#like I’ve vaguely mentioned it before but

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: a favour for a friend (series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, bit of smut, mention of forced pregnancy (not to reader), mention of sa (not to reader), abortion (not to reader), mention of medical procedures, hospitals, ghosts, past wounds, vague mentions of physical violence, angst, threats, some fluff, protective bucky, kissing, becca, bucky barnes had issues, so does becca tbh, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 4.7k

A/N: hey! let me know your thoughts on this chapter! i'm hoping i can get this series wrapped up before i go back to uni. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love @calwitch permanent taglist: @globetrotter28

main masterlist | series masterlist

You were in an uncharacteristically good mood. 

Bucky had stayed the night, in fact, the gangster had stayed the night nearly every day that week. He didn’t seem eager to let you slip through his fingers after the Iron Rat incident. Not many words were exchanged between the two of you, rather a flurry of desperate energy. He would let himself into your small flat as usual, locate you and quickly coax you into bed. 

You’d awoken to the slow drag of his mouth between your thighs this morning, his stubble scratching your skin as he devoured you with a near-religious fervour. Even after you came undone beneath him, he hadn’t been satisfied, murmuring against your flushed skin, coaxing you through another wave of pleasure until you could barely breathe. When he finally kissed his way up your torso, his lips warm and insistent, you had run your hands over his back, fingers tracing the ridges of his scars. A small, twisted part of you found satisfaction in them, in the fact that no matter where he went, you would linger there, haunting him in ways he would never shake.

“Stay,” he had murmured against your skin, voice thick with sleep.

But you had peeled yourself from the bed, dragging yourself away with an exhale of regret. “I’ve got work.”

As much as you had wanted to stay and be claimed yet another time by the gangster, you had agreed to a job. Every few months, Sootstone Infirmary would hire you to walk through the wards, moving on any lost spirits who still clung to your realm. The hospital loomed at the edge of the Warrens, its old brick exterior weathered by time and neglect. High, arched windows with grime clouding the panes, ornate iron railings rusting along the balconies, and stone gargoyles perched atop the roof, their faces softened by decades of soot. Inside, the halls were dim, the air thick with the scents of antiseptic, sweat, and something older—something damp and decaying. Flickering gas lamps lined the corridors, casting long, wavering shadows that danced across peeling wallpaper and worn wooden floors.

Sootstone Infirmary’s ghostly inhabitants were an easy lot to deal with. Most required only the gentlest encouragement to cross beyond the veil, their restless spirits tethered by confusion rather than malice. It was always the same—the elderly, lost in the fog of forgotten memories, unaware they had slipped from the world of the living; the young, their passing so abrupt they had not yet understood it.

You had already coaxed more than a few of them, clearing the lingering echoes from dim-lit rooms and gloomy corridors. But there was still one final place on your list.

The maternity ward.

You descended the old stairwell, the wooden steps groaning beneath your weight, twisting down into the depths of the hospital like a spine curving inward. The maternity wing had been built as an addition to the main structure, its location carefully chosen to keep the screams of labour from disturbing the sick and the dying, those teetering between life and the unknown.

Pushing open the heavy wooden doors, you stepped inside, breathing deeply through your nose as your gaze swept the ward. The air was thick with something heavier than dust, layered with interwoven ghosts of sorrow and joy. But nothing obvious stood out—not at first.

You lifted a hand, fingers parting the air as you reached for the unseen.

Nothing.

You stretched further, sinking into the veil, allowing its delicate strands to brush against you like spider silk. A web of impressions surrounded you, but none bore the telltale pulse of a lingering spirit—only the faint hum of your presence.

Still, you waded deeper.

Then—

A tug.

Small, almost imperceptible, but there.

Your breath hitched as you latched onto the invisible thread, fingers curling around the sensation. It sent tingles up your spine, a spreading warmth over your scalp. A soul reaching out.

You followed its vibration, weaving through the dim corridors, past closed doors and muted cries of labour. Your boots barely made a sound against the scuffed tile floor as you moved through the labyrinth. Then, rounding a final corner, you halted.

The thread in your grasp wavered—then snapped.

The woman before you was no spirit.

She sat slumped against the wall, shoulders trembling, fingers twisting into the fabric of her skirt as though she could anchor herself to something solid. The dim light caught the sheen of dark hair. She was familiar even before she turned her head.

Not a ghost. Not a restless soul in need of passage.

But very much alive.

You exhaled sharply, the weight of your inner vision dissolving as you let go of the veil. The world around you came back into sharp focus—the cold air, the distant wail of a newborn, the damp streaks of tears on the woman’s pale cheeks.

Your voice was quiet, almost hesitant. "Becca?"

Becca’s head snapped, gaze locking with yours in an instant. Panic crossed her features, but she quickly masked it with something else—rage. She used the back of her sleeve to wipe her tear-streaked face, settling into an eerie composure. 

“What’re you doin’ here? Are you spyin’ on me? Was meddlin’ in my brother’s life not enough for you?” She snarled at you, voice raising. A group of passing nurses glanced at you in horror, scuttling away as they realised who spoke. 

“No, I’m—I’m workin’.” The words came tumbling out in defence of yourself, and Becca lifted a brow in disbelief. “The hospital, they pay me to move on the spirits every few months.”

“You’re tellin’ me you just happen to be ‘ere on today of all days? Unbelievable.” She scoffed, you held your ground despite everything within you screaming for you to leave. 

“Are you…” You hesitated, unsure of how to breech the subject. “Are you okay?”

“Do I look fuckin’ okay?” Becca’s expression twisted, her mask cracking just enough to reveal the raw, festering wound beneath, and you recoiled with a slight flinch. 

You stood in silence a moment, chewing on your lip. Maybe it was best to… leave Becca to whatever this was. Her threats still hung heavy in your mind, her cool and calculating tone: you are nothing to us. That couldn’t be true, could it? Bucky had made it painfully clear how much he wanted you, how much he needed you. The way he reacted to what the Iron Rats had done to you—the possessiveness, the sheer rage—it wasn’t nothing. He had spent the last week between your legs, constant, needy, persistent. Though, one look at Becca, maybe it was best not to notify her of that. 

Then, as you were about to turn, whatever barrier Becca had built up shattered, emotions bubbling through. 

“They say they’ave to cut me open—open! Gods, I won’t survive this, will I? I thought I could just take a potion, a tea, be rid of it! But no they say it’s too far gone, that I either ‘ave to carry it or ‘ave it extracted! I’m gonna die in that theatre, aren’t I? I’m gonna die on that table, and they’ll all spit on my legacy, call me a whore—”

You were crouched down instantly, grasping her shaking hands as a fresh wave of tears rolled down her cheeks. “Woah. Just hold on—”

“—And how fuckin’ poetic that the only person I can tell this is an actual whore who has my brother under some kinda spell. It should be you in there, not me—”

“Hey!” Your sharp retort cut through the air, startling her into silence. A scowl pulled at your lips, frustration crackling through you.“First of all, don’t fuckin’ call me that. Secondly, I don’t know who ya spoke to, but ya don’t need to go under the knife!”

Becca stared at you, stunned into stillness. Then, she snapped her jaw shut, swallowing thickly. 

“And what the hells would you know? You’re a spirit-raiser,” she muttered, but there was something weaker in her voice now.

“How far along are ya?” you asked.

“I dunno.” She sniffed, rubbing her arm. “Few weeks. Missed my bleed this month.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Gods, Becca. Ya don’t need surgery for that. I know a woman. A witch. She can help you without cutting you open.”

Becca’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t blame ya,” you said, releasing her hand. “But if you want help, you’re gonna have to.”

She wiped at her face again, irritation flickering in her expression as she wrestled with the choice. Her tears had stopped now, replaced by that same indifferent sneer she wore the weeks previous—like she wanted to seem unaffected.

“The witch,” you continued, “she’ll give you herbs to drink. You’ll pass the fetus naturally. It’ll hurt a bit, you might feel sick, but you’ll be fine.”

Becca exhaled slowly, considering. “Who’s this witch?”

