#them following him around... insane and overwhelming. how does he do it

[reidmotif]

I’ve Got My Eye On You

Summary: Reader is a Special Surveillance agent assigned to spy on Spencer. He manages to see through her cover, and thoroughly enjoys the confrontation that follows.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: voyeurism, oral (f!receiving), unprotected penetrative sex, f!masturbation, slight dubcon regarding recorded sex, heavily based on that one scene in scandal, iykyk.

Word Count: 3.5k

Masterlist

I’d always been good at watching people. 

My life had been spent mostly to myself, divulging the information people offered without even realizing. When you talk less, you learn that body language, passing remarks, or even the quirk of an eyebrow gives away more than anyone ever realized– maybe more than an actual conversation at times. 

And I took it all in stride, not a single detail left unanalyzed. People were always surprised when I’d mention my observations, finding a way to explain a seemingly unexplainable situation, those around me wondering how on Earth I could’ve been privy to that. I’d always shrug at their queries. 

Pay more attention, I guess. 

It wasn’t a surprise that I’d ended up here, I suppose, in the end, as an Investigative Specialist for the FBI. I doubt that my listening skills were exactly what landed me the job, but I’d like to believe they contributed more than they actually did. Regardless, I’d never expected the result of the decisions I’d made over the years to lead to this– involved in spying on an agent of our own. 

The infamous "Dr Reid".

His specific circumstances had been shrouded in secrecy and mystery, apparently having just been let out of prison. (Prison? How’s he an agent then? Anyway, not my problem).

 The Bureau had been curious about erratic behavior on his part, and the string of discrepancies involving the unit he was involved in. Apparently, there had been multiple unforeseen and unprecedented events all occurring under the same team in a relatively small time-frame, and despite smaller investigations, nothing came out of them to warrant any real disciplinary action.  Probably why they brought me in, in the hopes of changing that. 

I’d been assigned to put up small, virtually undetectable cameras and listening devices within his apartment. 24/7 home surveillance, no exceptions. I couldn’t help but think that the guy really should invest in better apartment security, despite how easy his naivete made my job. His lack of caution surprised me, given the details I’d been given. For a guy who had a penchant for being framed by the ghosts of his past, he sure didn’t live like it.  Even as an FBI agent, he essentially had no technology to counter my own, and the height of his protection was a standard deadbolt. Was he insane? Unaware, somehow? Only time would tell, I suppose. And I had plenty of that, to watch and deduce the nature of his mind on my own terms. 

My time spent with Spencer resulted in one, overwhelming conclusion. Spencer Reid lived a relatively quiet life. His apartment was barely used, honestly, given the sporadic nature of his job. (Which was a shame, in my opinion, because it’s a nice apartment).  When he was at home, he seemed to remain quite unassuming. The positions I’d see him assume often were that of being hunched over on an aging leather sofa, pouring himself into grading papers, or creating lesson plans for his students. Oh, right. Did I mention he was also a professor? He is. I’d assume he likes the job, given how much of himself he gives into it, or maybe that was just who he was as a person. I wasn’t sure yet. 

I monitored his life outside of the apartment occasionally as well, just to see what intel I could gather with further investigation. There wasn’t much. Coffee shops. Book shops. Coffee. Books. Coffee- God, does the guy do anything else with his life? 

Most days, though, I’d liken him to butter spread too thinly over toast. Sleepless from nightmares that would have him walking around his apartment until daylight broke through the window panes. I felt exhausted just watching the guy, and it seemed insane that he could continue to live on when he left that apartment at the break of dawn. It didn’t seem like he had anyone to talk to, honestly. From what I was seeing, he wasn’t a threat to the Bureau, just a sad, middle-aged man who’d been dealt the most unfair of hands in life. 

I’m sure there’s a moral somewhere in all that. To waste your potential on something that gives so little back. Oh, well. My report was nearly finished at this point, and the most I could recommend the higher-ups was to get Spencer a better therapist, maybe. This one wasn’t really helping, it seemed. Besides that, his personal behavior wasn’t indicative of anything worrying to the interests of those managing him. 

At long last, it was my final night of watching him. Coincidentally, the date lined up with Halloween, and I couldn’t be more thrilled to finally be free of this specific survey job. Don’t get me wrong, Spencer seemed nice- but God, his life was boring. I don’t want to say it was like watching paint dry,  out of respect, but previous targets had offered at least some part of their life to be interested within. Spencer had nothing. No friends over, no gossip-like phone conversations, no drunk wanderings home. Nothing! I know he didn’t sign up to be watched, but God. 

Like, come on. Give me anything here. 

Needless to say, I’d become accustomed to the quiet, and this night was no different. If he was following schedule, he should be home right about … now. 

Now? 

Now… 

Silence. 

Spencer was definitely a creature of habit, so to not see him adhere to the routine he’d so meticulously stuck to in the past was a bit jarring, but I assumed he was just running late. 

A few hours later, I reasoned he must be running really really late. It was bordering on midnight, and he still wasn’t home. I checked train schedules, possible reports of a car crash, just about anything that could keep him from his scheduled appearance at home. 

I was just about to call my supervisor to look into whether or not he’d been called out on a surprise case, but that’s when the door of his apartment creaked open, and I felt my shoulders deflate in relief. Okay, he was home. He was going to go to bed and- 

He wasn’t alone. 

Spencer was dressed in all black, a leather belt adorned with a gold belt buckle being the only color his outfit brought. He wore tiny devil’s ears upon his head, the headband pushing down on the mop of curls that sat atop his head. He looked absolutely delicious, if I must say myself, and it seemed the woman in his arms would agree with me. 

He practically pulled her into his apartment, kicking his door in with his leg before slightly fumbling with the lock. As soon as the mechanism slipped into place, his hands were all over her, pressing her flush against his body, as if he couldn’t bear to have any space between them. 

For all the time I’d been watching him, none of his behavior indicated the presence of any kind of significant other, so this girl must be a stranger. If this is how Spencer treated strangers though, I was surprised he didn’t have a barrage of women lining up at his door every night. 

His lips absolutely devoured the girl, his hand cradling the side of her face, before his thigh slipped in between her legs, possibly to soothe a building ache that had built up there in the time they’d spent together, which I found entirely possible, considering I, personally, was heated from simply watching. 

I watched the pixels on the screen with such precision, innocuous shades of red, green and blue painting the most sinful of images. I found myself noting the way his hand snuck up the girls’ dress, the way her breathing hitched as she pulled back, watching as Spencer presumably played with her clit. I could feel myself squeezing my thighs together, recognizing just how wrong it was to be turned on by the scene in front of me, but I couldn’t stop myself. It wasn’t as if this was the first time a target had behaved sexually in front of me. (Or in front of the camera, I suppose.) I’d seen and heard just about anything you could think of, but this was different- in a way. To see Spencer so filthy, so confident, so- interesting. It lit a fire in me that burned with every passing moment he touched this girl. 

I’m able to watch him circle over her panties in a way that has her groaning directly into his ear, a smug grin plastering his face as he watches her every reaction. 

“Like that?” He murmurs, and I’ve never heard his voice so fucking deep.

She nods frantically, and it only serves to widen his grin. I can feel myself rocking slightly in my own chair, doing anything to try and soothe the fast growing arousal within me, unable to stop from imagining myself in her place. His hands, the feel of hot breath down my neck- 

I’m stopped dead in my tracks, however, when his eyes suddenly shift to the camera closest to him, his eyebrow raising, as if in challenge. He continues to whisper in the girl’s ear, and has the galls to wink. I’m horrified, a very sudden and intense heat rising to my cheeks. I can only watch for a second more, before he’s suddenly pulling her away, and I realize he’s taken her  within one of the only blind spots within the apartment. 

I’m scrambling to turn off the feed, stunned into silence whilst, my heart beating uncontrollably and eccentrically. Oh god. He knew. He knew and he did that?! 

I stare into the empty space, a multitude of thoughts inhabiting my brainscape. On one hand, the aplomb shown in that situation was commendable, since most people would react to the knowledge that they’d been secretly watched in their own home for the past few months in a much more hostile way. On the other hand, how did he even acquire that knowledge? The cameras were virtually undetectable, and he’d never let on that he was aware of their presence, and I’d know, considering how closely I’d watched him. 

I shake off the thoughts, focusing on something other than the overwhelming mortification coursing through me now.  

Alright, tomorrow, get into his apartment, remove the cameras, and hopefully never have to look at the man again. In any capacity, honestly. 

When daylight broke, I turned on the cameras for the final time, a bit more sheepish, knowing he was aware of the devices plaguing his home. However, it seemed like he was once again pretending like he wasn’t aware of the looming existence of them, sending his female companion off her merry way once they woke up, before going about his normal routine, heading out of the apartment for what was most likely his morning coffee and then afternoon lecture at the university. 

That was my cue. I turned off the cameras,  quickly making my way out to sneak into his residence, the heavy door offering little resistance to my advances, my movements quiet and undetectable. 

I’m  in the process of removing the final camera I had placed in his bedroom, hidden behind a copy of  The Sign of Four. Doyle. He had good taste, I could give him that. 

I’m just about to turn around and get the hell out of there, when I hear a voice behind me. 

“I noticed that one first, you know.”

I turn around slowly, embarrassed and slightly fearful to find Spencer’s eyes meeting mine. I’d watched him for so long, but seeing him now– his eyes were so beautiful. The camera didn’t do him justice.

He continues, despite the silence. “The other ones were harder to spot, I’ll give you that, but once I knew where they were, it was a bit obvious, don’t you think?” 

I’m speechless. My mouth is agape, and all he seems to do is smile at my lack of prose. 

“Don’t look so surprised. I know this apartment. I’m not here a lot, but I spend enough time to know when things have been shifted around.” His tone is cheeky, and he pauses, almost theatrically to add on:

“I’m sure you knew that though.”  His smile turns into more of a smirk. 

God, did he have to be so hot?

“Are you going to complain to the Bureau?” I manage out, keeping my eyes steady on him. 

“Did you find anything of note to tell them?” He responds, tilting his head with curiosity. 

I shake my head vehemently. “No, um. Nothing pertinent to say.” I get my words out in a hurry, my gaze continually trained on him. 

He meets my eyes with the same stare. “Then I don’t have much of a reason to complain.” 

I nod solemnly. I’m wondering where this situation will lead- what either of our next moves are. Before I can ponder long though, he surprises me and takes a step closer.

“I saw you, you know.” He says. “Thought I was going insane when the same pretty girl kept showing up at the bookstore and coffee shop out of the blue, but I’ve never been one to believe in coincidences.” 

“Oh.” I whisper. I really wasn’t as good as I thought I was. 

“You really shouldn’t beat yourself up.” He says, chuckling with some mirth. “Again, I’m observant. I notice these things. That, and you’re pretty.” He says, forward. “So, more of a reason to notice.” 

“Oh.” I reply, yet again, dumbfounded by the events currently transpiring. 

“Yes, oh.” He chuckles, before he starts to move closer yet again. “Tell me. Were you watching last night?” He murmurs, his voice dropping a bit deeper as he directly addresses the elephant in the room. 

I give a movement of affirmation, because at this point, what could he do? What could I do? 

“So you saw.” He mumbles, moving to position himself right in front of me, his eyes darkened and laser focused on my figure. 

“Yes.” I whisper, my voice hushed as our proximity decreased, his breath fanning out over my face now. I’d be uncomfortable, if I wasn’t so distracted. 

“Tell me.” He whispers, letting his calloused finger finally touch my skin, running down my neck. “Did it turn you on? Watching me with her?” 

