#I'm never rendering another work like this one again

[woundcat]

last rb also made me think of this, but when I talk about grooming in regard to the ratliff brothers, I also think about lochlan's awareness of the situation within the family structure.

when lochlan engages in saxon's sexual overtures he becomes something more substantial than the child he's always been to the ratliffs, and he knows that. he finally feels something other than the usual rules. (he may not be allowed to feel things on his own, he may only be told what he needs to know, he may only be an adult when his family says it's okay, he may only want things when someone tells him what to want. he still occupies a very classic child-space within the nuclear family). he enjoys feeling needed/wanted by piper, but that's different. he's still her baby brother. he needs to please saxon by being the sexual project that his brother works on in order to enact his hypersexual alpha male fantasy. and that's new, that's different and confusing, because he's not a kid anymore. it feels weird, but what else is there? if not this, then how else to de-kidify himself. "one day I'm gonna take you down" is such a sad little attempt at gaining agency, but to him, it probably feels empowering.

lochlan's not just a kid who's been a passive actor in his relationship with saxon, on some level he knows what he's giving to get the validation he needs. no one gives him the validation that only adults seem to be able to access. he's not important to his perfect nuclear family unless they want something out of the role he plays (e.g. piper asking him to come to dinner, timothy using him as a catalyst through which to justify poisoning the rest of family). lochlan's always going to be placed into child-status with them, and children are so often rendered into objects.

that makes it hard for lochlan to identify which one of them is doing it correctly. which version of objectification is most correct? when saxon believes in his ability to fuck, it must be a good thing, right? and never mind that saxon basically labels him as young fucking cum, at least he's handing him a beer and giving him the world.

and I don’t think saxon actively wants to become the new ratliff patriarch at this point. he's still depending on daddy. his goal is still tim's approval. but he's an adult now and has been for some time, and yet he's stuck doing what he's told. he needs power to become that figure, and sex is his power, and so turning his gay effeminate brother into a (hetero)sexual being is power too. THE power, maybe. because if he can make lochlan (the child, the object, the project) into a MAN then maybe he's a real man too. 

only it blows up in his fucking face because guess what - saxon is also a victim of the nuclear family, and the kid in him is floundering. (not to say their victimhood is mutual or at the same level + and I don't love that as an identifier). I mean it's the perfect conditions for sibling incest, really. the child's need for power can only be fulfilled by the other child who desires the same comforts. the child is now a man and the man is now a child. the man fills the child-shaped hole of his brother. lol. no one is happy.

what lochlan needed was a channel through which he could explore his young adult sexuality outside of his family and feel like human being. but unfortunately he took the one that was right in front of him because it looked the most appealing and for a moment he felt good and sick and good again. at least he's felt things he's never felt before. and despite all of this, in the end he's still chided for kiddish hero-worship and sees his family all godlike in the lights as he dies, because they are all he knows. project unsuccessful. 

tldr: it's all about the STRUCTURES!!

I also think there is covert incest operating in other family dynamics ie. saxon and his parents / piper and lochlan. but another conversation for another day.

[ang-900]

A snapshot in the early days of Dash Max's accidental baby acquisition where his teammates prove themselves traitors as they laugh at Dash Max struggling to capture Sideswipe.

[cerisereids]

𝗖𝗮𝗻'𝘁 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗦𝗲𝗲 𝗜 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗺 𝗔𝘁 𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁?- 𝗦.𝗥. [𝗽𝘁.𝟮]

Pairing- PostPrison!Spencer x Bombshell!Reader

WC- 5.6k somebody sedate me

Summary- The BAU receives an invitation to the annual FBI gala. Spencer can't seem to handle the amount of attention you get.

Contains- the fallout from part 1, brief Spencer POV, reader gets sad and tipsy, a little proofread but not fully, Spencer is hot and insecure, Penelope is the best always

A/N- part one here! Thank you to everyone who is enjoying this <3

Spencer's eyes never leave the sparkle and shine of that godforsaken gold dress. The dress that'll give him an aneurysm eventually, a fate he's already accepted. He can't help but take in her beauty, but the longer he looks at her, the stronger the guilt creeping up his spine. He rubs the back of his neck with his palm, his heart constricting even tighter at the sight of her. She's all the way across the room, resting against the bar while he resides in the corner. Her back arches as she adjusts her weight to the other foot. It's just as she had done earlier in the night with him right next to her. This time, she's solo. It won't be for long.

He knows that's not fair, but he can't help it. The way nearly every man has sized her up like a piece of prime beef is enough to make him sick and self conscious all at once. He glances briefly at his stomach, poking out slightly from his suit jacket. He's still not used to the way his body changed in prison. It's a despicable combination wrapped up neatly in a bowtie. He studies her, the way her brows furrow, the small downward tilt of her lips as she waits for her drink. There's that guilt again. He wants to kiss off the pout. Knowing he's the cause of it, though, he stays put.

It takes nearly everything in him to stay that way, especially when yet another Ken doll in a professionally tailored suit finds his way to her. Heat burrows deep in his belly as he watches her swing her hair over one shoulder, plastering her best smile. He's the only one who should be on the receiving end of such a flirtatious smile. But, once again, he's the one who put himself in this situation- ruminating alone in the corner. He knows he can't complain, though seeing the man fiddle with her dress strap renders that point moot. Fire burns within him anyway.

He's white knuckling his glass so tightly, he's surprised it hasn't shattered. His free hand is curled into a ball at his side, his fingernails leaving crescent moons in his palm. He leans his head back, hitting, the floral wallpaper behind him, sinking into self pity like quicksand. His eyes aim toward the ceiling, studying the intricate pattern adorning it. All night, he hadn't realized there was an entire mural up there. Probably because he had his own work of art, up until 20 minutes and 17 seconds ago.

He smells Rossi before he sees him, his expensive, smokey cologne announcing his presence. Spencer tilts his head down, meeting Rossi's eyes. His brow is quirked, a knowing look lacing his gaze. It's pitying, a stare that indicates just how badly he's fucked up tonight.

"I'm not going to tell you anything you don't already know," he begins, and it takes everything within Spencer not to roll his eyes. He knows it's petulant, sue him. "What I will say, is if you are not going to make things right with a sweet, intelligent, beautiful woman that looks at you as if you've hung the moon and stars..." he trails off, shaking his head and chuckling in disbelief. "Then you're not that much of a genius, after all." He claps a hand on Spencer's shoulder before walking off, as if he'd never been there at all.

Spencer's standing straight now, his own brows nearly at his hairline. His face is white, as if he'd just seen a ghost. He hadn't realized how much of the team had picked up on his relationship with her. Now, as he watches Rossi walk back to the team's table, he realizes all of them know. He's right, Spencer isn't that much of a genius.

You're approached by a man at the bar. Again. Each time is like a crack to your chest. You smile anyway. If nothing else, out of pure politeness. You know none of these men deserve it, though it turns out the one man you thought did, doesn't either. Who are you to judge who's worthy of your time?

You face the newest man who's decided to take on the challenge of flirting with you. He's not bad, when you look at him. He's tall and lean, muscular, but not too buff. You almost forget about Spencer. Almost. You turn to face him, leaning your elbow against the bar.

"Hi," you bat your lashes at him, a movement so perfected, it's near robotic. Not that any of these men would care regardless.

"Hello," he croons, eyes scanning your frame in a way that twists your stomach. "How's tonight been treatin' ya so far?" He takes a sip of his beer, his lips ghost over the bottle in a desperate act of nonchalance.

You chuckle, imagining giving him a truthful answer. "I'm awful. My workplace situationship basically called me a slut and told me he doesn't want me even though I'm practically in love with him. You?"

"Fine," you say instead.

"Just fine?" he responds, and his sinister smile makes you regret giving him the time of day. "With a dress like that, I thought you'd be doing more than fine." He inches closer to you, the sleeve of his suit jacket now brushing up against your arm.

In a moment of divine intervention, the bartender cuts through the two of you with your drink. You accept gleefully, chugging the contents of the glass in record time. The man's eyes widen the more you drink, your neck flexing as you gulp down the remains. The empty glass hits the bar with a delicate clink. Your gaze meets the stranger's, his one of horror. You wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb, eyebrows raising in an expression that says 'try me'.

"I'm just fine. Have a nice night!" You chirp, patting his shoulder with your hand before walking off.

You're lightheaded now, each step like you're walking on cotton candy clouds. You whisk a champagne flute from a server's tray on your way back to the table, dramatically falling in the seat. You throw your head back, finishing your drink in time to snag another. Each sip rids any thought of professionalism. If the bureau wants to provide an open bar, they should expect such results.

A profound sadness washes over you once you finish the drinks. A pout laces your lips as your eyes find the floor, your matching pumps sparkling in the light. You wiggle your foot back and forth, happy to concentrate on something, anything other than Spencer. A pink stiletto comes into view, opposite your shoe. You whip your head up to find Penelope, the movement causing your vision to blur.

"Ooh!" You softly squeal, bringing two fingers to your temple in order to steady the spinning room.

"You're okay, my dear," Penelope says, her own hand resting on the back of yours. It steadies you in a way you didn't expect. Leave it to Penelope to know. "Want to take a stroll with me, sweetheart?" You swoon at the pet name, instantly full of adoration for your friend. So much, adoration, that you don't even care that she wants to talk about Spencer. You can tell from the pitying look in her eye. You suppose a change of scenery can't hurt.

You hold your hand out for her to take, and she pulls you to stand. It takes a moment for you to find your bearings, swaying slightly as you rise. Penelope's hands clutch your elbows, once again steadying you.

"My hero," you coo, batting your eyelashes at the most deserving person in the whole room.

"You're drunk," she assesses. "Let's go."

"Wow! Look at those analytical skills! It's like you're in the FBI or something!" Your comment is playful, not a bit of malice as you let Penelope lead you outside.

Fresh air hits your lungs, clearing them of the ailments of tonight. You take as many deep breaths as you can, savoring the floral smell of the gardens you walk past. Roses, lilies, and tulips align the shrubbery. It provides a beautiful view as you walk through the complex pathway. You walk in silence for the first few minutes. The only sound accompanying you are the splashes of water coming from the large fountain in the middle of the garden.

It’s large, so much so that you have to crane your neck up to see its entirety. It’s a stone carving of a woman, catching a falling man in her arms. Their faces are those of despair, though they’re united. Your heart squeezes at the sight, your eyes glossing over until the view is blurry. Your focus pulls back to Penelope, thanks to the soft tug she gave your bicep. You continue walking. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened, sweet girl?” She asks, and it’s so gentle that you just break. 

Tears flow over your lash line, your pouting lip wobbling as the droplets fall. Penelope immediately pulls you into a hug, shuffling the two of you towards a stone bench tucked away in the garden. You never leave her arms, blubbery words spilling from your lips

“I’m in love with him,” you wail. Penelope rests her head atop yours. 

“Isn’t that a good thing, though?” She inquires. Another sob wracks your chest. 

“He called it off,” it’s meek as it leaves your lips, a direct contradiction of the sob that came before. 

“He did what?” She holds you out in front of her, taking a good, long look at you. 

“He called it off. Said there’s a part of him that thinks we won’t work, I said I thought the same, because it is true…you remember what I told you earlier tonight, right?” Penelope nods her head, and you can only be thankful for her understanding as you blabber. “The second things get hard, he calls it. I mean, is that a sign?” Your elbows rest on your thighs as you look toward Penelope, eyes glistened with tears. 

She takes in the crushed look on your face before pulling out her phone and sending a text. “I’m calling in reinforcement. This is a job for all the ladies.”

You rest your head on her shoulder as you shake with more sobs. You’re so grateful for Penelope Garcia. 

You haven’t been this anxious to step into the BAU since your first day on the job. Your spine tingles in anticipation, clammy palms rolled together in little fists as you make your way to the bullpen. Spencer’s already here. You spotted the mop of brown curls the moment you walked through the door. You keep your head down, praying he doesn’t see you, hear you. 

The ruffly sleeves bunch around your bicep as you juggle your coffee and purse. You set them down at your desk, dread pooling in your stomach at the stack of case files on your desk. You thank whatever deity above convinced you to get a cold coffee this morning, given the air conditioning had blown out the night before. It was great news to wake up to- a mass text sent by Emily in warning. A paperwork day, on one of the hottest days of the year, with no AC. Perfect.

You fan yourself with a manila folder as you settle in at your desk, kitty-corner from Spencer’s. You used to celebrate the fact that you had a direct view of him from your seat. You never imagined you’d one day resent it the way you do now, every sight of him a flash of lightning in your heart. 

You see his head pick up ever so slightly as you set your items down on your desk. It’s a subtle lift, unnoticeable to an untrained eye. Unfortunately for you, your eyes are trained specialists in all things Spencer Reid. You see his head swivel ever so slightly, his chin resting on his shoulder. He stops it before his gaze meets yours. The air is stolen from your lungs. If you could zoom in, you would. He has dark circles under his eye, his pink lips pouty and droopy. You shake the thought of kissing them from your head. 

