, I am bad at writing smut sorry, horny hotch, sorta brat tamer hotch, age gap, you're hotch's controversially young gf, not specified if reader is BAU (so up to your imagination).

Summary: The one where Aaron Hotchner realizes he goes weak in the knees when he sees how tight his much younger girlfriend's jeans are.

Hotch couldn't help himself today, and it was all because of those jeans you decided to wear. Each time you bent over to grab something off the lower shelves at the grocery store, his heart skipped a beat, his mind filled with thoughts that had no place in the brightly lit aisles of their local market. You were oblivious to the effect you were having on him, focused on checking items off the grocery list, your hips swaying naturally as you moved down the aisles.

It wasn’t just the bending or the swaying; it was every little thing you did. Each time you reached up to grab something from a higher shelf, the way your back arched slightly, Hotch felt a pull deep inside him, a stirring of feelings he hadn't expected to be so strong.

When you both loaded the groceries into the car and then reached into the backseat to grab your purse, your jeans hugging you perfectly, Hotch found his eyes lingering. He was usually more composed than this, more in control, but today, those jeans had him teetering on the edge.

Driving home, he kept stealing glances your way, each look like adding fuel to a fire he was struggling to contain. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and tinged with a hint of warning and desire mingled together. "You have no idea what those jeans are doing to me," he confessed, trying to keep his focus on the road but failing miserably.

You turned to look at him, a mischievous sparkle in your eye, fully aware now of the turmoil you were causing. His words, so out of character for the usually stoic and controlled man, only brought a playful smile to your lips.

Hotch knew he was treading uncharted waters, not just with his emotions but with how openly he was expressing them. Despite the teasing from the team, who noticed how much younger you were, and their offhand jokes about him being like a lovestruck teenager, it didn't matter. You brought out a side of him he never knew existed. A side that felt alive, vibrant, and yes, even a bit reckless.

You sighed, looking in your purse for something beside Hotch in the passenger seat. He then all about lost it when you unbuckled your seat belt in the passenger seat and twisted to the back. Your ass was now level with his head, practically drawing him in. He had to keep his eyes on the road--but god dammit. 

The car shifted slightly as he adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening from the tension. "You're doing this on purpose now," he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with a mix of exasperation and barely contained desire.

Playing coy, you didn't respond immediately. Instead, you found your lipstick and settled back into your seat, taking your time to apply it carefully, glancing at him to gauge his reaction. His eyes flicked, catching yours, and you saw a flash of something intense in his gaze.

Hotch stepped on the gas a bit harder than necessary, the slight surge forward a clear indication of his growing impatience and agitation. You couldn’t help but smile at his reaction, teasing him further. "You know, you're really sexy when you're all hot and bothered," you pointed out, your tone playful yet sincere.

The remark seemed to hit a nerve, and Hotch took a deep breath, trying to refocus his attention on the road. But it was clear you had effectively distracted him, his mind racing with thoughts he usually kept well under wraps. This side of Hotch, the one that struggled between his composed exterior and the mounting desire you elicited, intrigued you. It was a side of him that came out rarely, and you relished the moments when you could draw it out, loving the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching.

You leaned back in your seat, a mischievous glint in your eye, and teased him, "I have a good idea."

Hotch's response was immediate and a little strained, his voice tight as he focused on the road. "The only idea I have right now is getting home and taking a cold shower." He was half-joking, but the undertone of his voice betrayed his growing frustration and need.

You laughed lightly, enjoying the effect you had on him, but decided to push the envelope a little further. "You know," you started casually as if the thought had just occurred to you, "I've always wanted to have sex in the car."

Hotch paused at that, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He glanced at you briefly, his expression a mix of surprise and contemplation. The rational side of him kicked in almost immediately, listing several reasons why that was not a good idea—safety, legality, the potential for discomfort. But before he could voice any of those thoughts, he felt your hand on his thigh.

Your fingers started caressing him, inching dangerously close to his groin. Each touch sent a jolt through him, scattering his thoughts and straining his control. His grip on the steering wheel tightened again, and he drew in a sharp breath, trying to concentrate on the road while battling the surge of desire your bold move had ignited.

He half sighed, half groaned your name, his voice strained as he tried to concentrate on the road. "That's not—"

But he didn't finish his sentence. The sensation of your fingers, the way you leaned closer to him, your breath on his neck as you whispered just how much you wanted this—all of it was overwhelming. Hotch gripped the steering wheel even tighter, the car speeding along as he battled the surge of desire that you sparked with your daring touch.

He took a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of control, but the more he thought about your suggestion, the more appealing it seemed. Here he was, a man always in control, always calculated, yet at this moment, driven to the edge by the simple act of your hand on his leg.

"We should... we should at least pull over," he finally conceded, his voice a mix of reluctance and desire, realizing that resisting you completely was a battle he might not want to win today. As he scanned for a secluded spot to park, the thrill of the impending escapade with you sent a jolt of anticipation through him. 

Hotch pulled the car over, the tires crunching softly on the gravel as he turned off into a secluded spot shielded by trees. Without a word, he reached over the console, his movements deliberate, and captured your lips in a rough, hungry kiss. You moaned into his mouth, your lipstick leaving a taste of cherries against his lips, igniting a fire within him that he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years.

His hands roamed over your body with a sense of urgency and ownership, finally reaching across the console to trace down your legs to those tight jeans that had been torturing him all day. His touch sent shivers up your spine, and you pulled back breathless, meeting his gaze which had darkened with raw desire.

"You’re gonna need to help me peel these off," you suggested with a playful yet sultry tone, motioning towards the backseat, "Maybe back there would be better?"

The idea sent a thrill through Hotch, the tightness in his own jeans growing at the thought. His brain buzzed with a cascade of 'what ifs' — what if we get caught? What if someone sees? Yet, the logical side of him was quickly overridden by the sheer desire to be closer to you, to explore this daring side of your relationship.

Hotch's decision was made the moment you suggested moving to the backseat, but as he surveyed the space, he realized there was enough room if he pushed the driver's seat all the way back. The SUV, similar to the one he drove for the FBI, was spacious, but even then, the two of you fit just barely.

You began to wiggle out of your jeans in the passenger seat, and Hotch reached for his belt with urgency. Typically, your intimate moments were full of foreplay, and you both took your time, savoring each other. But today was different—there was a sense of rush, an urgency in the air as he pulled himself from his jeans, his eyes never leaving you.

"Come here," he said in a low, commanding tone that sent a shiver down your spine. It was a direct, uncharacteristically blunt invitation, but it carried all the intensity of your mutual desire. He adjusted himself, making space for you, anticipation etching every line of his face as he awaited you to straddle his lap.

Your eyes went from his to his hand as he began stroking himself with a semi-achingly slow pace that made your eyes widen. He watched you slide your panties down your legs, kicking them to the floor of the car with your jeans and shoes.

The rush, the spontaneity—it all contributed to a thrilling urgency neither of you could deny. As you moved towards him, leaving the constraints of your jeans behind, the tight confines of the SUV seemed to close in, enveloping you both in a private world where only your intertwined desires mattered.

You slid from the passenger seat, the fabric of the car seats whispering beneath you as you maneuvered yourself toward Hotch. The confined space of the SUV made every movement more deliberate, more charged with an electrifying tension. Your heart raced as you reached him; his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that mirrored the pounding of your pulse.

Carefully, you straddled him, positioning yourself over his lap. Hotch's hands immediately found your hips, his grip firm and sure, anchoring you securely against him. The close quarters of the SUV enveloped you both, creating a cocoon of intimacy that amplified each breath, each subtle shift in movement.