I feel the familiar heat of embarrassment rise to my cheeks, my eyes suddenly widening not only due to the sudden proximity, but also the scandalous nature of his words. Did he mean for me to watch? Was that his plan all along? What was this sick and twisted game he was playing?

“Did it.. get you off?” He whispers, his lips leaning in to kiss lightly at the side of my neck where his finger once was. 

I freeze, leaning into his touch and going statue-like all at once. I can’t help the shakiness of my voice when I reply. “I.. wasn’t neutral.” 

“Mm.” He murmurs, kissing now at my jawline. “Did you get off? When she did?” He whispers.

“I didn’t watch that long.” I reply, helplessly, as I feel his hands start to envelop my waist, pulling me closer to him. 

“What a shame.” He mumbles. “I think you would’ve liked the show. I did it for you.” 

At this point, I can barely speak, a slight moan escaping me instead of a coherent reply as his lips continue to leave warm, wet kisses on the expanse of my flesh. 

“I’m sure you’re curious.” He says, his voice soft and seductive. “Would you like me to show you what we did?”

There’s no hesitation, finally, a resounding thought I can translate from brain-to-mouth for him, in complete certainty.

“Yes.” I manage out, breathlessly. 

He makes a noise of satisfaction, quickly pushing me onto the bed. 

“I’d already gotten her wet by touching her before, but if my suspicions are correct.” He murmurs, his hands working deftly to undo my jeans and feel the wetness that had accumulated in between my thighs. “You already are.” He finishes. 

I let out a small whimper as his fingers touch the heated flesh, unable to help my sensitivity to his small, calculated strokes over my clit through my underwear. His fingers starts to move a bit more aggressively, upon feeling the wet patch that had formed there, the flimsy fabric doing little to hide the stickiness he was now collecting on his fingers. He quickly pulls them off as well though, bringing his slightly damp fingers to his mouth, tasting the hint of my arousal that had accumulated there. His eyes were dark, watching my face for any reaction, and in that moment, I know all he can see is pure want. 

I can see the same hunger within his eyes, and I feel a rush of pride as the approval radiates off of him. 

“What next?” I whisper, already desperate for his next slew of ministrations. I don’t care how needy I looked. I was needy. I’d spent so long watching him, and now he was here.

“She wanted my mouth.” He murmurs, kneeling at the edge of the bed. His thumb brushes over my clit, his tongue running against plump, pink lips, wetting them, watching over me with a predatory gaze. 

Before I can respond, he’s suddenly everywhere, ducking his head and allowing his tongue to brush over my sex in broad, wet strokes. My response is immediate, my hips bucking up to meet him in a frenzied motion. It seems that he relishes in whatever control he can have in this situation, because he quickly holds down my hips in a firm grip, squeezing the fat there while he continued to ravage me. 

I can barely look at him, pretty brown locks splayed in his face, his lips moving hypnotically against my cunt. Little whimpers escape me, absolutely aching for more. He seems to catch on, and flicks his tongue over me, before suckling against my clit. It’s wet, messy, and the picture of debauchery– and it’s enough to drive me over the edge, my hands gripping the sheets as I cry out his name. 

He seems to be unaffected, getting off his knees, his mouth glistening with my release. The sight makes me wish he could do it again, but before I can get a word in, he’s positioning himself over me, caging me against the bed. 

“Then I fucked her.” He whispers, starting to undo his belt with his free hand. “Can I?” 

I nod, feeling a wave of anticipation, before registering the sensation of the head of his cock nudging my entrance. I feel my chest tighten, watching him with bated breath, absolutely exhilarated. 

“Relax.” He whispers, kissing the lobe of my ear. “You’re in good hands.” 

He utters the last word, before sliding into me, a hushed gasp leaving the both of us. He groans in pleasure, his eyes fluttering shut as he takes in the feel of my warm, wet cunt around him. He takes a moment, before he’s setting a steady pace, his hips bucking rhythmically into me in a way that’s designed to bring us both so much pleasure. 

I can’t help the string of moans that come out with every slide of his cock inside me, my legs wrapping around his waist, urging him closer than he already is. My hands grip onto his shirt, clawing onto the fabric to find any purchase, wanting– no, needing him on me. 

Is it odd to wish a stranger could crawl into your skin itself? 

“Fuck, Spencer.” I moan, unabashedly. “You feel so good.”

“You do too.” He groans, his arms braced on either side of my head before gently lowering himself to crash his lips against mine in a messy kiss. 

I can feel myself barreling towards release, as is he, if the twitch of his cock inside me were to mean anything. It’s not long before his hand reaches in between where our bodies are met, rubbing my clit in fast, small circles. It’s intense in the best way possible, my body barely being able to process how good it felt in the moment. 

“Come for me.” He moans, in between kisses. “Wanna feel you around me. Please.”

I can’t help but obey his words, my cunt convulsing around him in obedience as he subsequently finds his release inside me, groaning loudly as his hips thrust erratically. 

He pulls out, and we’re a tangle of limbs, sweaty and sated, breathing heavy. 

Of course, it’s him, yet again, to break the silence. 

“Two things.” He mumbles, breathlessly. 

“Mm.” I reply, weakly, my head a mess of airiness and complacency after the orgasm he’d just brought me to. 

“One. I want your name.” He says, rolling to his side to get a better look at my face. 

“That can be arranged.” I murmur, nodding dreamily. 

“Second.” He whispers, kissing my cheek. His voice takes on a teasing quality to it, before leaning to brush his lips against my ear.  

“You missed a camera. Behind the plant. They don’t stop recording, do they?” 

okay wowww. clearly this was meant for halloween, if you couldn't tell! this is one of those pieces where i'm like.. hmm .. do i like this? question mark? do i want to put it out? hmm .. but regardless, i hope you guys enjoyed it!! please, please like, reblog, and comment if you enjoyed!!! it is sooo important as an author that i get some feedback and know what you guys think, in any capacity. i truly appreciate all of it <33 thank you for reading, thank you for everything!!!

[bernardsbendystraws]

Synopsis: Chris is going insane. That's literally it.

Warnings: Possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, SUB!CHRIS, horny bitches, leaving marks, pain kink, other dark themes...

A/N: This is inspired by ur fuckin mom. Get reading or get fucked. (or eat a cookie if you please you do you bae)

With love and big tits, Rose

wc: 1000+

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Blood. 

Crimson liquid drips down your inner thighs, but it’s not yours - it’s his. Chris couldn’t help himself when it came to you. He held no restraint for his love. His teeth had punctured into his lip as his nails pierced into your hips. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, he was simply hurting himself - hurting from how badly he needed you. 

“Please,” he whines, shoveling his cheek against your thigh as you feel his pitiful tears strike down on your skin. You wanna give in, make him so happy and give him what he wants - just not yet. 

Your hands tug viciously in his hair. A smile creeps on your face as he moans pathetically, his lips humming against your thigh, a shrivel of delight spreading from his needy touch. He wants it, he needs it - he fucking craves it. 

“You wanna mark me up that bad, hm?” you tease. Chris nods, his hair tickling your thigh as his facial hair scratches the soft skin. 

You’re always so soft, he loves that about you. The way your plush skin is so easily affected by his touches is heavenly. And the sight of you covered in his affection…it drives him crazy - maybe even a bit insane.

The look in his eyes is only affirming the feeling of nerves piling in your gut. You loved to torture him like this, teasing him to the brink of insanity. You loved the outcome too. Mischief and possessive touches made you feel like you were sinking in a warm bath, gaining an overwhelming amount of relief from the dangerous water. 

Chris is getting restless. His eyelashes are only getting heavier, more droplets piling on as he tries to contain himself. He wants you to want it. The thought of you moaning and writhing as his mouth gives you vicious affection makes his heart pound, the same rhythm he likes to rut his hips into the mattress with when he simply lets all control slip from his grasp. 

But the water does sound nice. And maybe, he’d like your skin even softer, even more pliable by his manipulations…

“Do you wanna get in the bath with me, sweet boy?” you coo. 

The touch of your hand caressing his cheek is so comforting, so distracting. Chris is hanging by a thread, barely grasping onto your words as he nods lazily, following behind you as you trail to the bathroom. 

He does everything. You stand and watch as he starts the bath, stripping down bare before looking at you for permission, hooking his fingers on the waistband of your underwear. The slight nod you give him makes his heart clench. He fights the urge to rip them off, gently sliding them down your legs while getting on his knees. 

“So soft, ma.” His whispered voice makes your spine tingle with excitement. The feeling of his palms holding the back of your thighs while he treds light kisses from your knee to your hip bone is everything and more. Your mind is looping in circles, each thought revolving around the feeling of his worshipping touch. 

As your eyes peek open, you see the water level is a bit too high. Instinctively, you try to step towards the tub, out of his grasp. 

Chris does not like it. He doesn’t like it or tolerate it. 

“No, please -”

Petting his hair, you tilt your head at him with a knowing look. His lips form into a subtle pout, his glossy eyes nearly overflowing as he drops his hands to his side, slowly getting up. 

You turn off the water flow. A groan from behind you echoes as you feel a hand on your waist. You can feel his eyes appreciating the view.

“Oh my,” he seethes, licking over his lips. The primal feeling is consuming him, it’s like he can feel himself turning into nothing but instinct, ready and willing to do anything and everything to please you. 

“Get in the tub.” Your direction is followed quickly. A hue of pride tints your eyes darker as you watch him move so obediently. 

Chris stares up at you, swallowing hard. The aura radiating off of you is intense and intoxicating, almost like a drug. And he needs more. 

“Are you gonna, um…sit on my, uh - my lap?” he asks. His hopeful eyes dim with confusion as you shake your head. Instead, you sit on the opposite side of the tub, the water splashing as your eyes dart right into his. 

It’s like he can feel his heart moving his body for him. His hands reach out, gently massaging your foot. The pressure of his touch is perfect. You extend your leg more, your smirk growing as he brings your ankle over his shoulder, massaging your legs as his lips plunder around your calf. 

They’re such soft, delicate kisses. But - you know he wants more. You know it feels so good to be worshipped, even if it comes with a little tinge of pain…

“C’mon, I know you want more,” his eyes look up towards you, his tongue falling flat against your skin as his cheeks pull upward. He’s more than happy. “-you’ve been so patient, go ahead,” you urge. 

The suggestion does not need to be repeated. Chris’s mouth immediately gets sloppier, trialing to your thigh as he hunches himself over uncomfortably - all to get a taste with true greed. You can’t help but smile sickly, the sight of the man being so pretty with his desperate affection. 

Your hands clutch on the sides of the bathtub as you start to feel his teeth pinch into your skin. The sensation immediately shoots a wave of heat to your core, your gut tightening as you look at him staring up at you, his hungry mouth wandering over your skin. 

“-’m I,” Chris muffles his words against your skin, sucking on the flesh as if he has no self control to even finish the sentence without getting another taste, “-am I doin’ good?” he asks. 

Oh.

You loved it. You loved it all. 

He wanted you. All of you - even your approval, even your praise. 

“So good, baby.” His teeth clench harder into your skin, you swallow back a moan, pulling onto his hair as you feel his actions become more relentless, “-so fuckin’ good.” 

The taste, your praise, everything - he can’t get enough. 

He’s going insane.

[ciipherss]

Gale is a victim of grooming, no matter how you put it.

Immediately calling out the big guns here on proof that Mystra is, without a doubt, a predator:

1. Anyone who uses the Weave, Mystra is aware of them, how they used it, and who they are. That’s how she keeps anyone who uses The Weave in check.

2. Gale mentions being a child prodigy and catching the eye of Mystra at a young age, most likely at around 8.

(Elminster letter for reference: this can only be unlocked of Gale dies trying to achieve godhood.)

