notaboypossiblyagenius

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

13x09 | False Flag

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

JJ & EMILY IN CRIMINAL MINDS: EVOLUTION 18.09 “CollateRal”

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

first of all, i love u and ur works so much

second, this is the request >:) the cannibalism as a metaphor of love thing. been obsessed with it lately so i just had to request it.

so here, larissa has spent her life chasing after someone’s love—always the second choice, always in the shadows, like back in their nevermore days where she was just "morticia's shadow"

then now, y/n is a newly hired professor at nevermore. they'll have an interaction that will trigger or "spark" something in larissa. maybe like y/n is the one showing interest at first then larissa will fall harder. larissa will have them in her grasp. but something will happen that will make y/n want to leave (i believe you've mentioned before that you believe that larissa will always be somehow still in love with morticia...? 👀). but she will refuse to ever let go. even if that means making sure they can’t leave her. even if that means they must become a part of her, in the most literal sense.

honestly u can do whatever here :) while writing i've realized that the request seemed a bit long... so u can remove stuff as you wish.

-

"Shh. No more fighting. Just let me hold you. Let me have you."

Raw and Tender

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

A/N: absolutely ADORED writing this. I love getting sick and twisted requests that I can turn into something beautifully abhorrent. I hope you’ll enjoy this, have fun <3

The fading evening light cast a golden glow across the grand halls of Nevermore Academy, filtering through the towering windows in fleeting, bittersweet hues. It was the kind of light that always brought memories rushing back—memories Larissa Weems had long since buried. She had stood in these same halls, once upon a time, just as the golden light had always found her. The girl who had cast the longest shadow.

Morticia.

That name echoed now, like a ghost of the past. Larissa remembered standing next to her, feeling both taller and smaller all at once. Taller because of her height, always taller, always looking down while everyone else looked up to Morticia. Morticia with her effortless charm, her confidence, her laugh. That laugh. It still haunted Larissa’s quietest moments, ringing in her ears like a distant melody she could never escape. She thought she'd left those feelings behind, buried under layers of silk, authority, and the years she spent hardening herself into the figure she now embodied.

Yet here she was again, back in the shadows.

Larissa's fingers hovered over the old, faded photograph tucked into the drawer of her desk. Two young women—Morticia smiling with effortless radiance, and Larissa beside her, a pale imitation. Always beside her, never at the centre. The photograph had grown dull with age, the edges curling as if to retreat into itself. Much like Larissa had over the years.

Her reverie was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. She straightened instinctively, adjusting her posture, smoothing her skirt as if to pull herself together before being seen.

“Come in,” she called, her voice as steady as ever.

You stepped into the office, the light from the setting sun framing you in a soft glow. There was something about the way you smiled at her that was different from anyone else. Genuine warmth, unburdened by expectations. “I didn’t see you at dinner,” you said gently, stepping forward. In your hands was a cup of tea, the steam curling upward like a wisp of comfort. “I thought I’d bring this for you.”

The simplicity of your gesture, the tenderness of it, left Larissa momentarily speechless. Her fingers brushed against yours as she took the cup, the touch igniting a spark that neither of you could ignore. The warmth of the tea seeped into her hands, but the warmth of your presence was what truly settled the coldness she hadn’t realized had taken root in her chest.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice softer than she had intended, betraying the vulnerability she was desperate to hide.

You didn’t rush to leave. Instead, you set your bag down on a nearby chair and stayed, the quiet hum of your presence filling the room. “You seemed distracted earlier, during the meeting,” you observed, your voice threaded with concern. “I thought maybe you could use a moment to unwind.”

Larissa’s lips curved into a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. You were always so perceptive, always attuned to the subtle shifts in her demeanour. It was one of the things she admired most about you—though it unnerved her at times, how easily you seemed to see right through her. “I’ve just been… preoccupied,” she admitted, waving a hand dismissively toward the pile of papers on her desk.

