#seriously you absolutely nailed this sketch! he's gorgeous!

[fullmetal-scar-simping]

LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME

I CAN'T STOP DRAWING HIM

yeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH BOIIIIIIIIIIII‼️‼️‼️

I AM NOT EVEN REMOTELY SORRY

You drew him so-!! Beautiful man, beautiful beautiful man 😍😍😍

Gotta pass on my "obsessively drawing Scar to the point that drawing anyone or anything else is nigh impossible, oh god this image turned into Scar again" disease to as many people as possible. Now you too can know my pain/joy!

[wtfevenismypage]

Pastel Flowers

Request: Hi!! I have been reading your fics about spencer reid x reader and I really love them. Are requests open?? If they are... can you write one in which the reader loves painting and she doesn't have a canvas so she asks spencer to paint on his back?? (She is really shy) Thank you!! 💕

Warnings: None

A/N: This is seriously such a cute idea and it was so fun to write! Thank you to the Anon who requested this for reading! I’m truly flattered!

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

You held three things very close to your heart. Those are Spencer Reid, the rest of Spencer’s team, and art. Spencer, your boyfriend, was extremely supportive of your career in art, painting was your passion and it was like your first language.

Every painting represented the emotions you felt when painting it, when you were upset, happy, angry, sad, every emotion and story was poured into your work.

Spencer would sometimes keep you company when you painted, making you laugh and distract you from finishing your painting. You both ended up cuddling on the paint stained couch in your work room.

Today was a bad day though. You couldn’t find a single canvas anywhere, and due to quarantine you couldn’t go outside and get another one. So you trudged around hopelessly in you and Spencer’s shared house, trying to find something to paint on.

“Hey Bubba, you alright?”

He asked, walking up behind you and wrapping his arms around your tummy. You melted and blushed under his warm touch, letting him take over all of your thoughts. Back-hugs were your favorite and he knew it.

“Nothing, just can’t find a canvas.”

Spencer hummed a low response, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the soft chocolate and rose scent of your skin. He was aware of how important it was that you painted, so he tried to remember where you had last left a canvas.

“Did you check the garage?”

He asked, his scruff tickling you every time he spoke. You smiled and shook your head, spinning around to press a kiss to his lips. 

“I haven’t, I’ll go check right now.”

You slip out of his arms giggling the entire way to the garage in hopes of a canvas being in there. Spencer watched with a smile as you ran away, bounding to the garage. 

He loved watching you get all excited when it comes to painting and drawing, the way your eyes lit up when you were sketching on your canvas, even when you were upset your eyes still sparkled with excitement.

You spent a solid twenty minutes searching for the canvas before discovering that it doesn’t exist. You hopelessly drop your head against the wall, trying to think of a compromise.

You think of painting on rocks, but they’re too tiny for what you have in mind. Maybe a wall in the art room, but that’s too big. Your mind flashes a picture of your boyfriend suddenly. 

You could use his back as a canvas for paint, maybe a few flowers, but that would require you to actually ask him. You and Spencer were pretty open about everything, but you’ve never painted on him or anyone.

Plus, it would take up a lot of his time and what if he needs to answer a call for the team?

Well, he was your love, so you mustered up all of your courage and walked back inside  to the living room, where Spencer sat with a book in his hands, Mozart playing in the background.

“Hey Bubba, was there not a canvas?”

You nod your head sadly, curling up next to him and snuggling into his side after he places his book down, not bothering with a bookmark since he can remember what page he was on (you were very jealous of this fact). 

“H-hey Spence?”

You spoke after a prolonged pause, gaining his attention. HE turned his head and looked down to you, confused at how you fidgeted with your nails, biting at them. He reached his hand down, pulling yours apart and pulling them to his lips, gently kissing them to calm your nerves.

“What’s up Bubba?”

You relaxed under his soothing hands, gathering all of your courage before speaking.

“Can I... Can I paint on your back?”