“Hester Malrow. She lives in the Warrens.”

Becca frowned. “Never heard of her.”

“She tries to keep a low profile,” you said. “What with all the coppers and Smog Boys about.”

Becca inhaled sharply, gripping the fabric of her skirt again as if trying to ground herself. “And we can go today?”

“Yes.” You met her gaze, firm and unwavering. “I can take you right now.”

—

Becca’s flat was nothing like you expected.

From the outside, it was just another shadowed doorway in the Warrens, tucked between crumbling brick and peeling plaster, the kind of place you had to know about to find. The streets below reeked of coal smoke and damp, the air thick with the scent of cheap gin and desperation. But inside—inside was something else entirely.

Warmth enveloped you the moment you stepped through the door, thick and perfumed with clove and orange, the remnants of an oil lamp flickering low on the side table. Heavy velvet curtains smothered the windows, blocking out the sickly glow of the gas lamps beyond. The walls were lined with dark wood panelling, rich and polished, the sheen catching in the golden lamplight. Framed photographs sat upon a mahogany sideboard, their black-and-white faces frozen in time, watching. You recognised Bucky nearly instantly, though a younger version of him. He was always frowning, a noticeable gap between him and his father, who donned a drunken grin, nose crooked from fighting.

A fireplace crackled at the heart of the room, casting restless shadows over a rug sprawled beneath your feet. The furniture was old but elegant—an overstuffed armchair with clawed wooden feet, a settee draped in an embroidered shawl, its fringe grazing the floor. A gramophone perched on a side table, half-covered by a lace doily, a stack of records resting beside it. 

Becca sat hunched on the settee, her elbows on her knees, fingers tangled in her own dark hair. She was pale, her lips pressed thin, her breath measured. The worst was yet to come. The witch had warned her of that—the pain, the cramping, the sickness that would follow—but for now, there was only waiting.

You hovered near the armchair, fingers grazing the brass handle of a cabinet filled with crystal decanters. You weren’t sure what to say.

“She said it would take a few hours,” Becca muttered, barely looking up.

You nodded, glancing toward the mantelpiece. A clock ticked steadily, its polished brass hands sweeping over blackened numerals. Beside it sat a delicate porcelain figurine of a woman holding a lamb—an odd, almost sentimental thing to find.

“I didn’t expect your place to look like this,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could catch them.

Becca let out a dry, humourless chuckle. “What? Expected some rat-infested hole? Thought I slept on a pile of rags?”

You shrugged, meeting her eyes for the first time since you stepped inside. “I don’t know what I expected. Just not… this.”

Becca huffed but didn’t argue. She leaned back, tilting her head against the cushion, exhaling sharply.

"It was Bucky who bought it," Becca muttered, voice quieter now. “We sold the old family house, the one my father owned. Fuckin’ hated that place.”

Her gaze flicked toward the fire, where the flames licked at the soot-blackened bricks. The room had a warmth to it, a kind of fragile sanctuary nestled deep in the rot of the Warrens, but her words carried a coldness that seeped into your bones.

"I don’t blame you," you murmured before you could stop yourself. “I’ve heard your father weren’t the… kindest of men.”

Becca’s eyes snapped up to you, sharp as a blade catching candlelight. “An’ who told ya that?”

You hesitated, fighting against the sudden tightness in your throat. “Bucky.”

A flicker of surprise crossed her face, just for a second. You thought she might press you, demand to know why Bucky had confided such things, but instead, she swallowed whatever remark had been forming. Her jaw tensed as she shifted in her seat, one arm curling around her stomach. 

She exhaled through her nose, tilting her head back against the settee.

“I heard about your little Iron Rat ordeal,” she said, voice laced with something unreadable. “Made a big fuckin’ mess for us.”

“I didn’t ask for anyone to do… any of that,” you shot back, fidgeting where you stood.

“Sure.” Becca scoffed, her eyes dark with something like amusement—mean, biting amusement. “You’re still fuckin’ him, aren’t you? He probably fucked ya over the table in the warehouse after he butchered them Iron Rats. Totally his style.”

You stiffened, a heat rising up the back of your neck that had nothing to do with the fire. Becca grinned, sensing she had struck a nerve, but before you could gather the words to throw back at her, she continued.

“You know, you could’ve gotten away with it. Could’ve just slipped past the Sootline and been long gone. Was just unfortunate you ran into that priestess woman. Fuckin’ creepy, she was.” She let out a dry laugh, but there was something watchful in her expression as she said, “Don’t blame ya for tryin’ to avoid the church after what they did to your mother. But from what I’ve heard, they’ve had eyes on you since you was born.”

“You don’t know anythin’ about my mother,” you said, voice low, tight.

Becca’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it sharpened. “I know a lot, actually. You’d be surprised.” 

She let her head loll against the back of the settee, staring at you through half-lidded eyes, as if considering how much she wanted to share. “I know a lot about your ‘father’ as well. He weren’t no saint, that’s for sure.”

Something about the way she said ‘father’ made your breath catch. There was an implication there, something just beneath the surface of her words. Your brows furrowed.

Becca watched you, then let out a scoff. “Tell me, did he fall into drink before or after he took your pregnant mother in out of pity?”

You blinked. “What?”

Every tale you had heard, every answer to your question, had always led to your father helping your mother escape the Church of Light. It was his one saving grace, the one reason why a part of your heart forgave him for all the cruelty he inflicted upon those he supposedly loved. 

Becca exhaled sharply, shifting against the settee, her discomfort momentarily forgotten. “What, you didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That he isn’t your real father.” Becca hesitated as if realising for the first time just how deep your ignorance ran. She tilted her head, observing you. Then, with the casual cruelty of someone who had nothing to lose, she spoke. 

“The church, they forcefully impregnated her. They thought they were fulfillin’ some grand prophecy, bringin’ about a child that could channel and control death itself, the light-bringer or some shit. Their idea of rapture—how do you not know any of this?” She rolled her eyes, then winced slightly as another wave of pain twisted through her. 

The room shrunk around you.

The words rang in your head, hollow and deafening. The fire crackled. The clock ticked. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. Your fingers curled around the wooden arm of the armchair to steady yourself.

Becca smirked at your silence, shaking her head. “Shit, your life’s more fucked up than I thought. More reason for you to keep this mess away from my brother—”

The front door rattled. A heavy, deliberate turn of the handle.

Your breath caught.

Becca’s eyes flicked to the door, her body tensing instinctively despite her pain. The room felt suddenly, unbearably warm.

The door swung open.

Bucky stepped inside, shaking the cold from his shoulders, the scent of the ocean and cigarettes trailing in with him. True to his nature, he had let himself into Becca’s flat without so much as a knock, moving with the easy confidence of someone who had long stopped asking for permission. The heavy door clicked shut behind him, sealing out the muffled noise of the Warrens’ streets.

His gaze swept the room, taking in the dim glow of the fire, the clutter of discarded blankets, the half-drained teacup on the side table. Then, his eyes landed on you, standing at the centre of it all, framed by the flickering light. His brows lifted in surprise, the ghost of an unspoken question forming on his lips. You could see the gears turning in his head, readying to demand an explanation.

But then he spotted Becca.

Slumped into the settee, half-curled over herself, her face ashen and drawn tight with pain. One hand gripped the armrest in a white-knuckled hold, the other resting against her stomach. The dim, golden light of the fire carved out the tension in her features, the sweat beading along her brow.

Bucky stilled. His jaw clenched, the muscles feathering beneath his stubble. His sharp eyes flickered between you and Becca with something unreadable—something that edged dangerously between concern and barely restrained frustration.

“The fuck’s goin’ on here?” His voice was low and rough, with that dangerous steadiness that came before a storm.

You barely had a moment to process before he cut through the space between you, his gaze hard and questioning.

“Since when did you two know each other?”

Becca beat you to answering. “Nat introduced us.” The lie left her lips smoothly, her voice betraying nothing.

Your stomach twisted at the quick cover story, but Bucky wasn’t buying it. His stare darkened, flicking between the two of you like he could sniff out the deception.