You hear footsteps approaching and you dart your gaze back to your desk, an infinitely less attractive view awaiting you. You open a manila folder, grabbing your coffee and favorite pen- a light pink one with a fuzzy top, like Cher’s. You begin to sift through your first file, seemingly needing a sip of coffee every time you read a new sentence. By the time you’re on your third case, you’re already standing to go make a new cup. Hot or cold, you need some more caffeine. 

You’re not the only one needing more coffee, it seems. You stop, cold in your tracks seeing Spencer in the kitchen, resting against the counter by the percolating coffee pot. The way he leans on his elbows mirror Saturday night, and a chill unzips your spine at the deja vu. You take slow steps into the kitchen, realizing it’d look worse to turn around and leave than to just stay. Plus, you really needed more coffee. Your stomach sinks when you realize Spencer is immediately below the cupboard residing your favorite mug. 

You straighten your spine, puffing your chest in a show of faux-confidence before walking over there. His eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon your approach, an unintentional flinch reverberating between the two of you. You briefly pause, momentarily shocked at his reaction to seeing you for the first time since Saturday. Since he called things off. You don’t say anything, can’t say anything. Not now. If you say something now, you’re sure you’ll get fired for workplace misconduct. Though, the fact that Spencer Reid kissed you like he’s starved and you’re his only life source, and now is treating you like a complete stranger should be considered workplace misconduct in and of itself. 

“Excuse me, I need my mug,” your voice is soft, raspy, almost a whisper. As if too much noise would shatter the glass wall built between you two. It takes him a minute to react, like he wasn’t expecting you to talk to him. He nods, almost dumbly, before moving away. 

Your dress swishes past him, the chiffon lightly grazing his forearm as you wiggle your way in the space. You reach up for on your tip toes for your pink, sparkly mug that reads ‘Being Kind Is Free, Unless I Don’t Like You.’ A gag gift from Penelope that makes the whole office laugh every time. You stick it under the Keurig machine, popping in a French vanilla pod before clicking start. 

The rumble of the coffee makers is the only noise taking up the dense air. Your eyes flit everywhere but to Spencer. His do the same. 

His coffee is done before yours, and he’s speedy with his cream and sugar, frantically stirring them in before leaving the room. You didn’t even notice Emily was in there until he squeezed past her to get out the door. Your cheeks heat up, your heart racing not knowing what she saw, what she heard. Though it was virtually nothing, to you, any moment with him was everything. After this weekend, that couldn’t feel more pathetic. 

“Jesus, it’s like the Treaty of Versailles is happening in here,” her sarcasm rings through the room like a bell. 

Your cheeks heat at the comment, now fully aware of how awkward this interaction might look to outsiders. You turn from her, grabbing your mug in a weak attempt to get out of the conversation. You even consider foregoing cream and sugar just to get out of there. That’s how you know something is really wrong. It would only look worse to Emily. 

“You don’t think everyone sees the way he looks at you?” Emily’s voice is quiet, gentle but firm. You close your eyes, a shuddering breath raking through your lungs. You pinch the bridge of your nose, letting out a deep exhale. 

“He didn’t look at me at all. I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” you mutter, preparing your coffee the way you like it- cream and sugar in abundance. 

Your voice is clipped, and you feel bad for speaking to her this way. You know she’s only trying to help, but you can’t have this conversation at work. You simply can’t. This conversation needs to happen where tears and bottles of wine can flow freely. Mostly, it needs to happen somewhere that Spencer Reid isn’t. When you’re done making your coffee, you turn to face Emily, plastering a smile on your lips that doesn’t meet your eyes. 

“I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl, ‘m tough. I can handle it. Promise,” the last word is breathy as it escapes your lips. Your heart sinks, knowing that Emily will likely call you on that. 

Mercifully, she spares you, probably noticing how badly you want to talk about any other possible topic. She nods, it’s curt and disbelieving, almost like she doesn’t want to do it at all. You nod back in the same manner before your kitten heels click back to your desk. You stop once again when you find Spencer standing at your desk. His brow is furrowed, annoyance lacing his gaze. He taps a case file on your desk, as if waiting for you is the most tedious task he’s ever been put through. You roll your eyes before approaching. 

“Can I help you?” You don’t mean for it to sound so snarky, but it seems you simply can’t help yourself when it comes to him. What right does he have to look so irritated? Especially when he knows where you were, and why you’re not talking. 

“Yeah.” His answer is short, gruff. He avoids eye contact with you again. You roll your eyes, since he can’t see them anyways. You pop a hand on your hip, a brow raised in question. 

He looks over at you then, your silence prompting the movement. It’s electric, the way your stomach sparks when he looks at you. It’s like being electrocuted, now, nothing akin to the fireworks you felt before. You stand there for a minute, a silent standoff while you fully take each other in for the first time since Saturday night. His eyes eventually find your collarbone, moving down slightly towards your chest. He takes in your dress, the airy fabric flowing around your hips in a way that has him ticking his jaw. Your heart can’t help but pick up speed as you clock the movement, a clear tell that he’s still thinking about you the same way you’re still thinking about him. 

“What do you want?” You snap, and he flinches back to reality. He clears his throat before talking. 

“You have a case file I need.”

You wave your hand around in a gesture that says ‘...and?’ He continues without further prompting. 

“The 2013 Carrigan family case,” he mutters. You brush past him to get to the other side of your desk, and you’re not prepared for the proximity. Twice now, you’ve felt the soft linen of his button down shirt, the tickle of his tie against your arm. Twice now, Spencer’s felt the light graze of your dress, caught the scent of your perfume as you passed. You swallow the lump in your throat as you begin to search. 

Your fingers clutch onto the file named ‘2013 C. Family’, desperate to give it to him so he can finally go. You hand it out to him, and when he reaches to take it, your fingers brush. It’s another electrocution, the hair on your arms standing, goosebumps rising to the skin. His hand lingers there for a moment, long, deft fingers briefly squeezing tighter around yours before he pulls away. Once he does, the case file finds his other hand, the one that was touching yours flexing ever so slightly. It makes your heart boil. 

“Thanks,” he nods. You nod back. Then, he’s gone. 

You’re taking a much needed break for lunch, holed up in Penelope’s cave while you eat Chinese takeout. You grasp a noodle with your chopsticks, lifting it to your mouth in a way you’d only do in front of your closest friend. You watch her momentarily as she finishes filling out a document on one of her many screens. She punctuates her last letter with a perfunctory click, then promptly turns to you. 

“So. What is going on with The Good Doctor?” Penelope asks, picking up her own container of noodles. You adjust in your seat. Alright, getting right to the point. You see how it is. You avoid looking at her while you think of how to respond. You purse your lips, which quickly turns into a wobble as tears well in your eyes. She sets her food down, moving to hug you in record speed.

“Oh, honey, c’mere,” she coos, stroking your hair.

“I-it’s been awful!” You confess, small little cries racking your body. “It’s like he’s a stranger, like I’ve never met him before in my entire life. It sucks.”

“I know, I know,” she rocks you back and forth slightly, the gesture bringing a smile to your face. “Have you thought about maybe talking to him? You both seem out of sorts today.”

You pull your head from her arms almost immediately, a bewildered look on your face. Penelope holds her hands up in surrender, plopping back on her chair and resuming her meal. 

“I’m just saying,” she begins, around a mouth full of noodles. “You both seem kind of miserable, and have since Saturday night. Think of the common denominator here.” She raises her brow, and you scoff, rolling your eyes. 

“I don’t want to talk to him. He called things off. If anything, he should be the one talking to me!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. Not at Penelope, but the mere thought of groveling to Spencer. It’s enough to make your skin crawl. 

“I had a feeling you were going to say that…” she trails off, a knowing tone in her voice. 

You sit up straighter. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You inquire, albeit a bit defensively. Penelope just shrugs. 

“I’m just saying, I love you both very much, but you’re both very stubborn. I just don’t want either of you to walk away from something out of stubbornness, especially before giving it a real shot. That’s all.”

It’s so profound, you want to scream. You look at Penelope, really look at her. She really looks back. It momentarily shifts your world on its axis, until you remember the way he spoke to you out in the bullpen. Your walls dart back up, and your eyes find occupancy on her desk. 

“Fine,” she shrugs, all too nonchalantly for your liking. “If you want to be stubborn, I do have one more answer for you.”

Your eyes dart back to hers, your lips swirling around your last noodle. “What is it?” At this point, you’re desperate for anything that will get you away from him. 

“Maybe work in the conference room for a little bit?” She suggests. You tilt your head to the side, thinking, almost like a curious dog. “A change of scenery might be helpful, y’know, so you’re not forced to stare at that gorgeous mop of curls all day.”

You roll your eyes at that, but ultimately agree. Once you wrap up your lunch, you make your way to the conference room with a box of files. As you walk through the bullpen, you notice an alarming lack of Spencer. His bag is gone, the files from his desk absent as well. You stop for a moment, eyes flitting to the conference room window. The table is empty, so you continue your journey there. 

Once you’re in, you spot Spencer, working on the couch, finishing up a conversation with Emily, who’s standing in the doorway. Her eyes immediately find you, and she makes quick work of shutting the door, the click of the lock following soon after. 

“Emily!” Spencer exclaims, frustration lacing his tone. 

You whip around, attempting to exit from the other way, but Penelope comes out from the other side of it, repeating Emily’s actions.

“Penelope!” You squeal, utter betrayal in every syllable. 

“I know! I’m sorry I tricked you! But you two are so stubborn it’s actually ridiculous! You’re not allowed out until you’re made up!” She punctuates her sentence by shoving a chair under the door. 

You roll your eyes, a huff of frustration falling from your lips. You turn to see Spencer not far behind you, staring at you as if you were the last woman on earth. You set the case files on the table, ignoring him. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, annoyance in his tone as he watches you get started on the file you’d been working on before this abhorrent interruption. 

“I’m working, what does it look like?” Your tone is cold, short. It’s especially hot in the conference room, the lack of airflow on either side nearly suffocating. You tug at the neckline of your dress in a weak attempt of cooling yourself off. 

“That’s not going to do anything,” Spencer huffs, rolling up his shirt sleeves to the forearm. 

“It’s better than just sitting here,” you nearly bark back. 

“Yeah, well maybe if you dressed appropriately for work you wouldn’t be so uncomfortable,” he quips. His words are like a powder keg, shooting you out of your seat in record speed. 

You face him, so close you can smell the musk of his cologne, and it makes you dizzy. It doesn’t drown out the anger, the frustration, the hurt. 

“Spencer, you have so much nerve making a comment on the way I’m dressed. If I recall correctly, you don’t want me anymore. So what’s the problem?” You exclaim, finally at your limit. Your heart burns as you watch the emotion shift on his face, frustration, heartbreak, longing. 

He flinches at your words, and it only aggravates the flame to your heart. 

“Spencer, you-” you stop yourself, looking away from him before you spill everything. 

“What? I’m what?” He asks. “An asshole? A coward? Believe me, I know.”

The pitying tone in his voice sends heat rushing to your face, anger pulsing through your veins. 

“You were the one who called it, Spencer! You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself!” You’re shouting now. You can’t seem to care. Rage and adrenaline seeps through your every pore, drowning you until there’s nothing left but red, hot lava. 

He plows ten fingers through his hair, pacing before you. “You think I don’t know that?” His hushed volume doesn’t match yours, but his tone carries the same amount of venom. You’re both aiming for the kill. 

“Do you really think I haven’t spent every waking moment since Saturday night wishing I could redo it all?” He blurts. Your eyes go wide. 

“Then why did you do it?”  You space out each word like he’s a toddler. You’re beginning to think he might be. 

“Dammit,” he breathes, pulling out a chair from the table and sitting. He rests his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. He runs his fingers through his hair again, before looking up. You study his blank stare out of the conference room window. His gaze is aimless, soulless. 

“I don’t measure up,” he utters. It’s like a whisper, barely audible as he says it. 

You move closer ever so slightly. “You don’t m- what?” You’re bewildered, unsure what he even means. He turns to face you then, a look in his eye one you’ve never seen before. One of insecurity, doubt. 

“I don’t measure up,” he repeats, more audibly this time. You throw up your arms in exasperation. 

“Spencer, am I supposed to know what that means?” You still have an attitude, and you can tell it’s pushing him further and further. 

“How do you think I’m supposed to feel when all I see, all night, is men gawking at you, speaking to you like I’m not even there?” He says, and it hits you like a ton of bricks. You’re not sure whether you’re angry, sad, or confused. You decide on some sort of fucked up venn diagram of all three. 

“Spencer, if that was the problem, then why are you punishing me for it? Men flirt with me. They have my entire life. You’re one of them!” He flinches at your accusation. You keep going, sweat forming on your brow. “If you can’t handle that, if it makes you this upset with me, then maybe we made the right choice.”