You couldn't stop your cheeks from developing a raging red color as Spencer chuckles, pulling you closer to him.

“Of course bub.”

You smile happily when he approves of your idea, immediately standing up and dragging Spencer to your art room and pulling out colors from the closet excitedly.

“Um... Take your shirt off?”

You blush and look down as he chuckles, but he does what you say, pulling his shirt off and pulling you to him for a quick kiss when he catches you staring. 

“Okay Spencer, lay down before we end up doing something else.”

Pushing his towards the paint stained couch, you lay him down on his stomach where he holds his phone, reading something about space while you pull up all of your brushes and putting the paints next to you.

Dipping into a yellowish green color, you start painting beautiful flowers across his back, splayed all the way from side to side.

Throughout the entire five hours of painting, Spencer answered two work calls with you sat on his butt painting away with pastel paints. He also read a whole book which you delivered, and you both had Chinese food.

He never asked to get up, he just simply smiled and lightly giggled at the feeling of the cold wet paint tickling his back while he listens to you humming classical songs.

“How’s it looking Bubba?”

You smile at the complete piece of art on your boyfriends back, leaning over to carefully kiss Spencer’s back as to not ruin the pastel flowers. 

“It looks great. I’ll take a picture for you.”

You grab your phone from the arm of the couch, snapping a quick photo of his beautiful flower splattered back and holding it up in front of his face.

A wide smile grows on his face, admiring the pastel paint that was carefully painted, he loved how it looked on him. He loved how your emotions shone through each brush stroke, pure love and appreciation evident.

“Woah, that looks great Bubba! I love it!”

You smile giddily, climbing off of his butt and staring at the image in front of you. Your boyfriend held your phone in his hand, tracing the flowers with his pinky and smiling with a gentle red blush on his cheeks.

He was absolutely gorgeous and loving it made your heart hurt.

“You can paint me whenever you want Bubba.”

A/N: I know I made Spencer say “Bubba” a lot, but I love that nickname, so I put it in a lot, REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!

[cloudywriter]

vanilla pudding cups - 3

~~~

A/N: so sorry it has been a little bit, i just have been so busy with school. also sorry about the minimal feysand interaction in this chapter too but i’m trying to build the relationship ya know? anyway, enjoy! also leave comments too, i love feedback!

masterlist + AO3

~~~

Feyre hadn’t talked to Rhysand since they had met a couple of days ago, but his eyes seem to have taken up a permanent residence in her mind. That much was evident by the sheer number of various shades of blue and even violet colored pencils that were surrounding her on the beanbag in the corner of her room. She could never get the combination of colors to look quite right though, she itched to go and make him sit down for her just so she could study the colors that make up his eyes. 

Luckily, the sane part of her mind that kept reminding her just how creepy swatching the colors of a stranger’s eyes was held her back from doing such a thing. But no matter how much she reprimanded herself in her mind, her infatuation with him didn’t cease. There was just such a depth to him that reeled her in. 

Okay, maybe it also had to do with the fact he was absolutely beautiful. He was the kind of guy she could see in the grocery store who’s too gorgeous to approach but would definitely mourn the thought of probably never seeing again in her life once she left.

She had hoped to attempt to talk to him, to get a better feel for him, but had yet to find the right time. Alis had refused to tell her much about him, only saying that his cancer had relapsed and that was why he was here in the ward. Her heart fell when Alis told her that. Feyre knew that pain and wanted him to know she understood, that he wasn’t alone. But it was also the fact that she knew his pain that kept her from reaching out. He needed time to process without her bothering him, he needed his space to breathe and come to terms with it so Feyre made sure to maintain her distance for the time being. Maybe he’d even come to her.

She smiled at the thought. 

---

Rhys woke up to the fluff of a pillow hitting him in the face repeatedly, he opened his eyes immediately, a little dazed, a little panicked; standing over him was just his ass of a friend, Cassian.

Cassian peered down at him with his signature shit-eating grin, his hair pulled back in a messy bun of sorts.

