i only like enemies to lovers if it’s gay because i think men who are mean to women don’t deserve to live

just fyi, fanfic culture is dying because people from tik tok (and most likely people who shouldn’t be on tumblr reading smut anyway) leave hate comments, harrass the writers, people call anyone writing fanfic that’s slightly dark rape apologists and pedophiles, people that enjoy the fics don’t comment, there’s no actual engagement…why would anyone want to write anything?

people write fanfic because it’s fun and they want to share it. tumblr community used to be a place where people would come in your inbox and talk about fic, your favorite characters. now you publish something with rough sex and people start calling you the most horrific names in existence.

at the same time, there are parts of tumblr that are getting so dark it scares me to even be on this website.

i just wanna have a pink page and talk about calling my fave fictional men daddy 😭 i’m in my twenties. i have a busy busy life. this is supposed to be a fun escape. content for adults by adults featuring adults.

#maketumblrfunagain

fight back. do not take hate or disrespect lightly. draw your boundaries and use your block button. stand your ground.

one of my dear mooties once told me i come across really confident on the tl. she is so sweet but imma be the first to say in reality, not at all. as a neurodivergent nerd with anxiety/depression struggles i have a mountain of insecurities and i am not confident. however i am very protective of my space and happiness. everyone deserves to have fun in their fandoms and everyone should be free to be themselves openly.

also as someone whose been around the block a few times, pays rent, has worked, etc. idgaf about anyone's opinion of me who does not pay a bill. people who harass and care more about fictional characters than actual people is peak jobless child-like behavior and their opinions should not be taken seriously at all.

we can't control trolls and we are always going to get haters. but we can choose how we let them affect us and what power we give them. we can support and stand up for each other as well and drown out any hate someone may receive. love bomb your favorite writers and mooties if you see them struggling. or dealing with a hater.

to my writers: thank you for your contributions to the community. please keep your heads up and most importantly? do not be afraid to check a bitch if needed.

If you haven't heard, the em dash has been getting a lot of attention lately…

Because it was trained on pirated work—including freely accessible online writing (like fanfic, academic texts)—ChatGPT picked up patterns and quirks native to human writing.

Including (sigh) the em dash.

There are other victims here (RIP tapestry and delve 🫠), but the appropriation of the em dash—a punctuation mark beloved by writers everywhere—feels especially personal.

A kind of low-grade panic is ensuing. Writers who once memed their own em dash overuse—the greatest punctuation mark ever to grace the control-freak’s lexicon, frankly—are suddenly backing away to avoid accusations.

No. More. We have centuries of dash-abusing writers behind us. We will not sit quietly while AI repurposes our beloved stilted aside—or the just-one-more clarification the sentence demands—or the dramatic pause your comma could never—etc.

You don’t write like AI—AI writes like you.

Defend the em dash.

(Feel free to download/share/stick it where it matters!)

ANYWAY, u and Simon are like Price’s dolls and he loves making you kiss n shit when you’re fighting-

The two of you have been at it all day. Fighting over proper procedure, getting in each other’s face over some slick comment made; it was enough to drive Price up a bloody wall.

It wasn’t until the two of you began scaring recruits with your arguments that Price knew he had corrections to make. You will come to him, belly up, when you’re good and ready. No use scaring you off, not when he’s so close to finally having you under his thumb. So he fixes his attention on his boy.

Price makes quick work of cornering Simon in his office and rips his belt from him, a thick palm closing around them and pushing the tips of their cocks together in messy rut.

“Is that what this is all about? You need to cool your head.” Price huffs in his ear, but the rough stroke of his hand on Simon’s cock has the opposite effect. Heat pools hard and fast in his gut, Ghost holding back a filthy groan as John’s rough hand works them. The sound of footsteps outside the door has them both stiffening. Price grumbles when the person behind it knocks, but before he can answer another voice joins, muffled by the door but very clearly you.

“Captain is out meeting with the brass, you’ll find him later.” He hears you clearly through the door, dismissing who ever knocked. He bites back a disgustingly soft smile at the way your shadow lingers outside the door. He knows you know they are both in there, and he hopes you have your ear pressed up against the door. He has Simon by the front of his hoodie, flattening him against the wall by the door with a mean thrust of his hips.