A silence falls between you at that, tension so thick it’s as suffocating as the heat swamping the room. He stares at you. It’s long, loaded- full of everything he wants to say. After long, gruesome minutes, Spencer breaks the silence. 

“It’s not that I’m upset with you,” is all that comes from him. It’s hushed, frustrated as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Then what?” Your voice is venomous, dripping from your tongue. 

“It was just too much. Too much for me to see these men with you, men who skate through life without a care in the world. Men who aren’t carrying the baggage of a wrongful prison sentence. Men who aren’t a completely different person now because of it,” Spencer confesses, and it’s like a wrecking ball swung through the room. 

You battle the intensity of your emotions- the pity, the anger, the longing. They swirl within you like a tornado, your insides a flurry of emotion. You sympathize with him, you really do, but why couldn’t he have just spoken with you about it? You tell him such. 

“Spencer, do you really think I want to be with any of the bottle blondes that were approaching me Saturday night?” You inquire, a hand on your hip. “I turned them all down. You saw it, in fact.”

“I know I did,” Spencer grits out, frustration lacing his tone.

“Why couldn’t you just talk to me about it? Why was your first instinct to run? I guess that’s just what scares me the most, that whenever something serious happens, you’ll call it,” your words start to become choked in your throat, tears springing to your eyes. 

“I didn’t want to call it,” he breathes, fists tugging at his hairline. 

“So then why did you?” Your voice rises in frustration. You feel like you’re on a carousel with him, dizzy and nauseous, unable to get off. 

“Because I’m-” he stops, as if he’s not sure he wants to continue. You raise a brow, and he does. “Because I’m so pathetically in love with you. I have been the second I saw you. And I know, deep down, that I’ll never be enough for someone like you. So I ran.”

It rocks you to your core, knocking the wind straight out of you. You gape at him a moment, watching the panic rise in his face. You place a tentative hand on his arm, stopping him from the self conscious thoughts in his head. 

“I never wanted to call it either,” you whisper, as if the air around you would shatter if you spoke too loudly. “I love you, too.” He deflates at this, relief washing over him. He pulls you to him, but you stop before his lips can touch yours. 

“I want you to know though, if you ever try that again, you won’t get me back,” you raise a pointed brow at him and he nods. You grab onto his collar and continue. “You need to talk to me when you’re feeling this way, m’kay?” He nods again, as if he’s a dog and you’re his owner, wielding a bone. 

His forehead rests against yours, his eyes falling shut as he breathes a potent, “I’m sorry.” You relent, touching your lips to his in the sweetest kiss. He grips onto you like you’re his lifeline, deft fingers gripping the chiffon of your dress. He pulls away from the kiss, only slightly. His lips ghost over your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, kissing your jaw. Your eyes fall closed, fingers gripping the hair on the nape of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, lips trailing down your neck. 

You tilt your head to give him more access, his hand splaying against the small of your back to pull you closer. “Spencer,” you murmur, half in a daze at the soft touch of his lips. 

“Hm?” he murmurs, the vibrations tickling your collar bone as he leaves feather light kisses across them. 

“We’re still at work,” you giggle, giving his hair the softest tug. That was a mistake, you realize, as it emanates a moan from him that has your knees buckling. 

“Don’t care,” he mutters, lips finding their way to your ear, biting the lobe. 

“You probably should,” you giggle, even more so when you hear the door creak open ever so slightly, a pair of bespectacled eyes peering in the small open space. “We have an audience.”

This gets his attention, his head whipping around to find the door now wide open, Penelope filling the space with a cheshire smile. 

“You two need to get back to work!” She scolds, and you roll your eyes at the irony. 

“We’ll talk more later?” You ask. He nods, walking you out of the room, his hand still resting on your back as he guides you. You grab his tie, just before you part. Giving it a light tug, you say, “Swing by my place around 6. I’ll get us a pizza. You’re buying.” You punctuate it with one last kiss to his lips. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathes, unbelieving. You could get used to that title.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Vuelve a Mí Pt. I

summary: you and joaquin confront the cause of the end of your relationship.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

wc: 1,002

contents: 18+/minors dni, canon typical violence, angst, break up vibes, pining, longing, intense guilt, illusions to depression

AN: taking a stab at writing joaquin bc i've quickly grown enamored with him. i'm still learning his characterization and how i'd perceive him so be kind with this first try. this is just the first part & there will be another tying things up! i hope yall enjoy and i'm so excited to be back here writing again.

vuelve a mí masterlist

It’s hard to see him like this. Truthfully,  it’s hard to see him at all. Not because of anything he’s done, not even because of how he’s changed while you were gone, but from how you changed. 

It doesn’t make much sense; you had been turned to dust. Crumbled away into literal nothingness. And yet, when you returned everything felt different. Nothing, not your passions, your job, your family— Joaquin— felt like it was yours anymore. 

When you’d come back, you felt so disconnected from everything. You questioned who you were and what your purpose was, especially since so many people in your life had carried on. 

Joaquin included. 

He wasn’t Falcon when you left. He had never touched the suit. Sure he had wanted to, he had his aspirations but you had always imagined that you’d be right there to support him. 

But here you sat. Sam called you immediately, not knowing the hospital had too. You were still Joaquin’s emergency contact— after all these years he hadn’t changed it. 

So here you sit, a book in your hands as you patiently waiting for him to wake up. The doctors assured that he would wake up, he was in critical condition but young and healthy. ‘A fighter’ they’d said.

“You came.”

His voice startles you, and you flinch slightly, losing your place in the pages.

He grins apologetically, “Sorry, querida, didn’t mean to scare you.”

It takes effort to not get lost in his smile, especially after thinking that you might have lost him for good. 

You fortify yourself, crossing your arms against your chest, “More than you already have?”

“You’re one to talk, honey.”

You know exactly what he means. All the abandonment of relationships, taking risks to better understand yourself. He and others have made it clear that they’re worried about you, that you aren’t the same. Confirmation of what you’re most afraid of. 

“I don’t want to argue, not when you’re like this.”

He raises a brow at you playfully, “But some other time maybe? Over dinner?”

“Joaquin…”

You watch him physically deflate and it breaks your heart. He shakes his head, giving you a weak smile, “It was worth a shot, wasn’t it?”

“I’m sorry. I, um, I shouldn’t have come.”

“I’d be offended if you hadn’t,” He murmurs lowly.

Something inside you flutters at the soft huskiness of his voice and you’re rendered speechless for a handful of moments. Forced to acknowledge just how much you’ve missed him. Finally, you’re able to say, “I don’t know what you want me to say, Quino.”

“I don’t know, maybe something that explains why we aren’t together anymore.”

“I’ve explained that.”

“And it still doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s not fair, you don’t understand. You weren’t gone. You got to live your life with no interruptions, with no hiccups. And I got— I got nothing. I was nothing.”

He sits up, flinching as he does. You try to calm things— you had really meant it when you said you didn’t want to fight. But when Joaquin is worked up, when he believes in something his passion can’t be quelled. Isn’t that what got him here in the first place? 

He barrels past your attempts to shush him, his gaze piercing into yours as he does. “You’re right, I don’t understand. But what you don’t understand is how heartbreaking it was having to go on without you. My life was interrupted, the love of my life was taken from me and more than ever I had to serve my country. The one person that has ever truly understood me was gone. That’s a fucking hiccup if I’ve ever seen one. So no, it's not the same. No, I don’t understand, but it wasn’t easy for me. It’s never been easy without you— not before and definitely not after.”

As you listen to Joaquin’s words, you must face not only what the two of you lost together, but what he lost on his own. His struggle, his pain, forces you to turn away from your own and see his in a new light. And for the first time since you opened your eyes after being blipped, you feel like you’ve made a huge mistake. You’ve done nothing but hurt yourself and the ones you love by being swallowed by how the unknown may have changed you. 

You gave up. On yourself, on your friends and family. On Joaquin.

Your chest goes tight and you freeze as your body is flooded with emotion. It took this— him injured and angry for you to come to your senses? 

What have you done? 

“Hey, vuelve a mí,” He murmurs so gently that the tears in your eyes start to fall. “Lo siento, querida, I didn’t mean to make you cry.” 

With sharp, quick movements you wipe away your tears and stand. “I shouldn’t have come,” You repeat, stepping closer to him, resting your hand over his gently. “I’m really glad you’re okay Joaquin but I— I have to go.”

“Wait, we can talk about this, figure it out like we did before? Don’t go,” He flips his hand over in yours, lacing your fingers together.

“I’m not ready. I’m sorry. For everything, I’m so sorry,” You whisper brokenly. He squeezes your hand, running his thumb over yours in an attempt to soothe you. It only makes the guilt inside you plant itself deeper.

You swallow, shaking your head. Your mind is made up.  “Me being here…it’s just going to fuck up everything further. I’m sorry.

“Baby, that’s not—“

“Be well, Quino. Please,” you implore, untangling your hands and darting for the door.

He calls after you. Calls and calls, exerting effort you know his healing body shouldn’t. And yet, you can hear him trying until the elevator doors close. Something inside you continues to feel him. As you walk to your car, as you eat dinner later that night, as you crawl into your bed made for two. That yearning, that ache…it doesn’t change your mind. 

> pt. II

let me know if you'd like to be on my joaquin taglist!

[kiwriteswords]

possible whump request 🫣 reader getting hurt during a case and having to be hospitalized and hotch feeling off the charts guilty because he feels like it’s his fault so he distances himself? ty ily

The Guilt He Holds [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Ki2k Masterlist||MainMasterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 4k|| AN: Hii! Thank you for the request. I think Hotch owns the emotion of guilt more than any character I have ever read/watched before, lol. But I hope you enjoy this!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, canon typical violence, canon typical themes, blood, waterboarding, trauma, torture, guilty!hotch, established relationship, potential tbc? (this is becoming my norm because I never know when to stop), Protective and reckless Hotch, BAU Reader

Summary: After a heated argument drives you to seek some air, you are kidnapped by an unsub. This incident forces Hotch to confront his guilt and the torment of nearly losing someone he loves all over again.

As Hotch navigated the cramped corridors of the local precinct, the turmoil in his mind was as narrow as the hallways themselves.

The urgency of the ongoing manhunt clashed violently with his personal conflicts, rendering each step a testament to his barely contained frustration.

"Why are we even discussing this here, at a time like this?" he snapped, pivoting sharply to confront you, his intense gaze burning with a fervor seldom seen beyond the field.

You stood resolute, your voice tinged with frustration. "Because you keep dodging this conversation, Aaron! We need to address it if there's any hope of making this work."

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose, the weight of his dual roles as a leader and a partner pressing down on him. "Look, I care about you, you know that. But we have a killer on the loose, and you want to talk about us? This is exactly why I was against this."

The precinct hummed with activity around them--the constant clatter of keyboards, the sharp ring of phones, the urgent shouts of officers updating one another. Yet, in that moment, their world seemed to narrow to just the two of them, isolated in their bubble of tension.

"I'm not trying to make things difficult," you countered, your voice a blend of pleading and defiance. "But pretending everything is fine isn't working. I need to know where we stand, especially with how closely we work together."

Hotch studied you, his expression set in stone. The risk of jeopardizing both his career and the unexpected relationship weighed heavily on him. "I'm in love with you," he confessed, the words freeing yet fraught with implications. "But I have to be realistic. What if this compromises our work? What if it affects the team?"

You crossed your arms, the hurt evident in your eyes. "And what if it doesn’t? What if we're better together in all aspects? We won’t know unless we try, Aaron."

As the tension escalated, Hotch's frustration crystallized into a biting retort. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this was a mistake--not just us, but assuming you could balance this job and a relationship without one affecting the other.” The words were harsher than intended, and he regretted them instantly.

You recoiled, shock and hurt washing over your face. Silently, you turned and stormed out of the precinct, leaving behind a stunned silence. Hotch remained frozen, haunted by the harshness of his words. He rubbed his face, torn between chasing after you and maintaining his command.

Before he could decide, the precinct door burst open. JJ rushed in, her face pale, her breath short. “Hotch!” she gasped your name, her voice laced with panic. “There’s--there’s blood outside, and her badge…” She held up your badge, smeared with blood, discovered next to a large puddle on the pavement just outside.

Hotch felt the room spin as the gravity of the situation struck him. The argument, his cruel words, and now this horror. Guilt and fear knotted in his stomach. “Show me,” he whispered hoarsely as he followed JJ outside.

Outside, the scene was grim. Fresh blood trailed off around the corner of the building. Hotch's trained eyes quickly scanned the area, piecing together the likely scenario--the unsub might have been waiting, perhaps having followed you from the precinct.

“Get a team out here now! Set up a perimeter, and get Garcia on the line. Check every camera in this area,” he ordered, his voice cutting through the turmoil inside him as he slipped back into his role as unit chief.

His mind raced with the worst possibilities. He had always feared how a relationship could complicate their work, but never like this. His last words to you, so cutting and final, echoed in his mind, haunting him with their potential finality.