“Nat… introduced you?” His disbelief curled through every syllable, slow and measured, like he was waiting for one of you to slip up.

You remained frozen at the centre of the sitting room, torn between wanting to fade into the wallpaper and making a mad dash for the door. Standing here in the warmth of Becca’s flat felt intrusive, bearing witness to something you shouldn’t be a part of. For all the times Bucky had invaded your space, your home, why did it feel so much worse to be invading his?

“Yes,” Becca confirmed, still as unreadable as ever.

Bucky let out a dry, humourless chuckle, shaking his head. “Forgive me, but I don’t believe a single fuckin’ thing coming out of your mouth.”

“Fine, Jamie,” Becca huffed, dropping the pretence with a roll of her eyes. “We met earlier today at the infirmary. She was kind enough to escort me home.”

“Infirmary?” His gaze snapped back to her, his stance shifting slightly, energy tightening. “Why were you at the hospital? Why the fuck did you need escortin’? Did someone do somethin’ to ya—" his voice sharpened, fists clenching, "I swear to the gods, if it’s that Brackett kid—”

Becca cut him off with a scoff, pressing a hand to her stomach. “It’s woman problems, Jamie. I wouldn’t expect ya to understand.”

“Woman problems?” His voice was sceptical, but you could see the moment realisation dawned on him. His sharp blue eyes raked over her, truly looking at her this time—the paleness of her face, the sheen of cold sweat, the way her brows pinched subtly in pain, how her fingers hovered protectively over her stomach—

“That fucker knocked you up, didn’t he?”

His voice was a growl now, his whole body going rigid, ready for a fight.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, instinctively positioning yourself between him and Becca as his voice began to rise. “Leave her be, Barnes.”

His eyes veered to you, a fire burning behind them. “Oh, you’re one to fuckin’ talk. How did you get involved in this?” His voice was heated now, fast, frustrated. “Everywhere I look, everything I do, every fuckin’ thought I have—you’re always there.”

Becca exhaled sharply, an irritated sigh cutting through the tension. “Gods, you two are still fuckin’, ain’t you?”

Bucky’s head snapped toward her. “What’d’ya mean still?”

Becca arched a brow, unimpressed. “I ain’t stupid. I’ve known about this little… affair for a while now. I told her to stay away from you forever ago.” Her gaze darkened slightly. “Don’t need a repeat of the last witch you took a likin’ to, do we?”

Bucky’s expression shifted in an instant, his posture tightening. “I’m sorry? You did what—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, reaching for his coat sleeve before he could start tearing into Becca. “Outside. Let’s go on a walk and leave her be.”

Bucky barely had time to resist before you were ushering him toward the door, your hands pressing against the solid weight of him as you pushed him out into the cold. Becca’s dry laughter followed you, melodic and mocking, her sing-song ‘bye-bye!’ cut off sharply as Bucky slammed the door behind him with enough force to rattle the frame.

The air outside was crisp, biting against your skin, but it did little to cool the heat rolling off him. He was seething, his jaw clenched so tightly you swore you could hear his teeth grind. The tension in his frame coiled like a beast ready to pounce, his breath ragged, his fists flexing at his sides.

“What the fuck did she say to you?” His voice was low, rough with barely restrained fury.

You sighed, unimpressed, tugging him forward into the dimly lit streets, his boots scuffing against the uneven cobblestone as he followed. You had long since grown used to his moods. You might have quivered under his glare in the past, but now? You merely gave him a slow, nonchalant glance, your voice light with forced indifference.

“Vague threats of death,” you mused. “But considerin’ I’m standin’ here now, I didn’t exactly take it to heart.”

That did nothing to ease the tension in his frame. Instead, he moved fast—quicker than you could react—catching your chin between his fingers, forcing you to stop mid-step. His grip wasn’t cruel but firm, demanding your attention. His stormy blue eyes bore down into yours.

“Tell me the truth, doll.” His voice was gravelly and low, sending a shiver down your spine.

You exhaled heavily, gaze flicking away from his momentarily before finally admitting, “It was after… after I healed your back.” Your voice softened, uncertainty creeping in. “She said I ruined you, that I was dangerous. Didn’t want me near you after what happened with the last one.”

His expression twisted, eyes narrowing into something unreadable.

“That’s why you didn’t come to the family meetin’?”

Your gaze dropped, lips pressing into a thin line before you nodded. “Yes. Look, you left without saying a damn thing. How could I not have felt… unwelcome?” A bitter edge crept into your voice before you shook your head. “Then I went over to Grimrow for a change in scenery and—”

Bucky’s jaw ticked, his fingers smoothing over your cheek with an uncharacteristically gentle touch.

“You went over there? Because you were upset with me?” His voice was quieter now, but the sharpness remained.

“I wanted to disappear.” The confession left your lips in a whisper.

His brows pulled together, his grip on your wrist tightening for half a second before, without a word, he yanked you into a shadowed archway near the Sootline. The city noise dulled around you, swallowed by the secluded space. Before you could even catch your breath, his hands were on you as he cupped your face and crashed his lips onto yours.

His kiss was deep, desperate, tasting of cigarettes and something unmistakably him—a mix of salt and smoke, of whiskey lingering faintly on his tongue. His fingers tangled into your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp, and he used the moment to deepen the kiss, pressing you back against the wall with the full weight of his body. His lips were warm, hungry. 

You could feel the tension in his frame, the way his fingers flexed against your waist as if trying to memorise the shape of you. His lips turned slower then, less frantic but just as consuming, his mouth tracing over yours with bruising intent, like he was afraid to let go. You sighed against him, hands trailing up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat.

When he finally pulled away, his breath was ragged, his forehead pressing against yours for a lingering moment. But then he let out a low, dangerous growl, his fingers tightening possessively at your waist.

“I’m gonna kill my sister. Then that fucker Brackett for knockin’ her up—”

“No,” you cut in, shaking your head. “Don’t. I think… I think we’ve finally reached a hesitant peace.”

Bucky scoffed, unconvinced. “You obviously don’t know my sister.”

“No,” you admitted, tilting your head, “but she owes me now. Them fuckwits at the hospital wanted to cut her open. I just took her to get a potion—the sickness should pass inna few days. Have someone keep an eye on her.”

He grumbled in quiet acceptance, the tension in his frame softening slightly. His lips found yours again, this time slower, more deliberate. You hummed against his mouth, a soft smile pulling at the corners of your lips as you leaned into him.

“Well,” he murmured after a moment, his breath warm against your skin. “I was gonna drag Becca along with me to see Stark, but since she’s occupied, I’ll take you instead.”

You blinked up at him. “Stark?”

Bucky smirked, tugging you along the narrow streets. “He’s a mad scientist of sorts. His father and mine used to be in business.”

“And you’re visiting him because…?”

“I’m havin’ a party. Invitin’ half of fuckin’ Blackstone—includin’ you.” He sent you a sideways glance. “Thought I’d deliver his invitation myself. He gets all pissed off if I don’t pay him attention every couple of months like he’s some bird on my roster I gotta regularly fuck.”

You snorted. “You have a roster?”

His smirk widened. “Why you askin’? You jealous?”

You rolled your eyes, your voice dripping with sarcasm to hide the defensiveness that wished to worm into your reply. “No. Not like we’re married or some shit. For all you know, I could have a roster.”

In an instant, he had you backed against the brick wall again, his hands pressing firm against your waist. His expression darkened, his gaze dragging over you with slow deliberation.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and I will fuck you right up against this wall,” he warned, voice thick with something sinful.

A soft giggle escaped you, but you reached up, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair that had slipped from his slicked-back style, your head tilting as you studied him.

“Why a party?” Your voice was softer now, more inquisitive. “What are you plannin’?”

He pulled back slightly, his smirk twisting into something more unreadable. “Best I not say, doll.”

You searched his face, something gnawing at your gut. “You know you can talk to me, right?” Your voice dipped lower, more serious. “I know I’m just some bird on your roster, but… you know I can help you… and I keep my mouth shut, hm?”