“Y’see that? Still cleaning up after us, even after your little spat.” He purrs in the other mans ear, a mean smirk tugging at his lips when he feels Simon twitch and throb under his thumb. Simon’s eyes are squeezed shut and teeth sunk in to his lip, smothering even the slightest sound and Price can’t have that.

“Enter.” His voice is unmistakable from your side of the door, a bark of a command that has you stepping inside without another thought. You’re brought to heel the moment you step through, Price’s heavy palm closing around the back of your neck and pulling you close. Simon doesn’t bother hiding his displeasure with mean glare, not that it means a whole lot when he grabs at your hand when Price reels you in close enough.

“In here? You’ll play nice, yeah?” He asks but its not really a question and you and Simon both know it. It was all that needed to be said.

You are close enough to see the moment when Price tightens his grip and Simon’s eyes go glassy. How can someone be so pretty when not even an hour ago he was at your throat, tearing into you over how to treat the rookies. You watch Simon’s tip leak onto Prices hand and are unable to form a single thought after, no clever or witty comebacks now. Price seems to take it as a victory.

He releases his grip to guide all of you to his chair. Backed by a window and a clear line of sight of the door, Price’s heavy palm lands on your shoulder and you go down with no argument. Simon settles next to you and you feel something in your brain pop and fizz out like the static between radio stations. Johns thick thighs settle wide around you both and you can’t help but latch your hand around his calf and feel the muscle cording there.

Simon wastes no time in leaning down and laving his tongue all over Price’s heavy pump balls, his tip nearly purple and dripping from the attention. He makes you do the dirty work though, nudging you with his shoulder and urging you to lick up the pre threatening to drip down your Captain's cock. You lap it up with wet sucks and small kisses, cleaning up after Simon as he drools over John’s swollen sack.

“I reckon you have some making up to do.” John’s grin turns nasty, hands coming up to cup the back of your head and Simon’s. The tip of his cock pops out of your mouth wetly when Simons’ nose hits your cheek. Your lips meet in a wet slide across the tip of Price’s cock, pre stringing between your lips when Price’s pushing makes your lips miss clumsily. Your mouth slides over rough scar tissue on his cheek and you can’t help but press your tongue in as well, sighing at the taste thats uniquely Simon. He makes you swallow his groan, leaning over you to catch your mouth and sucks your bottom lip into his mouth. Price makes it messier when he pushes your heads together, angling your heads together at just the right angle, breaking you apart only to push you back together.

“There you go. Kiss n’ makeup now.” He says with a mean chuckle, pushing his cock against your faces. His pre smearing on your cheeks and his tip finding its way between your lips when Simon’s hot and heavy tongue is licking into your mouth. He ruts his hips in dumb little circles as the mix of your drool coats his cock, lips smacking wetly as he makes you both makeout on the tip of his cock.

They’ll get along, he thinks later that night, watching Simon’s hand scoop beneath your waistband in his sleep to cup your soft, warm pussy in his palm. The sighs you both let out at the soft touch has Price thinking you’ll get along just fine.

Acosf was the worst thing to happen to the acotar world and the fandom

The 141 as a pack- not in the found family kind of way, but in the hunting kind of way.

They spot you by accident.

Price is the first to clock you, mostly because he’s the sort who notices exits, shadows, people sitting alone. You’re on a stool near the end of the bar, tucked under a blown out neon sign that flickers uselessly overhead. The rest of the place is a mess of dim bulbs and TV glow, but somehow the shadows around you are softer, edged in a kind of warm sheen.

It’s probably just the jewelry.

Tiny pieces, nothing flashy on their own: delicate chain at your throat, a charm on a bracelet, thin hoops catching the light when you tuck your hair behind your ear. But every time you move, something glints. Not bright. Not gaudy. Just enough to pull the eye.

Soap follows the first flash of gold the way a cat chases a laser pointer.

“Ach, look at that,” he mutters around the lip of his beer bottle, elbow nudging Gaz’s. “Sittin’ all by herself. Cute as a button. Like a wee rabbit waitin’ for a fox.”