His hand moved from your hip to between your legs, spreading you and finding the wetness that waited for him there. He groaned, feeling it; he threw his head back, opening his neck for you to nip at and kiss. You began unbuttoning his button-up, glad he went without the tie today and just the button-up and jeans--a casual look you loved. 

You reached between the two of you and positioned him before swiftly sinking down with a shared groan filling the walls between the two of you. You felt the pads of his fingertips grip your hips again as you began to rock into him, subconsciously clenching around him. 

His hands caressed the curve of your ass, guiding your hips to rock against him. The way he pressed you so firmly down against his hips had the right amount of pressure on your clit, causing you to roll your eyes in pleasure. 

His hands spread up your sides on your still-clothed top. Through your shirt, he grabbed at your breasts roughly before returning to your ass. 

Hotch got a little rougher, meeting your hips rand ocking against his with a thrust beneath you. You could feel him deep within you. Caught in your throat was a moan, but the pleasure was too immense--too good. 

“You have no idea what you were doing to me today in those jeans,” Hotch panted, his lips finding the crook between your shoulder and your neck as he began to meet you thrust for thrust--so deep, so good--so much. 

“Oh,” You squeaked, “I have an idea.” You laughed, breathlessly. 

“Fucking,” Thrust, “Brat.” The sound of your hips smacking. Your thighs sweaty now against him, and your wetness now audible. 

“You love it,” You breathed, your lips going down to his chest now, kissing him and leaving marks of your lips from your lipstick, stained across his chest. 

“Yes,” He thrusted again, sharper now, but the rhythm beginning to falter. “You better hurry up and come,” he said breathlessly. You clenched around him with a glint in your eyes, “I’m serious.” 

Reaching between the two of you, you began working your clit with a circular rhythm that was old faithful in any situation. Hotch’s eyes squeezed shut then open, continuing to meet you. There was a found tempo from the way your fingers circled your clit and the way his hips met yours.

You felt the coil begin to tighten as your orgasm approached. Your thighs began to shake and you threw your head back. Hotch’s fingers bruising your hips continued with each deep thrust. Over and over and over. Just right. 

You came with a gasp, which was then covered by Hotch’s lips kissing you. His hips beginning to lose control as his own orgasm left him. You felt him empty within you, only adding to the sensitivity you felt deep within you. His hips stuttered against you, resting, but your thighs still shaking against him. As if to hold you into place, his hand rested at the small of your back, settleing you. 

A groan left his lips into your mouth, and the two of you slowed with lethargy. As the intensity of the moment ebbed, Hotch's hands gently caressed your skin, soothing and tender in their touch. The two of you were left sweaty and breathless, the aftermath of your passion palpable in the close, humid air of the SUV. His hands moved slowly, tracing patterns across your back and shoulders, each stroke helping to ground you both as you came down from your highs.

The small space of the car, which just moments ago had felt electrifying and exhilarating, now seemed overly warm and confining. As you both caught your breath, the reality of the situation gently settled in—a mixture of amusement and affection hanging between you.

"We definitely need a shower," Hotch murmured, a slight grin playing on his lips as he acknowledged the state both of you were in. The thought of continuing this intimacy in the shower brought a soft smile to your face.

"And maybe a detail for the car," you added, laughing softly, the sound mixing with the faint hum of the idling engine. The humor of the situation wasn't lost on you, and Hotch's responding chuckle told you he felt the same.

"So, I take it you liked the jeans?" you asked, a playful note in your voice.

Hotch glanced at you, a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes held a glint of mischief mixed with undeniable affection. "I loved them," he admitted, his voice low and enticing. "But for the sake of productivity, maybe never wear them again around me if we actually want to get anything done."

His witty response made you laugh, the sound light and carefree. It was moments like these that deepened your connection, mixing playful banter with the intense chemistry you shared. 

Your fingers trace the outline of your lips marked all along his neck and chest from the now-smeared lipstick you had applied moments before. A mischievous smile spread across your face as you pointed them out. "You know, this might be my favorite look on you now," you said, the playful tone in your voice tinged with a hint of satisfaction.

Hotch raised his eyebrows, a slight blush coloring his cheeks as he reached up to feel the marks, his fingers brushing over the spots you indicated. The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile, appreciative of your boldness and the memory of the moments that led to such disarray.

"Is that so?" he replied, his voice laced with humor and a warmth that reached his eyes. "I suppose it's a good thing we're heading home then. I might need to wear it more often if it gets that kind of approval."

As you watched the fading lipstick marks on his skin, you leaned closer, a teasing gleam in your eyes. "I like marking what's mine," you murmured, tracing a finger lightly over one of the marks, emphasizing your words.

Hotch looked at you, his expression softening into one of deep affection, the playful retort ready on his lips turning into something far more tender. "Sweetheart, you don't need marks to know I am," he replied, his voice gentle yet firm, filled with a sincerity that warmed you through.

You kissed him tenderly there before he patted your bare hip. You smiled against his lips, knowing the two of you had to leave this little intimate cocoon now. “I know, I know,” you sighed against his lips before whimpering, slowly moving off of him, trying not to make an entire mess of his already dirtied car. Hotch groaned, feeling you leave his lap. 

Despite the age gap between you, something about being with you made Hotch feel as though he was losing his innocence all over again; each moment tinged with a freshness and excitement that he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. It was a rediscovery, a rejuvenation of spirit in the best way possible, with every laugh, touch, and shared secret making him feel both wonderfully vulnerable and profoundly alive.

He sure hoped you wore those jeans again. 

[capquinn]

hello my favorite writer on this app.. after your quinn thot today I was curious if you would write husband!quinn and reader doing the challenge where you go to dinner and first one to mention the kids loses.. maybe a little fun time ensues after 🫣

(quinn would definitely lose and talk about bug within 10 mins)

LOVE this idea. like, absolutely obsessed with it. quinn is struggling bc literally everything reminds him of bug and cub. the music playing in the restaurant? cub babbles along to it in the car. the couple at the next table? bug told him the other day she’s going to marry her best friend from daycare. he’s doomed from the start <3

“Let's play a game,” you announce, setting your menu down and leaning in conspiratorially. “First one to mention the kids loses.”

Across the table, Quinn smirks, tipping his beer to his lips.

“What do I win?”

You blink. “What?”

“If I win.” He raises an eyebrow, expression calm, but you know him too well — there’s mischief brewing under the surface. “What do I get?”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “What do you want?”

Quinn hums, pretending to mull it over, gaze flicking over you like he’s debating his options. He sets his beer down, lazily tracing the condensation on the glass with his fingers. Then, with a slow smirk, he shrugs.

“Dunno. Guess I’ll decide when I win.”

You scoff, nudging his shin with the toe of your shoe under the table. It’s not a hard kick — just enough to make him smirk, to let him know you’re onto him.

“Oh, you’re feeling confident.”

“I’m always confident.”

The game starts off easy. You talk about work, a movie you want to see, the couple at the table next to you who are clearly on a first date. Quinn teases you about how you always take forever to pick what to eat, while he’s already placed his order in record time.

You roll your eyes, leaning back in your chair.

“Sorry for wanting to make an informed decision.”

Quinn rests his chin in his palm, watching you with barely hidden amusement.

“You just read the whole menu, pick something, then change your mind three times before the server even gets here.”

“That is a gross exaggeration.”

He hums, a little too smug. “I just think it’s funny how you panic-order every time.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Keep talking and I’m ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.”