His jaw tightened slightly, something unreadable flashing in his gaze. Then, after a pause, he exhaled, voice dropping into something far darker.

“Let’s just say I’ve got a very fuckin’ public lesson to teach.”

Your stomach twisted, but before you could question him further, he tugged you forward, his grip warm but firm.

“Now, come on,” he muttered. “We’re gonna be late.”

PART NINE

[utilitycaster]

A couple things before I do this as I said I would here

I’ve decided it’s more effective in the long term to bring up a handful of people than everyone who’s ever been obnoxious, mostly to maintain ongoing leverage, ie, maybe if people leave me alone they can get away with their lower-key shitty behavior, and if people don’t, then they won’t.

Do not harass nor send hate to the people I've mentioned; take the high ground. Blocking, vagueing and openly going “what the fuck is wrong with that guy (gn)” however is chill, but I won’t be taking anons personally that are pile-ons on these people because that is not the point of this exercise.

Similarly I just delete anon hate or post it if I have a funny enough response for it but it won’t elicit this kind of thing for various reasons I don’t care to get into right now.

If my good opinion is important to you, really, the quickest way to lose it is to treat me expressing my own opinions on my blog as a personal attack on you. I wasn’t specifically judging you until you decided I was; now, I will ruin your day or week and I won’t feel sorry.

Now, I’m going to be honest. The reason I haven’t done this earlier despite the shit I and many others have waded through all campaign is that the vast majority of people who engage in harassment, hate, or “how dare you exist and have opinions that aren’t mine, don’t you know the world revolves around me” will then immediately make a post like this, such as the loser who led to this: (rest below the cut)

source

To be clear I do hope they get whatever presumably important medical procedure this is and I too am in opposition to transphobia on an active political level, however, if you take your own shit out on me, a random woman on the internet, I will continue to fight for what I believe to be your fundamental human rights like gender expression and healthcare but there is no right you have that prevents me from calling you a stupid thin-skinned loser and that I feel sorry for anyone who has the misfortune to love you as I suspect you’re incapable of truly returning it, and also your blorbo still sucks. This has been: if you attempt to treat me even slightly like your punching bag, I punch back.

With that in mind let’s go to the people I’m talking about today. If you're not into this, skip the cut.

I think it goes without saying that warrior/inrecovery was an embarrassing blight on this fandom and imo/dna shippers’ steadfast laxity in taking out the trash is yet another reason why this ship ain’t it chief. I’m posting all of the aliases under which they attacked me and others, but they flamed out during the Laudna addiction metaphor and hopefully got help, though as you can see their blog for the past like, decade, is them attacking people over femslash ships, so idk if it’s gonna stick, pals. Anyway, they have a distinctive style so hopefully if they ever rear their ugly head again I’ll be able to get and post an IP address. I did have some suspicions about Tulsa OK but they are not sufficiently founded. Anyway: you can also find them under tlb/wc (they use that one to make death threats); thatguy/10592; clearcowboy/angel; screechingalpha/nightmare; and holysoul/enthusiast, all of which are still up and have the evidence as of posting

Honorable mention to the person who called me a hypocrite for checks notes liking callowmoore more than Imo/dna (series of asks from November 11th, 2023 in which they harassed not just me but many people who had simply interacted with my posts). I have my suspicions as to who it was [noted tar pit from Westphalia, Germany absintheheartbeat, who I also think sent this Dorym ask] but as I have no proof that’s really all there is. While we’re talking about generic tar pits disconnectedkat is a discourse blog that is just generally a piece of shit and is one of those people who clutches pearls about HOW DARE YOU TRY TO WIN AT FANDOM WITH LEFTIST CAUSES ignoring the big elephant in the room of “countless C3 fans lecturing incompetently about this being a revolutionary anticolonialist narrative and how we’re just status quo loving conservatives and then crying when we point out that they are being shitty in real life.” If you are one of those people reading this and finding yourself getting huffy, do take a look at the people mentioned throughout this and ask yourself: are you okay with them? Because if so, then your issue isn’t “it’s mean to call people stupid and attack them on a moral basis”; your issue is “it’s mean to call me stupid”, and you are part of the problem, and, moreover, I am in your walls.

Theshepardshuffle deactivated but I do want to point them out here just to note that I have in fact suffered more than Job and been more steadfast than any US Marine at the hands of imo/dna shippers for the sin of saying “this ship isn’t very good.” I’d also want to point out that they are why I started checking on people I’ve blocked. See, this is a side blog, so if you block me I cannot interact with you, but I can still see you, and our buddy shep joined tumblr, blocked me, and then posted discourse about me constantly not realizing I could literally see it (and to be clear. I know people I have blocked can see this. I hope they do.)

Anyway, the main event: let’s talk about noted racist idiot hecate astralley/wright (main blog bone/heat), to my knowledge a white American cultural Christian, seen here (archive link if they delete it) mocking someone who found Bells Hells’ behavior justifyingly reminiscent of a conquering colonialist army as their family experienced, and horrifying for it (note: this mention is made with everypigeondeserveslove’s knowledge and permission; they are well aware of this bullshit). Hecate decided it was a good time to be a truly unfeeling piece of shit about this in the service of checks notes convincing people that Bells Hells was an anticolonialist narrative. They did, to be fair, just start reading Wretched of the Earth, so they do know who they’re talking over. I mean about. They also accused me of, when I pointed out this article’s discussion of history and whether it was written by the victors, Godwin’s law, which is not really what that means (saying ‘this phrase has its origins in a lot of hateful groups who used it to evade their responsibility in historical events, and also even if history is written by the victors, that doesn’t mean every alternate viewpoint is automatically wrong’ is simply factual), then turned around and claimed, in a truly stunningly insolent case of putting words in someone’s mouths, that criticism of Imogen and Laudna on the basis of their unkind actions was akin to calling them degenerates (archive)to the point that people were confused. This is an ongoing pattern with that circle; you’ll see it with cringefae/compilation too of just. Making shit up. 

What you need to know about them is in the end they’re mostly just a hypocrite and a loser. They’re really into 9/11 jokes, which to be clear I’m not personally squeamish about, but I also don’t go around screaming about how cruel the fandom is to Aeor, a city that is entirely pretend, while joking about real-life civilian deaths. Absolutely terminal case of caring more about pretend people than real ones. As for the idiot part, interesting to claim at one point that Orym would be saved by the Wild Mother and should, and this is a direct quote from someone who, again, is only now reading the first book listed the “Notable Theoreticians And Theories” list on the Postcolonialism wikipedia page, that he should “read theory” and then claim to have Gotten It From Hearthdell after spending much of the intervening time, as discussed, arguing for the deaths of the gods. In fact, I recommend looking back through their blog in depth for a combination of tiktok-brained politics, an utter lack of empathy, and Consistently Getting It Wrong And Lying And Pretending They Didn’t. 