‘You could have been no more than eight summers' old, clutching your mother's apron, eyebrows singed off by the fireball you'd unleashed into your neighbour's rose bush. You were crying because the flowers were so beautiful, and you did not mean to destroy them.

How kind, how eager, how brilliant you were. And yet so naive. You could not yet see that power so carelessly begets destruction, but so too might your good nature be the guiding light by which your abilities might shape our world for the better.

Where is that child now, I wonder? Did he remain at Blackstaff, nose buried in his books? Does he live within his mother's ageing heart, weeping for those roses? Or is he within you still, lost amongst the trappings of godhood you so casually adorn yourself with?

Wherever he is, I hope he can forgive me. To him I promise - I will not make the same mistakes again.

Elminster’

3. Minscs dialogue after Gale is granted an audience with Mystra goes as follows:

Minsc: Gale reminds me of the vremyonni of my homeland. The man-mages of Rashemen.

Minsc: While the girl-folk go on to rule as wychlaran, Weave-touched boys were hidden away. Trained to work their craft in silence and secrecy.

Minsc: It is an old custom, not well-observed. In truth I thought it born of caution, after some catastrophe wrought by wizardly men-folk of old.

Minsc: Now I wonder if it was not done to hide them from Mystra, and the snares she sets for young and prideful boys, hm?

If that doesn’t not SCREAM ‘predator’, I don’t know what does. Even if Mystra only started to date Gale when he was 18 and had somehow had no prior relationship/knowing/WHATEVER with Gale: it’s still a relationship with some insanely unbalanced power dynamics.

Gale is a wizard. Wizards when doing any type of spell, have to beckon to Mystra to allow use of The Weave. And also the fact that, well, I don’t know- Mystra is a god. What more can I say? She made him feel special. He was one of the ‘lucky’ boys, being gifted and chosen by her. He was ‘lucky’ to be graced with the overwhelming force of celestial euphoria. He was ‘lucky’ to be a plaything.

UGHHH MY BABY BOY WHO I LOVE SO MUCH!! Mystra ain’t magic you don’t need her💔

[littlelamy]

awww reader giving rafe and the boys a what’s in my bag 😭 makes me think about influencer!reader and rafe being her number one fan, always the first to like her posts and watch her videos, and being her plus one to brand trips 🥲

a/n: thank you so much for sending a request! 💗😘

you’re lounging on the balcony of your suite, the ocean breeze brushing against your skin as you scroll through your phone. the brand trip has been flawless so far—luxury dinners, sun-soaked beach days, and glamorous events. but the highlight of every trip is having rafe by your side. he’s always there, always watching, always… hovering. it’s comforting in a way that shouldn’t be, knowing that he’s never far.

you post another photo—a candid shot of you in a bikini, sipping on a coconut drink while the sun sets behind you. within seconds, the likes start pouring in, but there’s only one notification you care about. rafe cameron liked your post.

first. always first.

a satisfied smirk tugs at your lips as you refresh the page, his name pinned at the top of the likes. it’s been like this since the beginning. rafe's obsession with you was never subtle, but lately, it's become... intense. he doesn’t just support you—he monitors everything. every post, every story, every brand collaboration. he knows about your analytics before you even check them. sometimes, you wonder if he’s more invested in your success than you are.

he walks out onto the balcony, shirtless, his eyes immediately drawn to your phone. “let me guess, another bikini pic?” he says, his voice dripping with playful jealousy, though his hand finds its place on the back of your neck, fingers tightening possessively.

you laugh, but there’s a tension in the air. “you know it’s what the followers love, rafe.”

“yeah, but i’m the only one who actually gets to see it up close,” he mutters, pulling you into his lap without waiting for you to respond. his arms wrap around your waist, and you feel the heat of his body against yours. “doesn’t stop them from commenting though, does it? all those guys thinking they’ve got a shot with you.”

you roll your eyes. “you know none of that means anything. it’s just part of the job.”

“part of the job,” he echoes, his lips brushing against your ear. “i get it, babe. but sometimes i think about how lucky they are, just to get a glimpse of you, and it drives me fucking insane. they don’t deserve it.”

his grip on your waist tightens, not painfully, but enough to remind you just how possessive he can be. rafe’s obsession has never been the unhealthy kind, but it borders on something dangerous—something thrilling. he lives for you, breathes for you, like your entire world is his, and everyone else is just background noise. and god, do you love it.

“rafe,” you murmur, turning your head to look at him. “you’re the only one who matters. you know that.”

his blue eyes darken, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he leans in, his mouth brushing against yours. “good. because i’m not letting anyone else have you.”

he kisses you like he needs to remind you who you belong to. it’s intense, like everything with rafe—his hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer as if he can’t stand even an inch of space between you. when he pulls back, his thumb traces your jawline, his gaze never leaving yours.

“when’s the next shoot?” he asks, his voice low, almost a growl. “i’m coming with you.”

“it’s tomorrow, but it’s fine if you don’t want to—”

“no,” he interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. “i want to. i need to make sure everything’s perfect for you. that the crew treats you right. that no one steps out of line.”

there it is again—that obsessive protectiveness that borders on something darker. he’s always been territorial, but lately, it’s like he’s afraid someone will swoop in and take you away, even though you’ve never given him a reason to doubt your loyalty.

you don’t mind though. rafe’s obsession with you is as intoxicating as it is overwhelming. you’ve always liked the way he watches you—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him. and honestly? you like the power that comes with it. you know rafe would burn the world down if it meant keeping you by his side.

later that night, you’re getting ready for a dinner event hosted by one of the brands you’re working with. as you apply the finishing touches to your makeup, you can feel rafe’s eyes on you from across the room. he’s lounging on the bed, scrolling through his phone, but his attention is on you. it always is.

“are you wearing that?” he asks, his tone casual, but there’s an edge to it.

you glance down at the tight dress you’ve chosen—elegant, but definitely on the sexier side. “yeah, why? don’t you like it?”

“oh, i like it,” he says, standing up and walking over to you. he’s behind you in an instant, his hands sliding over your waist, pulling you back against him. “but so will every other guy in that room.”

you laugh softly, leaning into him. “you love when i get attention, don’t lie.”

“only if they know they can’t have you.” his hands tighten on your hips, his lips brushing against your neck. “but i’m coming with you. making sure everyone knows who you belong to.”

“you don’t trust me?” you tease, but there’s something in his intensity that excites you.

“it’s not you i don’t trust,” he mutters. “it’s them. everyone’s always trying to get close to you. but i won’t let them. they don’t deserve you. none of them.”

there’s that possessiveness again, the way he wraps himself around you like he’s trying to shield you from the rest of the world. rafe’s obsession with you is suffocating in the best way, and you thrive off it, knowing how much power you hold over him.

when you arrive at the dinner, rafe is glued to your side, his hand resting on the small of your back, eyes scanning the room for anyone who might look at you for a second too long. every time someone tries to strike up a conversation with you, he’s right there, subtly inserting himself, reminding them that you’re taken. that you’re his.

you don’t mind. in fact, you love it.

later that night, after the event, you’re back in the suite, the moonlight casting shadows across the room. rafe’s sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you as you undress. his eyes are dark, filled with that same obsessive hunger you’ve come to crave.

“you looked amazing tonight,” he says, his voice low. “had to stop myself from punching that guy who wouldn’t stop staring at you.”

you laugh, tossing your dress aside as you walk over to him. “you’re crazy, you know that?”

“only about you,” he murmurs, pulling you onto his lap. his hands roam your body possessively, and there’s something about the way he holds you that makes your heart race.

you know rafe’s obsession with you isn’t healthy in the conventional sense, but it’s everything you want. he’s your number one fan, your protector, your everything. and as long as he’s by your side, you know you’ll always be the center of his world.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0

[yanderes-galore]

This is completely self-indulgent... I'm not on Beast-Yeast Episode 7-8 so this will just be my general ramblings about the insane jester. I might make follow up HCs if I need to add anything.

Maybe I'll do one for Mystic Flour Cookie when I finish Episodes 3-4? Waiting for stamina takes forever, even when I AFK farm in Town Square :(

Yandere! Shadow Milk Cookie Concept/HCs

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulative, Possessive, Jealousy, Isolation, Murder, Blood (or whatever the equivalent is), Kidnapping, Clingy behavior, Gaslighting, Stalking, Forced relationship/companionship.

Shadow Milk, like most of the Beasts, would be an overwhelming yandere.

This is because of how he works as the Beast of Deceit.

SM would definitely mess with his obsession regardless of his intentions.

He loves to toy with others and cause chaos within their minds.

He'd probably torment you in a similar way to what he does with Pure Vanilla.

Except while SM wants to torment PV for revenge at the fact that the pitiful hero has his Soul Jam...

He wants to toy with you because you've caught his eye...

Erm... many eyes?

He's associated with quite a few eyes.

He picks you out and manipulates you originally because the Beast finds you fun.

Since his time out of that silver prison he's been looking for a good source of entertainment.

Luckily you happen to be right there for him.

Oh, he loves torturing his counterpart's fragile mind for fun...

But you entertain him for different reasons.

As a master of deceit, it's nearly impossible to read SM.

He's skilled in manipulation and will leave his obsession always guessing.

If you think about it, he'd probably have the easiest time isolating his obsession.

SM knows how to get in the heads of others.

He knows how to knead and form your mind like it's dough.

With a few well placed lies and whispers... He can make you think your friends hate you.

He can sabotage any relationship you have, no matter the nature.

SM is no doubt a possessive being... Safe to say he has his fair share of jealousy.

SM watches your every move like watching a show.

You're never not in his sight.

Even when he's busy putting down a few heroes... He always has at least one conjured eye around to judge you.

You're under constant surveillance with him.

Then, if he doesn't like something going on, he quickly sets out to remove it.

SM is perfectly capable of murder, like many of the Beasts... others feared him for a reason.

But a fate that's much more fun would be... corrupting your friends into puppets, right?

He'll have your friends or loved ones made into puppets and performers to entertain him in his shows.

He'll even have them perform a few acts for you!

Although... afterwards...

He'll no doubt crumble them.

He doesn't need them around, after all!

Not if it takes your attention away from him!

SM loves to overwhelm your sweet little mind.

He appears out of nowhere to scare you and clings to you.

I imagine it's nearly impossible to leave his hugs, listening to him whispers small lies into your ear to make you more reliant on him.

He smothers you in affection and often performs for you.

All of his performances include real people... all made into puppets for him to make stories about how much he cares for you!

He hasn't felt more passionate about anyone before.

It's... odd...

Yet who knows, maybe that's all a facade too?

He keeps spinning lies around you, hissing in your ear like a snake.

Why trust anyone other than him, hm?

How do you know anyone is genuine?

The world has never liked the truth, they always want it with a sweet sugar coating.

He's simply here to make it all more bearable.

He swaps his behavior so often, too.

There's times he's overly sweet, pampering you and everything... Essentially he's love bombing you

Then later he's destructive and jealous, yelling about the fact others get your attention yet you neglect him.

Even when he successfully isolates you, he gets paranoid of others taking you.

Especially Pure Vanilla.

Then there's other times he's cruel and teasing, tearing down your insecurities just ti build you up to need him.

All using lies, of course.

SM is the definition of a toxic relationship.

It's all built on lies, him wearing constant masks like a performer should.

You may even be yet another puppet on one of his many performances.

Except... He'd never crumble you.

You're too entertaining.

SM never plans to let you go.

The Ancients would have to pry you from his claws, even then, this wolf in sheep's clothing doesn't plan to let go.

SM would no doubt kidnap you.

He loves your fight and tries to keep it as long as he can because he knows it's pointless.