But the truth was heavier than that. Ever since you had arrived as the new biology professor at Nevermore, you had become a constant in her life, a quiet light amidst the growing shadows. Your energy, your kindness, the way you looked at her—not with judgment or expectation, but with something far more tender—it unnerved her. You were becoming more than just a colleague, more than just a welcome presence in her quiet moments. You had become a desire she wasn’t sure she could control.

In the days that followed, the space between you and Larissa seemed to shrink. Your interactions became more frequent, more intimate. What had started as casual conversations turned into lingering moments in her office, shared laughter over evening tea, and the occasional stolen glance that neither of you could explain.

There was something about the way you looked at her, how you didn’t just see the headmistress or the statuesque figure she projected to the world. You saw her. The person beneath the carefully constructed image. It terrified her, yet she found herself drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

One evening, after a staff dinner, you walked with her under the soft glow of lanterns that dotted the academy grounds. The air was crisp, the silence between you punctuated only by the soft rustle of the leaves in the wind. You turned to her, your eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her heart race.

“You’re remarkable, Larissa,” you said, your voice steady, but laced with a tenderness that made her breath catch.

Her first instinct was to deflect, to brush off the compliment as unnecessary. But something in your expression held her captive. She glanced down, trying to conceal the blush that crept up her neck. “You’re very kind,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

You stepped closer, your presence almost overwhelming in its warmth. “I mean it,” you insisted. “You have a presence that’s magnetic. There’s something about you that just… pulls people in.”

No one had ever spoken to her like that. No one had ever looked at her with such raw sincerity, as if they truly believed in her worth, not for what she could offer or how she fit into the world, but simply for who she was. It was both exhilarating and terrifying.

And when you leaned in, your lips brushing tentatively against hers, she didn’t pull away. She couldn’t.

Your relationship grew in secret, a fragile but radiant thing, hidden from the prying eyes of Nevermore’s students and staff. With you, Larissa felt lighter, more alive than she had in years. There were moments when she thought, perhaps, she could be happy—truly, deeply happy.

But the fear was always there, lurking in the background like a storm on the horizon.

When Morticia returned to Nevermore, it was as though that storm finally broke. Wednesday’s enrollment brought her mother back to the academy, her visits infrequent but potent enough to stir up old wounds. Morticia was still every bit as radiant as Larissa remembered, her charm and confidence seemingly untouched by time.

Larissa could feel herself slipping back into the shadows. Every glance, every word from Morticia seemed to pull her further away from you, back into the past where she had always played second to Morticia’s light.

You noticed the shift almost immediately.

“You’ve been distant,” you said one evening, your hand resting on hers as you sat together in her quarters. “Is it because of her?”

Larissa’s heart clenched at the question, her instinctive response one of denial. “That’s ridiculous,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended.

But you didn’t let it go. “I know how much she meant to you,” you said softly. “I can see how her being here affects you. Larissa, I’m here with you. Isn’t that enough?”

She wanted so desperately to believe you. To cling to the warmth in your eyes, the sincerity in your voice. But the insecurities that had plagued her all her life were hard to shake. The fear that one day, you would leave her too, that she would never be enough to hold onto someone as bright as you.

As the weeks passed, her behaviour changed. At first, it was subtle—a possessive hand on your arm, an insistence on knowing where you were. But soon, it became suffocating. Her texts came at odd hours, her presence constant and overwhelming. She would appear outside your classroom unannounced, her grip on your hand tighter than it needed to be.

One evening, after another confrontation where her jealousy had seeped into your conversation, you finally spoke up. “Larissa, I need space.”

Her expression darkened. “Space?”

“Yes,” you replied, taking a step back. “You’re hovering. It’s starting to feel like… too much.”

She stared at you, the fear in her eyes almost palpable. But she said nothing, letting the silence hang between you like a thick fog.

The breaking point came one stormy winter night. You had decided it was time to confront her, to tell her that you needed time apart to clear your head, to figure out what was happening between you. But as you stepped into her office, the look in her eyes stopped you in your tracks.