“JJ, stay here with the team and coordinate the search. I’m going to check the surrounding area. He can’t have gotten far,” Hotch stated, his voice firm despite the panic gnawing at him. He couldn’t afford to freeze--not when your life hung in the balance.

Following the blood trail that marked your sudden, violent departure, Hotch’s heart pounded against his ribs, driven by fear and adrenaline. He had to find you, had to fix this monumental error. Nothing else mattered now.

As hours passed, the team noted their normally composed leader coming undone. The reality of your absence was crushing. Overwhelmed by guilt and responsibility, Hotch moved mechanically, his usual precision replaced by a haunted, distracted demeanor.

His mind replayed the harsh words he had hurled at you, growing louder with each hour that passed without news of your safety. The precinct felt heavier with his palpable guilt, casting a shadow over everyone present. They exchanged concerned glances, deeply aware of his turmoil but uncertain how to help.

Blaming himself for the argument that put you in harm's way and his failure to protect you, his torment grew. Now, potentially facing the gravest consequence, the thought that he might never rectify his mistake tormented him endlessly.

Then, Garcia's voice cracked through the tension, a beacon of urgent hope. "Hotch, you need to see this," she called out, dread coloring her tone. At her workstation, the sight that met Hotch’s eyes was a live stream of you, tied to a chair, visibly beaten, the intermittent waterboarding a grotesque display of your torment.

Hotch's reaction was immediate and fierce. Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed to furious slits, hands balled into fists, he embodied pure, unbridled rage. The team, taken aback by his intense emotion, rallied to his side, spurred into action.

"Trace it! Now!" he commanded, voice booming through the room. Garcia's fingers flew over the keyboard, tracing the digital breadcrumbs back to their source. Hotch's mind was ablaze with thoughts of rescue and retribution, focused solely on saving you, ending your suffering, and ensuring the unsub would pay dearly.

The torture worsened, and your condition visibly deteriorated on the live feed. Blood streaked across your face, each breath a struggle. Hotch gripped a chair, his knuckles white, tension radiating from him like a storm cloud.

Derek stepped up, voice calm but firm. "Hotch, man, we’re going to get her. Stay focused. You’re no good to her like this," he attempted to ground his friend in reality.

But before Derek could continue, Garcia interrupted with a vital update. "I got it! I got an address!" Her words shook with the weight of the situation.

Hotch’s expression shifted from despair to determined resolve in an instant. "Gear up; we move now!" he ordered, leading a swift charge towards the exit. The team followed, each member fueled by a blend of professional duty and a deep personal stake in your rescue.

As they loaded into the SUVs, the tension was palpable. Hotch’s mind sharpened, focused entirely on the operation. Every second was agonizing, each tick of the clock stretching into eternity as he planned each move, driven by a silent vow to bring you back safely.

As the SUV screeched to a halt outside the decrepit slaughterhouse, Hotch was already out the door, his FBI vest barely secured. The building loomed ominously, its walls echoing the horrors of its past and now, the terror of the present. Hotch didn't wait for backup or even the tactical count of three; driven by the raw urgency of your screams piercing through the silence, he charged in recklessly.

He was certain he heard Derek--maybe even Emily’s voice call after him, but he didn’t wait. He just went.

The interior was a labyrinth of dark, narrow corridors, the air thick with the stench of decay and old blood that mingled with a faint, metallic scent of fresh blood--yours. Each cry, each plea that he heard fueled him, tearing at his heart and propelling him forward with increased desperation. The sound of your distress was a siren call he couldn’t ignore, and it guided him through the twisted pathways of the building.

Turning a corner sharply, Hotch came face-to-face with the unsub. The man they had been hunting for what felt like weeks, but it only was days. He stood so much bigger--taller…larger than you. The thought and images of this man taking advantage of you…Hotch couldn’t bare to think of it anymore.

He knew what the other victims went through. He was there were some people out there who would have rathered been dead after being at the hands of this unsub. But you, you fought back as long as you could. 

The man lunged, wild-eyed and frenzied, but Hotch was fueled by a deep, seething rage that had been building since the moment he saw the live feed of your torture. He dodged the initial clumsy swing and grabbed the unsub by the collar, throwing him against the wall.

Hotch’s training was precise, but his emotions were raw and unfiltered. As the unsub struggled, striking out to fend off the attack, Hotch’s response was brutal. He unleashed a flurry of punches, each blow landing with the full weight of his fury and fear for your safety. The unsub tried to shield himself, but Hotch was relentless, driven by the vivid images of your pain that played over in his mind.

With each punch, Hotch felt a mix of satisfaction and horror at his own loss of control. The man beneath him was the source of his worst fears made manifest, and in that moment, Hotch was not just an agent of the law but an avenger, a protector whose love had been weaponized by his terror.

His fists were numb at this point--his entire body, honestly. If he had to think back on the only time he felt rage like this, it was when…it was when he found Haley. But he was too late. 

He couldn’t be too late for you. 

He couldn’t. 

The sounds of the altercation echoed through the empty spaces of the slaughterhouse, a stark and grim symphony that underscored the violence of the confrontation. Hotch’s breaths were heavy, his face splattered with the blood of the man he was punishing. It wasn’t until he heard the shouts of his team, echoing down the hall and approaching fast, that he realized how far he’d gone.

“Hotch! Hotch, stand down!” It was Derek’s voice, firm yet filled with concern, cutting through the haze of Hotch’s red-tinted vision.

He paused, his fists still raised, hovering over the now barely conscious unsub. His chest heaved, and his hands trembled with the adrenaline and aftermath of his onslaught. As his team restrained the unsub and called for medical help, Hotch stepped back, his gaze shifting around, searching for you, needing to see that you were safe, to reassure himself that there was still something left to save.

Rossi's voice barely registered as he tried to intervene, his hands reaching out to grasp Hotch's bloodied fists, an attempt to bring him back from the edge. "Hotch, wait!" he shouted, but it was too late. Hotch was already barreling through the next set of doors, his focus singular and unbreakable.

Inside the grim room, the sight that greeted him was one of stark horror and desperation. You were slumped over in a chair, your body limp with exhaustion and pain. JJ and Emily were by your side, quickly working to untie the wires that dug cruelly into your wrists, their edges slick with your blood. Each movement they made was gentle yet urgent, trying to minimize any further harm.

Hotch froze at the threshold, his heart hammering in his chest as the scene unfolded before him. The room was cold, the only sounds were your soft groans and the quiet reassurances from JJ and Emily as they freed you from your bindings. The air was thick, tinged with the iron scent of blood and the stale mustiness of abandonment.

As Hotch stepped closer, the full extent of your injuries became painfully clear. Bruises in various shades of purple and black marred your face and arms, and blood had stained your clothing. Seeing your once vibrant presence reduced to such a state unleashed a wave of guilt so intense it nearly overwhelmed him. He had seen countless victims, had steeled himself against the worst of humanity, but nothing had prepared him for the sight of you, so broken and vulnerable.

The bile rose in his throat as he approached, his steps faltering. The guilt of knowing his last words to you before this ordeal were steeped in anger and frustration made him feel responsible for every mark on your body. He felt as if he had failed you in the most fundamental way.

"Hey, it's going to be okay," JJ was saying softly as she carefully cut the last of the wire. Emily supported your weight, helping you to lean forward as the final restraint was removed.

Hotch's breath caught in his throat as you looked up, your eyes meeting his. Even through the pain and exhaustion, the relief in your gaze at seeing him was palpable. It was a look that pierced through the chaos, through the guilt and the rage, grounding him in the moment, in the necessity of being there for you now.

"I'm so sorry," he managed to choke out, the words barely a whisper as he knelt beside you, his hand hesitating before gently touching your arm, afraid of causing more pain. "I'm here now. I'm so sorry I wasn't here sooner."

The room seemed to contract around him, the walls echoing back his whispered apologies. As JJ and Emily continued to tend to you, Hotch remained by your side, his presence a silent vow to protect and make amends, no matter what it took.

As the medics flooded into the dim, grimy room, their presence was clearly a blur to you, their movements too sudden and intrusive in the vulnerable state you were in. Even as they reached out to drape a safety blanket over your shoulders, your instincts kicked in--raw and frightened like a cornered animal. 

"Don't touch me!" you managed to rasp out, your voice hoarse and strained from the ordeal.

The medics paused, taken aback by the intensity of your refusal but insistent on their duty. "You need medical attention now," one of them pressed, his tone both firm and clinical.

JJ, always the nurturing presence, tried to soothe you, her voice soft and motherly. "Sweetie, they're here to help you. We need to let them do their job." Her intentions were good, but the words felt like another layer of constraint, another set of hands trying to control you.

"No! Just--just give me a minute, please," you snapped back, the room spinning slightly as you struggled to maintain some semblance of control over what was happening to you.

Caught between his role as a leader and his personal feelings, Hotch watched helplessly for a moment, torn by your evident distress. Seeing another medic reach out to touch you again, he couldn't hold back any longer. "Give her a minute!" Hotch's voice boomed through the room, authoritative and commanding, halting the medic's movements instantly.

He turned to JJ and Emily, his eyes pleading for understanding. "Can you give us the room, please?" he asked quietly, the gravity of his tone conveying the seriousness of his request.

JJ and Emily exchanged a glance, their expressions a mix of concern and reluctance, but they nodded, trusting Hotch's judgment. They slowly exited the room, their steps retreating into the echo of the hollow, abandoned building.

Now alone with you, Hotch approached cautiously, his movements deliberate and gentle. He crouched down to your level, keeping a respectful distance to not overwhelm you further. His voice was soft, a stark contrast to the commanding tone he used with the others.

"Hey," he started, his eyes searching yours for any sign of what you might need from him. "I'm here, okay? No one's going to force you to do anything you're not ready for. We can take this as slow as you need." His gaze was steady, offering reassurance without the burden of expectation.

Your bottom lip trembled, the fear and relief mingling into a raw, vulnerable expression as your eyes locked with Hotch's. The familiarity of his presence, a stark contrast to the chaos and pain of the last hours, cracked the last of your composure. 

"Aaron," you whimpered, your voice breaking with the weight of everything you had endured. The sound of his name--the voice he feared he may never hear again--it almost completely broke whatever was left of him. 

"I know, I know," Hotch murmured gently, his voice low and soothing. Carefully, he reached for the safety blanket discarded by the medics. His movements were slow and deliberate, ensuring you felt no threat, only the promise of comfort. He unfolded the blanket with a tenderness that seemed to fill the cold, harsh space of the slaughterhouse.

With the blanket open wide, he leaned in slightly, giving you space to decide. Sensing your readiness, he gently wrapped the soft fabric around your shoulders, enveloping you in a warm embrace that felt like a shield against the harsh world. The blanket was a simple piece of fabric, but under Hotch's careful handling, it became a cocoon, offering the first touch of safety you'd felt in what seemed like forever.

As the blanket settled around you, your defenses crumbled, and you leaned into Hotch, your body instinctively seeking the reassurance of his physical presence. It was a silent plea for comfort, for a sign that it was truly over. Hotch responded without hesitation, his arms opening to receive you. You fell into him, your body heavy with exhaustion and emotional overload.

Hotch held you close, his arms strong yet gentle around you. He rested his chin on the top of your head. He didn't speak; no words were needed. His presence, the steady beat of his heart against yours, spoke volumes. 

As the ambulance doors slammed shut, Hotch took a seat beside you, his presence a silent vow of protection and support. His team had given him a nod of encouragement, understanding the personal stakes involved, and affirming his decision to accompany you. The ride to the hospital was a blur, with the sirens cutting through the bustling city noise, yet inside the ambulance, there was a bubble of strained silence.

Hotch watched every move the paramedics made, each one meticulous and aimed at stabilizing your condition. His guilt was a tangible presence in the cramped space, each bandage they wrapped, each wince you couldn't suppress, felt like a direct indictment of his failure to protect you sooner. He kept his gaze fixed on you, his eyes tracing the lines of pain etched across your face, the consequences of his decisions written on your bruised skin.

Upon arriving at the hospital, the flurry of activity intensified as medical staff quickly took over. They moved you to a triage area where the stark fluorescent lights seemed to highlight the severity of your condition. Hotch remained by your side, a silent observer to the flurry of activity. As doctors and nurses cleaned your wounds, their gentle swipes at the blood and grime felt to him like strokes of accusation, each one whispering of what had happened under his watch.

You sat through it all, the shock still enveloping you like a thick fog, your voice lost somewhere on the floor of the slaughterhouse. You were responsive only to the touch of the medical staff, a nod here, a slight move there, as they stitched up your wounds and ran a series of tests to assess the damage not immediately visible.

Hotch found himself floundering under the weight of helplessness as he watched. The hospital's antiseptic smell, the constant beeping of machines monitoring vital signs, and the soft murmurs of the medical staff discussing your condition, all seemed to echo in the hollow space of guilt inside him. Each stitch they placed was a reminder of every moment you had spent waiting for rescue, every moment he had failed to prevent your ordeal.