If he was really worried about you running... He would've corrupted you to be his favorite puppet long ago!

But... That would be no fun.

In terms of how he'd treat you in captivity, you'd definitely be used as a doll or puppet.

He keeps you tied to his side by his strings, often forcing you to dance and perform with him in private.

He wants you to understand your role.

Even if it means getting rid of your friends... and puppeteering you like the cute puppet you are.

You are a toy in his toy box... and he will keep you on a pedestal where no one else can touch you.

Only he can.

Now, if I were to give rivalry ideas that would work well with him...

I'd say I can see him being rivals with Pure Vanilla the most, of course. After that maybe Burning Spice? Yet that's a bit of a stretch.

Then there's Elder Faerie... Which could be fun with a Faerie obsession?

Overall, I see Shadow Milk as being one of the worst CRK yanderes due to the fact he'd fabricate your entire life once he has his claws in you.

By the time you feel you understand your situation... He messes up your perception again...

He'll cherish you in his world of lies... One he made for just the two of you....

[spidercatweb]

Feeling Better ★ Spencer Reid x reader

Warnings: umm ok i fear there are a lot. Emetophobia warning (r does NOT get sick, i tried to describe it as little as possible, r is very emetophobic and freaks out), unintentional(?) s/h (scratching as a distraction, no blood is drawn), r has a panic attack esque thing going on?? idk she freaks out and shuts down (just like me fr), fem!bau!reader, hurt/comfort, a little bit of angst(?), happy ending with some fluff :). i think that's it? kind of established relationship with r and spencer idk...

Description: the team is at a bar, r is already anxious, it gets a million times worse when someone there throws up. Spencer helps r get away from the situation and calms her down.

Word Count: 2,227

A/n: reader is literally me, i wrote this for myself and i hope the other emetophobia girlies enjoy <3 if you can relate to this im so so sorry :( i know how it feels :(

The team is at a bar tonight, having just finished a case; it was a nice way to relax and socialize. The team - except for you and Spencer - all had alcoholic beverages. Spencer didn't really like the taste or feeling of alcohol, you had just never wanted to drink. You could have a fun time without it. You all sat around a big table in the back corner of the bar, enjoying each other's company. The whole team was intently listening to one of Garcia’s odd anecdotes. You sat beside Spencer, already feeling a little overwhelmed, but you were still having a good time. You smiled and laughed along with the rest of the team.

Suddenly, your hearing focused on another situation in the establishment. A heavily intoxicated man at the bar is telling the bartender how he “can handle another drink" and that he “won't get sick this time". You immediately tense up. Even the thought of the possibility of that happening makes your anxiety spike. You try to focus on the conversation at the table and calm yourself down.

Nothing is going to happen, you’ll be okay. You repeat this to yourself in your head. You close your eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, you cross your arms and begin tapping your fingers on your arms rhythmically.

Spencer notices the shift in your behavior, he notices that you're a bit zoned out, staring at the salt and pepper shakers on the table. He doesn't say anything, but he keeps it in mind to ask you later what was wrong, it was probably nothing anyway. You were probably just overwhelmed with all the noise.

Thirty minutes pass. You’ve mostly forgotten about what you overheard earlier, focusing instead on the insanity that was Morgan’s dating life, which he was explaining in way too much detail. You snicker and share a shocked look with Spencer when Morgan says something particularly explicit.

Slurred speech enters your earshot once again, the drunk man at the bar. He’s saying that he shouldn't have ordered that last drink. Disgusting. A frown appears on your face. You begin to dig your nails into your arms. Don’t think about it. Nothing’s going to happen. Focus on your friends. Nothing bad will happen with them.

It happens. The man at the bar gets sick. All over the bar. Tears well up in your eyes and you shut them tightly, your face flushes. You slowly drag your nails down your arms, digging them in deeper, leaving bright red marks. You need to leave. Now.

Spencer notices the scene unfolding at the bar, he knows how absolutely horrible it makes you feel, you've told him about it before. He looks at you and hovers a hand over your shoulder. You feel the warmth of him through the dizzying panic rushing through you.

"Hey, do you want to leave?" His voice is quiet and calm, only loud enough for you to hear, not disturbing the rest of the team. You nod and he begins to stand up.

You want to follow, but you feel like you can't move. You stand up weakly, forcing yourself to move. Still frantically scratching and digging your nails into your arms, because it feels like the only thing that will distract you from what's going on. You open your eyes and your vision blurs from tears. Spencer grabs your purse from the booth, making sure you won’t have to come back in for it if you don’t want to.

He leads you towards the door and away from the situation, hand hovering over the small of your back, "Come on, let's get outside".

The rest of the team looks concerned for you. Garcia stops telling her story for a moment, she knows what's going on.

"She just needs a bit of air. Don't think they'll be back though," she nods to what's happening at the bar, the team understands.

When you exit the building, you're a crying mess, basically hyperventilating, still clawing at yourself, not hard enough to draw blood, but you will if you continue.

"Y/n, I need you to stop scratching yourself, you're gonna be okay, we're not going back in there." He tries to make eye contact with you. You frantically shake your head, continuing what you're doing, taking in a stuttered gasp, holding back a sob.

"Can you talk?" Spencer knows the answer is probably no. You shake your head once again, confirming this. He looks around for a place to sit, "Okay... let's go sit down, there's a bench over there." He nods his head towards the bench, ghosting his hand over the small of your back. You start slowly towards it, he follows closely behind.

You sit, so does he. Your legs shake almost violently out of anxiety. The cold, fresh air does a little to calm your nerves, but the sounds keep replaying in your head. You try your best to busy your hands with something other than scratching yourself, you know you need to stop. You begin running your hands through your hair in a steady manner. You close your eyes and try to take slow, deep breaths. Spencer quietly observes, his presence is enough to remind you that everything will be okay. He waits patiently, not expecting you to say anything.

After taking a shaky breath, you whisper a barely audible "Sorry." You wipe your eyes with your sleeves then hold your hands together tightly. Digging your nails into the backs of them. You feel bad for pulling Spencer away from the rest of the team.

"It's okay, you have nothing to be sorry about. It's a very common phobia, actually. I read an article a while ago with evidence that 20% of people who go to therapy report emetophobia as a main reason for going." His fact is not very fun, but you can tell he's trying to calm you down in the best way he knows how. He glances at your tightly clasped hands, your knuckles white and shaky, nails digging into your skin once again.

He offers a soothing solution, "Do you want to hold my hands instead?" He puts his hands out for you to take. He wants to get you to stop hurting yourself, he knows you don’t mean to. It makes him sad to see you like this.

You unclasp your hands and reach out to his. His hands are shockingly cold, but the coolness in contrast to your warmth is calming. You squeeze his hands, a silent thank you. He squeezes yours back.

“Do you want me to talk? Or just stay quiet?” He asks, gently rubbing his thumbs across your knuckles.

“Talk?” You attempt to smile, but it’s more of a pout. It breaks Spencer’s heart to see you like this.

“Okay… um. Well… You didn’t drink tonight, right? You had iced tea?” You nod as he slowly leads up to a ramble. “And I wasn’t drinking either,” he reminds you, “when alcohol is consumed, the liver processes it into a highly reactive and toxic chemical called acetaldehyde. Which is actually used in plenty of herbicides and insecticides, of course, not sourced from the human body.” You can feel his hands itching to gesture along with his sentences. But they stay right there, holding yours.

“The liver then converts this acetaldehyde into acetate, which the body can remove by converting it into water and carbon dioxide. But when there’s too much, and the liver can’t process it quickly enough, the body gets rid of it, well… in a different way. That’s most likely what was happening to that guy in there.” You stare off into space at the reminder, idly nodding slowly to show you’re listening.

“So… he isn’t sick. It isn’t anything you can catch. You weren’t drinking tonight either. Nothing like that will happen to you tonight. Or me. We’re fine, we’re safe.” He reassures you calmly, lightly squeezing your hands. Your eyes flicker to his and you give him another nod.

By now, you’ve mostly stopped crying. You sniffle every few seconds, but it’s a major improvement from the sobs you were letting out just minutes ago. The deep breaths of cold air help to calm you as well. But your heart and head are still racing, you take in unbalanced, jagged breaths, still struggling to keep it fully together.

“Thanks, Spencer.” Your voice is slightly gravelly when you speak.

“No problem.” He smiles warmly, “Are you feeling a little better?”

“Yeah,” you nod, “the cold air is nice, and it’s quiet, and… you’re here. You’re always really helpful when I get like this.” You huff out a sad laugh, hiding your embarrassment about how Spencer always seems to be the one helping you out.

“I’m glad. I like it when you’re okay, so I’m glad I can help.” he blushes slightly. “And honestly, it was getting way too loud in there for me. I’m pretty sure you’d be the one bringing me out here if we stayed in any longer.” He half-jokes. You chuckle slightly. The last thing he wants is for you to feel bad about something you can’t control.

“So… I’m guessing you don’t want to go back in either?” You look down at your hands still in his.

“No, not- not really.” He shakes his head.

You both think in a moment of comfortable silence.

“Do you- Would you like me to drive you home?” He asks hesitantly.

“Do I trust you to drive my car?” You joke lightheartedly.

“Hey!” He laughs along with you.

“And how would you get home?” You ask, “Planning to stay over, Doctor?” You tease him with the nickname. You’re clearly feeling better.

“Well- I- I actually didn’t think about that, yeah. Um, I could...” He rushes to find another response. “Would you mind if I did?” he asks nervously.

“Spence, I wouldn’t mind at all. It would actually be nice, I’d rather not be alone tonight.” You smile, he mirrors your expression.

“Really?” He asks, “If you don’t want me to, it’s okay. I don’t want to be invading your space or anything.”

“Do you want to stay over?”

“I uh- yeah. Yes I do.” he nods.

“Okay, let’s go then.” You slip one of your hands out of his grasp as you get up from the bench, still holding his other. He gets up after you, politely handing you your purse. You thank him quietly as you take it.

You both walk to the parking lot of the bar, where your car is parked. After you unlock the car, like the gentleman he is, he opens the passenger door for you. The ride to your place is lovely, Spencer spits out all the random facts he can think of during the twenty minute drive. You rest your head lightly against the window, listening to him speak as you gaze at the outside world passing by. His soft, constant tone lulls you into a light sleep.

When he parks the car, he unbuckles his seatbelt and lightly taps your shoulder, welcoming you back with a smile. “We’re here, sorry to wake you up.” His hand rests on your shoulder for a moment.

You groan slightly as you get out of the car, “Why is being stressed out so exhausting?”

“Well, when you’re stressed, your body releases hormones like cortisol, which put you in fight-or-flight mode,” he starts. You walk beside him, sneakily grasping his hand with yours as you head towards the entrance of your apartment building. He pauses for a second, looking down at your hands. He smiles, then continues.

“And when you have high stress levels for a prolonged amount of time, it tires out your brain, leading to emotional exhaustion. So really, you might not be physically tired, just mentally.”

“Hmm. Well, I feel exhausted either way.” You huff out a laugh, leaning into his side.

He hums in agreement, opening the building’s door and letting you enter first.

When you finally get into your apartment, you realize an important detail. “Spencer, do you have clothes here? Or like, pajamas?” You can’t remember from the last time he was here, you knew he at least had a pair of pajamas, because you’d been wearing the shirt to sleep for the past week.

“Um- yeah, I think so? I think I left some here last time. Bottom drawer of your dresser, right?”

“Mhm,” You nod, “shower first, then bed?” You suggest.

“Okay.” He agrees easily.

***

You go in first, Spencer goes in after you. When he comes back into your room, he sees you wearing one of his shirts. “Is that…?” He points to you.