Second person is cringefae/compilation. When they’re not throwing tantrums interspersed with gifs of the pink My Little Pony, or throwing different tantrums about Kipperlily Copperkettle, or throwing different tantrums about Essek and Verin Thelyss existing within the narrative, you can find them throwing tantrums about how everyone but them is a bigot, often in the main tag. This has been commented on by the general fandom, and it is notable that even others in their circle often won’t touch their vent posts (also many of said posts directly attack others in their circle, which is funny to me). Now I’ll just keep it very basic: I think what’s going on is that cringefae does not think they are a very good person, deep down, but is trying to project an image of being a very good person, and so they have decided that people in the fandom, of which I was public enemy number one before they seemingly discovered the native text block function, are the Real Bad People, and don’t seem to have the ability to process. Now the thing about cringefae is that if you dislike a character OR like but would enjoy them experiencing some fictional horrors and that character is not Essek Thelyss; the Briarwoods; a character I personally like such as Fjord when they are on the warpath (they actually seem to personally really like Fjord and I think high key hate that I like him because they have basically no consistent identity other than contrarianism; they do not seem to like anything, really, other than possibly the pink My Little Pony); or a white cis straight man that they do not headcanon as not that, then they will call you a bigot. Now: you may notice, with a quick perusal of their blog, that they believe Ludinus Da’leth to be a racist who started a race war, which would imply Essek Thelyss is nonwhite, but they have definitely argued against this as well, and recently argued both in favor of Ludinus having a redemption arc and also that they don’t believe in zero-effort redemption arcs, because again, there is zero logical coherence other than attacking people they don’t like for whatever reason. I don’t even have links; just scroll down their blog for a few minutes and you’ll get the vibe (bad). They too have a tendency to make up a guy and get mad at that guy (and have to clarify they're just making shit up in the notes); possibly to assume the worst of the fandom in order to feel better about themself. And whereas I think astralley/wright might know deep down they're attacking real people to defend pretend people and hoping no one will notice and call them on it, cringefae seems to be genuinely too stupid to understand the concept of "it can be interesting for a story to be tragic." They also tend to frequently insult the positions of people in their circle and conflate everything they don't like into one person; again, horse-immorality (deactivated) was one of the loudest "bor'dor is a dog" people and cringefae liked them and now is like IT'S SUPER RACIST TO SAY BOR'DOR WAS A DOG because again, it's not about any position, it's just about finding some arbitrary scapegoat and attacking them so that you can feel righteous, and in doing so, they become a cesspit of a person.

I think the kindest thing you could say about cringefae is that in their incoherence it all kind of cancels out, and absolutely no one really seems to take them seriously. They seem entirely unaware of the concept of crying wolf and how maybe if you say that a woman who checks notes happens to openly prefer the canon art of Jester, Yasha, and Imogen to fan redesigns, canon art that was checks notes designed by women and checks notes drawn by women is a “soft MRA” you might be wildly irresponsible in your accusations to the point of eroding an ability in the fandom to actually point out misogynistic views (also, hanging out with astrall/eywright does kind of fuck your image as caring about the oppressed). It’s accusations as a tool against the people they’ve decided are The Bad Ones. And really that’s the thing. I know we’re all online here, this is explicitly my fandom sideblog and I try to keep it light on politics not because they’re not vitally important but because I do see Tumblr largely as an escape and not as a news source, but I would bet good money this is someone who doesn’t like, do anything other than post. Anyway, just kind of a stream of nonstop constantly shifting incoherent bile worth a block. One of those cases where you're like "have people...just put up with this person in their fandom spaces forever? why? don't fandoms deserve to not have a missing stair like this?"

[petrichorium]

PLUVI I NEED TO KNOW… Capitano thoughts/opinion

Do you want him to be human? Or some sort of human eldritch monster thing?

I, personally, am a monster fucker. I hope that his face is just a void and that he has claws for hands. If they made him human I would cry. But what are ur thoughts?

KDNFKENF I answered like. This exact question a month ago ngl but I’m happy to answer it again 🙏🏻

Realistically I think he’s going to be a boring old normal human 💔 esp if he’s playable. I said last time that frankly we’ll be lucky if he’s not a twink :( but iirc he’s canonically been stated to be “the strongest human in teyvat” which v much sounds like he won’t even be a fun dragon dude as it’s implied we’ll be getting from Natlan :(

So setting that aside, my personal take on him. While I do adore the whole…… the helmet is his real face/there’s just nothing under it concept bc. Incredibly sexy dear lord, I unfortunately don’t subscribe to the full-on eldritch monster idea solely bc that “strongest human in teyvat” title fucks hard and I think him being entirely non-human monster kinda takes away from it, so my take on him is v much corrupted human over anything else

Like, covered in both normal healed scars and these gaping shadowy wounds…….. hair that almost seems to writhe and twist and fade away like smoke if he gets too excited……… clawed hands that fade to black at the ends…………. Probably like black sclera w glowing irises……….. v much a fan of his mouth appearing almost normal but then he can open it so so wide and he’s got far too many fanged teeth and a big ol tongue 🫣 things that can v much be covered up and/or hidden away temporarily but are impossible not to notice eventually esp if you’re spending a lot of time w him. Vibes of like. Just what has this man done to himself in pursuit of strength? How far until he’s more monster than man? And the beauty of that take is I can maintain it if we never get a face reveal yk

But again full-on eldritch abomination is incredibly good as well. The only real requirement is I need him incredibly sopping wet and terrifyingly devoted in a twisted, horrible way 🫠 and I will cry if he’s not the first harbinger I refuse to believe it if they say he’s the tenth

[viktoriakomova]

[abigail]

I don’t talk about the issue with my hand on here because well.. it’s extremely personal and I rarely even bring it up with my irl friends tbh but !!! I’ve made a huge step in hopefully.. uh. healing it, and I feel somewhat confident what I’m doing will actually help me so much.. I hope so at least.. I’ve had this issue for truly as long as I can remember and I don’t think it will ever fully uh.. go away, I suppose.. but the idea of it being better than the state it currently is in just….idk. I could cry thinking about it, happy tears I mean !!! Im trying not to get my hopes up because I’ve tried so so so many things in the past and all have only helped a little bit for maybe just a few weeks but this., it just feels different, it feels like it might actually work.. I hope it works

[eclipsesalign]

Missing old ocs

[jefferythejelly]

maybe Skeppy could be a crystal pony because his skin is a diamond! :D

(also maybe Kirin Sapnap? Since they have that fire form?)

ooh i was thinking dragon for skeppy cuz i forgot about crystal ponies but that’s even better :D

and KIRIN SAPNAP MEGA GALAXY BRAIN how does it feel to be the most correct person in my inbox

[autism-disco]

fuck man my life would be much much easier right now if there was not an inspector calling, yet we stay jesting (AAAAAAAAAAA)

[no1ryomafan]

The worst aspect of being online is when you see someone say a god awful take, one so bad that it’s filled to the brim with ignorance and lack of education on the subject that it’s harmful when it’s coming from a source who has somewhat of a audience or the post/video is getting a decent enough amount of traction that people who also don’t know anything about the subject at hand will follow through with whatever they’re being told.

Its the worst when you see it and know the situation to the brim but can’t type a respond back to correct the person not because you care about being dog piled but the post was weeks, months, YEARS ago and you have to live with it. If you were to respond now you just look really weird or the user in question isn’t gonna give a shit to be bothered to check the replies they got on something old, even in the scenario it’s just been weeks or months. The amount of times this has happened to me is so god damn frustrating because I have to deal with getting triggered and just letting it go when ignorant people are my least favorite kind of people, especially those when it’s on a situation that’s actually REALLY bad. Please for the love of god always research what your talking about instead of blindingly saying things, you are silencing serious situations where people got hurt or are feeding into a very awful misconception that makes having a simple opinion sometimes very hard.

[the-bluestreak-cat]

My extremely personal red flag is if you’ve never lived independently.

Do not open tags it’s just a personal vent and I hit the tag limit (30) and that’s never happened to me before ajskdlf

[swordmunch]

Hmmmmm time to pick a name for my Vaguely East Asian™ Female Love Interest!!! I shall name her….Ching Chong. Wait. No. I should change it to have plausible deniability—I’m not racist, and if I do this as a joke the libs will get mad at me for completely unfounded reasons. I’ll just change that “o” into an “a”…and shorten up that first name, and….her name will be Cho Chang! A perfectly not racist name to call a Vaguely East Asian™ Female Love Interest!