Amid the clinical detachment of reports and assessments, Hotch felt an overwhelming need to do something, say something that could bridge the gulf of trauma and guilt between you. But the words were lodged in his throat, stifled by the realization that no apology could undo the pain you endured, no words could erase the scars that would mark this day. 

So, he stayed, his hand finding yours, a silent communicator of his commitment and remorse, hoping that his presence could offer a sliver of comfort in the sterile, cold environment of the hospital.

The doctor motioned for Hotch to step into the hallway, a request he followed with a sense of dread tightening in his chest. The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor cast a stark glow, making the seriousness of the conversation even more palpable.

"Your partner will need extensive care, both physically and emotionally," the doctor began, his tone professional yet empathetic. "The trauma she's experienced is significant. It's clear she's been deeply affected by what happened."

Hotch nodded, his expression grave. He knew the road to recovery would be long and fraught with challenges, but hearing it so plainly stated by the doctor hammered home the reality of the situation.

"We'd normally recommend a 24-hour psychiatric evaluation under these circumstances to better understand her needs and ensure her safety," the doctor continued. "However, given your relationship and her response to your presence, it seems she might benefit more immediately from familiar support."

Hotch felt a mixture of relief and immense responsibility at the doctor's words. The idea that his presence could offer you some measure of comfort, that he could play a direct role in your recovery, gave him a focused purpose amid the swirling guilt.

"If you’re willing, your support could be crucial right now," the doctor added. "She’s clearly traumatized, and having someone she trusts by her side can make a significant difference in how she copes with these initial hours."

"I'll be here. Whatever she needs," Hotch affirmed without hesitation. The decision was simple in his mind; there was nowhere else he would be, no other role he would rather fill than to be there for you, to try and mend the sense of safety that had been so violently torn away.

The doctor nodded, seeming satisfied with his commitment. "I’ll arrange for a comfortable environment where you can stay with her. We’ll still need to monitor her closely and start working on a treatment plan that addresses both her physical injuries and psychological trauma."

"Thank you, doctor. I appreciate everything you’re doing," Hotch said, his tone sincere. The gratitude he felt for the medical team's efforts was profound, though shadowed by the ongoing concern for your well-being.

With the Unsub in custody and your discharge papers signed, the BAU could take you back home from the case.

As the jet sliced through the skies on the way back home, the interior was filled with a subdued silence. The rest of the team made quiet, gentle attempts to comfort you, but you remained mostly silent, your eyes closed, seemingly retreating into a cocoon of solitude. 

Despite the hum of the engines and the occasional murmurs from the team, the atmosphere was heavy, laden with concern for you and the unspoken tensions of the recent ordeal.

Hotch sat stiffly in his seat, his gaze intermittently shifting from the reports in his hands to where you rested across the jet.

He wasn't in his clear mind to be doing bureaucratic paperwork, but here he was, acting like a coward, afraid to face your reaction to the events he felt he caused.

Each glance was a mixture of concern and self-reproach. The harsh words he had hurled at you before your abduction haunted him, echoing in his mind with relentless persistence.

He was wracked with guilt, convinced that his actions had somehow contributed to the horror you endured, fearing that you would see him now as part of the nightmare rather than a source of safety.

Emily, observant and intuitive, noticed Hotch's troubled demeanor and the distance he maintained. She approached him quietly, her expression serious. "You need to knock it off and go sit with her," she urged, nodding subtly towards you.

Hotch looked up, his frown deepening, a mix of defensiveness and confusion in his eyes. Emily didn’t flinch; she held his gaze steadily. "Right now, I don’t care that you’re the boss, Hotch. She needs you, and you need to make things right."

He opened his mouth to protest, perhaps to say that his presence might not be what you needed, but Emily continued, her voice firm yet filled with compassion. "Look at her, Hotch. She looks broken and shouldn’t be alone. Whatever happened before, whatever was said--it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you’re there for her when she wakes up."

Her words cut through his hesitation like a knife. Hotch knew Emily was right; his role as a leader was not just to command but to care, to mend the fissures that trauma had wrought in the team, especially in you.

Taking a deep breath, Hotch stood up, his resolve firming. He moved across the cabin, taking a seat beside you. As he sat down, the proximity to you, the sound of your quiet breathing, brought an aching mix of relief and renewed guilt. He watched you, your features relaxed in sleep but still reflecting the shadows of recent pain.

Gently, almost hesitantly, he reached out to take your hand, his touch tentative as if testing whether his presence was welcome. His other hand brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, a gesture tender and protective.

When you finally opened your eyes, the weight of the entire ordeal reflected in your gaze, Hotch braced himself for any reaction--hurt, anger, or worse, disgust. However, what he saw instead was relief, a softening around your eyes that eased some of the heavy guilt anchoring his heart.

Sensing your need for comfort, Hotch tentatively opened his arms, an unspoken invitation for closeness. With a small, almost imperceptible nod, you moved closer and cuddled into his side on the jet's couch. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you gently against him, providing a warmth and security that only his presence could offer.

As you settled against him, a quiet sigh escaped you, one that spoke of burdens shared and the beginning of healing. Hotch's heart responded with a surge of protectiveness and affection, his own relief mirroring yours.

In that moment, with the quiet drone of the jet’s engines in the background and the softness of your presence beside him, Hotch felt a profound clarity.

The rest of the team, ever observant, watched this quiet exchange with a mixture of contentment and happiness.

It was more than just seeing one of their own safe; it was witnessing a bond reaffirmed under the harshest of tests. Their expressions held smiles of gentle approval, knowing too well the challenges both of you faced, both personally and as part of the team.

Hotch, holding you close, felt a deep-seated realization settle within him.

Despite the complications and potential risks of intertwining work and personal lives, being together and supporting each other was infinitely better than being apart.

The love that he had tried to compartmentalize away from his professional duties was not a vulnerability but a strength, a cornerstone for both of you to lean on in times of crisis.

Conversations would come later, but for now? This would do.

[fluffydeoxys]

My Sanford and Deimos designs, with an analysis of Sanford, Deimos, their dynamic and what they represent to me, and the thoughts behind how I designed them!! It's quite long, but even then I feel as though I'm only scratching the surface of what I think. I skimmed over Dedmos and MC12 for brevity's sake as I genuinely think it would have doubled the already very long preamble. I hope you enjoy it!

A heads up: A lot of my analysis is predicated on personal headcanons of Sanford/Deimos and Madness Combat as a whole. While I like to make my personal interpretations adhere as close to canon as reasonably possible, there are nonetheless elements I will speak about that don’t really “exist” in the series itself. I try to integrate everything that we do see in canon, however, so I hope there is still something worthwhile for you to read in here! 

So. There aren’t really friends in Nevada, are there? A broken, splintered world marred by madness and violence that bloodies the very earth. Disparate grunts are forced to calcify and adapt to the harsh landscape, and thus forging social bonds has likely become a risky practice. Who’s to say your ‘allies’ won’t turn on you? With the prospect of death always so close, why be attached to someone you could lose so easily? Living communally or working together is feasible and even wise, but beyond that? I doubt anyone gives a second thought to the personal lives of one another. There’s just not enough “brain space” and “normalness” to reconnect with these mundane ideas. 

Furthermore, the existence of S3LF and clones also complicates things further when it comes to individuality and existence. It’s remarkably easy to store and then copy an individual's memories and experiences - the things that arguably define and distinguish a grunt -  into any other body. Are you who you say you are? Or were you never someone at all, merely an idea propagated from a file? Are there social or cultural divides between grunts and clones? Could a clone ever hope to experience the fullness of life with such a minuscule, fragile S3LF that they don’t truly ‘own’? 

It’s quite evident that many facets of Nevada are almost designed to erode humanity, to prevent it from being fostered and nurtured. From anywhere between its harshness to its brutality, to the unintentional cruel designs of the S3LF. It’s a cruel, merciless world that is inhospitable to kindness, friendliness and camaraderie. 

That is merely the beginning of why I find Sanford and Deimos so fascinating as characters. Even from MC5.5 alone, they are so incredibly interesting in a setting like this, demonstrating a bond that is practically never shown anywhere else.

In their debut alone, there are multiple instances of them showing mindfulness and awareness of one another. At 0:34, you have Deimos looking back at Sanford for a moment, and again at 1:09, you have the two looking at one another after clearing the room. Then at 1:16 Sanford bandages Deimos’ head while he slices through Agents, and at 1:30 Sanford boosts Deimos up to get the jump on yet more Agents. And throughout the entire episode, Deimos and Sanford almost always fight with their backs to each other, covering their vulnerable spots. 

MC5.5 strongly demonstrates how well they work together and how they look out for one another when so far, the series has only shown Hank’s effectiveness on their own. While Hank and Sanford/Deimos are worlds apart in strength and aren’t really meant to be directly compared, it does establish that Sanford and Deimos, together, are a force to be reckoned with. 

Then, of course, Madness Combat 6.5 only further builds on these ideas, finally giving Sanford and Deimos their signature appearances. When Sanford is shot in the torso by an Engineer, he is rendered very vulnerable and slow, and this would be the right time to drop any dead weight. A train just rocketed through, and more enemies are undoubtedly around the corner, but Deimos helps Sanford up. He has to watch over Sanford and protect him as he slowly hobbles through rooms and eventually recollects himself enough to keep fighting and patch himself back up. If anything, also a testament to their hardiness and adaptability. 

Then the scene in The Rift. It’s silly and the intent of it is to be silly, especially in the context of Madness Combat and how murder-hungry everyone is, but it so wonderfully demonstrates the bantering and lighthearted demeanour between the two. Deimos seems to care about Sanford’s opinion, tossing aside things he disagrees with and happily accepting what he encourages. And Deimos is who gives Sanford his signature glasses, completing the exchange in an honestly quite charming manner. 

None of this behaviour is really shown in such a positive light anywhere else in Madness Combat. Maybe Church and Jorge at best, but even then. Sanford and Deimos banter with one another, hang out with each other, say silly things and generally show a level of care and interest in one another that extends beyond just fighting. When Sanford asks Deimos if he can hack them through in MPN, Deimos replies with “Can I hack us through… C'mon, man. How long have you known me?”, a simple yet sweet line that indicates their long-standing familiarity. Then there’s the classic big kielbasa and turkey dog conversation, a very silly exchange and one that Sanford seems rather bewildered by, given by his replies. But note, Sanford never demeans or berates Deimos for his “antics” (aside from Deimos wearing an Engineer mask in MC9, but hey, there was a genuine risk of Sanford potentially shooting him there). Furthermore, it’s probably only meant as a surface-level joke, but thinking of Sanford as a big kielbasa “often” sort of shines a light on how they genuinely think of one another in silly, small ways. When you realise that’s in the context of Nevada, you realise how incredibly remarkable that is.  

Further than that, you have an exchange where Deimos asks why the Nexus Core members won’t give up, and is unable to reply when Sanford says, “Would you?” It’s not either of them dismissing questions or blindly following orders. They trust each other's opinions, look to each other when reflecting on matters, and they don’t always have the answers for each other. 

And lastly, at the end of MPN, where it’s just the two of them talking about a problem on a scale far larger than them. Just two guys talking about what they think, and what they could do. No world-breaking power or insanity or inhumanity. Just Sanford and Deimos. 

So you have a long string of showing the bonds between Sanford and Deimos spanning across several years and a game. Then Madness Combat 9 rolls around and, well, the moment they’re forced to split because the Auditor-enhanced Engineers show up… everything is changed forever. 

Deimos is gone and forced to reckon with his death through Dedmos Adventures, and while he reemerges with the help of Doc, he is no longer the same. Conversely, Sanford has to tag along with Mag Hank as they struggle in Auditor’s Hell, and Sanford ends up on his own in 12. He is pushed to the very limits of what he can endure, visibly frustrated and barely containing increasing intensities of rage. There are no more quiet moments, no more slowing down, no longer someone at your side hyping you up, making you laugh, knowing your hobbies, your history. 

Sanford and Deimos were separated, split into life and death. If you consider the real world time, literal years spent apart in the worst places they’ve had to endure yet. But they came back together. Different, changed, but together once more. That final moment in Madness Combat 12, the simple act of Deimos grabbing onto Sanford’s hand before he slips, forms into such a powerful scene that shows that they would defy ANYTHING to find each other again. That their unbreakable bond will help pull each other back from the depths, even paralleling 6.5 with how Deimos helps and protects Sanford after a near-fatal injury. It’s a perfect and very moving representation of their relationship. Their bond is so incredibly remarkable and one-in-a-million and so human. All the mundane things we share with other people in our world are hardly ever seen in Nevada, and for good reason, yet Deimos and Sanford share that with each other. 

The fact that Deimos and Sanford exist in a world like Nevada is so truly special. It inspires hope for what can be possible despite harshness and brutality, that there is something worth living for, that you can find strength and meaning in the grand and the mundane. 