Quinn grins, kicking back slightly in his chair. “Go for it, baby. I’m winning this bet either way.”

You scoff, shaking your head, but before you can fire back, the server appears to take your order. You do exactly what Quinn predicted — debate between two options, panic last second, and pick something you weren’t even originally considering.

Quinn just smirks as he hands the menus back. “So predictable.”

“I’ll remember this when your food looks boring and you're begging for a bite of mine.”

Quinn just chuckles, shaking his head as he reaches across the table, fingers lazily finding yours. He doesn’t say anything at first, just traces slow, absentminded patterns over your knuckles, his thumb brushing over your wedding ring, turning it slightly like he always does. It’s quiet, easy — one of those moments that doesn’t need filling, just the two of you sitting there, comfortable in the silence.

Then, after a beat, he smirks. “This game is so easy, huh?”

You huff out a soft laugh, rolling your eyes as you squeeze his fingers. “Yeah, piece of cake.”

But as the minutes tick by, you start running out of steam. Every topic feels like it inevitably leads back to the two tiny humans you’re both very obviously not allowed to mention. You talk about a book you’ve been reading, but Quinn doesn’t read fiction. Quinn brings up hockey, but you hear enough about it during the season. The conversation starts circling the drain, filled with long pauses and raised brows, both of you waiting for the other to slip up.

And then — like it’s a reflex — you both reach for your phones at the same time.

You freeze. Quinn freezes. Fingers hovering over the screen, neither of you daring to move.

Quinn tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, voice slow and suspicious. “What are you doing?”

You sit up straighter, phone still suspended midair, blinking at him like you’ve been caught red-handed. “What are you doing?”

His lips twitch. “Just checking something.”

"Me too," you reply, maybe a little too quickly. A beat of silence. The tension thickens, the air between you charged with the weight of realisation.

Quinn’s gaze flickers toward you, sharp and knowing. “Are you checking the baby monitor?”

Your jaw drops, betrayal and horror mixing into one. “Are you?”

Quinn exhales, dragging a hand down his face, already defeated. “Damn it.”

Your shock melts into pure glee. You throw your hands up, phone clattering against the table as you burst out laughing. “Oh my God! I won!”

Quinn groans, leaning back in his chair, tilting his head toward the ceiling.

“Unbelievable.” But there’s a fondness in his voice, even as he shakes his head, even as he reaches for his water like he needs a moment to process his loss.

You grin, all smug and triumphant. “Feels good to be a winner.”

Quinn shoots you a look, all playful warning.

“Guess we should just finish up and head home to —” He catches himself, groaning. “I almost did it again.”

“Tough loss.” You grin, voice full of fake sympathy as you rest your chin on your palm. “So, what do I win?”

Quinn watches you for a long moment, his eyes glinting with something warm, something teasing, something just a little dangerous. He leans in, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against your wrist where his hand has found yours again.

“You won. You call it," he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to make your breath hitch.

You hum, tilting your head, dragging it out just to watch him squirm.

“Hmm… I could ask for something small,” you muse, tapping a finger against your chin. “Or… something big.”

Quinn exhales, amused. “You're ruthless.”

“You knew that when you married me,” you counter sweetly.

His thumb strokes idly against the inside of your wrist, his gaze flickering between yours, a tension so thick and warm settling between you in the low candlelight.

Then, smirking, you lean in, all smooth confidence as you murmur, “I think I’ll decide when we get home.”

[cherrriesinthespring]

OMG SPENCER WITH 73 😍😍😍

i tried my best but.. idk 😭😭

the prompt is in pink!! cockwarming kinda, riding, teasing, the only description of the reader being a female is the prompt "what happened to my good girl?"

18+!!

---------------------------

i see this with S6 or S11 Reid but.... it's up to you

hips touching, skin on skin, the one time in a while he's let you get on top. his voice was stern when he'd told you to keep going until you both came twice, but just as the pleasure would build, he'd grab your waist to stop you from moving. you were getting frustrated with him.

spencer's instructions were clear, yet he made them impossible to follow. slick gathered between you, heat gathering in your stomach, a low coil. the way his fingers dug into your skin, the feeling almost bruising. a whine leaves you, which brings a low hush from his lips.

"honey, try again, you can do it.." he guides you and you huff.

"how am i-" before you can finish complaining he thrusts up into you, his flushed tip kisses your cervix. your whimper sets his stomach alight, he expresses this with a groan. spencer wants more, so do you, the difference is: you're vocal about it, he's holding back. you can feel the way he's pulsing, throbbing, each vein in his body (and his cock) practically has it's own heartbeat. of course, you're the same, clenching around him almost as if it's a competition to see who can take more.

he does it again, then another. then you're left blank. it almost physically hurts to be denied like this, you'd been so, so good. yet you got nothing back in return.

"please- please I want it.." you plead with him, you feel as though you've repeated this at least 100 times now.

"well you don't need it? if you don't need it, you can w-" he's cut off by a desperate wail.

"no! no, I mean- i need it.." he can't help but feel bad at the way your voice trails off, almost as if you're embarrassed. that doesn't stop him from teasing you.

"we beg for what we want, and we beg nicely, with manners. that's what I've taught you.. what happened to my good girl?” his tone is condescending, it doesn't help that this turns you on even more.

so you whine, and plead, until finally he lets you ride him with no interruptions. it took a lot, your body could barely handle the feeling, trying to hold back on the orgasm. it didn't surprise you that he lightened on the teasing and sly comments the further you both got to cumming. it wasn't just to be easier on you, but also because he was struggling to speak.

the space between you squelched with each buck of spencers hips, the grinding of your own. lifting yourself on your knees to a slightly better angle, it takes one move for him perfectly hit the spot you need. his head tips back, he's murmuring praises and you swear he whines at least twice.

his curls are stuck to his head, both of you covered in sweat, and it's impossible to even think of cumming twice. the motions are restless, chasing the high you both desperately need.

you both cum with a loud cry, the mess of slick between you now increases with the mixed substances dripping out of you. chests lightly collide, and you take your spot against him, head burrowing in his neck for comfort. all while he's still inside of you.

[kashverse]

umbrellas are, without a doubt, mankind’s magnum opus. rain? blocked. sun? deflected. want to look like a brooding protagonist in a slow-motion film sequence? pop that thing open and stride dramatically.  a/n: read till the end to see choso's temu collab <3

unfortunately, this universal truth is lost on gojo, who believes his infinity is a catch-all solution to every problem in life, including weather. does it keep the rain off him? sure. does it do the same for you? absolutely not. but does he realize this? of course not. so while he’s smugly holding you close, humming some dumb love song and talking about how "this is just like those k-dramas, huh, babe?" you are actively getting drenched. fast forward two days later—you’re curled up in bed, tissues piling up like a battlefield, and gojo is wailing as if he’s the one on death’s doorstep. “my baby is dying,” he cries to shoko over the phone, who is ignoring him as she eats her lunch. it doesn’t matter that you told him it was just a mild cold. gojo is now hand-feeding you soup with the solemnity of a man who thinks he is on his last day of service. *��i should’ve—sniff—bought an umbrella.” you have half a mind to hit him with the spoon.

geto, on the other hand, is a man of preparation and, for some reason, exclusively stocks clear umbrellas. like, exclusively. open his closet and you will find nothing but a neat, borderline concerning collection of transparent umbrellas, stacked like they’re waiting for a government-distributed evacuation plan. does he use them all? yes. does he need that many? no. when you question him, he simply shrugs and says, “it’s aesthetic.” but the aestheticism fades a little when the two of you are forced to walk under the blazing summer sun, grumbling like old men because the clear plastic is offering exactly zero protection from UV rays. "we’re gonna get so tanned,” you whine. “we’ll be fine,” he reassures, though he looks about one minute away from passing out. why doesn’t he just buy a regular umbrella? you may never know.