She was sitting at her desk, her back ramrod straight, her gaze fixed on the photograph of Morticia and herself. When she looked up at you, there was something wild, something desperate in her eyes.

“Larissa,” you began, your voice trembling with uncertainty, “we need to talk.”

She rose slowly from her chair, her movements deliberate and measured. “Don’t say it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Don’t say you’re leaving me.”

“I’m not—” you hesitated, the words catching in your throat as the intensity of her gaze pinned you in place. “I just… need time.”

Her hand reached out, cupping your face with a tenderness that belied the storm raging within her.

“Shh,” she murmured, her voice soft, almost pleading. “No more fighting. Just let me hold you. Let me have you.”

The words were gentle. Loving.

Then—

A shift. A quiet crack.

Not loud. Not violent.

Just a whisper of finality as your body slackened in her grasp.

Hours later, the candles flickered against the pristine white tablecloth.

The wine glass was half-empty, red staining the rim where her lips had been.

Larissa sat in perfect stillness, the slow rhythm of the grandfather clock the only sound in the room. Her hands were steady, her expression serene.

She lifted a napkin to the corner of her mouth, dabbing at a faint smudge of red. It could have been lipstick.

Could have been something else.

Her gaze lowered to the plate before her.

Nestled among delicate silverware and fine china, its edges still glistening, sat a half-consumed human heart.

Yours.

Larissa exhaled slowly, savouring the moment.

There was no fear now. No more uncertainty.

She had spent a lifetime chasing after love. Always yearning. Always left behind.

But now—

Now, you would never leave her.

Now, you were part of her.

Larissa picked up her fork, pressing it delicately into the soft tissue.

She smiled.

The void within her finally felt full.

————————————————————————

taglist: @weemssapphic , @im-a-carnivorous-plant , @dingdongthetail , @gwensfz , @erablaise-blog , @rainbow-hedgehog , @renravens , @kaymariesworld , @niceminipotato , @witchesmortuary , @notmeellaannyy , @weemswife , @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 , @redkarine , @women-are-so-ethereal , @opheliauniverse , @willisnotmental l , @raspburrythief , @fictionalized-lesbian , @ness029 , @geekyarmorel l , @h-doodles , @cxndlelightx , @m1lflov3rrr r , @winterfireblond @nocteangelus15 , @aemilia19 @spacetoaim22 @vendocrap8008 8 @jkregal @gela123 @lilfartbox1 @xuukoo @bellatrixsbrat @sadsapphic-rose @dumbasslesbi @larissalover3 @friskyfisher @fliesinmymouth @imprincipalweemspet @forwhichidream11 @amateurwritescm @imlike-so-gaydude @sugipla @lvinhs @http-sam @gweninred @a-queen-and-her-throne

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

Helloooo!! I was wondering if you could write something like Larissa x VampireReader.

I'd like some tension that makes me freak out, and maybe some smut idk 🫦 or something like hate sex? I don't know, I'll leave it up to you, I hope you can do it 🫶

I'm using translator so an apology if there are mistakes or something

Beneath Her Fangs (nsfw)

Larissa Weems x vampire!fem!reader

A/N: Me when I get the opportunity to write some scrumptious angst—😏 I hope you’ll enjoy what I did with your request and the plot I created!

The conference smells like pride and polyester.

A thousand voices blur into one endless academic murmur—principals, instructors, scholars of outcast institutions from across the globe, gathering under one roof to exchange theories no one listens to. You don’t belong here. You never did. But tradition demands attendance, and you’ve followed worse calls.

You’re halfway through a glass of something red—not blood, disappointingly—when you feel her.

It’s not scent that hits you first, though it follows fast. No, what you feel is pressure. The cold density of moonlight forged into a woman’s shape. Years haven’t softened her. If anything, she’s grown sharper, more polished. A weapon sheathed in silk.

You turn, and there she is.

Larissa Weems.