[exopelagic]

supervisor was met. god help our souls

[yukurie]

So I got a dcxpd idea, so I’ve seen a few takes on this so I wanna do my own

Danny is an ex hero / vigilante as we know and is now living with the batfam, the batfam are trying to keep their night activities secret from Danny cause he’s both new to the family and seemingly wants a normal civilian life but uh, they don’t exactly do normal well and you can’t really hide anything when the person you’re trying to hide things from is hearing ghostly gossip at basically all times and likely has more experience than most of you in being a hero

So Danny helps out occasionally with weird things but is still technically not involved: like maybe he says vague clues in question form to Tim who is working on a cold case because the dead person in question happened to turn into a ghost and told him about what happened, maybe Jason came in to get Alfred to help stitch up a particularly bad stab wound and Danny walks up looks at it and the stitch type Alfred was about to do before gently nudging Alfred aside alerting both to his presence before taking the needle and doing a different type of stitch expertly before walking away to get a cup of coffee without saying a word, maybe he walks into Tims room to give him a cup of tea (or coffee) where he was looking over a blueprint for a new gadget and he glances at the blueprint for a brief moment before Tim can hide it before making a small comment about something Tim could do to get it working before leaving as if he didn’t just easily solve something Tim’s been trying for a month to get working, maybe they would mention a past injury and then Danny would bring up a similar injury that is very concerning for a civilian to ever have even moreso a child, etc etc

So basically Danny just kinda… corrects them occasionally on things and they are desperately trying to figure out if he’s an ex vigilante, ex villain, or if he just had a particularly fucked up childhood (which I guess you could technically say it’s all three?)

Danny shows up and just dumbfounds them because his background check show nothing of note, maybe even too clean but he just does and says the weirdest things so easily

[milkloafy]

I COULD BE YOUR CRUSH — WRIOTHESLEY

⋆｡˚ ❀ summary: you gush about your crush to neuvillette over some tea, and your crush unexpectedly joins the tea party and overhears you talking about him. ⋆｡˚ ❀ contents: fluff, fem!reader (use of princess as a petname), sassy neuvi, mentions of ayato ⋆｡˚ ❀ wc: 1.2k+ ⋆｡˚ ❀ a/n: alexa play crush by tessa violet,, LOL i was thinking so hard about the song title then i was like okay yeah these lyrics work ;-; titles are so hard.. anywayyy PLS ENJOY SOME WRIO FLUFF FOR THE SOUL !!

“You just don’t understand, Neuvillette,” you sighed dramatically, stabbing your fork into the delicate cake in front of you. “He’s totally swoon-worthy.”

Neuvillette took a sip of his tea before carefully placing the cup back on its saucer. For a while, he continued to stay silent, as if considering his words.

Once he finally opened his mouth, the only question that came out was a calm, “How so?”

It didn’t take long for a million reasons to pop into your head.

“Well…have you seen his arms?” you gushed. “Is that not enough of a reason in itself?”

Neuvillette scoffed, a smile of amusement playing on his lips.

“That’s not all, of course,” you clarified, grabbing a throw pillow from the sofa next to you and hugging it close to your chest. “He’s also caring and kind and treats everyone with respect, no matter who they are.” 

Neuvillette’s gaze flickered briefly to the door behind you, but you paid it no mind.

“Not to mention how he looks when he gets all serious. Neuvillette, have you ever seen him talk about a prisoner he had to punish? It’s so…” You hid your face behind the pillow, cheeks flaming at the thought.

Before you had a chance to collect yourself, you heard someone clear their throat behind you. You immediately stilled in your seat, slowly bringing the pillow back down to your lap.

“Sorry I’m late. Who are we talking about?”

Neuvillette smiled, ignoring your frantic look directed right at him. “Wriothesley, welcome. You are not too late. Please, take a seat.”

Wriothesley slipped onto the sofa, taking a seat next to you. Neuvillette poured him a cup of tea that he graciously accepted. Looking over at you, Wriothesley brought the drink up to his face and asked, “Care to tell me who you were speaking of before I arrived? It sounded like you were singing their praises.”

You fiddled with the the hem of your silk pajamas— Neuvillette failed to inform you beforehand that a certain someone would be joining the tea party, so you appeared in your regular sleep clothes. You racked your brain trying to come up with a response. 

“Oh, you know… Kamisato Ayato,” you managed, vaguely remembering how you saw his name and face on the cover of The Steambird recently. “The head of the Kamisato clan is such a…dashing and strong leader. I think.” 

“I didn’t realize you were close to Kamisato,” commented Wriothesley, sitting with one leg loosely draped over the other as he leaned back against the sofa.

“Oh,” you shook your head, “no. No, I’ve never even met him.”

Wriothesley raised a singular eyebrow in question. “Your words earlier seemed so strong for something directed at a man you have never met.” 

You shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant even though your heart threatened to beat our of your chest. “You know how enamored a crush can make someone.” 

“I do,” Wriothesley agreed, his gaze locked onto yours so intensely that you almost had to blink.

“I’m sure you do,” remarked Neuvillette, still sipping his tea.

You and Wriothesley both looked over at him.

Neuvillette blinked. “Did you forget I was here? This is my office, is it not?” When no one responded, he sighed. “Well, I finished the last of my tea and I have some work to wrap up. Feel free to stay as long as you need.”

Neuvillette made his way back to his desk and Wriothesley refocused his attention towards you. 

“So. Kamisato Ayato,” he brought the clan leader up once more.

You choked out a laugh of exasperation. “Are we still on this? Just let me have my silly little crush on someone across the world who doesn’t even know I exist.”

Tapping his fingers against the teacup, Wriothesley huffed. You realized he looked almost annoyed and frustrated.

Just as you were about to ask him what was wrong, Wriothesley opened his mouth and said, “Would it be overbearing of me to say I wish you had said a different name when I asked who you were gushing over?”

A strange mixture of curiosity and hope filled your chest.

Curiosity as to who he thought you were talking about. Hope that maybe he thought it might’ve been him. 

“You could never be overbearing,” you assured, grabbing a small biscuit from the table and softening it up in your warm tea. “Would it be nosy of me to ask who you wished I was gushing over?”

Wriothesley grinned. “You are certainly nosy. But it’s one of the things I like about you.”

You laughed, wiping a crumb off your lip with a napkin. “Does that mean you won’t tell me?”

“Perhaps another day.”

In the distance, you heard Neuvillette clear his throat loudly. You looked over and saw him glaring straight at Wriothesley. They stayed like that for a while, having a silent conversation with their eyes. Whatever it was, it seemed intense. You were quite glad that glare wasn’t directed at you.

“I believe Wriothesley would like to share that information with you now,” Neuvillette announced after Wriothesley looked away with a sigh.

“Does he?”

“I do,” Wriothesley confirmed, the slightest bit begrudgingly. “Me.”

You waited for him to say more, but he didn’t elaborate. 

You blinked. “What about you?” 

“Are you going to make me say it?” Wriothesley let out a strangled laugh, grabbing a biscuit to munch on himself. “When I overheard you and Neuvillette talking about your crush, I was hoping it was about me.”

You blinked. “Why about you?” 

Neuvillette made a strange noise as a book fell off his desk. He cleared his throat. “Pardon me.”

You barely had time to wonder if he was okay before Wriothesley finally responded.

“You really don’t make things easy for me, isn’t that right, princess?” Wriothesley said with a helpless smile. “I hoped you were saying such sweet things about me, since I would say equally sweet things about you.”

With your stomach turning at both the pet name and his admission, you managed to say, “And if I were to tell you it really was about you?”

“That would make me a very happy man,” he said, unable to contain his delight. “Who wouldn’t be happy to hear the most beautiful and caring person they know is interested in them as well?”

You heard Neuvillette tap his foot impatiently in the background, but you ignored him. You and Wriothesley were having a moment here. 

“So, you’re saying you like me, too?” you asked, not wanting there to be any chance of a misunderstanding. The two of you made it this far, you couldn’t let it fall apart now.

“I like you very much,” said Wriothesley with a nod. “And I have something to take care of at the Fortress this week, but when we both have time next week, perhaps we can celebrate with a dinner. Without Neuvillette there.”

“Please, without me there,” Neuvillette chimed in, his arms folded as he sat in his chair.

You laughed, standing up and brushing the imaginary dust off your pajamas. “All right, I can take a hint, Neuvillette. I’ll help you clean up before I go. And Wriothesley…” 

“Hmm?”

You met his gaze and the corners of his eyes crinkled. You fought off a giggle as you returned Wriothesley’s smile, an overwhelming feeling of happiness filling you. “It’s a date.”

[cxrrodedcoffin]

Dead of Night - Spencer Reid

Likes are always appreciated but reblogs and feedback keep artists going!