“Wakey, wakey, sleeping beauty,” he basically sang.

“It’s like fucking 6am, what are you doing?” Rhys rolled his eyes.

“We are getting your sorry ass out of bed and down to Rita’s for some breakfast,’’ he responded.

“At 6am?”

“Gotta get it while it’s hot,” Cassian claimed as he turned around and started picking through clothes in Rhysand’s bags that he had yet to put away. “Mor, Az, and Amren are down waiting in the car. The nurse lady only let one of us come get you because it’s technically not visiting hours.”

“Right and it seemed appropriate to send the loudest one they could?”

“Don’t act like you’d rather wake up to anything besides my face,” Cass batted his eyelashes for emphasis. 

For some odd reason Feyre’s face flashed through his mind. 

He would be lying if he said he hadn’t at least thought about her, the image of her atop that ladder radiating ethereal beauty never entirely left his head. He was even a little disappointed when that streak of charcoal dissipated.

Cassian throwing a pair of dark jeans and a black t-shirt interrupted his mini pining session. “Come on, get dressed. I’ll be in the hall.”

Rhysand huffed as he departed from his warm cocoon.

---

Rhys, Mor, Cassian, Azriel, and Amren sat outside on the trails with their takeout breakfast tacos from Rita’s wrappers scattered around them on the benches. 

“Okay, seriously, why did you make us wake up at 5:30am for Rita’s breakfast just for us to get takeout?” Amren questioned Cassian.

“Just eat your taco. I asked them to put extra children’s tears in it just for you, little one.”

“Call me little one again and I’ll nail your balls to that tree, you brute.”

The way Cassian cautiously crossed his legs escaped no one’s notice. 

The group had mostly returned to their normal dynamic, Cass being loud and making jokes, Mor giggling, offering her own sarcastic retorts, Rhys mostly laughing, watching, and adding to the conversation at times. Azriel continued his usual observing, letting out small smiles occasionally while Amren went back and forth between scowling and telling off Cassian. 

At the moment, Mor and Cassian were arguing over who got to eat the last taco, “Mor I am literally three of you put together.”

“And? A girl’s gotta eat.”

Cassian and Mor continued their pointless bickering, each swiping the taco out of the other’s hand and chasing each other around the benches. Rhys’s stomach hurt from laughing at their antics. He was feeling good again.

He found himself looking back up at the hospital towering over the little park, maybe to ground himself, it served as a reminder that this isn’t his whole reality anymore. He is still sick and one day Mor and Cassian will be running after each other without him around to watch. 

Mor’s breathless giggles and Cassian’s obnoxious shouting faded into the background as he began to get sucked back into that blackhole that had started growing again when he heard his most recent prognosis. It wasn’t an unfamiliar blackhole, he knew it well, but it had become so miniscule as his life returned to what it should be. But even in space it’s hard to make blackholes truly disappear. 

That’s when Rhys noticed her. A flash of golden-brown hair reflecting the fresh morning sun’s rays. She was sitting on a light wooden stool in front of an easel, her position pivoted at an angle to face out the window. He could make out the back of a white canvas sitting on the easel and a paint palette balanced in one of her hands. At such a distance he couldn’t make out her face fully, but he just knew it was her in his heart. He could almost imagine her face, her nose scrunched up in concentration as it was in those brief moments he saw her focused on hanging up sketches. 

Maybe she even had a paint stain on her cheek. 

Once again, she brought him back as he began to sink. 

Rhys wasn’t even sure how long he just stared at her, observing her in her own little world, wholly focused on the painting in front of her. She would swipe her brush around and then pull back, studying what she had done before going back in. He might’ve been content just watching her for hours.

“WHAT THE FUCK, CASS!”

Rhys’s attention was drawn behind him to Cassian frantically shoving a whole taco in his mouth while Mor fumed behind the bench parallel to Cass. 