toji, meanwhile, gives you the slow blink of a man who has never voluntarily used an umbrella in his life. if you ask him where his umbrella is, he will blink at you like a lizard sunning itself on a rock and say, "what’s an umbrella?" except he’s joking, but also not really. the thing about toji is that he fundamentally does not care about the weather. if it rains, it rains. if it shines, it shines. he has completed jobs in typhoons, sprinted through downpours to reach you in the middle of the night when you were anxious, and once walked through a literal snowstorm to buy a six-pack. weather is an inconvenience only for the weak. that is until his philosophy backfires and he ends up with a sunburn so severe he’s walking around the house hissing like a vampire, or with a cold so bad that every time he blows his nose, he sounds like a goose fighting for its life. and now he’s grumpy about it. "should’ve used an umbrella," you tell him sweetly as you rub aloe on his peeling shoulders. he grumbles something unintelligible and sulks like a big, overgrown toddler.

nanami is the only one among them who has fully mastered the art of umbrella ownership. you don’t even have to ask if he has one; the answer is always yes. he has one for every occasion. he carries a primary umbrella, a backup umbrella in his bag, and if you check his office drawer, there’s probably another one neatly folded away just in case. he whips it out at the farmers' market, during evening strolls, and most impressively, in a street fight. if you’ve ever seen a man turn an umbrella into a lethal weapon, nanami is that man. he can and will beat the shit out of someone with it. “it’s a tool,” he says simply. and honestly, who are you to argue?

choso, however, is firmly in the raincoat camp. umbrellas make his hands hurt, so he skips the struggle entirely and commits to full rain protection like a man on a mission. the problem arises when he starts browsing for new raincoats and sees children wearing character-themed ones. next thing you know, he is holding up two sanrio-themed raincoats from temu, grinning ear to ear. "they glow in the dark when they get wet," he says proudly. they allegedly glow. allegedly. you do a quick google search and find out they might actually contain enough lead to take down a fully grown man. "choso, you are not wearing that." but he already bought it. and now he’s standing in the rain, in a kuromi-themed raincoat that is possibly a biohazard, smiling like he’s the peak of fashion.

sukuna, much like toji, does not give a single damn about rain or shine. it could be pouring or blisteringly hot, and he’d still be doing whatever he wants, unaffected and unbothered. however, if the weather starts personally inconveniencing him—like preventing him from stretching out in his favorite sunspot like some oversized demon cat—he will glare at the sky itself and, somehow, it will fix itself. it doesn’t rain if sukuna doesn’t want it to. the sun won’t shine if he says so. when you ask him how he does it, he just shrugs. "i just do." you don’t push for answers. you’re a little scared to.

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

FEAR OF WATER

rafe cameron x fem!reader

SUMMARY: after an abusive past, y/n struggles with toxic communication in her relationship with rafe. when fear pushes her away, love teaches her to stay.

based on this ask !! this was a really angsty and emotional one to write and i LOVED it anon, so thank you, and apologies it’s taken a while <3

(check out my other rafe cameron & drew starkey works here !!)

WARNINGS: angst w/ a comforting ending, slightly toxic!reader (unintentional), emotional abuse (by readers ex), trauma responses, arguing, crying, cursing, soft!rafe, fear of letting people in, flinching, detailed descriptions of emotional abuse & manipulation. (lmk if i missed anything !!)

WORD COUNT: 2.8k

THIRD PERSON +

The slam of the front door rattled the picture frames on the walls, the weight of Y/N’s footsteps heavy against the wooden floor as she stormed into the kitchen. Her hands were shaking—she hated that they always did when she was this upset. It made her feel weak, even when the anger inside her burned so hot she thought it might consume her entirely.

Rafe followed behind, slower, guarded. He had that look in his eyes again—the one that made her stomach twist with guilt before she could even process why. The look of someone who was tired, not from the fight itself, but from the exhaustion of never knowing how the next argument would go.

“I don’t get why you’re acting like this,” she spat, her voice sharper than she intended. “You know exactly what you did.”

Rafe exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. “Y/N, I don’t—what did I do? Just tell me.”

His calmness made her angrier. It made her feel unheard, like he wasn’t taking this seriously. Her brain was wired to expect resistance, to expect gaslighting, to prepare for the fight that had always followed in her past relationship.

“You said you’d call, and you didn’t. You do this all the time, Rafe. You make promises, and then you break them, like it doesn’t even matter.”

“That’s not fair,” he said carefully. “I got caught up at work. I should’ve called, I’m sorry, but it’s not like I did it on purpose.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, right. There’s always an excuse.”

He frowned, stepping closer, but she took a step back, arms folding over her chest like she was shielding herself from an attack that wasn’t coming. He sighed, something pained flickering across his face.

“Do you hear how you’re talking to me right now?” His voice was quiet, not angry, not defensive—just… tired.

And that was when it hit her.

She wasn’t even really arguing with him. Not Rafe. Not the boy who held her when she had nightmares, who traced circles on her back when she was overwhelmed, who had never once raised his voice at her even when she threw words like daggers. She was arguing with the ghost of the man who had hurt her before, who had made her feel like she had to fight to be heard, to be understood.

Her chest tightened, shame creeping up her spine.

She was training him.

She was teaching Rafe—patient, loving Rafe—that no matter how hard he tried, it would never be good enough for her. That he’d always be walking on eggshells, waiting for the next time he slipped up and she lashed out.

She was turning him into someone who feared her.

The realisation knocked the air from her lungs, and before she could stop herself, her feet were already moving, carrying her toward the door.

“Y/N, wait,” Rafe called, but she couldn’t—she couldn’t.

If she let him say something kind, if she let him look at her with that soft, exhausted sadness in his eyes, she’d break down right in front of him.

She barely registered getting into her car, barely noticed the shaking of her hands as she fumbled with the keys.

And then she was driving.

Her vision blurred with tears, and she blinked them away furiously, but they just kept coming, spilling down her cheeks in hot, silent streams.

She had pushed him too far this time.

She knew it—knew, in the deepest part of her heart, that there was only so much someone could take.

She wanted to be better. She needed to be better. But how could she, when she didn’t even know what that looked like? When she had spent so long being told that love was a battlefield, that the only way to be heard was to yell louder, fight harder?

She should’ve let Rafe in. She should’ve told him why she reacted the way she did, why she felt like she had to accuse before she could be accused, hurt before she could be hurt.

But it was too late.

She had to leave before he could do it to her.

Because that’s what she had been taught—that love never stayed, that sooner or later, they always left.

And she’d rather be the one walking away than the one being abandoned.

The thought shattered something inside her, and for the first time in a long time, she let herself sob.

—

Rafe had never felt this kind of exhaustion before.

It wasn’t the kind that came after a long day working in the heat or the kind that settled in his bones after a sleepless night. No, this was different. It was the weight of not knowing—the crushing uncertainty of whether or not he had just lost the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He hadn’t stopped calling since the moment Y/N ran out of his house. The first few went straight to voicemail. Then, after what felt like an eternity, a text finally came through.

I’m safe. I just need some space.

The relief had been instant—so strong that his knees nearly buckled. But it didn’t last long. Because the truth was, she might be safe, but she wasn’t okay.

And the worst part? He didn’t know how to fix it.