Summary: Spencer stumbles upon a secret dark fantasy of reader’s and does everything he can to be the one to fulfill it.

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: This is the first time I’ve ever written anything with themes like this so feedback is definitely appreciated. Not proofread cuz this is long and I’m tired ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I fully understand if the themes included in this are not for some of my regular readers and I encourage you to scroll if you’re not comfortable with any of the following warnings.

TW: perv!spencer, dom!spencer, mask kink, knife play, blood, dubcon, kind of cnc but it’s emphasized repeatedly that reader initiates and is in control of what is taking place, unprotected sex, penetration, creampie, degradation (slut), pet names (doll, angel) religious imagery, gun mention, std testing mention, fem + afab reader, soulmate talk

Rating: R, 18+

——

You knew it was wrong, you’d seen just how easily Penelope was able to track someone down through their “anonymous” profile on websites just like this one, but your desires got the better of you, and you just had to try.

Your profile was nondescript, your age, a vague physical description of yourself, and a link to a meticulously detailed account of your wildest fantasies. After weeks of back and forth, chatting with a few equally nondescript profiles, you found the one that you really clicked with, the stranger you decided you’d let sneak into your window and do whatever he wanted with you. After an std panel and the agreement of your safe word, you decided to fully commit, sending this complete stranger your address and logging off for the night.

Even though you knew this was a stupid idea, you weren’t a complete idiot, you had plans in case anything went south, including placing your handgun in your bedside table for easy access if you, god-forbid, had to use it. Placing yourself in a high-risk situation was the whole point, and you couldn’t wait to see how it turned out.

You spent the remainder of your afternoon preparing, doing every grooming ritual you’d usually do before a date, but this time felt somehow more important. You didn’t even know what this guy looked like, and yet, you wanted to be the picture of beauty for him. It was silly, but you always pictured yourself the prettiest you’d ever been when you daydreamed about being ravaged by a stranger. You wanted to be completely irresistible in every way, and you were doing everything in your power to accomplish that.

As the sun finally set, your excitement levels began to rise, anxiously awaiting the arrival of your masked suitor. You opened the bedroom window just above your fire escape, the cool night air drawing goosebumps over your exposed skin, only a thin lace slip and matching panties adorning your frame. You crawled into bed, double checking your bedside drawer before pulling your comforter over your body, eagerly drifting off to sleep.

—

Spencer had been keeping a secret, one that he did not want you to know about, until today. A few weeks ago he’d stayed late to finish up some paperwork for the last case you’d been on, when his pen ran out of ink just as he was about to sign off the last document. He walked to your empty desk, reaching across it to grab a pen from the cup next to your monitor, when his arm brushed against your mouse, causing your display to light up.

He knew he shouldn’t snoop, but curiosity got the best of him, scanning through the title of each tab open on your browser until a certain website caught his eye. He went against his better judgment and clicked the tab, his jaw dropping upon viewing your profile, and with it, the graphic description of your sexual proclivities. His brain immediately cemented that information in his mind’s eye, fit to torture him for days after the encounter.

He couldn’t stop picturing himself fulfilling all of those desires for you, having to excuse himself to the bathroom several times a day to take care of the bulge in his pants just from being around you. He eventually bit the bullet, creating his own profile on the website and messaging you as an “anonymous” suitor, beyond pleased when the two of you hit it off. He felt bad not telling you, but this was a means to an end that would surely leave you both satisfied, and the devious part of him won out this time.

He did everything you asked, getting tested so he could fuck you raw, he was apprehensive about the risks of a potential pregnancy even without the fear of std transmission, but the way you begged so beautifully in your messages for him to creampie you was more than enough to convince him. The moment he got your message with your address, he went out and purchased a mask to conceal his identity just like you asked, and anxiously waited for nightfall.

—

The graze of fabric against your skin gently woke you as your bedding was pulled down off of your body, your mind clouded from the deep sleep you’d been sunk in seconds before. You rolled onto your back, starting to lift your head until a large hand clamped over your mouth, forcing your head back down onto your pillow. Your eyes widened, darting around the room before settling on the masked figure on top of you. You tried to scream against his palm, but the sound simply reverberated back against you, muffled by his strong grip.

His free hand made quick work of cutting off your slip, the thin fabric splitting easily against the blade of the knife in his grasp. You struggled underneath him, weakly pushing at his strong shoulders, feigning defense as the heartbeat in your cunt grew stronger by the second. You couldn’t believe this was actually happening, the adrenaline coursing through your veins making you feel almost high.

“Don’t fight it.” He hushed, holding the knife flush against your neck. You slowed your movements, settling for shifting your legs against his. He removed his hand from your mouth, freeing it up to gather your hands to pin them above your head as well as give you an opportunity to use your safe-word if need be.

He trailed the knife down your body, your chest heaving with shaky breaths as the blade scratched a small cut between your breasts, warm droplets of blood forming in it’s wake. He followed the curve of your body, leaving shallow kitten scratches until he reached your hip, using the tip of the knife to carve a heart into your skin. The sting of each movement set every nerve ending in your body on fire, the wetness pooling between your thighs increasing by the second.

He pressed his thumb to the wound, smearing the blood down to the waistband of your panties, using the digit to pull the fabric before letting it snap back against your skin. You gasped, your labored breaths growing more desperate as he brought the blade to slice the fabric, exposing your embarrassingly wet cunt.

“Look at how wet you are, you love this, don’t you?” The condescension in his tone felt almost half-hearted, and the more of his voice you heard, the more familiar he started to sound, but you couldn’t quite place why. You looked down at him, watching his every move as you tried to place him.

He set the knife on the bed, using his now free hand to yank his pants down, his hard cock slapping against his thigh. Your eyes went wide at his size, looking just long and thick enough to have you a little worried about being able to take him raw, but the thought of being stretched to your limits sent another wave of arousal straight to your core and helped quell that fear ever so slightly.

“If you don’t want this, just say the word.” His words dripped from his lips like honey, sickly sweet, and in that moment you had never felt more sure of your desire for anything in your life.

—

Spencer wondered if the way he was feeling was akin to that of religious psychosis, so engulfed in your very being that he ought to worship at your altar for the rest of his life, fit to carry out any act you requested of him.

His brain kept your description of your fantasy scrolling in the back of his mind, catering to everything you had written to a T in hopes of making this a night you’d never forget. The only thing at the forefront of his thoughts, however, was the intoxicating sounds you made every time he gripped or marked your skin. Each note sought to pull his focus, threatening his plan as it tempted him to lose control all together. He couldn’t do that, his conscience too righteous in its goal to keep you as pleased as possible.

He took his time, marking you just the way you’d requested, his cock twitching with every whimper that flowed out of you until he finally reached your core, the lace of your underwear glistening under the moonlight cast through your open window from how wet you were. He wanted to sink fully into you without a care in the world, but he had to make sure this was absolutely what you wanted. He was, to your knowledge, a stranger after all, and the last thing he wanted was for you to be uncomfortable in any way.

—

You frantically shook your head in acknowledgment, spreading your legs wider for him, ready for this tall stranger to finally be inside of you. Your eagerness spurred him on, a surge of confidence washing over him as he let go of your wrists, his large hands gripping your hips and pulling you further down the bed. He lifted your legs so your knees rested atop his shoulders, his rough movements making you gasp.

He brought his cock to your core, running the shaft through your slick folds before slapping the head against your clit a few times, the repeated hits making your hips jolt ever so slightly. He hummed low in the back of his throat, lining up his tip with your entrance before thrusting forward, bottoming out inside of you in one fell swoop.

“You’re so tight.” He grunted, one hand holding an iron grip on your thigh to hold your leg up, the other digging fingerprints into your hip. You gasped once more at the intrusion, feeling more full than ever before as he set a steady but unrelenting pace. Your gasp turned to crying moans, brows furrowed in awe at the way his cock stretched you so deliciously, prominent veins rubbing against the contours of your sensitive walls.