Gaz leans just enough to see past him. You’re nursing a drink, straw between your fingers, eyes on the shelves of cheap liquor like you’re reading the labels to avoid looking at anyone else.

“Been here a while,” he says. “Came in just after we did. No one’s come up to her twice.” His brow creases. “Keeps looking at the door, though.”

Ghost says nothing, but he’s watching too, tracking the pattern: every time the door opens, your head lifts and your bracelet catches the dark, giving a quick, soft flash. When you realize whoever walked in isn’t who you were hoping for, your shoulders fall. You go back to tracing the rim of your glass.

Nobody comes to sit with you. Nobody stays near you for long.

Too alone. Too pretty. Too jumpy.

Easy.

Price takes it in, slow and steady.

Pack instinct kicks in before any of them say the word. They don’t need to say anything to align on the same thought. It’s in the way their focus narrows, the way their chairs angle subconsciously toward you. A hunting posture, dressed in civilian clothes and half finished drinks.

They’re not the soft, found family kind of pack people romanticize. They’re the other kind; the kind that closes around a target without thinking.

“Could just be waitin’ on her boyfriend,” Gaz offers, because he’s the one who says that sort of thing, even if he doesn’t quite believe it.

“She wouldn’t still be here if he was worth a damn,” Soap replies. “Look at her. Fella’s either stupid or blind.”

Ghost watches your fingers. You’re not fidgeting like a practiced flirt; you’re rolling the straw wrapper tight, tight, tight until the paper is an over wound thread. The kind of nervous habit you don’t perform for attention; it just happens.

“Doesn’t matter,” Price says, deciding for them. “Place like this, someone’ll try their luck eventually. Might as well be us.”

Us, not me.

Price drains his glass and stands. “C’mon,” he says. “Before some drunk fucker with worse intentions gets there first.”

Soap grins. Gaz pushes off the bar. Ghost follows.

The four of them rise together, scatter of chairs on sticky floor, their approach casual enough not to spook you, coordinated enough to close off any direction that isn’t toward them.

You feel them before you see them. The bar is loud- music, clinking glass, too many overlapping conversations- but when they move, the noise tilts. You feel a shadow fall across your little island of dim light.

You look up- and up- and up.

“Evenin’, love,” Price says, taking the middle, anchoring your attention. His voice is warm, edged with something rough. “This seat taken?”

You look at him, eyes wide, and for a heartbeat he can see the thought stutter through your head: I should say yes. I should lie.

Then your gaze skips over his shoulder, across Ghost, over Soap’s grin, to Gaz’s more cautious face. Four of them. All big. All dangerous, in the way that sets off every alarm bell you’ve ever had.

Your fingers tighten around your glass. Up close, they’re even more intimidating. Big men, all of them. Broad shoulders. Scarred knuckles. The casual alertness that says they’re dangerous even when they’re pretending not to be.

Your throat works around a swallow.

“N-No,” you say, barely loud enough to be heard over the music. “Um. No, it’s not.”

You don’t move away when he takes the stool beside you, though. That’s the first little surrender.

Up close, he can see the jewelry looks even smaller. A fine chain resting in the dip of your collarbone, charm nestled where his eyes keep dropping. A tiny stud in your ear that catches the bar’s dim light and winks at him whenever you turn your head.

“Good,” Soap says, dropping onto your other side like you’re the natural center of their group. “Be a shame to leave such a lovely lass sittin’ on her own.”

Ghost leans against the bar behind you, silent. Gaz drifts just off your shoulder, close enough that if you tried to slip down from the stool, you’d have to brush past him.

You don’t realize you’re boxed in. Not yet.

“Quiet night for a girl like you,” Soap says lightly, accent softening the words. “You waitin’ on someone?”

You pick at the napkin under your glass. “I was. My friend bailed, though, so…” You give a little shrug, embarrassed. “Just…finishing this before I head home.”

“That right?” Price nudges your drink with a knuckle. “Let us get your last one, then. Call it a good deed.”

Your instinct is to refuse. You start to shake your head. “Oh, no, that’s okay, I don’t wanna- ”

“We insist,” Soap cuts in, already nodding at the bartender. “Same again for the lady.”