Rafe sat on the edge of his bed, phone still clutched in his hands, staring at the screen like it might give him the answers he needed. But there were no answers—just the hollow ache in his chest and the endless loop of their fight playing over and over again in his head.

It wasn’t the argument itself that unsettled him. Couples fought—it was normal. He and Y/N had had disagreements before, sure, but never like this.

The way she’d looked at him tonight wasn’t how someone looked at the person they loved. It was how someone looked at a threat.

And that… that was what haunted him the most.

Rafe never wanted to be something Y/N had to defend herself against.

His thoughts raced, trying to piece together why she had reacted the way she did. It wasn’t like he’d done anything that bad—he’d forgotten to call. That was all. It wasn’t like he lied, or cheated, or intentionally hurt her. And yet, the second he tried to explain, she had shut down, turned on him, twisted it into something it wasn’t.

It was almost like… she expected him to hurt her.

The realisation hit him hard.

Y/N had mentioned her ex before, offhandedly. Just a couple of times. She never said much, just that he was shitty, that he messed her up.

But this… this was more than just the baggage of a bad breakup. This was damage.

And if there was anyone who might have more answers, it was Sarah.

—

Sarah wasn’t surprised when she opened the door to find Rafe standing there, disheveled and tense, like he’d been pacing for hours.

She sighed, leaning against the frame. “I figured you’d show up eventually.”

Rafe ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Did she tell you?”

Sarah nodded her head. “She sent me a short text. It was reallt vague, but I gathered it wasn’t good.”

Rafe swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I just… I don’t understand. She got so defensive. It was like—like she thought I was trying to hurt her. And when I tried to calm things down, it just made her angrier.”

Sarah’s expression softened. “Rafe…” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “You know her last relationship wasn’t good, right?”

“She said it was shitty, but—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise how bad.”

Sarah sighed, crossing her arms. “Her ex was emotionally abusive. Manipulative. The kind of guy who’d twist things until she thought she was the problem. He made her question everything. Gaslit her, isolated her. It took her forever to get out.”

Rafe’s stomach twisted.

Y/N had never told him any of that.

Sarah continued, her voice quieter now. “She’s not like this because she wants to be, Rafe. It’s a trauma response. She learned to survive by being defensive. By fighting back first before she could be blamed. And now, even when she’s with someone who actually loves her, it’s hard to unlearn that.”

Rafe nodded slowly, his jaw tight. He could see it now, see how it all fit together.

How the moment something felt like it could go wrong, Y/N would push him away. How she always needed control over the situation, how she sometimes twisted his words—not because she wanted to hurt him, but because that’s how she had survived before.

She wasn’t fighting him. She was fighting the past.

Sarah sighed. “I don’t want to say more—it’s not my story to tell. But if you really care about her, you’ll be patient. She needs to learn how to trust that you’re not him.”

Rafe nodded, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I do care,” he muttered. “More than I probably should.”

Sarah gave him a small, sad smile. “Then don’t give up on her yet.”

—

Rafe sat in his truck, staring at the dark road ahead, his mind still reeling from everything Sarah had told him.

It all made sense now.

It wasn’t that Y/N didn’t love him. It wasn’t even that she wanted to hurt him. It was that she didn’t know any different.

And that broke his fucking heart.

He thought about the way she looked at him when they weren’t fighting—when she was curled up in his arms, or when she laughed at something stupid he said, or when she kissed him like he was the only thing keeping her steady.

That was her.

Not the girl who lashed out. Not the girl who pushed and twisted things in an attempt to stay in control.

He couldn’t let this be the thing that ended them.

Because if there was one thing he knew, it was that Y/N deserved to be loved the right way. She deserved someone who wouldn’t run just because loving her required patience.

She deserved someone who would stay.

And if that meant showing up even when she didn’t know how to ask him to—if that meant proving to her that he wasn’t like the man who hurt her—then he’d do it.

He threw the truck into drive, determination settling in his chest.

He needed to see her.

He needed to talk to her.

So Rafe headed towards his place to grab his phone before heading to Y/N’s to fix things.

He had barely stepped into his house when the knock echoed through the quiet space.

He frowned, glancing toward the door. He hadn’t been expecting anyone, and after the night he’d had, he wasn’t exactly in the mood for surprises. But when he pulled it open, his breath caught in his throat.

Y/N stood there, her frame swallowed by an oversized hoodie, sleeves pulled over her hands as she twisted the fabric between trembling fingers. Her eyes—blood-shot and swollen from crying—met his with a hesitance that made his chest ache.

She looked afraid.

Not of him.

But of what came next.

“Y/N—”

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice was hoarse, like she’d been crying for hours. Maybe she had. The weight of everything unsaid hung between them, thick and suffocating. Rafe wanted to say something, anything, but she beat him to it.

And when she spoke, the words tumbled out in a frantic, shaky rush.

“I—God, I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted, sniffing as she swiped a sleeve under her nose. “I just—I need to say this before I lose my nerve.”

Rafe nodded slowly, heart pounding. “Okay.”

She took a deep breath, and then, like a dam breaking, everything spilled out.

“My ex—he wasn’t just shitty, Rafe. He was toxic. He—he manipulated me, controlled me, made me think I was losing my mind. Every time we fought, he’d twist my words until I couldn’t even tell what was real anymore. And when I got upset, that became the problem. I was the problem. He convinced me I was crazy. That I was too much, too sensitive, too difficult to love.”

Her voice cracked, and Rafe’s hands clenched into fists at his sides.

He had felt it before—the anger, the quiet rage that settled deep in his bones whenever he thought about the way Y/N’s past had left its mark on her. But now, hearing her say it aloud, it burned white-hot in his veins.

“I spent so much time walking on eggshells, just waiting for the next thing he’d use against me,” she continued, voice thick with emotion. “So eventually, I just… I learned to fight back first. Before he could get the upper hand. Before he could make me feel small again.”

Rafe swallowed hard, feeling something inside him break at the way she spoke—like she still carried the weight of it all, like she still believed she was the problem.

“Y/N,” he started, but she shook her head.

“I need to finish,” she whispered. “Please.”

He nodded, his throat tight.

She exhaled shakily. “I didn’t mean to treat you like him. I swear I didn’t. But I don’t know how else to be. Every time we fight, I feel like I have to defend myself before you can hurt me. But you never do. You’re nothing like him, Rafe. You’ve never made me feel small, never made me question myself. You’re the only person I’m actually terrified of losing, so tonight—” Her voice wavered. “Tonight, I left before you could.”

Rafe felt his heart shatter.

She had run because she thought he’d leave her. That he’d get tired of her, of the way she struggled to let go of the past.

She didn’t realise he never would.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, but she barely seemed to notice, too lost in her own confession.

“I don’t want to be like this,” she whispered, voice raw with desperation. “I don’t want to push you away. I don’t want to hurt you just because I don’t know what healthy love is supposed to look like.”

“Y/N…” Rafe’s voice broke, and suddenly, he was moving—closing the space between them, cupping her face in his hands with a gentleness that made her shudder.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, she just leaned into his touch, like she was memorising the feeling of him still being there.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I’m so fucking sorry, Rafe. I know I’ve been difficult, I know I’ve been hard to love, but please—please don’t go anywhere.”

He felt his own tears spill over at that—at the sheer, heartbreaking fear in her voice.

She thought he was going to leave.

She truly believed that he’d wake up one day and decide she wasn’t worth it.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his grip tightening like he was afraid she might slip away again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Ever.”