“Yes.” You grin happily.

“So that’s where it went.” He joins you in your bed.

You cuddle up to him, laying your head comfortably on his chest. He rests a hand on your back, tracing patterns lightly with his pointer finger.

“Are you feeling better than earlier?” He asks quietly.

“Mhm, a lot better.” You bring a hand up to lightly rest on his chest.

“That’s good.”

The beating of Spencer’s heart up against your ear, combined with the quiet sounds of his steady breathing lull you into a peaceful sleep. He stays awake longer than you do, listening to your slow breaths, making sure you’re completely asleep before he drifts off.

Thank you for reading!! <3

Any feedback is very much appreciated!

My requests are open!

[omniphilic]

hiya soileil!!!! i wanted to ask if you have personal hcs (headcanons) for mark and how you generally like to imagine him when you write him!

thanks for the ask! 🙏🏾 next time if you're not sure how to spell my name, copy and paste it from my intro post or let autocorrect do its thang (fun fact: my name is sun in french :3), but to answer your question because i think about this A LOT.

I like to combine Comic Mark and Show Mark personality wise. Not to say the show version of him is the greatest person alive, but I choose to keep of his poorer traits or qualities from the comics rendition of him to give him more dimension. Overall, I follow the order of events as they occur in the show.

In my opinion, Mark is extremely Golden Retriever. I think he’s very personable, gentle and affectionate with those he loves, but I also see him as someone who can be stubborn, reluctant to change, impulsive, and self-centered. He isn't met with a lot pushback ever. In the comics this is more prevalent, as the only characters to openly disagree with Mark are portrayed as villains or become evil (Cecil, Robot) over the course of the run.

In the show, Debbie has the balls or the sense to actually nip Mark's nonsense in the bud. When Mark tells her to "Make me" after she tells him to come inside and stop flying. When she says "Is this what you need?" she's forcing him to confront that sense of self-righteousness. Amber is another character that does this, when she gets mad at him for 'ditching them' and leaving them to fight the Re-Animen.

I think Amber was justified in her irritation because he is essentially playing in her face, choosing to maintain the lie of him just disappearing instead of coming clean then and there or at any other point before. He lies to her throughout the majority of the relationship when the rest of his close companions already (William and Eve), choosing to leave Amber in the dark. As she goes on to reveal she knew his secret, I can understand her frustration. How are they supposed to be going steady when he's withholding a quite vital part of himself for.... literally no reason. She would've been safer had she have known, she would have never been mad at him if she had known. There were more benefits to telling her than not telling her.

Eve pushes back the hardest before they get together, like right before Omni-man fucks Mark's shit up and she tells him to stop moping about quitting hero work. He's presumptuous about her life, assuming he knows why she quit as opposed to asking directly, looking to follow in her footsteps because he's overwhelmed by a situation he himself created.

Overall, I don't think Mark is a very nice person. Going back to his conversation with Debbie on the back porch, I find it utterly insane he doesn't apologize to Debbie for essentially threatening her, and there are other instances of him not having others best interests at heart so he can maintain a sense of security—a big one being when he ditches Earth to go coddle her over a broken leg while the whole Invincible War is going on the background.

I think his self-centeredness doesn't allow him to deeply engage with the feelings of others, but his persistent, almost pervasive sense of conscientiousness is what keeps him on the straight and narrow for a large part of his time as Invincible. I feel like his sense of obligation is derived from guilt as opposed to love for humanity.

When Mark is around people he loves, or connects with emotionally, he is more comfortable divulging his true feelings. I find him to be both self-deterministic and rejection sensitive, averse to truly absorbing the opinions of others unless he feels that way himself, as well as being afraid of being told he's doing something wrong.

All of that to say... I don't think he's consciously being a bad person, he's just limited by those he's surrounded by, they don't tell him about himself regularly enough to get him used to that kind of push back.

For the most part I think he's on the level, tries his best to be a good person where he can. He has some capacity for pettiness, but it isn't often his first resort. Some of his biggest moments of growth occur when he's learning of the realities of the world, like during the first Flaxan invasion, where he realizes how brutal the life of a superhero can be, but he rarely ever has moments of self-discovery, understanding and reconciliation. TLDR; this boy needs a therapist.

He has nobody to relate to because nobody is exactly on his level, and the people who should be concerned with his emotional wellbeing (Eve or Debbie) and they don't encourage him to open up.

Often what happens to him in sensitive moments, when he does genuinely try to open up (to Eve, when he is trying to communicate what happened with future Eve) he is very strongly shut down, which would further reinforce his insistence on not communicating his true feelings.

This happens a lot. I think the reason is because of bad writing, honestly— Some people (primarily female characters, like Eve and Amber) act as is needed to move along the plot, I believe, but despite this shortcoming in the narrative I chose to just... bake it into his character.

Mark's upbringing (as a white dude who is written by a white dude) means he not only navigates the world differently but is socialized differently than most likely me or you, so he has a different sense of entitlement, a different understanding of right and wrong, and a lack of curiosity.

i think he would be more knowledgeable in his like. mid-later twenties (wait until I make that Dilf! piece with @wingfleur) but he's bumbling for a fair bit of his late teens early twenties.

He's just a loser trying his best!!! anyway this turned into a ramble imma dip out—

[charliedawn]

Hi Charlie! I recently came up with an interesting idea about the Hannibal family. The reader (the murderer) somehow found out that the Hannibal family were cannibals (maybe she was friends with Peter and he admitted it to her) and she decided to give them a present. How will they react when she comes in with a live connected person and says, "I wanted to surprise you, but, I didn't know which organ do you love, so I brought you a whole person” 😁

Hannibal Lecter Sr.

He’d be pleasantly surprised but would mask his amusement behind a polite, knowing smile. He'd step forward, examining both you and the terrified person you brought with a certain curiosity.

"My dear little lamb, what a…thoughtful gesture. One does not often acquire such an exquisite present without great trouble. Tell me, how did you acquire them ?"

He would take this as an opportunity to assess your potential. If you did it cleanly, efficiently—he’d be impressed. If it was messy and impulsive, he’d chuckle and offer you a bit of guidance, like a refined mentor shaping a promising protégé. Either way, he definitely considers this a sign of loyalty.

Hannibal Lecter Jr.

He’s find this fascinating. His eyes would settle with interest on the future dinner, and he'd step around the person like an artist inspecting a fresh canvas.

"A whole person, indeed…a truly generous gift. But the question remains—do you know how to carve, or shall I teach you ?" He said before taking out a knife and the person started screaming in fear—muffled of course.

Hannibal Jr. wouldn’t waste this opportunity to test you. If you show hesitation, he’d smirk, amused. If you show skill, he might actually let you assist in the preparation. Regardless, this is a bonding moment for him—proof that you belong in his inner circle.

Morgan Hannibal

Morgan would be the most pragmatic about it. He'd remove his gloves, exhale sharply, and give you an evaluating look.

"You’re either very bold or stupid. Either way, I like it."

He’d check the victim’s vitals, ensuring they’re still fresh and worth consuming. Then, he'd gesture for you to follow him into the kitchen. He’s not wasting a good resource. But this also tells him something important: you’re willing to go to extreme lengths for them. He won’t forget that.

Kevin Hannibal

Kevin would burst into laughter. Not just a chuckle—full-blown, incredulous laughter.

"Oh, princess, you really did that ? For us ? For me ? That’s…that’s insane—I love it." He’d walk up to you, tilt his head, and grin. "Did you enjoy it ? Did it feel good ?"

He’s way more interested in your experience than the meal itself. He might even praise you.

Him *smiling at you* : "Are you trying to impress me ? Because it’s definitely working."

Peter Hannibal

Peter…oh, Peter would cry. He’d look at you with wide, teary eyes, his hands clasped together.

"You—you did this for us ? You’re the best !"

He would immediately hug you, completely ignoring the horrified victim you dragged in. He’s just overwhelmed by how much you care. No one’s ever done something this meaningful for him before. It wouldn’t even occur to him to question your methods—he’s too busy adoring you.

Message from Author:

You have officially won the Hannibal family’s favor. They now see you as one of them. Whether that’s a blessing or a curse…well, that depends on how much you enjoy their company.

[dearstvckyx]

I do’s and surprises - OP81 (ft JB9 + other players and drivers)

summary: At her wedding to Joe Burrow, Oscar Piastri’s older sister, Mia, is surprised when Oscar shows up for an emotional first look. Overwhelmed by the presence of F1 drivers and family, the day is filled with tears, heartfelt moments, and joy. The night ends with everyone celebrating as she and Joe sit at the head table, holding a special picture and embracing their future together.

pairing: older sister! oc! Mia Piastri x Younger Brother! Oscar Piastri / bride! Mia Piastri x groom! Joe Burrow

. 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . . 　⁺ 　 .

The morning sun peeked through the bridal suite, casting a soft glow over the chaos inside. Mia Piastri, soon to be Burrow, stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the lace of her wedding dress for what felt like the hundredth time. Her younger sisters, Mae, Edie, and Hattie bustled around her, fussing over details while trying to hold back their own tears.

“Stop fidgeting!” Mae scolded, smoothing the veil over her older sisters curls. “You look perfect.”

Edie grinned. “Joe’s going to pass out when he sees you.”

Hattie giggled. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll make sure he does.”

Despite their banter, her mind was elsewhere. Specifically, on Oscar. She had knew his schedule was insane—F1 races, media obligations, training. Mia had tried to accept that he wouldn’t be able to make it to hers and Joe’s wedding, but it still stung. She was his older sister, the one who taught him how to tie his shoes and cheered him on at every karting race. Not having him here felt like something was missing.

A knock at the door snapped Mia out of her thoughts. Her mom poked her head in with a wide smile.

“Ready for the first look with your father?” Nicole asked.

Mia responded with a small, “Yes Mum.”, grabbing the hem of her dress and following her mother out. The hallway was quiet, the sound of heels clicking against the polished floors. When they had reached the courtyard, Mia was told to close her eyes.

“I’ll call you when it’s time,” her mother said.

Mia smiled and shut her eyes, heart pounding with anticipation. The sound of approaching footsteps made her grin.

“Okay, Dad, I’m ready,” she said, turning around.

But when she opened her eyes, it wasn’t her dad standing there—it was Oscar.

Mia’s breath caught in her throat. He was in a sharp suit, his trademark shy smile breaking through as his eyes darted between his older sister and the ground.

“You didn’t think I’d miss this, did you?” he said, voice cracking slightly.

Mia bursted into tears, throwing her arms around her baby brother. “You said you couldn’t make it!”

“I lied,” he admitted, hugging her tightly. “I wanted to surprise you.”

The oldest two Piastri siblings stood there for a moment, wrapped in the kind of sibling bond that didn’t need words. Finally, Mia pulled back and wiped both her tears and Oscar’s, laughing.

“Now you’ve ruined my makeup,” she teased.

He smirked. “You’re welcome.”

. 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . . 　⁺ 　 .

As she prepared to walk down the aisle, Mia noticed something that made her stop in your tracks. Sitting among the guests were all the F1 drivers, past and present. Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris, even Logan Sargeant and Frederik Vesti from Oscar’s F2 days.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, trying to keep it together. “Oscar invited the entire paddock?”

Hattie leaned in, whispering, “They said he threatened to put them in the wall if they didn’t come.”

Mia laughed, shaking her head as tears threatened to spill again. The sight of so many people who meant so much to her brother, and by extension to her, was overwhelming.

. 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . . 　⁺ 　 .

The ceremony was beautiful. Mia walked down the aisle alongside her father, heart soaring as Joe’s eyes met hers. The vows were heartfelt, and by the time the two said “I do,” there wasn’t a dry eye in the crowd.