You fluster. You’re not used to this kind of attention. Your necklace glints when you duck your head, catching the dim light in a quick flash at your throat.

“Thank you,” you murmur when the fresh drink appears. “You…you don’t have to.”

“What if we want to?” Price asks, lips tipping. “Bit rough, a girl like you alone in a place like this.”

You huff a nervous laugh and twist the straw wrapper tighter. “C-could say the same thing.”

Gaz huffs a small breath. “We’ve got each other.”

“Pack of us,” Soap adds, grin widening.

“Oh.” You glance at all of them again, as if that just made them more intimidating. “That’s…nice.”

Price watches the way your shoulders hunch, the way you angle your knees toward the bar, as if you’re half expecting someone to bump you. “Thank you again.”

“S’okay lass,” Soap grins, leaning in. “We’re not that scary once you get to know us.”

You look at the mask, the beard, the scars at Soap’s throat, the quiet calculation in Gaz’s eyes.

“You’re a little scary,” you admit, voice trembling around the edge of a nervous laugh.

Something pleased curls through Ghost’s chest at that, dark and satisfied. Good. You should be.

“Good instincts,” he says. “Most people don’t have ‘em.”

You fluster, ducking your head, and when the bartender sets down the fresh glass, the cube of ice inside catches just enough of the overhead light to bounce it up, up, directly into the small crystal at your wrist. It flashes once, sharp, a pinpoint of brightness in all the gloom.

You talk.

They ask easy questions- about your job, about living near the river, about why you stayed when your friend left. You answer in fits and starts, words tripping, always circling back to sorry and I don’t usually and this is weird, right?

Every time you move your hands, the charm at your wrist gives a soft, quick gleam. Every time you turn your head, the little studs in your ears catch the bar’s failing lights.

They like how nervous you are. How your voice trembles when Soap leans in to tease you. How you can’t quite hold Ghost’s gaze for long. How you keep saying you should go home but never quite stand up.

You’re not sure how to extricate yourself now that four strangers with war in their posture have decided you’re interesting.

“You got far to walk?” Price asks, casually, after a while. “We’re headed out soon.”

You hesitate. Lie on the tip of your tongue: I drove or I’m just around the corner or My boyfriend’s coming.

You don’t say any of it.

“I live a few blocks away,” you admit. “Down by the river.”

At that, four pairs of eyes sharpen. Enough distance to get you alone. Enough darkness. Not so far that you’ll get suspicious if they offer to walk you.

“Not safe on your own at this hour,” Soap says immediately.

Gaz gives a low, almost gentle snort. “You seen the lot that hangs around near the bridge at night? Nah. We’ll walk you.”

You start to protest, shoulders curling, fingers twisting in the strap of your bag, but he cuts you off with a small, easy smile.

“Let us be gallant, yeah? Last good deed of the night. Then we’re gone.”

You don’t have a good reason to argue with that, and they can see the moment your resistance folds.

“O-Okay,” you say. “If…if you want to.”

Price drops some notes on the bar, more than enough to cover their tab and yours. You slide off the stool, nearly bumping into his chest as you steady yourself. His hands go to your hips without thinking, big palms warm and firm, catching you before you can stumble.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Got you.”

You look up at him from under your lashes, throat working around a small, flustered sound. He feels you tremble, just a little, like a skittish animal not used to being held.

He squeezes, once, possessive.

Then they take you out into the night

The city is wet from some half hearted rain earlier, pavement slick, puddles glimmering in the bruise colored light of far off streetlamps. You walk in the middle of them without being told to, instinct or training or simple common sense putting you where you’re most boxed in.

Price on one side, Ghost on the other, Soap just ahead, Gaz at your back.

You keep your bag strap clutched tight, thumbs stroking the worn fabric. Every now and then your knuckles bump Price’s hand, and every time, he has to stop himself from catching your fingers and not letting go.

“We do this for everyone, you know,” Soap jokes lightly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s a community service. ‘Walks For Strays.’”

You huff a startled laugh. “Is that what I am? A stray?”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes raking down your body in a way that’s anything but subtle. “Aye. You wandered right into our path, didn’t you?”

“Could’ve been anyone,” you say.