Her breath hitched, and her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, like she was trying to anchor herself to him.

“I promise,” he continued, his thumbs brushing away her tears. “You are not too much. You are not difficult to love. I don’t care how long it takes for you to believe that, I’m not going anywhere.”

A sob wracked through her body, but this time, it wasn’t just pain—it was relief.

And then, in the quietest voice, she whispered, “I’ll get help.”

Rafe pulled back slightly, searching her eyes.

“I mean it,” she insisted. “I want to get better. I want to be better. For us.”

She let out a shaky breath, looking up at him with a mixture of fear and determination.

“Now I’m not afraid of the water,” she whispered. “I’ll dive right in. And I can be brave, so I’m gonna give it a try.” Her lip trembled. “Because I know you’ll be on the other side.”

Rafe’s heart clenched.

Because for the first time since she had come into his life, Y/N wasn’t running.

She was staying.

And so was he.

Rafe cradled her face, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, his own tears still slipping down his cheeks.

“I’m right here,” he murmured. “I’ll always be right here.”

She exhaled shakily, nodding as she let herself fall into his embrace, arms wrapping tightly around his waist.

And as they stood there, wrapped up in each other, Rafe knew—this was what love was supposed to be.

Messy. Imperfect. But real.

And this time, neither of them were afraid of stepping into unknown waters.

(divider by @kodaswrld !!)

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

thank you so much for this request anon, i love me some angst !! pls keep requesting everyone, i am working my way through them and i have like four in my drafts rn to be edited so stay tuned !!

as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3

[s0lidar1ty]

i wrote something a little simple--- different scenarios where bf!rafe helps you...breath season 4 rafe cause I say so

"deep breaths, baby girl," rafe mumbles against your lips as he sinks into you, stretching you inch by inch. he knows he’s big, knows how you struggle to take him, so he does his best to ease you into it—slow and steady, even when his body aches to bury himself completely.

your arms tighten around his shoulders, fingers pressing into hard muscle as you hide your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent—clean soap and something inherently him. his hands grip the underside of your thighs, spreading you open, keeping you impossibly close.

he feels the sharp hitch in your breath when he finally bottoms out, the way your walls flutter around him, and he soothes you with a quiet, "i know, honey, i know."

his hips move in slow, careful rolls, giving you time to adjust, even after countless times together. he drags himself in and out at a pace that makes your whole body burn, but when your whimpers turn to soft, needy moans, when your hips start moving to meet his, he lets go of his restraint.

your legs are hooked over his shoulders now, folding you in half as he drives deeper, his name tumbling from your lips between gasps and moans. his pace is relentless, the sharp slap of skin filling the air, but the sound is nothing compared to the noises you make for him—the broken little whimpers that send him spiraling.

your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake. your head falls back against the silk sheets, eyes glassy, mouth parted as he buries himself deep, hitting that spot that makes your stomach tense, your release creeping closer with every snap of his hips.

"there’s pretty," he chuckles, that same wicked smirk being the last thing you see before your eyes glaze over with pleasurable tears.

...

"deep breaths, sweetheart," rafe whispers to you again, but this time, it’s when you’re curled up in his lap, a joint balanced between his fingers.

you’re on the couch in your apartment, the room hazy with smoke. he holds the joint to your lips, watching intently as you take a slow drag.

"good. now, inhale—goood," he murmurs, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips as you tilt your head back, exhaling toward the ceiling.

his free hand drifts along your side, fingers trailing the soft expanse of your bare skin—your shirt long discarded, forgotten somewhere on the floor, as well as his.

you take another hit before leaning in, your body pressing flush against his as you pull the joint from your lips. a teasing glint flickers in your eyes as you exhale into his mouth, watching the way his gaze darkens with something unspoken.

"how you feelin’, pretty?" he asks, his voice low, thick with amusement as he takes a hit himself.

"pretty feels good," you giggle, the words airy and light. it’s corny, you know that, but you don’t care. with him, there’s no room for judgment, no space for anything but comfort.

"how ‘bout you, handsome?"

he hums, pretending to think. "well, i have my girlfriend in my lap, smoking my joint with me, and i can’t seem to take my eyes off her."

then, he’s kissing you—slow, deep, and lingering, like he has nowhere else to be, nothing else he’d rather be doing. you kiss back until you’re breathless until your head feels lighter than the smoke curling around you. when you finally pull away, panting, you let your forehead rest against his.

this is the kind of intimacy you’ve always craved.

...

"deep breaths—just like that, you got it," rafe whispers, dragging his lips along the inside of your thigh, the words muffled against your skin.

you’re sprawled across his bed, legs spread open for him, your breath coming in quick, uneven bursts. he’s taking his time, moving with that cocky, controlled patience that drives you insane.

his hands grip your hips firmly, thumbs pressing into your hip bones, keeping you in place even as your body instinctively tries to shift, to chase his mouth.

he chuckles at your impatience, his breath hot against your thigh. "so needy, huh?" his teeth graze the delicate skin there before he presses an open-mouthed kiss just below the edge of your underwear, barely where you want him.

you whimper, your hands clenching in the sheets.

he glances up at you, his blue eyes dark, burning. he watches the way your chest rises and falls, the way your fingers tighten around the fabric beneath you, the way your thighs tremble in his grip.

"breathe for me, baby," he says, voice smooth, coaxing. his fingers press slow, teasing circles into your skin as he holds you open for him, his lips trailing higher—so close but not close enough. "i’m not done with you yet."

your breath shudders, your body coiled tight with anticipation, and just when you think you might beg—when the need is nearly unbearable—he finally gives in. his mouth presses against you exactly where you need him, the first brush of his tongue sending a jolt of pleasure through your spine.

the air rushes from your lungs in a sharp gasp, your fingers gripping the sheets, knuckles turning white. you barely have time to catch your breath before he’s completely lost in you, devouring you like he’s starving, like he needs this just as much as you do.

he flattens his tongue against your clit, slow and deliberate at first, savoring the way you tremble beneath him. his hands grip your thighs, keeping them spread wide, keeping you completely at his mercy. he knows you—knows every gasp, every whimper, every tiny movement of your hips.

then, two of his long fingers slide into you, stretching you open, curling just right as they move in sync with his mouth. the pleasure is dizzying and overwhelming, and your back arches off the bed, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pull him closer, needing more.

"rafe—" his name falls from your lips in a breathless gasp, followed by a needy moan as heat coils deep in your belly, tightening with every precise flick of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers.

he groans into you, the vibrations making your legs shake, his pace quickening just the way he knows you like it. "that’s it, baby," he murmurs between kisses against your sensitive skin, his voice thick, almost reverent. "lemme hear you."

and you do. you whimper, and moan, your breath coming in short, desperate pants as your body hurtles closer and closer to the edge. the pressure builds, impossibly tight, the pleasure white-hot as he pushes you further, refusing to let up, refusing to stop until you’re completely undone beneath him.

"breathe, baby," he rasps, his fingers pressing deeper, his tongue moving faster. "i wanna feel you fall apart for me."

[hedwig221b]

Do you have any good recommendations for ‘arranged marriage’ for Sterek? I love all your recommendations and the recommendations others leave under your answers but I couldn’t find any that were specifically for arranged marriage.

Please and thank you so much! You are an absolute angel for your recommendations. 💜💜

Ah, thank you! You're so kind! Here are some of my faves...