During the reception, Oscar stood to give a speech. He cleared his throat, glancing nervously at the microphone before starting.

“I’ve always looked up to my sister,” he began, voice shaking. “She’s been my biggest supporter, my best friend, and the one person who always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.”

His voice cracked, and he paused, visibly trying to hold back tears. The room was silent, everyone hanging on his every word.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, his voice breaking completely as tears rolled down his cheeks. “And I’m so happy you found someone who loves you as much as you deserve.”

Despite it being short, it was sweet to those who knew Oscar. Mia was already crying as she rushed up to hug him. “I love you,” she whispered.

The father-daughter dance started, Chris leading his baby girl gracefully across the dance floor. But halfway through, Mia looked at her father and he understood, as Chris let go and backed away, Mia had turned to Oscar.

“Come here,” she said, holding out her hand.

His eyes widened. “What? No, this is your moment.”

“Get over here, Ozzie Bear,” Mia insisted.

He reluctantly joined her, taking her hand as the music continued. It wasn’t long before he started crying again, and Mia had to blink back her own tears.

“Stop crying,” she teased, though her own voice was thick with emotion. “You’re making me cry.”

“Sorry,” he sniffed. “I can’t help it.”

Hattie, Edie, and Mae joined you on the dance floor, wrapping their arms around the two of you. The rest of the night was a blur of laughter, dancing, and love. F1 drivers, Bengals players, family, and friends all mingled, creating a night to remember.

You and Joe sat at the head table, watching the scene with matching smiles. He reached over, taking your hand in his. You glanced down and smiled, your free hand resting on the small sonogram tucked inside your bouquet.

“Ready for the next chapter?” Joe asked softly.

You looked up at him, eyes shining. “I’ve been ready my whole life.”

. 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . . 　⁺ 　 .

Read Part Two Here

[n0ts0surel0ck]

Some autistic Sherlock headcanons!!

Based on my own autism

Sherlock hates getting his hair cut. He can’t wear ear defenders and he despises the small talk and how loud the clippers and blow dryers are. So, he generally wears his hair long and/or cuts it himself. Mariana eventually starts cutting it for him, since it equally bothers him when his hair touches his ears or neck. She’s just… not very good at it.

John finds a salon for Sherlock that does sensory appointments. It’s a silent appointment, so he doesn’t have to talk, and John gets him some earplugs to help with the noise. They’re not as good as his ear defenders but they do for the short time it takes to get his hair done. He mostly gets a dry scissor cut so he doesn’t have to be wet and so the clippers don’t touch him. He doesn’t like the vibration. He finds that he actually enjoys the sensation of a blow dryer when the sound isn’t overwhelming him. The heat and the air pressure are soothing.

Sherlock is very particular about fabrics. He despises polyester and other scratchy, synthetic fabrics. Everything he wears has to be 100% cotton. If he got his way, he’d wear an old pair of holey, decade old pajama pants and a jumper everywhere, but he doesn’t. He understands that he has to be presentable. He likes linen, the material doesn’t touch him as much, doesn’t stick to sweat, and allows for plenty of airflow. During spring and summer, and often stretching into fall and winter, he wears a pair of grey linen trousers. When it finally gets too cold, he switches to a pair of cotton ones that have an elastic waist band. He hates when there’s a lot of pressure below his diaphragm, so he keeps it loose. Shirts are mostly tees in the summer, a bit too big so they don’t touch him much. In the winter, he wears big sweatshirts, a half-peacoat, and a green scarf.

He’s been buying men’s high-top converse since he was in middle school and refuses to wear any other shoe. They’re comfortable, allow him to move without being heard, and don’t add to his height. He hates breaking in new ones, and so holds on to the ones he’s wearing for dear life. John has seen him wrap duct tape all the way around his shoe to keep the sole from falling out before.

His bedroom is kept perfectly organized by absolutely agonizing effort. He is particular about that space, since it’s where he rests. He doesn’t work in there. His chemistry equipment is in the living room and he never goes into the room on cases unless John forces him to change clothes. His room is a sensory heaven that he works tirelessly to keep so. Cleaning is difficult for him, but he resets the space every time he leaves it, even when he’s in a rush.

The rest of the apartment is a bust. His executive dysfunction takes over as soon as he crosses the threshold into the hallway. He leaves toothpaste uncapped, cups and plates everywhere, clothes wherever they fall. It drives John insane and he tries to clean up after himself, but it feels like an insurmountable task.

His hyper fixations overtake conversation constantly. Sometimes he and John will engage in conversation that is just… incomprehensible to those around them. John’s talking about the weather and Sherlock’s talking about Pendolino trains. Neither is acknowledging the other’s topic of conversation, but they’re responding to each other in turn and seemingly having a lovely time.

He likes to stim “with” John when something exciting happens. He grabs both of John’s hands so they’re facing each other and has John pull him back and forth quickly. He likes it when John and Mariana mimic a stim back to him, especially vocal ones. When the three of them are in the office together, it’s just an echo chamber of mouth pops and buzzes.

Sherlock respects the fuck out of routine. His in unconventional, but he follows it almost religiously. This means he respects other’s routines just as aggressively. He never moves John’s items, and if he borrows anything, he puts it back exactly where it was, position and all. He noticed John folding laundry in a certain way and now, if he steals one of John’s shirts and washes it after, he folds it in that certain way.

[midoriiakina]

Helping Hands

Mostly SFW, female reader with ambiguous male pairing, no use of Y/N, fade to black.

He has no idea what he's doing. No one ever taught him how to cook, he never saw the need. When he wasn't getting his meals from the Mess, instant ramen or take-out was enough for him. Then he met you and it seemed like his whole world had opened up, everything seemed so new, bright, loud.. He was used to this while deployed, thrived in it, but downtime wasn't supposed to be like this, it was supposed to be boring, grey and silent, dragging on until he had to wonder if he might go insane before getting the call to return to base.

He's overwhelmed, so he falls back on his training and does what he does best. Follow the leader, and right now? That's you.

And you're cooking dinner. Oh, you've gone out on dinner dates before but this was the first time you were cooking for him and he's.. humbled in a way he hadn't expected. It felt awkward, just sitting at the counter and watching you, even when the two of you were immersed in conversation or when you hummed along to the radio playing at a low volume. The words tumbled out before he could stop them, before he even realized he'd stood up and made his way around the counter to stand beside you.

"What can I do to help?"

You knew what he was doing immediately, he could tell by the subtle gleam of mischief and amusement in your eyes, but you didn't call him out. You knew damn well he couldn't cook. Still, you assigned a task, to help you make pasta for dinner. From scratch. Everything else was already prepped and ready to be put together, making the pasta was the last step.

Pulling out a cookbook, one that was thicker than his mission records, you thumbed through the pages until you reached the right section and laid it out on the counter for him to see. It was a whole section dedicated to nothing but pasta and noodles, which he just couldn't quite wrap his head around. I mean, you're not a professional chef. Why on earth would you need a cookbook more detailed than any maintenance manual he'd ever read? But after a bit of browsing and weighing the pros and cons of different types of pasta, the two of you had finally decided which to make. Orecchiette, Italian for "little ears", you'd said with a fond smile, it would pair well with the lighter sauce, seasonings and ground meat.

So, you showed him how to make the pasta dough, measuring the semolina flour before pouring it into a pile on the bare counter, which baffled him, while you got the warm water. Then you turned to him with a playful smile, taking his hands in yours and gently rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, placing a teasing little kiss on the inside of his wrist before releasing him and turning back to the pile of flour on the counter. "Watch me first, then we'll do it together."

And he did, watching you so intently, it was like he was laser-focused on every little movement you made, your bare hands shaping the dry flour into a nest before pouring the warm water in, a little at a time, with one hand while the other swept a little flour into the water, slowly combining the two. At first, it just looked like a mess but slowly, it started to come together, watery, then shaggy, then sticky, until it started to actually look like a proper dough. And when it stopped sticking to your fingers, you worked it into a ball-like shape before turning to him with a grin.

"Your turn!"

A moment later, he was stood behind you, his hulking mass towering over your much more petite frame, his chin nearly resting atop your head as you took his hands in yours again. Your voice was soft as you walked him through the steps, slowly and gently guiding his motions with your hands atop his, showing him how to knead the pasta dough.

And it was probably one of the most erotic experiences he'd had in his life. He couldn't help his body's reaction, being wrapped around you so completely, your sweet scent filling his nose with every breath, hearing your low voice caressing his ears, your soft and tiny hands resting over his, guiding him in slow, sensual, repetitive motions..

You knew exactly what you were doing to him. How could you not, when the proof was currently pressed against your lower back?

But you were also a tease, feigning oblivious innocence as you slipped out of his arms with the grace of a dancing fairy flitting from flower to flower, a playful smile on your face. "I think you've got it down enough to do it yourself now. Let's make a little more. We can always freeze any extra for later."

So that's what you did. After wrapping the completed dough in plastic to rest, you got more flour, heated up more water, made another mess on the counter. The two of you worked side by side and he ignored his arousal as best he could by focusing on the task at hand, remembering the steps you'd shown him and glancing over at you while you worked if he needed a little clarification, mimicking your actions while you made the pasta dough together.

It was simple, the repetition soothing, like that "active meditation" stuff you had talked about once, when he couldn't pay attention to anything but how your eyes sparkled and your hands fluttered while you talked. "An Italian thing", you'd laughed, when you figured out why he was staring at you for so long without saying anything.

So focused on his task, he didn't notice you glancing at him, staring at him out of the corner of your eye, watching him. The way his hands moved, the way the muscles on his forearms corded while he worked the dough.. Without even realizing that he'd done it, he'd turned your game against you. Instead of teasing him until he couldn't take it anymore, swept you up and took you right there in the breakfast nook, his focus on the task and determination to get it right sparked the fuse of a firework inside you, burning quickly.

You couldn't help it. The little moan slipped out before you could stop it and his concentration was instantly shot, his head snapping up to locate the source of the sound. You. The moment his eyes landed on you, he saw your flushed cheeks, your bitten lower lip, your hooded eyes gazing at his hands before lifting to look up at him through your lashes.. And he knew.

After wiping your hands on a towel, you stepped into his personal space, like it was nothing. No hesitation, no intimidation. It was like two puzzle pieces fitting together, like you were made for him and he for you, like you belonged there. And when your hands rested on his hips, little fingers hooking in his belt loops, he almost shivered. He did shiver when you stood up on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear, but still your lips only reached his jaw, voice smoky and sultry.

"I'm not hungry for food anymore, amore mio."

In short order, the pasta dough was wrapped in plastic and tossed into the refrigerator without another thought, your small hand gripping his much larger one as you led him out of the kitchen and down the hall towards a part of your home that he had never been before.

Your bedroom.

You wouldn't be having that pasta dinner until late tomorrow night.

He was definitely going to be helping out in the kitchen more often.

[definitelysome1]

Hi! I saw that one of your posts was scraped, and I wanted to empathize because I actually just had that happen! Since I know it's rough, I wanted to first say that you are welcome to talk to me any time. ❤️

But! More importantly I wanted to ask about if you wanted to share any more HCs for Tim Drake's goofy music tastes?

Asking cus I love your take that he loves MCR (because I like MCR lol) and I've always thought he'd LOVE weird music like Glorbo 🤣 ❤️🥧 Happy Pi Day

1. Idk how to start this off other than to say thank you. It really is weird to randomly see your own post on another website without being asked for permission but I guess it is what it is, at least they kept my name in the post 😃

2. Anyway- as you put it “more importantly”, yes I do want to share more Tim music taste head canons :)

First of all, I actually made a playlist on Spotify based off what I think he listen to, if anyone wants to listen

It’s mainly emo rock, alt/indie music, some soft metal and a little RNB. There’s also some rap in there

(And some pop songs because- reluctantly- pop songs can be good, although he would never admit that out loud.)