Price knows that’s not true.

He remembers the way his gaze kept snagging on you all night, how hard it was to keep his eyes from drifting back whenever you lifted your drink and the light slipped over your rings. How Ghost, normally content to sit with his back to the room and watch every corner, kept glancing in your direction.

“Wasn’t,” Ghost says quietly. “Was you.”

You don’t seem to know what to do with that. Silence falls for a few steps, your shoes splashing through a shallow puddle that sends a little fan of water up your calves. The reflection shivers there, ripples of light from the lamp above breaking apart and reforming, broken stars at your feet.

When you step up onto the drier pavement again, one of those broken stars lingers, caught on the thin chain at your ankle until it fades.

“Here,” you say softly after a while, nodding toward a side street. “This way.”

The road narrows, buildings rising up on either side. Fewer lights. Fewer people. The river’s smell rides the air, damp and metallic.

Price feels that familiar shift in his chest: the one that comes at the end of a hunt, when the world narrows down to the target and the terrain and what comes next.

You don’t notice. You’re too busy watching your footing, stepping around a cracked bit of pavement, apologizing when you bump Soap with your shoulder.

You stop in front of an old brick building with a cracked stoop and a single tired bulb over the door.

“This is me,” you say, turning to them with that same small, uncertain smile. “Um. Really. Thank you. For walking me.”

“Be rude to leave it here,” Soap says, tongue in his cheek. “You could at least offer us a cuppa, hen.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh! I, um. I mean, my place is a mess, I wasn’t- ”

“We don’t mind mess,” Gaz says.

Price takes a half step closer, not touching you, but close enough that you have to tip your head back to look at him.

You don’t meet his eyes. “I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I’ve never…”

You bite your lip. Nervous. Thinking. You look at each of them, one by one, like you’re weighing something heavy.

You trail off, skin heating, shame and something else crawling up your neck.

Price files that away like it’s intel. Never. Never taken strangers home. Never done something like this.

But she’s out here, with four men twice her size, letting them walk her into the dark.

You could fumble the lock and slip inside alone, door closing in their faces. You could make up a boyfriend, a roommate, a brother.

You don’t do any of those things.

You nod. Tiny, decisive.

“…Okay,” you whisper. “For a little while.”

The satisfaction that rolls through them is dark and mutual.

“Good girl,” Price murmurs before he can stop himself.

You flush all the way to your ears and fumble the key in the lock. When the door finally gives, you laugh, flustered. “Sorry. My hands are…”

She’s shaking, he thinks, pleased.

They follow you inside.

The hallway is dim and narrow, the overhead light bare and buzzing.

“Sorry,” you say, starting up the stairs. “The landlord keeps saying he’s going to fix the lights on the second floor and then never does.”

“Typical,” Gaz mutters.

On the landing, the bulbs are all dead. The only light seeps up from the stained glass window in the stairwell, painting everything in a murky, underwater wash. It brushes your face when you glance back at them.

For a second, your eyes seem to catch it and hold it, pupils blown wide, irises gleaming oddly in the blue green.

Then you blink, and it’s gone.

“This is me,” you say again, stopping at the first door on the left. You unlock it and push it open into darkness. “I’ll get the- oh. Right. Sorry. The hall light doesn’t reach in here. One second, the lamp is…”

You reach inside, patting the wall, fingers feeling for a switch that isn’t there. The four of them stack behind you, big silhouettes in the narrow hall.

“Here,” Price says, hand settling at the small of your back, guiding you in. “We’re not afraid of the dark.”

You give a breathy little laugh. “I kinda am,” you admit. “Just…don’t leave me standing in it, okay?”

The words make something low in Ghost’s chest twist in a way he doesn’t examine.

“That’s not on the agenda,” he says.

You step fully into the apartment. The dim hall light dies as the door swings almost shut behind them. Shadows swallow everything; the noise of the city outside muffles.

“Lamp’s by the sofa,” you mumble. “Just- hang on…”

They hear you move. The soft thump of your bag dropped on some surface. The scrape of your shoes toed off. Your voice, closer to the center of the room now.