Meant to be One by sunhazeheart

His nerves felt like a live wire was running hot beneath his skin, hands fidgeting with the silken material of his robe. If he had the concentration to spare, he might had worried about tearing it. It was all he could do to sit there at the vanity, eyes squeezed shut, and try to give in the constricting pressure around his chest that said that he was about to fall into a panic attack. Breath in. Breath out. His own heartbeat rushed in his ears. Being mated to the reclusive king with a frightening reputation to his name, bundled away from his home and father, and then surrounded by underwhelmingly distant faces hiding secrets was not how Stiles Stilinski imagine spending his life soon after turning eighteen. He can only remind himself that it is for the good of his people, both old and newly acquired. But, perhaps first assumptions are made too hastily and a fated match can be made, even surrounded by threats of war, revenge and death’s waiting embrace.

what do you call a rose by the_problem_with_stardust

He sinks down on a rock near a massive tree and rests his head in his hands. Someone nearby huffs. “Looks like my secret spot isn’t so secret anymore.” Derek looks up. There is a guy seated among the twisted roots of the tree. He’s about to get up and leave when the man’s scent hits him. Mate. No wonder his instincts are going insane.

Deflowered by astrugglingstoic

In which there is a prince, a knight, sequential sword fights, and an anecdote about pressed flower petals.

The White Hart of Winter by DarkAthena (seraphim_grace)

Sent to marry the Hale Beast Stiles finds himself alone in a castle left to ruin and watched over by Kate Argent, who he thinks is sleeping with his new husband and seems determined to destroy him.

You Made Me Believe by kits_lightning

“Here he comes.” His father whispered. Stiles couldn’t look, he felt nauseous and anxious. He tried to shake off the memories of witty, sarcastic comments, broody eyebrows, and intense stares. Stiles has been promised to a Prince he's never met before and they're about to get married but he can't stop thinking about the love of his life whom he's had to leave behind for the good of the kingdom…. or so he believes.

Under the Golden Moon by NARKOTIKA

Derek doesn't know how long he sits in his wolf skin, on his haunches, observing Stiles as the sunbeams slant through the trees and cast slashes of light across the omega's willowy form. The boy has his feet in the water, a babe on his hip, a bright smile on his face as the other younglings splash around and soak his garb. The creamy skin of his thighs peek out from the slits running down the sides of his draping skirt, and Derek has never wanted anything more than he wants this beautiful being of the woods.

The Thorns of a Rose by Dexterous_Sinistrous

“You have your mother’s eyes,” Peter suddenly commented, his tone light in his observation. Stiles stiffened at the mention of his mother. “Honest eyes,” Peter added as an afterthought. “Sunlit like the golden embers of coal burning in a forge.” Stiles turned a soured expression on Peter. “Have you a point?” He asked. “Many men have struggled to have those eyes even spare them a glance,” Peter simply stated. “An honest but naive treasure that managed to fool a dragon.” He placed the crown on Stiles’ head, amused when the boy immediately pushed away from him once the ornament was in place. “Hopefully those eyes can fool the Seven Kingdoms into thinking you could love a wolf.”

The Bargain by dr_girlfriend

Time drags on, and it becomes apparent that this is not a part of the tradition. The wolves start to shift on their feet and murmur, but no one attempts to speak to Stiles. He stands, feeling the back of his neck growing red from the sun and his face growing red from embarrassment. What will happen if Derek Hale cannot be coerced to the altar? Will the bargain be revoked?

Union by bythemoonlight

On the brink of war, the union between two strong packs is the only solution. The Stilinski pack is left with an omega heir and the Hale pack an alpha without a mate. Brought together as mates but ripped apart by a long war. They have to adjust to being back together after six long years.

The Decay of a Cosmos by Dexterous_Sinistrous

The memory of Derek confessing to him in the quiet of their shared resignation sparked from her words–“A child is leverage to my mother.” Derek knew what Talia wanted. And he refused to give it to her. Stiles’ hands tightened into fists. This was a gift, but not one Derek had given him willingly. He would live with that knowledge each time he held their son close. ~*~ A tale as old as arranged marriage, with a space opera twist.

A Tale of Two Princes by AllTheseSquaresMakeACircle

Given his nature of who he was, Derek Hale, only son to Talia and Marcus Hale, never expected to be married. Hell, he didn't even appear in public. But, after the war with the Argents, their country needed stability. And a political marriage suited that. Shame it had to be the prince of their neighbors to the south. Stiles had no idea where his life would take him. But a marriage of convenience to the crown prince of one of their neighboring countries wasn't exactly on his mind. He had to admit, it would have it perks. Both for the royal family, and for his country. He just didn't know anything about werewolves. Especially ones who were cursed out the ass. Oh well, he'd figure things out as he went.

The Fox & The Wolf by Dexterous_Sinistrous

The war between the fox and wolf clans has raged for centuries, ignited in a time before anyone can remember. Now both clans—tired of the bloodshed and hate—are searching for a way to end the war. Crowned prince Stiles Stilinski—heir to the fox clan—has agreed with his father to meet with the Hales, the ruling royal family over the wolf clan. Under the counseling of the Druids, both clans are presented with a solution to the war: unite the Stilinski and Hale clans through marriage. To quell their people's anger, both Stiles and Derek—eldest living Hale Alpha—are urged to accept the other as an equal; as their mate. For the sake of their people, both houses make the ultimate sacrifice by choosing duty over love. But, out of what was first assumed to be compromised, quickly turns to be a better match than either could have hoped for. But not all is easy for either clan, as some members refuse to believe that the war could end so easily.

By Moon And Stars by kellifer_fic

"Have you heard of this Alpha?" Stiles asks, shuffling up his pallet so Scott has room to sit. Scott does with a grateful little twist of his mouth. Stefan forces him into the Stilinski ceremonial armor when they travel and Stiles can see that it's heavy and doesn't sit well on Scott. He can't shift encased in metal and Stefan knows it. "I know of him, mostly stories that seem a little fantastical. Shifters exaggerate just like common people. They like their war stories." "Tell me of him. Tell me a war story."

The Arrangement by Arver7

Through blackmail and lies, Stiles and Derek are forced into a marriage neither of them wanted. If they each want to survive each other, they must learn to coexist. But the more they get to know each other, the more they seem to care about each other. But will the lies stop them from falling in love?

The Light in the Woods by DiscontentedWinter

To honour a treaty with the people of a strange land, Derek Hale, prince of the kingdom of Triskelion, has to marry Stiles.

Until Sunrise

“You told me I would have time,” Derek said, simmering with anger. “You promised to leave the choice to me.” “The court is starting to talk,” said Peter. “We do not have a stellar reputation as it is, and your ventures into the world of simple pleasures do not go unnoticed. You do not care, of course. But you are, pardon me, too loud for it to remain discreet.” “You think if I were to have a wife, I would stop fucking?” Peter cringed his nose. “No. It would make you a proper, civilized man. You are getting too old, nephew.” “Fine. But I’ll choose.” “No,” Peter smiled. “I shall choose.” Derek opened his mouth to argue, but Peter did not let him. “We both know you will continue to fuck whomever you want. None of us will be able to stop you. Let me have a pick of a proper spouse to placate the court. That’s all I ask.”