Hair still carved from ice. Lips too perfect for kindness. Her body tall and statuesque and dressed in pearl-toned cruelty. She moves like she owns this place. She probably does. You can smell the fear clinging to the others when she walks past.

Her eyes land on you like a blade. You let them. You let her look.

The last time she saw you, she didn’t beg you to stay. That’s how you remember it. She watched you go, unflinching. Made it easy.

And yet now, here she is—hovering across the conference room like the ghost of everything unsaid.

You're seated beside her at the afternoon panel, of course.

Shaping the Future of Outcast Education: Balancing Heritage and Modernity. A pompous title, and a poorly veiled excuse for posturing. The selkie moderator offers everyone two-minute introductions. Larissa speaks with practiced elegance, gesturing with a hand so poised it could slice glass.

You go last. And you smile with your teeth when you speak.

“Ashthorne Academy has always encouraged… flexibility. Adaptability, even. Some of us, after all, aren’t bound to the past.”

Larissa doesn’t look at you. “And some of us aren’t running from it.” She mutters.

The moderator makes a noise like a drowning fish.

You don’t look away. You smile. “I wouldn’t expect Nevermore to understand evolution. Fossils rarely do.”

Her lip twitches. It’s not a smile. Not quite.

But it’s close.

You don’t plan to corner her in the elevator. And she doesn’t plan to follow you into it. But somehow, the steel doors shut behind you, sealing you both inside.

The air goes still.

You watch the mirrored wall rather than her reflection, which says enough. Her scent clouds the elevator—white musk, lavender, something cold beneath it. It tightens your hunger like a fist.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence like porcelain. “Still playing headmistress?”

You scoff. “Still pretending you never cared?”

“Please.” Her voice is cut-glass. “You were never that special.”

“You were. Once.”

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “And you’re still running.”

“You think I left to spite you?”

“I think you left because you couldn’t stand the things you felt.”

Your laugh comes low, bitter, ancient. “I’ve felt things older than your bloodline, Larissa.”

Silence.

Then, just as the doors open on your floor: “You left me.”

You step out, slow. Deliberate.

Then turn back, voice low. “You never asked me to stay.”

She knocks on your door thirty minutes later. Not hard. Just once.

You open it without a word.

The moment she crosses the threshold, it’s war.

Her mouth finds yours like punishment. Her nails rake down your shirt, buttons scattering like pearls. You shove her back, hard enough to make her gasp.

“Is this how you mourn?” you mutter against her mouth. “Years of silence and now you want to fuck it out?”

“I don’t mourn you.”

“Liar.”

You push her against the wall. Your hand closes around her throat—not to choke, just to hold. You feel her pulse jump under your fingers, fast and sharp.

“You want to be ruined,” you breathe.

She bares her throat in answer. Your mouth is on it before you can think. Her pulse drumming against your tongue.

“I could kill you,” you whisper into her skin. “You know that, don’t you?”

She arches beneath you. “So do it.”

You bite instead.

Not deep. Not enough to break skin. Just a threat. A promise. Your teeth rest just above the artery. She moans like it’s worship.

The bed catches her knees when you push her. She sprawls like she’s meant to be devoured—pale and furious and breathing hard. Her blouse is already open, bra skewed. Her skirt rides high on her hips, revealing expensive lace, white and obscene.

You step between her legs. Drag your fingers up the inside of her thigh, slow as a sin.

“You’ve imagined this, haven’t you?” you ask. “Years, and you’ve touched yourself thinking about me.”

“Not once.”

You laugh—low, dark. “Liar.”

You tear the lace. Not enough to ruin it. Just enough to make her gasp again.

Your fingers slip inside her—hot, wet, furious.

She groans. Bites her lip. Tries not to give you the satisfaction.

So you press deeper. Curl slow. Watch her shudder.

“Do you hate me?” you murmur.

Her hips buck.

“Yes,” she hisses.

“You’re wet for someone you hate.”

She meets your eyes, glassy with lust. “You’re wet for someone you abandoned.”