“You’re such an ass, Cass. You’re an asshat, that's what you are. Asshat Cass.”

Amren raised her brows at that. “Asshat Cass does have a nice ring to it,” she observed, picking at her nails feigning disinterest. Mor just huffed and crossed her arms, but never broke the skank eye she gave Cass who only smirked in return. 

“Oh, I’ll get you for that one, Mor,” Cass grumbled, his mouth full of taco.

Rhys allowed himself one more glance at the girl in the window. This time though, he could’ve sworn she was looking back. 

“How about Mor the bore? Snory Mory?” He suggested. 

Rhys gave a little smile just in case, perhaps, she was actually staring right back. 

“Wait, I know, Mor the whore!” Cassian exclaimed with a dramatic hand gesture. 

No one even noticed Rhys’s utterly distracted state, entrapped by the angel in the window. 

~~~

mini taglist: @awkward-avocado-s & @booksofthemoon

[youbloodymadgenius]

But not today (Modern!Ivar x woman - not a reader, not an OC, you’ll see...)

A/N: “You’re so nice, Youbloodymadgenius” That’s what many of you often tell me. Not sure you’ll say it after reading this. 

You may not like it, but please don’t hate me. And sorry about that.

@inforapound​ - I know you had a hard time editing this OS. A huuuuge thank you for doing it 💖 And sorry. 

And once again, thank you all for giving so much love to “Slave!”

Warnings: Oral sex (male receiver), my wicked mind. 

Words: 2140

"Yes?"

The woman is clicking her perfectly manicured nails on the shiny surface of the gigantic mahogany desk.

"He's coming.” A man's voice answers.

"Where exactly is he?”

"Just passing the third security check point. “

Hanging up, she puts a distracted hand through her blonde mane and slips on her twelve centimetre Louboutin’s.

Rotating her calfskin leather chair, she looks out the large bay window, offering breathtaking views of Kattegat. Night life, streetlights, car headlights, neon signs, electrify the city. Her city.

Rising from her chair, she adjusts her Chanel dress, which hugs her curves perfectly. Hearing the elevator doors open, she pinches her lips, feeling prepared, and turns around.

**

Thanking the armed guard with a quick nod, the man pushes through the double doors into the most guarded wing of the ultra-secure building. His face is dark with a heavy frown. The five security checks imposed on anyone wanting to reach her annoys him. He does not like to be touched.

Entering the elevator, his fingers hit the wall keyboard inputting a complex code. The doors close and the elevator rises to the only floor it serves: the top floor.

Tightening his left hand on his crutch, the doors open, his right hand instinctively reaches for his chest. Wincing, as he feels naked without his holster. He sniffs almost furiously and takes a step forward.

**

"I was expecting you earlier.” The woman, with a stern look, places her hands on the desk in front of her.  

He hates it when she talks to him like she's preaching to a child. So furious to be held to account, his nostrils quiver. He closes his eyes for a moment.

"I'm sorry about that.”

The woman is aware of his lie.

"You know I never disappoint you,” he continues, his mouth sketching a half smile. More like a grin. His eyes, fixed on her, do not blink.

He's proud. Cocky, she thinks. The gods know how much she would like to put him in his place. Make that snotty look disappear from his face.  But he does not lie. He does not show off pointlessly. Never disappoints her. He’s her most efficient executor. He’s the best. Better than her own son. The thought filling her mind with bitterness.

The man has not moved; his back almost glued to the closed doors of the elevator. She knows he will stand in place until invited forward. With her palm open, she stretches out her right arm.

"Please, Ivar, come close.”

He blinks and nods. Even before he has taken a step, his jaw contracts almost violently.

She watches him walk toward her. More slowly than usual, leaning heavily on his crutch, while on some days it only serves to steady him. Knowing he does not like to be observed, she looks away. Opening a drawer, she takes out a medicine pack, dropping two pills in her left hand before sliding a silver tray at one end of her desk closer to her. Choosing the bottle of sparkling water, she fills a glass, finally, walking around the desk.