Other fic recs: angsty fics | possessive Derek | historical AU | baby/mpreg | outsider POV | smut | mafia | hurt/comfort | magical!Stiles | Stiles gets kicked out of the pack | BAMF!Stiles | omegaverse | witch!Stiles | creature!Stiles | bad friend Scott | pack mom!Stiles | unrequited love | werewolf!Stiles | dark sterek | single parent!Stiles | feral Derek

[pinkslipxox]

Mom!Billie is left alone with the twins (toddlers) for a week b/c her wife had a work trip on the east coast. The first few days are smooth sailing, until one day, the twins won’t stop crying and keep throwing tantrums all day. Eventually, Billie breaks down and everyone is in inconsolable tears.

hola, mi cariño! Omg yes, i hope you like it 🥰🙈

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You’re miles away on the East Coast, wrapped up in a whirlwind of meetings and conference calls. You know your wife, Billie, is at home with the twins, Ava and Mia, but you can’t fully shake that nagging worry in the back of your mind. You have a huge presentation today, an important milestone, yet your heart pulls you home to the chaos that you know must be unfolding.

Back home, Billie is valiantly attempting to manage the twins, but the day has taken its toll. The morning starts off with cheerful giggles that quickly turn into a cacophony of shrieks and tears. It feels like the universe has conspired to unleash the toddler tempest upon her. The house is a mess— the scattered toys, the half-eaten snacks, the colorful crayon drawings that might have started as art but are now more akin to modern chaos.

No matter how sweetly she hums their favorite lullabies or how many games of peek-a-boo she plays, nothing seems to quell their cries. Billie takes a deep breath, trying to channel patience, but her heart aches as their little faces contort in frustration. After what feels like an eternity of trying to soothe them, Billie finally manages to get the twins settled, but not without tears spilling over from her own eyes. The overwhelming sense of love mixed with exhaustion washes over her, leaving her breathless.

As she gently lays them down for their much-needed nap, tears swell in her eyes, blurring her vision. In this quiet moment, she reaches for her phone, her finger trembling slightly as she dials your number. It connects almost instantly.

“Y/N...” Her voice breaks slightly, audible strain threading through it. You’re on the other end, immediately alert to the catch in her voice, dropping everything as you hear her call your name. The worry melts away as your heart aches for her, even from a distance.

“Billie, my love, what’s wrong?” You ask, your voice soft and soothing.

“It’s just…everything. I thought today would be easier but the girls…” She swallows hard, a sob escaping as she tries to squeeze the words out. “They won’t stop crying, and I—”

You can feel every ounce of her struggle. You wish you could teleport home, to wrap your arms around her, whisper sweet reassurances, and give her the comforting squeeze she needs. “Breathe, baby. Breathe. You’re doing an amazing job. They love you so much. You’ve got this.”

At the sound of your voice, she settles a bit, needing the warmth of your love to wash over her. “I miss you,” she admits, her voice fragile but laced with affection. “I don’t know how you do this without losing it.”

You chuckle softly, imagining her tousled hair and kind eyes framed with the soft hues of their cozy home. “I don’t do it alone, remember? You’re always with me. Just like I’m with you now. You can do this until I’m home, I believe in you,” you reassure her, your heart swelling with admiration for everything she’s juggling.

“I wish you were here,” she whispers, a pout forming on her lips as her tired eyes close momentarily, comforting herself with the thought of you. “You usually know how to make it all better.”

“I promise, I’ll be there before you know it. Just a few more meetings to power through, okay?” you coo back, your voice gentle and soothing, reminding her of those quiet moments you've shared. “And remember, I love you and I love our little girls so very much.”

“I love you too, Mama,” she murmurs softly, blissfully sinking into the warmth of your affection even through the distance. You can almost feel her snuggling into the phone, enveloped by your spirit.

After hanging up, Billie wipes her tear-streaked cheeks and breathes deeply, feeling a flicker of energy return. She walks back to the twins’ room, brushing her fingers over the slumbering forms of Ava and Mia with a tender smile. There's a deep-rooted love in her gaze, the kind that triumphs over the toughness of the day.

For that moment, the room feels lighter. The storm may rage outside, but inside, your connection remains steady, a comforting reminder that even on the hardest days, she is never truly alone. And the way she whispers “Mama” to herself makes her heart swell with a mix of love and gratitude, knowing that with you by her side — even when you’re far away — they’ll get through the day together.

[wildfluer]

⚘( ၴႅၴ DISTANCE ( jj maybank )

— summary after weeks of being distant, jj shows up at your door late at night. something’s wrong, but he won’t let you in.

— content warnings angst, mentions of abuse/implied abuse ( jj )

— a/n first post on here!! i felt like writing gut wrenching angst but i’m not sure if i like it

it started with distance. the missed calls, the unread texts. the way jj avoided your gaze, eyes darting away quickly. at first, you ignored it. it was normal for him to act distant sometimes. it was just his natural response to everything. he was always dealing with shit, and that was how he coped. you respected that—but this time, it felt different.

even as you were trying to ignore it, you couldn’t. the bruises on his knuckles never seem to fade. pope tells you he’s been picking fights at the wreck, at parties, anywhere someone is dumb enough to take the bait. kie says he’s been drinking too much, disappearing for hours, coming back and barely being able to stand. her voice is full of worry as she tells you, “he won’t even talk to any of us”.

he won’t talk to you either. you wait, hoping he’ll come to you for help. but jj maybank doesn’t ask for help. he never does—he spirals. and right now, he’s spiraling hard.

. . .

it’s past midnight when you hear a hesitant knock on your door. you almost didn’t catch it over the sound of the rain hammering against your window. when you open the door, jj is standing there, soaked head to toe from the rain. his hoodie clings to his body, hair dripping into his eyes.

when he looks up at you, you feel your heart throb. he looks miserable. “i had nowhere else to go,” he mumbles. his voice is raw, like he’s been screaming or crying—probably both. you quickly urge him to come inside. he doesn’t meet your eyes as he steps in, dripping water onto the floor. you grab a towel and hand it to him, but he just stares at it like it’s some foreign object. “jj,” you murmur, your voice quiet as if you don’t wanna scare him off.

he blinks, finally taking the towel but barely using it. instead, he runs a hand through his soaking wet hair, exhaling shakily. “i can’t—i don’t wanna talk, okay?” he rubs his eyes, sighing. “i already know you’re gonna offer to help me or some bullshit, but i don’t need help, alright? i just needed somewhere to go.” he’s rambling, and as you go to place a hand on his shoulder, you see him flinch. you quickly retract your hand. it’s a subtle movement, but you saw it. and it made your stomach drop, because it confirmed your suspicions.

“jj,” you start, voice soft and careful. “what happened?”

he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “that dosen’t matter.”

“it does,” you say.

he lets out a bitter laugh, running a hand down his face. “no, it really doesn’t.” you want to argue and tell him that it does matter—but you know jj. you know that pushing too hard will only make him pull away faster. you don’t know what to do. “hey, it’s okay. you don’t have to tell me what happened. but you also don’t have to act like whatever you’re going through doesn’t hurt either.”

his jaw clenches, eyes flickering to the floor. “i don’t feel anything.”

you frown at his words, “i don’t believe that.” jj scoffs in response, but there’s no real fight in it. just exhaustion. you watch his shoulders tense, his hands balling into fists at his sides. he’s struggling, and you can see it. you watch as his eyes dart toward the door like he’s already planning his escape.

but then, something cracks. he speaks, his voice wavering this time. “i’m so fuckin’ tired of this shit,” he exhales, “i’m so tired.” he sounds so defeated that it breaks you.

“let me help you,” you whisper. “please, jj.” he looks at you, and for a moment, you think he might let you in. but the moment is brief, and poofs into thin air in a second. you speak up again, this time begging him to not leave. but he doesn’t budge. instead he turns toward the door, his fingers hovering over the knob. for a second you thought he might change his mind. he doesn’t. with an exhale he mutters, “thanks for letting me stay for a bit.”

and just like that, he’s gone.