So! Onto what I currently have mangled together for my headcanoned backstory as to how Sanford and Deimos met, because it helps set the stage and give context to the meaning of some things I’ll talk about later. At some stage, Doc recruits Sanford into his cause in the early years, maybe a year or two after Doc dissents from the AAHW. He’s a very effective and useful member, as Doc often used Sanford to pry information out of grunts using whatever method was possible. Doc pushed for him to use more extreme methods at times, as Doc was still in the early stages of beginning to understand the machinations of this world. He needed any piece of information that he could get, especially if it meant getting one step closer to understanding Hank’s disappearance. Doc saw it as a necessary period in their journey, but Sanford holds a repressed but deep resentment for Doc, because it warped and traumatised him immensely.

It resulted in him becoming extremely tense, paranoid and harshly pushing grunts away. Subsequently, Sanford didn’t get along with anyone else that Doc paired him up with. Putting the trauma aside, Sanford was already a serious and withdrawn individual who disliked banter. Not the most approachable or likeable grunt. Others would quickly lose their patience with him and were more prone to desertion or disobedience. While Doc could ignore it for a while, it gradually worsened as more and more jobs required a second hand, especially when Doc needed information retrieved from computer terminals - a skill Sanford distinctly did not have. 

So, recalling someone he briefly knew in the AAHW, Doc got Sanford to round up some dissented AAHW members to assimilate into their ranks. One of these members was Deimos, whom Doc recognised and personally hand-picked to work alongside him to better foster and integrate his hacking skills. Deimos was exceptionally useful for Doc despite having a pretty rocky history in the AAHW, and if anything, Doc was pretty surprised he was still alive. Regardless, Doc paired him up with Sanford after a while, and Sanford did not enjoy it. He found Deimos rather annoying and just another dumbass in a long string of grunts Doc has picked up. Yet Deimos seemed different somehow. His unflinching and incorrigible charm slowly worked its way into Sanford’s mind, especially when he realised he actually enjoyed the guy's company. Deimos showed an interest in the hobbies that Sanford was usually mocked or looked down on for, and while he was a little careless, it felt nice to watch out for someone rather than watch another self-important idiot rush ahead. 

Deimos further garnered Sanford’s interest when he learned a bit more about his insecurities and doubts, learning that clones exist. Sanford has questioned his existence in certain ways, regarding his own blood-stained hands with conflicted contempt and satisfaction, but this? Deimos telling Sanford that he isn’t sure that he’s alive, that he’s actually a ‘person’? That he’s lost, scared, clueless, alone? Sanford’s never cared for much before, living in this half-dissociated, emotionally distant state, but something stirs when he tries and kind of fails to comfort Deimos in that moment. He… cares. For something. For someone. A cold fortress that Sanford has built for so long, slowly opening itself to the idea of wanting someone. The pain and trauma remain, and it will never go away, but there is a new reason to get up in the morning. To look forward to something. 

From that day on, an understanding began to form between the two, bringing them closer and closer together. To the point that Deimos starts glimpsing the cracks in Sanford’s facade, worming his way in closer and closer, chasing the rare smile and laugh that Deimos can elicit from him. Sanford is the first time he’s ever felt stability, kindness, patience, acknowledgement. But he realises it's not just that, it's not just chasing something to fulfill something he’s always wanted but never got, it’s because he likes Sanford. Roaming the wastelands of Nevada alongside Sanford has given him joy like he’s never known. Knowing that Sanford has got his back, and that Deimos can help, and truly mean something… It’s like something clicked one day. 

Summarising/simplifying it, Sanford is like stability. Serious, steadfast, put-together and a leader. The trauma of doing what had to be done and hating yourself for it. For the kindness you could have had. The peace you lost or perhaps never knew. Forced to adapt and harden yourself, but the stress never truly went away. The fear and worry you have for your loved ones. The paranoia of losing them, witnessing the mortality of those dearest to you. But finding love and joy again in the people around you, letting someone touch the part of you that you swore you’d never let be hurt again. And you feel kindness and love and joy in the silly things again, thanks to Deimos. 

With Deimos, it’s smiling despite how the world has hurt you, set you up to fail. The vices you adapt to cope, but there remains a desire to do better, to be better. The yearning to be something more, to be someone else, but you can only ever be the best version of yourself. Wanting to be loved and yet not loving yourself, neglecting your body and mind. But having someone so patient and steadfast in their love for you just makes you feel so thankful. I’m sorry I relapsed again. Do you still love me? And Sanford does. He always will. The passion and joy you hold close to your heart, that you will never let anyone take away from you, living carefree and silly. 

Okay! Now to the actual. Design talk, jesus christ. Let’s begin with the general shape language of the two and how they’re specifically designed to contrast and complement one another. 

Deimos is comprised of rounder shapes, is on the smaller/shorter side compared to Sanford, and is a little scruffier and messier in appearance. He’s lean but not skinny, well-defined in the legs and in generally decent shape considering his lifestyle (a lot of snacks). This is paired against Sanford’s much broader and larger stature, sporting well-muscled arms and the repetition of more rounded square shapes. He’s tidy, well-groomed and maintains his body and scars very well. While I didn’t push their poses too hard here, they also further establish and contrast their personalities. Deimos has a more open and overconfident pose while Sanford stands a little more rigid and alert, and is the only character to be looking to the right rather than the left. 

Sanford has heavy-set, thick eyebrows that help convey a stern seriousness to him, but when his expression looks gentle and warm, they accentuate a certain charming quality that I think he has. While his face can look grave and even frightening, Sanford can also look quite gentle and sweet, and I think the eyebrows really help with that.

Sanford has a lot more scars because he’s been employed and working for Doc a fair bit longer than Deimos, and he ends up fighting hand-to-hand more often than him. Deimos is longer range, handles hacking/communications and is usually doing more runner-esque jobs. He sometimes trips and scuffles, especially because his bag is so heavy, hence why he’s got all those little bandages on him. I like to think Sanford is the one who patches him up. 

I ended up not integrating every scar into their designs because a lot of them are incurred around MC9, which is sort of like the “cutting off point” for when shit goes south. Deimos becomes Rockmos, and Sanford becomes owww my eyes! So it doesn’t make a ton of sense to have them, so I only kept the ones from before MC9. Besides the stab wound on Sanford’s torso, I just liked how that one looked.

When it came to designing their clothes (or well, designing my take on them; this time I’ve not really added anything that didn’t already exist for either of them) my main philosophy was that Sanford was more practical and uniform-esque in his attire, whereas Deimos is more sloppy but radiates a lot more individuality. 

Everything that Sanford wears has a specific purpose, from the belts on his pants acting as anchor points for his hook to the bandolier on his chest and his thick, heavy combat boots. The only real “personal” details are his bandanna (which I use to accentuate his expressions), his teashades (which were more or less given to him “by” Deimos), and his hook (which is a weapon, but nonetheless one he seems attached to/is a recurring tool for him). As well as the tattoo on his back, but I’ll touch on that later. When it all comes together, it illustrates Sanford as someone who is prepared and capable, but very serious and with few personal touches. 

Conversely, Deimos is covered with various bits and pieces that are personal to him, whether modified by himself or simply worn in a particular style to reflect what he likes. Smaller examples of this are his uneven socks and his untucked shirt that has a few stains and rips.

His shoes were directly based on the live-action design, as I think this is a fantastic portrayal of Deimos’ personality. From the little artistic doodles to the likely bored number markings, to the silly labels distinguishing the right shoe from the left shoe. The cigarette at the heel with the clusters of grunts and Jeb feels oddly endearing, like Deimos was inspired by a moment in MPN and wanted to draw it. The fire drawn along the base of the shoe is adorable, and the EAT IT at the front with BYE BYE at the back is so wonderfully vindictive and mischievous it’s amazing. 

And the star of the show, at least to me, is Deimos’ radio backpack. One thing I think I could have done better is add more charms onto it, but I’m sure I can add a ton more down the line when I get some ideas, cus annoyingly I don’t have too many. I always imagine the bag as going clink clink clink whenever he walks, and I dunno, it's cute and I think Deimos would cram as much as possible onto his bag to reflect both his interests and so he doesn’t get bored. 

Regardless, the backpack is like his lifeline of usefulness to SQ, but leaving it the way it was when Doc gave it to him was so lame. Deimos wanted to give it his personal flair, attach pieces of his life to it, make it truly “his.” Many of the little buttons and stitches were done by him and reflect members of the SQ, like the smiley on Hank’s shirt and the fishing lure for Sanford. Where’s Doc, then? Well, I would like to think I can design something specific for him on Deimos’ bag, but he actually helped with the big patch on the backside of the backpack. If you look closely, it has the same stitch markings as the ones on Doc’s jacket. Deimos really struggled with getting it on, and Doc came over like, you made this? And Deimos replies with a stilted, uneasy “yeah.” When Doc hands the bag back to him, he goes, “It’s pretty funny. Not bad.” and I like to think rare praise from Doc makes him feel warm.  

Krinkels has said Sanford’s tattoo doesn’t have a specific meaning, and I would like to give it one, but I haven’t gotten any ideas yet. Despite that, Deimos’ tattoo actually does, although it's not super complex or deep. I personally enjoy the headcanon that clones are coded with a tattoo-like marking that usually appears on the neck, but sometimes can appear on arms or legs. But Deimos didn’t want Sanford to remove or draw over it entirely; instead, he retained it as a reminder of who he was and how he wouldn’t hide from that reality, but he would move forward from it. To that point, the arrow underneath. To fly forward, guided by the sturdy bowstring, carefree and unbound by the wind. And the red bolt? Well, that’s a personal detail I’m a little shy about explaining, but I at least think it adds a nice little accent of colour. 

Smaller notes: 

Deimos’ thumb gradient is darker because he specifically lights his thumb more than any other digit. I think he could light other digits, but it takes more effort and focus. He generally thinks doing a thumbs up is funnier, and it’s easier to light a cig that way.

The multiple bullet scars on Deimos’ stomach are meant to parallel his injuries in MC9, but they’re not the same for the reasons I mentioned earlier. This similarly applies to a scar that Sanford has on his right hand, referencing when he was shot in MC9.

I removed the front belt from Deimos’ backpack because I liked his shirt and coat being unobstructed, and it let me properly show the drawstrings. I also liked the idea that he can remove the heavy bag in dire situations. While Doc probably thinks the tech inside Deimos’ backpack is more valuable, perhaps it has a self-destruct function that Deimos can remotely activate. Retrieving someone from the Other Place is also probably more resource-demanding and time-consuming anyway. I might change it, but for now, I like this version. 

I quite like mist-lightning-snap’s paw and claw headcanons for grunts, so I applied the same principle to Deimos. As to Sanford? Who knows… maybe those black nails can pop out into claws?

[aethelwyneleigh27]

Realizations

Dad!Simon Ghost Riley x Wife!Reader

Thank you guys so much for 1k, it means the whole world for me because now once did I expect to ever have my page grown this big and not once had I imagined that I would make these many friends here who happened to be so sweet. Also to @connorsui who has been most definitely been waiting the answer to this.

So in honor of 1k, I wrote this long awaited backstory for Ghost and Lovie (Ghostie's parents) that I hope you guys will enjoy since it so happens that our beloved @ave661 has posted another Dad!Ghost render. (Credits to her again for the renders in this post <3) (Sweetie, I love you but that tag on Soap with this render was unnecessary 😭🫶)

To the people who congratulated me, through replies, likes and reblogs, I owe y'all a fat kiss. Mwahhh <333

My CoD Masterlist

Taglist: @wishesforyou @puff0o0 @simp4konig @blingblong55 @azereus @rustic-guitar-notes @shadofireshinobi @09maruchan @anonymuslydumb @skeletalgoats @icarustypicalfall @ghosts-cyphera @cutenote @connorsui @capuccino192 @thesnowurzikdjinn @miss-gms-and-the-rotten-womb @celestialhole @trepaika @starryylies @demidemon09

Warnings/Disclaimers: Stalking (not by Simon), Typical mentions of CoD violence?, Mentions of Simon's past abuse, Creepy guy?? (Not Simon), Mentions of violent and a bit gory descriptions on what wanted to do to the stalker, This is not proofread yet.

With the words of my mother and in true reputation style, Are you ready for it?

I think I need to say this on my account again, English is NOT my first language and all copyrights regarding the plot and some characters within the storyline belong to me. Edit: please help me y'all, I'm losing so much relevance in the span of less than a month, my recent works have gotten nothing and I'm scared that this post proves that. I think I've learned my lesson never to take breaks ever again 😭

Simon never imagined himself in this predicament, always thinking that he'd be out there somewhere, more likely drowning himself in a mission. Not even a home, he thought that if it hadn't for your persuasiveness to interact with him back then then he'd still be back in that shitty apartment complex.

Simon placed his duffle bag on the wood of the porch, the jingling of his keys while he looked for the correct one. He tried his best to make as little noise as possible, it was passed midnight, the last thing he would want was to disturb his wife and daughter from resting.