Your mouth crashes into hers.

You take your time.

You drag her shirt off completely. Kiss her collarbones. Her throat. Her breasts. Suck her nipple until she arches and claws your shoulders.

You murmur things into her skin. Taunts. Confessions. Half-truths and full regrets.

“You could’ve had this every night. All of me.”

“You didn’t offer.”

“I did. You just pretended not to hear.”

You make her come with your fingers buried deep and your palm grinding against her clit. She bites her own hand to muffle the noise.

You don’t stop.

You slide down her body and hold her thighs open with unforgiving strength.

“Look at me.”

She does.

You don’t kiss like you’re being kind. You kiss like you’re making a point.

Your tongue drags over her—slow and precise. You keep eye contact as she whimpers. When she tries to squirm away, you pin her harder.

She comes again. Louder. Broken.

Still, you don’t stop.

You want to see her unravel. Entirely. Want her too sore to walk. Want her to remember.

When you finally rise, her hair is wild, her lipstick gone, her eyes glassy with overstimulation.

“You don’t get to pretend anymore,” you whisper.

“I wasn’t pretending.”

You arch a brow. “You just liked pretending I was the villain.”

“Maybe I did.”

“And now?”

She lays beside you. Silent. Breathing shallow.

You watch her from the shadow of the headboard.

“Tell me you didn’t want this,” you say.

She doesn’t reply.

“I would’ve stayed,” you add softly. “If you’d asked me.”

She turns her head then. Meet your eyes in the dark.

“I couldn’t,” she says. “Not when I didn’t even know what it was.”

You nod.

Understand.

But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.

You were centuries old. Still, heartbreak never stopped tasting new.

————————————————————————

taglist: @weemssapphic , @im-a-carnivorous-plant , @dingdongthetail , @gwensfz , @erablaise-blog , @rainbow-hedgehog , @renravens , @kaymariesworld , @niceminipotato , @witchesmortuary @notmeellaannyy , @weemswife , @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 , @redkarine , @women-are-so-ethereal , @opheliauniverse , @willisnotmental l , @raspburrythief , @fictionalized-lesbian , @ness029 , @geekyarmorel l , @h-doodles , @cxndlelightx , @m1lflov3rrr r , @winterfireblond @nocteangelus15 , @aemilia19 @spacetoaim22 @vendocrap8008 8 @jkregal @gela123 @lilfartbox1 @xuukoo @bellatrixsbrat @sadsapphic-rose @dumbasslesbi @larissalover3 @friskyfisher @fliesinmymouth @imprincipalweemspet @forwhichidream11 @amateurwritescm @imlike-so-gaydude @sugipla @lvinhs @http-sam @gweninred @a-queen-and-her-throne

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

just clocked in at the hater factory . watch the duck out

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

Do you block people in the same fandom as you just because you don't like their takes?

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

Does anyone older than me want to have kind of a weird problematic thing going on

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

your daughter is a pleasure to have on the dashboard

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

GIF REQUEST MEME - 12. FAVORITE SEASON: SEASON FOUR (requested by @softtdaisy <3)

bonus: she didnt come out as nice as i wanted but i wanted to include her anyways <3

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

we all need to get more gross more freaky and more perverted right NOW

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

Agatha All Along I Maiden Mother Crone

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

CRIMINAL MINDS EVOLUTION 18x09 - 'CollateRal'

this wasn't supposed to be so hot

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

do me a favor and reblog this and put in the tags what time it is for you and what you're currently doing/thinking about

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

when ur mutuals are mutual with each other 

pro: squad con: i saw this post like 18 times today

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

ours, not his. — e. prentiss

wc: 900ish?

content: a whole lot of devotion and loving + it gets a bit freaky deaky. mentions of emily’s scars from the doyle arc. not proofread. emily is insecure. i may have lost the plot, lmk if u find it

an: its 2am

Pale, shaky hands wrapped around your wrists, the air that was being shared between you now filled with uncertainty, a new kind of tension. Her eyes flickered with the same uncertainty that tainted the atmosphere, lips slightly parted as if she was going to speak.