Each snap of his hips had his balls slapping against your ass, the lude sound mixing with his grunts and the wet squelching where your bodies met in the most intimate way, the decibel level in the room reaching an all-time high.

You bit your lip, trying to quiet yourself to at least somewhat lower the noise and not disturb your sleeping neighbors, but the absence of your desperate moans was not lost on him. His pace slowed, his left hand firmly gripping your chin to force you to look at his masked face. His eyes met yours through the thin slit in the dark fabric.

You knew those eyes, those big, soft brown irises, so comforting, yet darker than you recognized, pupils far more blown than you’d ever seen before. You knew him, but there was no way. Your mind must have been playing tricks on you, because there was no way that Spencer Reid would do anything this perverse, let alone with you.

“Louder, slut.” He squeezed your cheeks, forcing your lower lip out from under your bite.

“I-I’m not a slut.” You mumbled, barely above a whisper.

“Only a slut would leave her bedroom window open, practically begging a stranger to come in and fuck her.” This was far too brazen to be Spencer, you thought, a level of blunt confidence you’d never in a million years expect from him.

“I-I didn’t mean to.” You stuttered over your words, raising your voice in an attempt to half heartedly defend your actions.

“Well then, you should really be more careful next time.” He laughed, releasing his grip on your face before playfully slapping your cheek and increasing the pace of his thrusts, his now free hand finding your clit. His calloused thumb drew broad strokes over and over and over against your sensitive bundle of nerves, a knot tightening in your stomach as you drew closer and closer to your release. You turned your head, trying to bury your face in the pillow as you writhed underneath him, your body frantically looking for relief.

“Oh don’t be shy doll, let me see how much you’re enjoying this.” His tone was almost sing-song, clearly enjoying this just as much as you were. He pressed his body down closer to yours, almost pinning your thighs against your stomach, the change in angle forcing a borderline scream from your lungs, crying out strangled ‘uh’s with every stroke. You looked him in the eye, desperate to know if this deity above you could possibly be your nerdy coworker, and every interaction you’d had with him flashed before your eyes.

Every fleeting glance he took at your chest or your ass, the way he lingered behind you in the field, feeling his presence even when you couldn’t see him. You couldn’t think of a time he wasn’t around a corner when you turned it, always near whenever you needed his help on a case. You always secretly hoped he'd make a move sooner or later, but you never thought it would be anything like this.

He was omnipotent, knowing exactly how to make you feel things you’d never felt before, pushing your body to levels of pleasure you never thought possible. You thought you might disappear, your brain short-circuiting as you tried to make sense of everything, finally understanding why the French refer to orgasms as the little death.

Your walls fluttered around him, the sounds leaving you reduced to pathetic whimpers as your vocal chords grew strained.

“That’s it, cum on my cock, angel.” He groaned, his thrusts growing increasingly desperate. The pet name surprised you, but if he saw you as an angel, how fitting considering how godlike he felt to you in that moment. You could tell he was close, and if your orgasm was what would get him to cum inside you, then so be it. Your eyes glazed over, your hands clawing at his back as you chanted ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’ like a mantra, wave after wave of euphoria washing over every nerve in your body.

—

Spencer was a man possessed, his primal urges leaving his mind completely uninhibited, so lost in your body that he thought he might need divine intervention to ever leave you.

He didn’t quite understand where the sudden dominant urge coursing through his veins had come from, but he didn’t care to dwell too much on the thought, content to fuck you into the mattress until you screamed his name.

He knew that wouldn’t happen, but he secretly hoped you’d realize who he was, wishing for nothing more than for you to want him for him. His heart felt like it may burst at the thought, the desire to be wanted as he was ever-lingering inside of it, that being the very motivation behind his lingering tendencies from the start.

As your heat contracted around him, he felt an embrace like no other, hoping the myth of twin flames to be true. If this connection wasn’t proof of it, how could he rationally explain anything? He knew the scientific reasoning behind it, but it didn’t feel like enough, such a finite explanation for a feeling so sempiternal.

He wondered if you felt the same way too, so lost in his every desire that he let himself dive into the delusion, using the pet name he wished he could call you every day for eternity.

Your chants and cries as you came set him free, his hips stuttering as he finally filled your aching cunt to the brim with his seed. He hovered above you, catching his breath, watching your expression soften as you rode out your orgasm, practically glowing.

When he finally snapped out of his lust-fueled haze, he fully remembered his role, pulling out of you and quickly scrambling to stand, fixing his pants and underwear. You had agreed to his departure after, and as badly as he wanted to hold you until you drifted off to sleep, he respected your wishes more than his wants. He walked to the window, lifting his leg to climb out of it when you cleared your throat, drawing his attention. He turned, seeing you sit up, hazy smile on your face.

“Thank you.” You sighed, and he gave a nod of acknowledgement before slipping out of the window and into the night.

—

When you awoke, you had a couple minutes of doubt in which you thought the events of the night before had all been a dream, until you moved to get out of bed and winced at sting from the shallow marks adorning your body and the dull ache between your legs. You smiled to yourself, before looking at your phone and realizing what time it was. You were going to be late, and panic set in when you realized you’d have to go to work in the makeup you’d fallen asleep in last night.

You rushed out the door, checking your makeup in a compact mirror in your car, wiping a small bit of smudged mascara off of your brow bone before walking into work.

“Fun night?” Derek quipped as you walked through the doors, always the first to poke fun at your perceived escapades.

“You could say that.” You laughed, setting your handbag on your desk before joining the team to walk to the conference room.

“What happened?” Penelope asked, almost panicked, taking your arm in her hand and pointing to the only visible cut on your body.

“Oh that’s nothing, I just scraped my arm on my car door.” You reassured, smiling at her. As much as you loved your best friend, she didn’t need to know the truth of your little white lie.

“You should really be more careful next time.” Spencer’s voice came from behind you, his hand gently resting on your hip before squeezing right where the heart shaped cut from the night before was inlaid in your skin. His words reverberated in the space between your ears as your brain processed what he’d just said.

Realization hit you like a semi truck, your lips parting in shock. Your suspicions had been correct, and you almost wanted to turn around and kiss then interrogate him right there. You couldn’t do that though, having a full work day in front of both of you.

Now you just had to figure out a time and place to broach the subject with him without completely humiliating yourself.

——

part 2 can be found here

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[monowires]

okay i doubt anyone will care about this nonsense rattling around in my skull, but i have a gale opinion to deliver.

i’ve seen a couple takes about gale mentioning mystra during the outer planes scene - “with you i forget my goddess” - that say it feels crude or odd of him to mention her in such a personal, intimate moment. i am one of the veritable few (or perhaps many, if i have simply not seen this opinion elsewhere) who felt quite touched by that line.

mystra has basically been involved in gale’s entire life. even before they were lovers she was his teacher and, of course, the goddess of the Weave. after his falling out with her he spent an entire year alone - due to the orb, yes, but it is very obvious that being cast out by mystra also had an immense effect on gale’s mental health during that time. i mean, it doesn’t take long at all after meeting him for him to open up about it at least vaguely; it’s been on his mind for a year, and he has had no one (except for tara) to talk to about it.

it’s also very easy to infer that he’s terrified of being cast out again, although he views it in such a way that he wouldn’t blame you if you did - because he still thinks he needs to earn mystra’s forgiveness. he still feels like he is the only problem. when he tells you about the orb, he immediately starts talking about how he wouldn’t blame you at all if you wanted to get rid of him, and even when you’ve romanced him he talks about being undeserving of your love and that he’s going to do everything he can to make it so that he is. he very clearly doesn’t think of himself as a worthy partner, and you cannot tell me that’s not because of mystra.

so no, i don’t think it’s weird or crude for him to mention mystra in such a personal moment. because what he’s saying there isn’t “you distract me from mystra”, he’s saying that the relationship makes him forget all of the self-doubt and insecurities that mystra sowed in him. it makes him feel like he may actually be worthy of love. it makes him feel like he’s more than just his mistakes.

anyway this probably didn’t make ANY sense but it was bouncing around in my skull like the dvd screensavers.