Something inside them unwinds. This is familiar: dark rooms, unknown layouts, a target’s breathing somewhere just ahead. They relax into the predatory rhythm without even meaning to.

Soap’s hand finds the back of the sofa in the dark. Gaz’s foot bumps into the edge of a low table. Ghost’s fingers twitch once, reminding themselves there’s no weapon in them tonight.

“You sure you paid your electric bill?” Soap asks, laughing under his breath when the first lamp you try doesn’t click on.

You huff. “Funny. It worked this morning. I think the bulb just-”

The sentence cuts off.

The silence that follows is sudden and heavy.

“Love?” Price says. “You all right there?”

You don’t answer immediately.

Then, from deeper in the room: “Yeah. Yeah, I’m…here. Just- don’t move for a second, okay? It’ll be easier if you let your eyes adjust.”

There’s a new note in your voice. Not exactly different- still soft, still gentle- but smoother. Calmer. Like something let go.

They stand still, obedient without thinking about it.

The dark presses in.

Slowly, shapes begin to tease themselves out- the paler rectangle of a window, the looming outline of a bookshelf, the shadowed bulk of the sofa.

And you.

You’re standing a few feet away, turned toward them. The faint light from the street outside brushes your outline but doesn’t quite touch your face. For a breath, you look exactly like you did at the bar- small, bare armed, hair falling around your shoulders, the delicate chain at your throat a dim line in the gloom.

The glint of your jewelry answers the glow- your necklace, your bracelet, your rings all picking up that strange, pale color and tossing it back in miniature. It slides over your features, revealing them in slices: the curve of your mouth, the bridge of your nose, the line of your cheek.

Your smile is small.

And wrong.

It’s too wide. Not grotesque, not cartoonish; just a fraction beyond human, the corners of your lips pulled back enough to show teeth that look a shade too long, too thin. Not blunt little herbivore teeth, but fine, needled things that catch the strange light the way deep water catches moonshine.

Price’s hand, half lifted, stills.

“Turn the lamp on,” Ghost says, voice low. A command, not a request.

You tip your head.

“No,” you say, almost apologetically. “I don’t need it.”

The room seems to shift around that answer. The air grows heavier, cooler. The smell of the river outside seeps in under the window frame, only it’s stronger now, richer, like true seawater. Salt and depth and something briny underneath.

The moonlight bleeds in through the window slightly and the faint glow it throws off reveals more details now: the way your pupils have narrowed to vertical slits in eyes that gleam with their own internal shine; the faint, opalescent pattern under your skin along your throat and collarbones, like scales lying just beneath the surface; the way the chain at your ankle has gone almost luminescent, the bones of your bare feet pale as the bellies of deep fish.

Price’s mouth goes dry.

“What are you?” he asks, very softly.

You tilt your head again, studying him.

“You know those fish,” you say, “with the little lanterns? Way down where it’s too dark for anything else to shine?” You give the necklace a small, idle flick, and it swings, hypnotic. “They sit there for hours, just…waiting. Letting the hungry things come to them.”

Soap’s pulse roars in his ears. Gaz swallows. Ghost takes a single, measured step forward like he’s testing how real this is, how dangerous.

You watch him do it. The glow stretched over your face makes your smile seem sharper.

“I didn’t want you to think I was anything but innocent,” you go on conversationally, as if explaining something simple. “That’s important. If the prey knows the hook is there, it won’t bite.” Your gaze roams over them, four big men in a stranger’s dark living room, shoulders tense, instincts finally whispering wrong, wrong, wrong far too late. “Do you know how many things in the deep are drawn to light that won’t harm them? To something that looks small, harmless, soft? They can’t help it. Their brains aren’t built to resist.”

The last word curls like smoke, amused.

“You made yourself pretty,” Ghost rasps, fingers digging into his palms as he fights the instinct to step closer. “So we’d…come to you.”

You tilt your head, pleased. Brilliant boy. You’ve always liked the wary ones. They make the best meals. The most satisfying captures.

“Of course I did,” you say. “The abyss doesn’t chase. It waits. It shines.” You tap your chest lightly with the tips of your fingers. “I just had to sit in the right bar long enough. Predators always think they’re the only ones hunting.”