Emily’s grip faltered, torn between the want in her veins and the brandings on her skin. You let go of the hem of her shirt, moving your hands to her face instead.

“What’s wrong?” You whispered, faces in the same tilted position, noses almost touching, lips swollen with kisses.

Her eyes flickered again, breath faltering, her head shaking almost imperceptibly. “I..”

“It’s not��It’s not what you remember.” She said, voice teetering on shame as she avoided your gaze.

You ducked your head, chasing after her gaze like a moth to a flame.

“you don’t know what I remember.” You said, looking up at her from the odd angle you had settled your head into just so you could meet her eyes.

“I know what you haven’t seen.” She responded quietly, eyebrows knitting together.

“then, show me..” You prompted again, bringing her face back up with a curled finger under her chin.

Her resolve had begun crumbling the moment she had a taste of your lips after so long, the locked cage she’d kept her heart in for years rusting at the breathiness of your tone—bars which had been masterfully soldered bending under the weight of your half-lidded gaze.

With a shaky breath, she began unbuttoning her shirt, tears brimming at her eyes as her throat bobbed uncertainly. Her hands shook with each button she undid, fingers stumbling.

But, you didn’t rush her, you didn’t push.

You waited, watched as she opened herself up to you, watched as Emily revealed her deepest vulnerabilities in the shape of a four-leafed clover and a diagonal line.

She held her breath, watching as you took her in, eyes raking over places she refused to look at herself.

you’d recognize that clover anywhere.

seared hot into her skin, a reminder of her pain, a branding keeping him alive even in death. Your eyes flickered from the scar to her face, noting the way she avoided your gaze once more, how she seemed ready to do what she did best. Run.

she was about to pull her shirt closed when you reached for the lapels, hands moving under it, roaming over her skin as you gently pushed it off her shoulders, causing it to pool at her bent elbows.

“Nothing’s changed.” You whispered, breath ghosting her lips as you ran your fingertips over her ribs. “Not to me.”

She searched your eyes, trying to convince herself that there was something belying your tone. Something behind your words that she hadn’t quite grasped in her haze of desire.

But she found none. Instead she was met with a familiar gaze, one she’d pictured late into nights where everything seemed fleeting. Her hope personified once more.

You reached out.

She looked up.

Choosing to focus on the bumps of the ceiling instead of the way you were touching her like you were following a trail you’d hiked over and over again. Familiar and sure, oh so sure of yourself.

Your nose nudged her jaw, Fingers tracing over the dusty pink littering the pale of her stomach. Her muscles twitched under the touch as if she were trying to get away. But, you wouldn’t let her. Not again, anyway.

Your touch was as soft as it was sweet, the longing that had brittled her bones fading with every kiss you planted on her exposed neck. Walls she’d spent years building crumbling as you trailed your lips down the column of her throat.

She watched, breath heavy through parted lips as you ghosted your lips over the cusp of her bra. The contact sending sparks through her skin as you kissed the spot.

The feeling of your lips, the warmth of your mouth, the softness of your movements made her forget all about what laid under your touch. The pain was momentarily atoned, the weight of your devotion leaving no space for her insecurity, no space for him.

It was a slow dance of discarded clothing and wandering hands as the sun set over the district. Words weren’t necessary between the two of you.

Not when you read her like scripture, analyzing the lines of her body as if she held the answers to the universe. Whispering her name in tongues unheard of, you were expertly rewriting the history of her body, turning what she thought was cursed into your own version of holiness, finding sacred redemption in the sanctuary of her thighs. Every taste of her pleasure like a little slice of heaven.

The rustled sheets became testimonials of your devotion. Every arch of her back a silent prayer, every tug on your hair a claim of her salvation. There, in that bed, you provided her with a fresh start—A deathless death as you reclaimed what she’d lost.