(Note: I’m going to assume that you made a typo and it was supposed to say glorb and not glorbo bc the band glorbo has 500 listeners monthly(which isn’t a bad thing, but it would be an insane coincidence if we both listened to that band) and also they don’t really make weird music. Anyway- I’d agree that Tim would listen to glorb occasionally, but I think he’d get overwhelmed pretty quickly)

Here are some highlights from the playlist along with hcs:

MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE - our little stalker was introduced to mcr when he was in middle school bc one of the older kids told him he looked like a Gerard Way wannabe(which he did not, but what does a 12 year old know)- he looked the guy up and was like “hm, I wonder what his music sounds like” and then he fell down the rabbit hole. His favourite mcr song is You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison

I DON’T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME - the first time I heard the song MAD IQs I thought “this is literally Tim Drake as a song”. IDKHOW is the perfect amount of weird and funky for Tim, and I can just imagine him jamming in his room to the entire RAZZMATAZZ album. He found IDKHOW one random Thursday when he was like 16 while watching some obscure video essay on YouTube. His favourite IDKHOW song is obviously MAD IQs

JXDN - ngl this is probably just a projection of my own music taste. But look at his merch

And tell me it isn’t something Tim would walk around in… (his favourite JXDN song is JUST LET GO)

Bad Omens - another projection bc this band has taken over my life. Tim would go around the manor singing THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND quietly and Jason would be following him trying to figure out what the hell he’s singing because it’s actually half good. After patrol one day Jason threatens that he’ll steal Tim’s favourite mug if he doesn’t tell Jason what song he’s been singing and three months later they’re going to a Bad Omens concert together. Tim also thinks the lead singer is pretty attractive, so that definitely helped him get into them. His favourite Bad Omens song is The Gray

Queen - obviously Tim listens to queen, duh. He is a bisexual man in the 21st century, he was probably born with the need to listen to Killer Queen at least once a day. His favourite Queen song is Killer queen, but Don’t Stop Me Now is a close second

Mother Mother - Tim was extremely late to listen to MM. The first time he heard about them was when HAYLOFT II came out, but when he did start listening to them, he binged literally all of their songs in one night. His favourite Mother Mother song is Oh Ana

Mitski - one of his friends in high school (right before he dropped out) made him listen to I Bet On Losing Dogs, and Tim started violently sobbing. He went home that day, extremely embarrassed, and listened to Mitski while crying and eating ice cream. His favourite Mitski song is A Pearl

Ending note:

I firmly believe that Tim doesn’t care what language the music is in (which is also why there are some Japanese songs on the playlist), and I really wanted to put some kpop songs on the playlist, but I have a sneaking suspicion that most of the Batfam fandom wouldn’t be very appreciative of that, so I haven’t. But if anyone wants there to be, lmk and I’ll make a separate playlist for what kpop songs he’d listen to.

[beenbaanbuun]

dom wooyoung who makes you cum 8 times after you act bratty to make him jealous on purpose for fun, one for each letter in his name

wooyoung would have way too much fun with this. like sure, it’s kind of torture for you, but wooyoung is having the time of his life.

i feel like he does it over the course of a day, number one because he doesn’t want to overwhelm you too much, and number two because he likes the unpredictability.

so obviously orgasm no.1, no.2 and no.3 come the day after the jealousy incident, and it happens first thing in the morning. you wake up to his own low moans and you turn to him, only to finding him working on his cock. his hand is slicked with lube as he runs it slowly up and down his length.

“you’re awake then, honey,” he says when he spots you wide eyes and staring at his dick, “good. i was just about to wake you myself. it’s time for your punishment, baby…”

and obviously you’re confused because you’ve only just woke up, but wooyoung just pushes the quilt from your body and moves himself to sit between your legs. your sleep shorts are pulled to the side, revealing your quickly slickening pussy. and with no delay, his fingers are on you. they spread your juices around, allowing for him to slip his fingers inside with relative ease and spread you out for his dick. he knows exactly how to get you off, so he pulls out all the stops and brings you to your high in record time.

“that’s W,” he says and his hands grab your thighs and push them apart to allow his pelvis to press closely against yours, “you ready for O?”

and to say you’re now absolutely baffled by his words is an understatement, but before you can ask him what he’s on about, he pushes into you. this time, he takes it slower, rolling his hips in and out slowly in the way he know drives you insane. and not in a good way…

it doesn’t take long until you’re begging him to go quicker and harder, but he just laughs from his position above you and continues at his excruciating pace. you don’t get much solace from it until he places a finger on your clit yet again, grinding it down in circles until you tighten up around him and flop flaccidly against the bed. he cums pretty soon after and pulls out slowly.

and the plan was to leave it at that until later, but when he spots the cum, his cum, oozing out of you, he just goes feral. now, i am of the opinion that wooyoung likes things to be dirty and messy because i think it works so well with his meanness, so i don’t think he has any issue eating his own cum from your pussy. in fact, i’d argue that he finds it hot knowing that the concoction he’s swallowing down is actually just a mixture of the two of you. that’s where the second O and orgasm no.3 come from…

he cleans you up after that and after a little pushing from you, finally reveals his schemes.

“eight orgasms, baby,” he says from where he sits with his chest to your spine in the bath. the water is still warm, despite how long you two had been in there, “one for each letter of my name. you seemed to forget it’s me you belong to yesterday, and i just want to make sure it won’t happen again.”

you’re kind of astounded by his creativity, and honestly, a little turned on. you turn around to straddle him, only intending on a lazy make-out session in the bath.

you end up having orgasm Y and O right there…

Y happens when you get a little carried away and begin to grind your hips down against his lower stomach. you purposefully avoided his dick, wanting to tease him a little more to see whether or not you could get a rise out of him. you do, and that’s why orgasm O follows immediately afterwards, with you riding him the as rapidly cooling water splashes over the sides of the tub.

and then wooyoung has to leave you for a little while. something about work, although you try your hardest to get him to stay at home and finish his job. he tells you it’ll happen later, so you’re left to sit and wait on the edge for a while, not knowing when he’ll be home to finish the punishment. it sends a shiver down your spine, and you can’t help but wonder whether this anxiety is just another aspect of it all. knowing how evil he can be in bed, you wouldn’t be surprised.

it’s evening by the time he gets back, and everything is very much normal. you eat together, watch tv together, and then before you know it, it’s bedtime. you have yet to bring up the punishment, suspecting that he’ll bring it up when he’s ready to, but as you watch him put his pyjamas on and crawl into bed, you can’t help but think he’s forgotten about it.

you crawl in beside him, ready to just sleep and move on with tomorrow as if the unfinished punishment wouldn’t be living in the back of your mind for the next week, and then you feel his fingers on your core. he begins to rub circles over your shorts, much like he had in the morning, pulling a few surprised whines from you.

“didn’t think i’d forget, did you honey?” he asks, and when you nod, he coos, “i’m sorry, baby. i’d never forget about you, i just wanted to make you wait for it.”

you don’t reply as he slides a finger in and begins pumping it slowly. soon after another joins it, and together they begin to curl up into your walls. you gasp when they find your g-spot, and then carry on abusing the same area. they tease that one specific spot until your back in arching off the bed and you’re letting out breathy moans into the darkness of the bedroom. he works you through it, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips as you pant.

“that’s U, baby,” he says, “just two more, okay? but i want them on my tongue, baby. want to taste you when you cream on my face.”

this time he doesn’t bother tearing the covers back and just dips himself beneath them. he finds himself settled between your legs and once against shifts your shorts to the side to reveal his favourite meal. he dives right in, working you through one orgasm, and then straight into another. while the first one takes a while, the second comes hard and fast, clit too overstimulated for anything else to happen. your thighs squeeze around his head as he pushes you through it, and before you know it, it’s over, and he’s pulling away from you.

with a goodnight kiss from his sticky lips, he sends you off the sleep. you have to admit, it’s the best you’ve slept in weeks.

[sansaorgana]

Buck with a WAAF reader cheering him on during the bike race 🫶🏻

hello! thank you for this 💗 i don't know much about WAAF so reader's occupation is not specified but it's a short blurb anyway 🤭 Buck doesn't have anyone waiting in America for him in this obviously 🧸

my inbox is open for blurb/short fic requests for major cleven 🤗

Out of all those American men that came here recently, Major Cleven was special. You've never been crazy about any of these – for variety of reasons. First of all, you knew that getting attached would end up with an awful heartbreak sooner or later. But also, as much as you enjoyed their company and you found them lovely, most of these boys had a typcially American enthusiasm towards this war. Major Cleven was your exception.

He made your heart stop the moment you saw him. He was so effortlessly attractive with his intense stare and hair of gold. He looked insanely good in that suit, too. Then he said "Hello" and your knees went weak at the sound of his deep voice. You only kept staring at his face and blinking until he had to repeat the "Hello" again. But he didn't laugh at you – so many of them would laugh and tease – Major Cleven pretended he hadn't noticed how attracted you were to him.

You kept observing him and he seemed to be a very calm and mature man. That was another reason why you adored him. But that was also the reason why some of your other friends from WAAF found him a little bit boring.

"Does he even know what fun means?" Rachel asked you one evening, teasingly, at the gathering.

"I'm sure he does, Rachel," you sighed. "Just because he's not as… wild… as your American, doesn't mine that mine doesn't know what fun is."

Rachel had a crush on Major Cleven's best friend Bucky.

"Well, sweetheart, the difference is," Rachel chuckled, "my American knows I exist. Your American doesn't acknowledge your existence."

"Maybe he's got a girl waiting for him at home," you explained, trying not to show how hurt you were. "If that's a case, then it means he's a good man. Loyal."

"I haven't met a single loyal man here."

"I'm sure he is."

"It's almost cute how much you like him," she winked at you.

That was when Jane ran up to you with a wide smile and blush on her cheeks.

"What's going on?" Rachel asked her.

"They're going to race! On their bikes! They're insane," she chuckled.

"Who? The guys?" Rachel laughed. "Are they taking the bets? (Y/N), come on!" she dragged you by your sleeve happily and you both followed Jane to a room where the airmen were gathering their bikes and talking out loud. It was a bit overwhelming to you and you didn't plan on betting anyway. You stood in the corner to watch.

With the corner of your eye, you were trying to find Major Cleven of course.

"Hello," suddenly, his deep voice made you turn around as your heart skipped a beat.

"H-hello, Major," you smiled nervously. "Do you need anything?"

"I'm disappointed," he admitted and you furrowed a brow. "I expected you'd place a bet on me."

"Oh," you chuckled. "You're taking part in the race?"

"Not just taking part. I intend to win," he winked at you.

He. Winked. At. You.

You got dizzy.

"Well, then, don't make me lose my quid, Major," you teased and looked for a pound in your purse. "Good luck," you added with a smile before turning around to find someone who would take your bet on Major Cleven.

Then you joined Rachel and Jane. Rachel had a very mischevious smile on her face.

"You see, he knows what fun is," you pointed at smiling Major Cleven getting on his bike.

"Apparently he also doesn't have anyone waiting for him at home," she raised an eyebrow and you pursed your lips, trying not to giggle like a schoolgirl.

The race was actually more stressful than you expected. You didn't want Major Cleven to fall down and hurt himself and it was very risky around the corners with so many drunk men trying to overtake one another. You kept on cheering and crossing your fingers, nervously watching every movement.

"How did he even notice me?" you asked yourself, louder than you wanted to.