Your own teeth catch the glow when you smile wider.

“Anglerfish don’t chase,” you say, almost gently. “We wait. We shine.”

The little necklace hangs there, bright and terrible in the pitch black of your living room, and Task Force 141 realizes far, far too late that they never chose you at all.

You chose them.

And by then, the hook is already in.

forever chasing this high…

I think they should kiss.

Kinktober Day 31 — Double Penetration

MDNI, NSFW 18+ Kinktober Masterlist Main Masterlist

pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Spencer reid x AFAB! Fem reader

synopsis: After a team in office halloween ‘party’ and a few spiked drinks from Garcia you find yourself in your boss Aarons office with your best friend Spencer when the drunken conversation turns too 18+ one of the bureau seminars won’t fix.

wc: 6.5k

cw: Smuuuut, Double penetration, Dom! Hotch, Switch! Spencer, Hotchreid, Sub! reader, R receives oral, s gives oral, a gives oral, P in v, anal, inebriated, co-workers, Aftercare, bi spencer and aaron, dirty talk, nerdy spencer, Whimpering spencer

a/n: oh my god finally. Kinktober is over…15 days late. Thank you all for your patience, this is kinda rushed unfortunately so i hope it’s good.. I also wrote this after a long essay so it’s giving uni essay.

The dim glow of string lights draped across the BAU bullpen flickered like distant stars in a vast, empty sky, casting playful, elongated shadows over the makeshift Halloween decorations that had been thrown together in a hurry.

Pumpkins with crudely carved faces some lopsided grins, others with jagged, menacing eyes sat perched on desks and filing cabinets, their battery-operated candles pulsing softly.

Fake cobwebs clung to the corners of the room, dangling like forgotten memories, and a few plastic spiders had been strategically placed for that extra touch of spooky charm.

Lucifer Morningstar Wants You To Go Slower

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, cock riding, established relationships, horns, tail, being flustered, teasing

Sexy September Scribbles Day 1: "Slower"

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions | Event

A/N: Getting back into writing with drabbles! Feels good to post again.

You were too caught up in bouncing up and down Lucifer's cock to notice how he clenched his teeth and tried to stop himself from shaking. He promised to let you ride his cock tonight as much as you wanted as payback for teasing you in that boring meeting.

"I said hold on!" His voice sounded strained but still commanding. As you finally looked at him you saw how out of breath he really was, the blonde strands of hair out of place and falling over his eyes, his horns fully out and eyes shining red. He looked absolutely feral. "Hold on a second, let me calm myself bit."

He leaned back while he held you down you your thighs, claws slightly digging into the soft flesh there. "What's wrong? Are you too tired? We can stop if you are." You placed your hand on his spotted cheek and he nuzzled into it with a lazy smirk.

"Not at all, my love. I need you to slow down a bit that's all. Slower. I know I said you could ride me but you're going too fast and I'm getting really close. Been wanting your pussy all day, it's kinda hard for me to hold back. And I want to enjoy every precious moment we have together." You shivered as you felt his tail drag up and down your back, leaving goosebumps on your skin. "Just cause I'm bad doesn't mean you have to be. You can be a good girl for your King right?"

It wasn't often that he pulled the royalty card on you in bed. Your pussy clenched around his sensitive cock, making it twitch weakly. "Anything for my cute husband." You started again, this time barely raising your self up, keeping most of his cock inside you the first few times, then only leaving his tip in. When you saw him lean his head back with a moan you finally pushed yourself back down, making sure you could feel every throb of Lucifer's cock on your way down.

"English isn't my first language-" say less pookie 😏

"slut era" i say as i rot and decay in my bedroom and watch the years pass me by as i miss out on core experiences other people my age are having while i think about the past

How I feel reading smut while being scared of intimacy in real life

Soap x Reader but Ghost is there too

You know those jokes of how when two friends in a trio start dating, the third friend becomes their kid?