Hauling the duffle bag in and throwing it on the couch, Simon opt to see what his girls were up to. The giggling and commotion making him smile, you both were supposed to be asleep by now but you were unable to put her to rest because she's just too hyper, so that left you to entertain her by tossing her up and catching her.

"Dada..!" A squeal from the room came, the little one snapping her head to the opening of the door making you look as well, Simon took a peek from the half-way opened door.

Adorable little thing clapping her hands together, pleased that her dad is home while sitting on her mom. She got off, crawling near the edge of the bed with no sense of danger, fortunate for her that her dad is quick with catching her before you could.

You took a deep breath from the shock, looking at your husband and smiling sweetly at him. He asked you not to get off the bed as you were about to, laying next to you he snakes his arm underneath you on your waist and pulls you in.

"I missed my girls.." He said, voice deep and laced with exhaustion, despite that his hold and gaze was the warmest it could be.

"We missed you too Si, so much." You mumbled as your eyes flutter shut to enjoy his touch. You opened them to the sound of a kiss, he kissed the little one's forehead then yours.

Sometimes you vaguely remember the first time he and you met, how it even came to be, this life of domesticity. You, him and your little girl, family is a heavy word for Simon but it was just perfect. This was the family he wanted, the family that he thought he didn't deserve and never would have.

The feeling of coming home to all this started because you were so forgetful, who knew that would be the skill that brought you to him..?

• ──── ✦ ──── •

He emptied his pockets, to the lieutenant's dismay, the box of cigarettes only had one stick left. Since he was going out to smoke it anyway, he might as well get another box from the convenience store nearby. He took his keys from the kitchen counter and headed out, hearing a little commotion that peeked his interest.

Simon never paid much mind to whatever was going on within his apartment building despite the many gossips that were present within the building and the renters. So it happens that the old lady next to his place mentions how they'll be a new tenant in the other apartment next to his.

'Thank God' Simon thought, not that he was particularly religious but he'd been hoping for the longest time for the former renter to leave because let's be honest, who wants to live next to a frat boy with no sense of shame or consideration given that walls are thin? Little did he know he'd be blessed with the next one..

"Oh- I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to.." Simon hears a voice from a little below him, he'd only register what had happened after the fact. Poor girl carrying this box bumped into him a little too hard, so much so that she stumbled back a bit.

You stared up to the 6'4 man blinking, he only shrugged it off to which you smiled to. You tried to make small talk since you were new and it wouldn't hurt to at least know one person right? After all, you were trying to step out a bit of your comfort zone.

"Hi.. I'm [Name].." He only stared at you for a while and replied, "Simon.." you gave him a warm smile before nodding and continuing to bring the boxes into your new apartment while your new neighbor entered the elevator.

You cut the boxes open to start unpacking, a few minutes in and you decided to go on a short break, you rummaged through the small box of food only to find that the recently bought box of tea was empty. You sighed at this, humming as you remembered the convenience store you passed by earlier on the way to the apartment.

Taking your keys and locking the door behind you, you made your way out the complex and walked a few blocks, you only started to notice how late it was with the streetlights coming on even though the sun is only about to set. That's something to get used to, hmm?

The cool breeze hits your skin as you enter, scent of faint instant coffee and many other kinds of foods and products made themselves known. You walked around for a while, checking on what other things you might need but then you tried to remind yourself that you were saving up and on a budget so you took a box of tea and walked up to the register.

You heard footsteps behind you falling in line, after placing the box on the counter, you searched your pockets for your wallet.

'Shit..!' you cursed yourself out mentally trying not to panic as Simon basically watches you frantically patting your pockets, you left your wallet back at the apartment. "You left your wallet-" Simon stated the obvious, "I'll cover it.." there wasn't even a time to argue with him, he just stepped next to you and placed the pack of cigarettes.

"I'll pay you back as soon as we get back to the apartment" You insisted to which Simon only shrugged and declined, it's just a box of tea and it's not like it'll make him go bankrupt, besides he liked your taste, the one you got happened to be his favorite brand.

Since you were headed in the same place anyway, you and Simon walked back together side by side, however one thing you did find odd was when he gently took you wrist and pulled you inward next to him, he was the one now closest to the road.

The walk back was silent, a comfortable silence. A few days after that encounter, you made sure to make an effort for him to know that you appreciated his gesture back at the convenience store. The lieutenant was alarmed by the knock on his door, opening it to find no person but a tupperware filled with buttery shortbread cookies.

He smiled at how tiny the plastic container looked in his hands, how he noticed the note attached "Thanks for the tea, this isn't that special but I hope you like it -[Name]" and the Sanrio themed stickers stuck onto the lid and on the top part of the tiny note. You ran out of sticky notes..

Simon found himself snacking on those cookies later on, oddly enough, they reminded him of his mom.. how she used to love baking back then, it was her way of escape whenever Simon's "father" wasn't home, as well as gardening.

For the first time in a while Simon "Ghost" Riley let out a smile that wasn't smug or a smirk but a genuine smile, one that had warmth to it, one that no matter how hard his mind tried to surppress it, his body refused to.

It didn't take long for you and Simon to get to know each other a bit, little by little it seemed like you two were becoming like friends rather than just neighbors. Let's be honest, who just randomly gives their neighbors weekly baked goods for the sole reason of "just because they wanted to"?

You found yourself always looking forward to the Friday nights chilling with him at the rooftop, mugs with hot tea on hand while he smoked and you read.

Listening to his stupid jokes and remarks that slowly turn into deep conversations and life things. Simon was just... far more open than he's ever been, sure he's talked about his day before to his comrades but never like this, not in a way where he's pouring his heart out, letting you in on how he feels about certain things.

He just got back from a mission, a rough one to be exact. Shoulders slumped from exhaustion as he walked the streets near the apartment complex, no space for his bike so he had to leave it somewhere private while he fidgeted with it's keys.

Simon swore that he almost jumped out of his own body, first instinct being to push you off but he recognized you. He gave you a questioning look, hands were shaking as you so desperately linked you arm around his.

"Hmm?" He hummed, hearing you mumbling something but it was incoherent to his ears.

"Behind us.. please Si, help..." Come to think if it, you never knew when Simon turned into Si. Best believe he knew and still remembers when perfectly.. not the time, there's a serious threat, he didn't look. He didn't need to, guessing by the heavy footsteps, some creep decided to follow you at this hour.

He slowly slipped his arm away from your grip and snaked it around your waist, pulling you in closer to his side while the two of you continued treading closer to the complex. You closed your eyes for a few seconds at a time hoping it would end.

• ──── ✦ A few days later ✦ ──── •

Knocking, frantic knocking was what Simon heard at his door. He wasn't expecting anyone, so why the sudden visit? He opened the door and saw you, Simon knew something was off from the look on your face, you looked pale as if you were sick to your stomach while trying so desperately to catch your breath.

"Can I please come in.. Simon..?" You asked in between breaths. You looked around you, especially behind you, body shivering a bit. He took notice of this and had no hesitation, he pulled you in by your arm. His grip firm but gentle, Simon closed the door behind him.

"Remember that guy who was creeping around when I asked for your help..?" You tried to explain but Simon already knew the moment your mouth opened. You had a stalker.. it was best to call the cops on shit like this.

Simon did his best even though not knowing much about how to comfort someone, he did well in making you feel safe without having to tell you that he'll do so, you just know it in your gut that he'd protect you even if it's just now.

Your breath picked up, slowly backing away from the door as you heard footsteps, clenching your fists and hoping that he didn't see you enter Simon's door. Simon wrapped his arms around you, keeping you in place and from further backing away from the door.

You felt his palm drag up and down your back, it was extremely warm, it stopped for a while. His arm wrapped around your waist, other hand in your hair pushing your head down a bit so it was buried in his chest while you gripped his shirt. Simon felt your trembling body against him slowly relax.

"Deep breaths, angel.." The nickname he whispered would've made you smile under any other circumstance but not right now, you needed to calm your nerves before you panic and make an impulsive decision that could hurt yourself. Like instructed, you followed along Simon's demonstration, pressing his forehead onto yours maybe just a bit too intimately.

You winced at the loud sound of banging on the door, you knew it too well. Simon shoved the handle of his combat knife in your hand, he told you that if anything were to happen, protect yourself with it.

As soon as the Lieutenant swung the door open, you could hear punches, things knocking over and among other things, your stalker's voice.

You'd never forget that, how pitchy it was. Nails on the chalkboard was the best way to describe it, how the man was cackling almost made you annoyed. Simon called on security and the man was dealt with, you came out from hiding and saw both fear and anger in Simon's eyes.

You would never know how much he wanted to tear that man's heart after skinning him alive for even bringing fear into your eyes.

Simon "I care too much for someone I just met" Riley finally saw how his knuckles and fingernails were caked with blood, went off to go wash it and himself.

Getting back to you after half an hour, you reached out for him only for him to withdraw, you looked at him confused and he looks at you with pure guilt..

Your eyes widened in realization, "Oh Simon.. I'm not scared.." you smiled at him. He reached out a shaky hand to you, hesitating before closing his hand back.

You took his hand in yours, bringing it up to your lips and giving it a small kiss, hoping it calms his nerves. Well it did the opposite, it even more overwhelming for him having you kiss his palm while you look up at him, watching you nudge your face into his palm so invitingly.

The way your lashes just sat perfectly atop your cheeks while you slowly blinked up at him. Pressing the same scarred and calloused hands that almost killed a man that night on your face and rubbing the back with you thumb.

Simon had never felt that much guilt before for hurting someone, only after he saw the look in your eyes, which in turn were not something he caused. For the first time in his life too, Simon was comforted by something or rather someone immensely..

[heart-of-the-morningstar]

✨Bucking Bronco✨

@bat-boness keeps fucking cooking with their Cowboy Lucifer art and I shall do the same!!! @nayomi247 and @liveontelevision this is your fault too lol, we have now formed a small but mighty Cowboy Lucifer cult fan club

Lucifer x f!sinner reader

Summary: Lucifer finds himself in a punishing situation…

Warnings: 18+, smut, hand job, oral (m receiving), p in v

“You know, this wouldn’t be happening if you would come in from the farm on time, Luci,” you scolded as you finished tying the last knot on his wrists. "I don't think I ask for much."

This was the third night in a row your hardworking husband has missed dinner with you. You let it slide the first night. The second night you gave him a gentle reminder to not overwork himself. But tonight was the last straw. A third night of eating alone with a cold plate of food sitting across the table from you. You loved him dearly, but you hated that his priorities didn’t seem to be in order. You were going to make sure he learned his lesson one way or another. He tried to butter you up as he usually did when he came in from work late, knowing full well what he'd done. You feigned a smile and told him not to give it another thought. You told him to get comfortable and that you would join him upstairs soon. But when you walked into your room with your rope in hand, he gulped. He knew damn well that he was in trouble. You sat him down on the ottoman and wrapped your ropes around his hands and wrists, pinning his arms behind his back, effectively rendering him helpless against your ‘punishment’.

“Darlin’, I-I’m sorry, time just gets away from me sometimes! I-I would never do anything to upset you,” Lucifer stuttered. “P-Please, have mercy…”

You checked the tightness of your ropes before standing in front of your husband, towering over him in his subdued state. “Oh, I’m not upset with you! But since you’ve just been working so hard lately, I thought it’d be mighty kind of me if I helped you relax.” You brought your hand to his chin and had him meet your intense gaze. “Do you want me to help you relax, sweetheart?” you asked, knowing all too well that there was only one answer he could give you.

“Y-yes,” Lucifer responded meekly.

"That's my good boy," you praised, a small whimper escaping Lucifer's throat. You slowly dragged your hand down his open-shirt chest, stopping right above his already very apparent erection. He did his best to buck his hips up in an attempt to create any sort of friction. But all this did was cause you to pull you hand away from him immediately. He whined pathetically. "Behave now," you reprimanded. Lucifer looked up at you with glassy eyes and nodded obediently. You smiled and brought your hand back down to its previous spot, hovering just about his hard-on. You heard Lucifer's breath hitch as you finally placed your palm over his cock that has been painfully straining against his jeans. It took every ounce of willpower in him to remain still while you toyed with him.

"P-Please," Lucifer mewled, "I-I can't...hng..."

You pulled down the zipper to his pants lethargically, watching Lucifer's chest rise and fall more and more rapidly until you finally released his already leaking cock from its confines. "I love how needy you are for me, sweet pea." You gripped his length in your hand and started stroking him meticulously. Lucifer's whines filled the room, you've never heard sweeter sounds than his desperate cries. His precum leaked onto your hand, your jerking motions becoming smoother. You circled your thumb over the head of his cock, applying the lightest of pressure to it. Lucifer cried out as he bucked his hips once more from your teasing. You let go of him again, tears now welling up in his eyes from the loss of your touch.

"I'm sorry!" Lucifer nearly shouted. "D-Don't stop, please...I'll behave, I-I promise!"

"That's strike two, Luci," you warned. "You wouldn't want me to leave you like this, would you now?"