He cannot help but admire the perfection of her curves as she approaches him. It's something that also annoys him - how can he find her attractive? - but he cannot fight it. She is gorgeous. As if time had no hold on her.

Stopping in front of her, he looks at the content of her hand.

"Ibuprofen?” she offers.

Thanking her with a nod he grabs the tablets, swallowing them, with a large sip of water. His gaze does not leave her throughout and the woman remains impassive. The fact that he cannot see anything in her eyes soothes him - it's so uncommon - as much as it upsets him.

Why her??? Why is she the only one? Why does it have to be her?

For his father, he had never been anything but a failure. With Sigurd, a target of mockery. Bjorn, who placed body worship at the top of the pyramid of personal values, had never taken him seriously. His mother, his beloved mother, had never been able to hide the pity she felt. The same was true for Ubbe. Hvitserk managed to be more subtle, but Ivar knew that he had never considered him an equal.

But this woman… This woman whom he hates, this woman, who he is certain, was no stranger to his mother's death, never took pity on him. Never laughed at him. Her! Out of them all. The irony repulses him, making him want to scream. He hates her, but he's grateful to her regardless. He hates her, but she arouses him. Awakes the unthinkable. Makes the impossible possible.

Swallowing, he clenches his teeth. One day, he willll kill her.

But not today.

Taking the empty glass from his hand, she puts it on the desk and crosses her arms over her chest. He is unable to stop his eyes from settling on her cleavage.

"Has objective 7 been neutralized?”

Ivar refrains from rolling his eyes. In his father's day, things were easier.

"Ælle, the motherfucker is done harming. We got Borg, that fucking son of a bitch.”

But she does not want any of that. She is the head of the largest crime syndicate in Northern Europe, with connections in England and France. She wants, needs, to keep up appearances. Dead people are neutralized objectives. Punitive expeditions for recovery missions.

He despises her for it. She won’t take responsibility. He despises her for a thousand other reasons too. Hates her. But hate does not prevent attraction.

"Objective 7 has been neutralized,” his voice is monotonous. Barely repressing a half-smile.

The woman cannot escape it. Leaning her head to one side, she frowns. She knows he is not finished.

"As well as objectives 11 and 15."

She’s surprised and unable to hide it. A part of her thoroughly annoyed. She would like him to be less successful. Perhaps, less efficient, but he’s the best. Better than her own son. She chases away the thought as it makes her nauseous.

Ivar is her best hitman. Her best killer. Clean. Precise. Fast. No traces left behind. No collateral damage. He is fearsome and no one can escape him.

Women always feel weak to his angel features. Surrendered, utterly captivated by the infinite blue of his intense eyes. He kills them the exact moment they spread their legs. The instant they offer themselves. He cannot stop himself. He needs to. This outlet for his endless frustration.

Men do not fear him, they underestimate him. Because of his legs. They think he’s slow. Weak. While it is from the pain that tortures his bones day after day, night after night, that he draws his strength. His perpetual fury. His absolute anger. And he enjoys torturing them. To punish them for being whole. To make them pay for not considering him enough.

The woman wonders if he would be as effective without his disability. She doubts it.

Smiling at him, impressed, despite herself.

"11 and 15 as well? “ Her right eyebrow spikes in question.

"The wait was worth it, wasn't it?” He puffs his chest, putting his free hand through his hair. "I never disappoint you." The tone is almost condescending. Disdainful. Smug.

The gods know how much she would like to be able to do without him. But it would impossible. He is the best. Smart. Creative. His capacity for anticipation unsurpassed. She will never tell him, but she admires him for it. She was excellent. Still is, despite her age. But he’s much better than she has ever been. She does not want to admire him, but she has always been attracted to sheer talent. He's like his father. But even more determined. And more ruthless.