"How could he not?" Jane rolled her eyes. "You're staring at him all the time, girl, it's sickening. Give me a break!" she pretended to throw up.

You all laughed but you could feel a knot forming in your stomach.

Yeah, Jane was right. You were sickeningly, hopelessly into Major Cleven. No matter if he talks to you again or not, you were already a lost cause. And it meant only one thing – you should already prepare yourself for a heartbreak, because sooner than later there will be a day when they announce he's not back from a mission. The chances of survival in this business were close to zero. These boys were all engaged to death.

But until then, you're going to place a bet on Major Cleven every day.

MASTERLIST || BUCK MASTERLIST

[secondarysefikura]

Sephiroth having a mental breakdown as he mumbles to himself things like “Don’t worry Cloud I’ll find you.” and “You’ll never leave my side every again.”

Meanwhile in the past Cloud gets to see a chocobo for the first time in many years, and even gets to pet it after past Sephiroth reassured him for a minute that it was ok to do.

Can you torture the lifeblood of the planet? Well Sephiroth is certainly trying to do so, if it means that he can figure out where the lifestream has taken his precious Cloud.

All the while he's muttering insane statements under his breath about what he's going to do once he gets Cloud back, how he's never going to let Cloud out of his sight again, and how he's going to make anyone involved in this situation regret touching what is his.

Meanwhile, Cloud has grown very fascinated with the tv ever since he saw Sephiroth watching the evening news one night (and bitterly laughing at some of the propaganda). Sometimes, if Sephiroth needs to coax Cloud out of hiding for dinner or for medicine (which is a whole ordeal) he'll turn the tv on to some animal documentary and just wait for Cloud to inevitably pop his head into the living room to watch the weird little moving pictures. Sephiroth quickly discovers that Cloud is especially fond of any show that includes chocobos.

Although it takes some time for Cloud to feel comfortable enough to leave Sephiroth's apartment (all those people outside...all the lights and sounds....it's very overwhelming and frightening for him), he does eventually follow Sephiroth outside one day. To celebrate, Sephiroth takes Cloud to meet a chocobo.

The way Cloud's face lights up when he sees the bird is just precious. Sephiroth watches Cloud almost fight himself as he tries not to reach out and touch the bird, but as soon as Sephiroth gives him a reaffirming nod Cloud wraps his arm's around the chocobo's neck and just holds it for a brief moment. Then Cloud very gently strokes the chocobo before giving it another hug and nervously returning to Sephiroth's side.

Sephiroth makes a mental note to take Cloud to see the chocobos more often and it becomes a weekly habit of theirs. Much to Sephiroth's shock, Cloud seems to know a lot about chocobos, their care, and even how to race them. It really makes him wonder what Cloud was up to before becoming the scared and confused person he is now.

[dcangel]

SISTER— S.S.

For about a year, Stiles had a sister. He still does, but only the bond remains.

cw; angst, depression, survivor's guilt, no smut, new girl!reader, reader has a crush on stiles. (lowk a yap sesh) 1.9k words

A boy smiled at you from across the room. You’d seen him in your history and chemistry class, which was ironic since you didn’t have any of that with him or his odd friends. He and another boy took turns following each other around like lost puppies— not in the romantic sense. You learned the first boy’s name to be "Stiles" due to the overwhelming warnings and threats from irritated teachers constantly scolding the boy. It was worse when he was with his friends, specifically the boy named Scott.

Scott, you noticed, seemed to have a look of longing hidden behind deep brown irises. His smile never picked up unless others prompted it, and he’d stare off at this tiny ripped piece of paper he would later stow away in his wallet.

Months faded behind your eyes, memories were made, and tears even fell, but you never asked why Scott sometimes looked at his girlfriend, Kira, like he wished her to be someone else or why Stiles sometimes couldn't look at Scott. Those two occurrences were always connected. When heartache would fill Scott's eyes, guilt would flood into Stiles's— but both boys shared grief.

Stiles would endlessly pace around his room, hand on his jaw and white pencil between his fingers. Messy scribbles and smudged lines cluttered his crime/suspect board. Just like his father, stiles was, anyone could see that. A huff here, a frustrated sigh there— his fingers would snap, and he'd swear he figured it out this time, but the lines never met their dots. Stiles told you about a time months ago when walls in his room were covered with pictures and clippings of articles, each connected by different colored strings. Lydia would argue that he only used red, which you later found stood for 'unsolved.'

Lydia was almost the same as the boys— green eyes drifting from her schoolwork and around the room frantically. 'I hear voices,' she would tell you, 'Voices from the past.' Of course, your first thought was that she's insane. What sane person hears whispering voices? Although when you were told the history of your friends and Beacon Hills, you toyed with the notion each of them was a little insane— but rightfully so.

As your friends took turns explaining their own supernatural abilities over school lunch, you turned to the last boy, which you were quite fond of. Stiles. His jaw flapped like a fish's, his chocolate eyes scattering around. He looked to Scott, and at first, you assumed it was Stiles's supernatural instinct to look at his Alpha friend, but when he started to speak, the words didn't stop. He threw out words that didn't go together in an attempt to tell you that he was not, in fact, supernatural like those surrounding you.

'I was, uh... I- How do I-?' He abruptly shut his mouth, his lips pressed to a thin line, not that you were looking at how they moved even when he struggled to push words passed them. He did manage to force a hefty sigh through his nose, though. 'It was an accident- Well, I mean, obviously — Not that you would know —' He shook his head before continuing, but you took note of how the boy couldn't finish a thought without another one barging in. 'I was... possessed by this spirit — evil spirit — who just, uh, well, it brought, y'know... chaos, strife, and pain upon us all, and...' You caught his eyes glance over to Scott, whose gaze was glued to the table. 'Yeah. Yeah, that's it. A lot of people got hurt. Seriously hurt.'

'Some died.' That voice came from Lydia, her face matching Scott's. You had no reason to question if someone close to the group was killed, you didn't know any better. Everything was new to you. Some days, you regretted not asking 'who?'

A man simply called 'Argent' had been inadvertently introduced to you via Stiles and Scott, pondering if he was needed in a new turn of events. 'Something is always going on in this town,' They explained. 'He was a hunter, but he helps us now.' And in your mind, with how little knowledge you held of this new world, you didn't question how they came to know this man.

Your first time meeting him was spontaneous. Stiles had driven you guys to meet Scott at the man's apartment. When the elevator opened and the door creaked with age, boxes caught your eye first, then Argent. His hair was greying, eyes shining with firmness but glossed over with a sense of loss. You've learned it's a look he permanently wears. You were just tagging along, really, following close behind Stiles because you were in a stranger's house, and the boy was your anchor. You weren't equipped with special abilities or senses like your friends, but he kept you tethered to your sanity. You two were the only ones of your friends to be perfectly ordinary humans, and that came with a bond you hoped he thought was special.

You let your eyes wander like they were off-leash animals. Not rabid ones, just curious ones. You often didn't allow yourself to peek around in fear of what you might find. This isn't your world; don't get more involved than you need to. Today, you decided this man was safe. A picture frame sat on Argent's desk the four of you were huddled around. Scott was busy pleading for one last mission before the man moved away for good. Argent was comfortably settled in his position of involvement: none. You could've fully honed in on their conversation and the threats this town faced without someone to stop them, but you were more attuned to the three smiling faces behind the broken glass of a picture frame. Argent, and two women. One had red, short, spiky hair, while the other wore her long, dark brown curls loose with a purple headband. The brunette had deep dimples, long lashes that made you a little jealous, and a brightness you could feel through the glass. She certainly lit up any room she walked in.

You studied what you assumed to be Argent's family, and you wondered why you hadn't seen the brunette around school. She looked young enough to be a high school student, but maybe it was just good genetics.

An elbow in your side broke you free of those thoughts, your curiosities leaving your mind until you're reminded of them days or weeks later. Stiles told you they're ready to head out, and you look to the older man, offering a smile as thanks for his time. He nods at you three, and you leave without a second thought of the two women.

Later in the week, you find yourself at Stiles's house for the sixth time in four days. He's pacing, muttering to himself. You're flat on your back on his bed with your knees up, shoes long disregarded by the front door, picking at your nails. Stiles was always the first one you went to whenever you'd get a fresh set or have them painted. You probably should be going to Lydia since she changes nails like she changes outfits— which most likely costs more than you have in your bank account— but you wished Stiles would react the same way. Sometimes, if the designs were intricate enough, Stiles would grab your hand and bring your fingers closer to his face so he could truly appreciate the amount of detail and dedication. He even paid for your nails once.

A folded scrap of newspaper pinned to his old bulletin board pulled you from your reminiscence. Your stomach softly collided with his jersey sheets when you rolled over to get a proper look— as best you could for the distance, at least. There was no use trying to read the finely printed words distorted by shadows and creases of the old paper, but it was more so the corner of a photograph peeking out behind it that drew you in. You shifted further toward the end of his bed, your neck bending at all sorts of angles in a better attempt at seeing the full photo. Eventually, you huffed in defeat and stood up, Stiles barely showed signs of acknowledgment. A few silent shuffles later, you reached out and touched the bent newspaper, peeling it back to reveal a thumbtack with a red string tied to the handle stuck in the corner of a picture. A picture of the same brown-haired girl you'd completely forgotten about at Argent's house.

You flipped back to the news scrap and skimmed over the text, but it had no relevance to the girl, only mentioning a warrant for an arrest which you immediately recognized as the arsonist, Kate. You recalled briefly hearing her name being mentioned when you went to Argent's house and how she was his sister. You've seen pictures of her online, and this girl wasn't her, she couldn't have been. She looked sweet, her eyes full of life and warmth, something a murderer like Kate couldn't even dream of possessing.

Your first thought was that maybe this girl was Stiles's sister, but that couldn't have made sense because there was also a photo of the girl and a red-haired woman at Argent's house, and there's the fact that her photo is one of the few that remain on Stiles's wrecked corkboard. Unless she was adopted? Maybe the sheriff decided it was too much to take care of two children alone after his wife passed. Argent and the sheriff already seemed to have history, so it was entirely possible except you knew the sheriff would never even think of such a thing.

"I didn't know you have a sister." You felt the words spilling before you even had a chance to rethink your deduction.

The pacing stopped, a pencil clacked against metal. "Huh?"

Suddenly you felt stupid for snooping, the guilt sinking in when you started to speak. "Yeah, this girl here. She— Are you guys related?" You pointed to her photo, comforting eyes and a bright smile staring back at you.

A floorboard cracked, and the shadow on the bulletin board grew as Stiles got closer. You turned to him just in time to catch his eyes connect with her photo. His jaw opened, but there were no words to fill the empty space. You could tell by the way his eyes briefly squeezed shut that her face brought bad memories to light. Maybe she was an ex of his? You truly hoped not since that would mean he's not over her if her picture is still in his room.

"That's- She's-" A sigh of frustration. "Her name is Allison." His eyes dropped, and the guilt he spoke to Scott with re-entered his voice. You hadn't considered the possibility of it being a sensitive subject, and you'd do anything to keep Stiles from being upset with you, but before you had a chance to tell the boy to forget it, Stiles was on the move again.

His hand ran up his forehead, his fingers rubbing at the creases before carding through his hair. "She was Scott's girlfriend, you would've probably loved her." Stiles finally looked up at you for what was probably the first time tonight. "She sacrificed herself to help Scott save me. She shouldn't have... shouldn't've died." You picked up on how he was referring to the time he was possessed by the Nogitsune. His eyes carried so much grief, guilt, and loss. How could a boy so young bear more trauma than most ever would? Still, Stiles read the persistent curiosity in your eyes. "She was my sister, but we're not related."