Yeah thats y'all's group but like, unironically

Johnny comes home from deployment and it's just expected that Simon's right there behind him with all the bags hauled over his shoulder

He has his own room in your apartment/house, having slept in the guest room so often that it's just Simon's Room now

Despite this, 90% of the time you still wake up to find nearly 300lbs of muscle sprawled across yours and Johnny's bed, not even under any blanket, just snoring away and out cold, but he grumbles and tries dragging you back if you start to slip out from under him

When Johnny's out on deployment but Simon isn't, its a lot like having your own personal guard dog, the brit just kinda shadowing you everywhere cause he promised Johnny he'd keep you safe

When both of them go on deployment, Johnny gives you a kiss thats 60% tongue and Simon lingers just a bit too close over his shoulder as he assures you he'll get your husband back in one piece

When it's just Simon out on deployment, you both make sure he has a soft bed, clean bath, and warm food to come back to when he inevitably shows up on the porch in the middle of the night because he didn't want to have to wait on-base until morning

Its to the point that when people are talking about "The MacTavishes", they mean all three of you

(accompanying angst drabble)

The time Simon went MIA for 7 months on Nanny!Reader

It, of course, was out the blue while he was stationed out of country. You sent your daily updates and almost always Simon replied.

But then he stopped replying.

Not a call. Not a text. Not even from an unknown number.

It was you and the twins who were four. And there was no one else, you didn’t know Simons mother, and there wasn’t anyone you knew of that was close to Simon outside of the 141.

You and Simon were the only two. You were the emergency contact, the guardian at pickup and putting the twins down. You were the person who really had to be a parent and the babysitter. There when Julie got a fever and Jamie would cry because Julie was crying. Or when Jamie wrote his and his sisters name for the first time. And the time Julie learned that big girls can cry when they need help too. And when the twins used there bicycles for the first time.

It’s not like you haven’t done it before, just after the twins turned three Simon got deployed for 4 months. But he was still letting you know he was alive.

Everything was in the air here.

He could be dead or alive and you wouldn’t know. Fuck, you didn’t know, spending late nights with the twins in your arms, thinking about what you would need to do to protect those kids. Moving, collecting your spare funds— anything for these two.

And then on a lazy Saturday afternoon—

It’s that special ring tone that rings through your ears, the kids know it and the both of them turn to your phone. You scurry off into the hallway head against the wall. You hear his breathing first, then his deep Manchester accent, “Hey.”

“You’re alive.” And you said it ever so plainly, just under a question.

“Yeah,” there’s a beat, “And the twins? How are they?”

You almost laughted sarcastically, mouth agape then forming into a thin line. Then repeated. No apology, no explanation, just ‘how are the kids?’ And you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to bury the irritation— no— the fury building inside you tall as the eye can see. Your ears almost go out, but you hear those two adorable brunettes, singing along to the Zoboomafoo theme song, dancing up a storm.

Cute, your kids are really fucking adorable it almost hurts.

You smack your teeth, let out an exhale, “Clench your fucking jaw the next time I see you.”

And with that, you hung up.

You gave the kids such a perfect smile telling them their Daddy would be home soon and how you should all prepare drawings for Daddy! And they were both all smiles and giggles while you pulled out paper and crayons and set them on the coffee table.

okay i’m gonna say it: fandoms are kinda dying on tumblr, and they’re starving because nobody reblogs anymore.

like… i don’t wanna be that person but be for real?? likes are cute and all but they do nothing for creators. ZERO. NADA. a reblog is literally the oxygen mask keeping this blue hellsite alive. you say you “love” a fic, an edit, a gifset? then BABES… reblog it. boost it. let it breathe.

half the time creators are out here pouring their entire soul, spine, AND three vertebrae into something just for it to get 200 likes and 3 reblogs, two of which are their own. that’s why people stop posting. that’s why fandoms feel empty. content doesn’t magically fall from the sky — it comes from people who feel seen.

and i promise you: reblogging is free. it costs you like 0.2 seconds and suddenly you’re personally responsible for keeping a whole fandom alive. congrats!! so yeah. if you like something? reblog it. scream in the tags. yell. keyboard smash. put sparkles. do whatever. just don’t let creators feel like they’re shouting into a void.

reblogs feed creators. reblogs keep fandoms thriving. reblogs literally save lives (okay maybe not literally but u get it).

support the creators you love !!!!!! or else we’re all gonna be sitting in empty tags like clowns.