She should get him killed. Or kill him herself. She thinks she would be successful. But she cannot bring herself to do it. Because of her admiration for him. And because when she looks at his blue eyes, she sees Ragnar. Yet she should, and she is aware of it. She's no fool. He most certainly knows that she was involved in his mother's death. She sees it in his eyes. He hates her. She knows that. As she knows that one day, he will kill her. And he won't hesitate.

One day, he will kill her.

But not today.

"No, indeed, Ivar, you never disappoint me." Coming closer to him, her fingers graze his wrist.

Shuddering and pinching his lips, he does not try to hide his disgust. But his eyes, for an instant, shout something else. This stealthy, almost imperceptible gleam. His desire. Animal. Primitive.

It’s time for the reward. She won't get any pleasure from it - and it does not matter. She does not need to.

"Come on.”  

Smiling softly, she directs him to the corner sofa, quickly unfastens his belt. Following with his buttons, she slides his jeans under his bottom. Squeezing his shoulder, she makes him sit.

He does not take his eyes off her as she kneels in front him. Spreading his legs, she gets closer, making him stiffens. He does not want her to touch them. But he’s too distracted. His last reward was several weeks ago, and he is no longer able to think.

His heartbeat is accelerating and his cock is already painful. He would like to restrain himself. His fists clench, struggling to hide how eager he’s. How much he wants what she's about to give. Showing her his desire would be like giving her some form of pleasure. That is not an option.

As always, he tries to reason with himself. He wants to fight. Do not give in. Part of himself protests. He is weak. It can't be. It must not be.

And yet it is.

Closing his eyes briefly... How is that possible? Why her?  Among all the others? Why is she the only one? A terrible unfairness, but also a blessing. Without her, he would not know anything about that pleasure. The woman's hand slips into his boxer briefs, freeing his erect cock. He bites his tongue so as not to moan.

Giving him one last glance, the woman takes him in her mouth. Her tongue skillfully plays against his tip before closing her lips around him. When the woman's hand touches his balls, he gives a big hip thrust - he would have liked to contain it - and finds himself entirely in the moisture of her mouth.

The woman is working fast and cleverly. She wants to get it over with quickly, and so does he. The only thing he wants is release. The pleasure. The pleasure that only she can provide.

He pants when she takes him even deeper, feeling that he has reached the bottom of her throat. She increases the pace, ruthless and in a hurry to get it done. If he could still think coherently, he would be grateful.

The next minute, a deep and hoarse grunt fills the room as he explodes in her mouth. His breathing is short, fireworks are dancing in his eyes.

Swallowing the last drop of his seed, the woman then slowly licks his cock clean.

Trying to come to his senses, he pushes the woman's head back. Keeping his face stubbornly turned away to the wall, the woman stands without giving him the slightest glance.

Turning her back on him, she walks away and hears him growl when he starts to get up.

"Do you need help?" She asks without looking back.

"No," rushes.

The woman, not surprised, says nothing.

She walks around her desk and sits in her chair. Bending down, she removes the first heel, then the second, letting out a sigh of relief.

Watching the man slowly walk away, she notices that his movements are even more strained than before.

"Next mission starts in two days, Ivar. Rest until then.”

Leaning on his crutch, he turns to her, expressionless face. But he still nods. Tilting his head to the side, he seems to hesitate for a moment. His eyes are narrowing and his whole body stiffens.

"One day, I will kill you.” His voice is soft. Smooth.

The woman does not blink. Yet, she knows he's not lying. His threat is serious. His promise will be kept. But she remains in control of the game.

"But not today, Ivar."

Fury is not far away, but he too controls himself. She's right. She’s the one holding the cards. She's the only one.

He silently curses his disability. His weak legs. And above all, he curses his defective cock which offers this woman a ticket to staying alive.

He curses the gods. He curses Loki.

Taking a deep breath, he turns away when the elevator doors open behind him.

"No. Not today, Lagertha."

🛡⚔️🛡

@saldelys​ @waiting4inspiration​ @lisinfleur​ @honestsycrets​ @gearhead66​