"N-No! Please...", a single tear rolled down his face. You smiled gently and wiped it from his cheek.

"Shh, it's alright," you cooed, "patience, my love. I'll take care of you."

He took a few deep breaths, attempting to calm himself down. He knew deep down you wouldn't leave him in such a desperate and vulnerable state. You knelt down on the ground, gripping his shaft once more. You stuck out your tongue and licked up the length of his cock, tasting all the precum that had spilled out of him. Lucifer's voice caught in his throat; he was beyond forming any coherent sentences at this point. He struggled against his binds, losing grip of his control fast. Your tongue circled his swollen tip, eliciting the smallest yelps from your lover, your hot breath driving him insane. You enveloped him suddenly, bobbing your head up and down, taking as much of him as you could. Lucifer was frozen, he dared not move again in fear of the repercussions. Instead, he was loud, moaning and whining from everything you were giving him in this moment. You let him go with a satisfying pop, flashing a mischievous grin.

"Tell me what you want, sugar," you teased him as your hand replaced your warm mouth. "Use your words."

Lucifer's hat had fallen in front of his face, you could no longer see his eyes. You lifted it up only to see them glowing a bright crimson red, his hunger for you now abundantly evident. "N-Need you," he choked out, "need to feel you, n-now. Please...ride me..."

You smirked at him and nodded. You stood up once more, removing your belt in one swift motion and tossing your shorts off so the side, your soaking pussy now in full view. Lucifer gulped audibly. You straddled yourself against Lucifer's hips, teasing his cock with your dripping folds. You decided to wear his hat on your head instead so that you could clearly see the disheveled mess of a man beneath you. He blushed hard at the sight. You leaned down and planted the tiniest peck to his forehead.

"Now, are you going to be late again?" you questioned playfully.

"N-No," Lucifer promised. "I'll come in from the farm on time, I-I swear! You'll never w-wait for me again!"

"That's exactly what I wanted to hear." You lined yourself up and slowly lowered yourself onto him, taking him an inch at a time. He was thicker than most, so he knew you needed just a little bit longer to adjust to his abnormal size. Not that you minded in the slightest, he was able to hit all of the right spots without even moving. Once you bottomed out on his cock, you both let out a wanton moan. After a few seconds of letting yourself stretch around him, you began to shift your hips. Your sudden movements forced Lucifer to lean against the crook of your neck for support. He felt as though you were trying to milk him dry. Which is exactly what you were doing.

"F-Fuck, Lucifer," you stuttered, "always making me f-feel so good, baby. Look s-so pretty under me..." Lucifer could barely hear your praises over his own sounds. This was pure bliss, but agonizingly torturous at the same time. His bound hands were eager to touch you, to hold you, to feel you.

"My love, please, I-I'm begging, let me go..." he cried into your shoulder. "I'm so so sorry, I-I...please..." You stopped your movement completely and started gently petting the back of his head. How could you deny him any longer?

You reached down and grabbed the sheathed blade that adorned his hip. "Stay perfectly still," you commanded, reaching around and carefully slicing the ties around his arms and wrists, letting the rope fall to the floor. You tossed the knife far away from you while Lucifer's hand immediately gripped your hips.

"T-Thank you, darlin'," he whispered against you, "let me make it up to you now. S-Show you how sorry I really am." Without warning, Lucifer lifted you up only for him to slam you right back down on his throbbing cock. The cry you let out was lustful and wanting. His hips bucked up into you at a relentless pace, your cunt clenching around him desperately while you both chased your highs. You dug your nails into his shoulders for support as he pounded into you over and over. You felt that familiar knot in your stomach growing larger, threatening to snap any given second as your lover pushed you to your breaking point with each thrust.

"L-Luci," you whimpered helplessly, "I'm close, s-so close, mmph, fffffuuu-uuuccck..." Your pleas only seemed to drive him even madder than he already was as one of his hands left your hips, his thumb finding that small sensitive bundle of nerves. You nearly screamed from the new sensation.

"Me too, sweetheart, m-me too, shit,' Lucifer breathed. "Cum f' me, l-let me feel you cum around me..."

With those words, stars clouded your vision. You felt your cunt pulsate around Lucifer's cock, tightening and squeezing him without abandon, your juices leaking onto his lap. Your orgasm pushed your lover over the edge as well, his grunts and whimpers echoing throughout the room as he filled you up to the brim with his hot seed, having to bite down your shoulder as to not lose himself in the pleasure. As you both started to recover from your highs, you cupped Lucifer's face in your hands and brought him in for a deep kiss. Your tongues fought for dominance, still trying to catch your breath in the process. You pulled away from him, his half-lidded eyes gazing up at your adoringly.

"You owe me a new rope," you chastised lovingly.

~~~

I have no real excuse for this :3

[bettsfic]

I have this thing where what I'm writing is absolutely not what I'm about in real life. I like complexity and depth in what I read. But the things I care about make only vague appearances in my writing, I don't know how to fully explain it. I have a lot of passion in life and I'm ~relatively emotionally intelligent. I'm curious about emotions, anyway, but what comes out in my writing is just cookie cutter.... Bland..... Zero complexity or emotional exploration. It's like I'm on autopilot when I write and I can't shake it.

i'm about to present to you yet another writing spectrum: director-writers and actor-writers.

a director-writer creates stories by writing discrete scenes that they see in their mind. like a film, a scene begins, something happens, a scene ends. we move on to the next scene. i would venture to say a majority of writers today are director-writers, because what's been en vogue in the 21st century is very much influenced by our visual media. we watch visual media. a great many writers like to render their prose such that it feels like a reader is watching the story play out. these director-writers are standing on the outside looking in, manipulating and moving all the pieces of their story to create the desired end result.

director-writing is so common that i meet many, many writers who trap themselves in scenic prose because they assume that's what "good writing" is. these writers are not actually directors. they don't want to be standing behind the camera; they want to be in the mind of the characters. and those people are actor-writers.

an actor-writer's prose doesn't necessarily prioritize scenes one after the next, but develops a compelling narrative voice. actor-writing is about learning to be someone who isn't you. i think the moment you abandon the forced witness of the camera and instead dive into the mind, experiencing the story instead of rendering the story, you unlock the path of that complex emotional exploration you feel is missing in your work. and you will probably never go back.

here's an activity to try:

whatever you're working on right now, open a new doc, take your main character and, in your mind's eye, trap them in an interrogation room. sit them across from you. ask them, "what is your deal?" write down their answer.

in this activity, you're looking for a few things:

what is their story? why does it matter to them? (this is probably the biggest problem i have with the pitfalls of director-writing: nothing matters. everything is just...happening. as a reader, i'm always looking for what i'm being asked to love. maybe that love is awful, toxic, contradictory, ambivalent, whatever. the point is, it matters. a huge percentage of the things i read never ask me to love anything.)

are they trying to convince or persuade you of something, making their testimonial unreliable? or are they confessing to you things they'd never admit to anyone else?

what is at stake for them? what is their deepest desire and their greatest fear? in what way is their deepest desire flawed? how is their greatest fear irrational? how have the events of their story influenced or distorted their perception?

close narration offers us the greatest possible access to the interiority of the narrator. first person is really just a monologue, an explanation, an excuse, a confession, a plea, a prayer. so so so many writers get blocked because they're trying to See the story instead of Listen to it. they force themselves into this elastic third person where the reader remains a distant witness with the occasional thought, insight, or feeling, but that comes second to what i call Bodies in Space. if i never read another "he strode across the room" again it'll be too soon. imagery is wonderful, don't get me wrong, but i would always, always rather get insight into what a character is feeling, thinking, grieving, dreaming than the knowledge that they are sitting in a chair.

i'm not saying switch to first person. you can create the effect of first person with very close third, and you can create the effect of third person with very distant first. pronouns don't really matter. what's important is voice over vision.

i say this a lot, but if i want to watch a story, i'll turn on my tv. prose is the only art form that allows us to fully explore human consciousness. let it do the thing it was invented to do.

my theory of director-writers and actor-writers is adapted from Percy Lubbock's The Craft of Fiction, in which he defines "picture" vs. "drama" writing. however i found that terminology confusing and poorly articulated, so i flipped it into a process-based approach with what i hope is more accessible phrasing. also, prose = consciousness is from 13 Ways of Looking at the Novel by Jane Smiley.

[otaku553]

What advice would you give to someone who's been drawing for a really long time, but is always frustrated and burned out?

This became quite long, so I'm going to go ahead and put it in a read more!

If you’re frustrated and burnt out, it can help to pinpoint why it is that you feel that way— for me it’s often that I’m unsatisfied with the level I’m drawing at and feel I can do better, or I know I’m getting stuck doing what I know and am comfortable doing but it doesn’t feel like enough. Other times it’s externally motivated, such as finding my pieces aren’t doing so well anymore on social media.

If you fall into the habit of drawing and don't want to stop, I find studies to be the most helpful. This can be anything, but I like to usually draw on photos and reality. I would specifically recommend realistic studies to people who do a lot of rendering and coloring, because it's a gateway into starting to observe reality around yourself and picking out how to draw what you perceive on a daily basis from just looking at the world.

Studies are, in essence, going back to how many of us learn how to draw: copying. I think this is a really good way to feel proud of your work again while also feeling a concrete sense that you're improving! Because when you copy something, it gives you the muscle memory to replicate it again when you need it, like a clothing fold or a specific perspective or pose, or the way light reflects off of something.

This is versatile too: you can focus on drawing any object, maybe isolated clothing folds or accessories, or drawing hands, or maybe doing quick figure drawings. You set the parameters for this yourself, and come up with something that helps you grow as an artist or feel good about your art as needed.

Another way to combat dissatisfaction with your art is to discover something new to love, such that the desire to see this thing drawn overcomes your dissatisfaction. Watch new things! Play new games, maybe draw a character you've never drawn before. The funniest and probably best advice I've seen before on consistently drawing is to become obsessed with one guy and draw them all the time for years. I do subscribe by this! My interests are in flux usually but you can often find individual characters that I take a liking to and keep on drawing until it becomes second nature. When it doesn't feel fun anymore, I find another one.

And that's where the third one comes in: sometimes you have to give yourself time to find a compelling reason to draw again, to fall in love with your own art again or fall in love with someone else's art and want to honor them with your own. It's difficult to draw when you're forcing yourself to draw and staring down a blank canvas, but it's a lot easier when you're in the middle of doing some work or something and the thought of a character or something makes you just want to put down everything if even just to scribble them on a post-it-note, right? Passion ebbs and flows and sometimes you just have to trust that it'll flow back to you in time, even if you can't predict it.

I hope this helps, and I hope you're able to find reasons to love drawing again. :)

[angstyentropy]

The writers of Robin War did not get We Are Robin at all, on re-read it's quite obvious they didn't care for them at all. They treat We Are Robin (WAR) as if it's useless, they're importance is downplayed at every turn and they barely get any moment to shine.

(break because this is a long post)

Most of my issues start after the Robins meet up at the gym. Duke starts giving a speech while his friends stand off to the side. Up until this point Duke has never been treated as a leader and the We Are Robin team have only acted as equals.

Everyone decided independently to go out and fight crime, everyone is on the same page and that's why they work together. They're a group working together because they want to, they aren't a gang working under a gang leader.

Damian immediately shows up, tells them they aren't Robin, tells them to go home, insults them and beats up both Duke and everyone else. On top of dozens of people being arrested our first impressions of We Are Robin are them being portrayed as weak and incompetent, and I hate that this isn't a one time occurrence.

Grayson #15 literally starts with WAR saying they are Robin only to immediately be corrected by the "main four" Robins followed by Dick talking about how inexperienced they are. Not long after we get a two page spread of Damian berating them and beating them with ease.

What happens right after they get trained? They get captured and rendered useless before they could do anything. What happens when they're captured? You guessed it! They get insulted more. They don't even get to show off any training as they escape, they just reach between bars and throw Tim upwards, the next two encounters with the Talons barely show any of WAR fighting either.

I get that this was supposed to show the difference in skill but we haven't been shown WAR doing anything that doesn't show how weak they are, it's overkill and is just discrediting all of them. Plus it's missing the entire point, they aren't meant to fight super villains and they aren't meant to be super soldiers.

For the Third? Fourth? Time now Damian defeats all of them again. Can you tell how tired of this I am yet? Finally after all that we get to see We Are Robin fight!

...But it didn't feel satisfying at all, not to me at least. The fighting is relegated to the background, in the first panel it shows most of them hiding behind a wall while the Talons attack. Then the next one has us focusing on Duke and Damian's conversation and fight. This empowering moment is then turned into Duke, a member of the group getting beat up by Damian again.

The kid who we just met gets his time to shine, he's been afraid this entire time so he must get his moment to be brave here. Nope, he didn't defeat the Talon and is about to die, hopefully another member steps in, showing the teamwork and strengths of We Are Robin? No, Damian saves him and tells him he's not Robin.

Finally we reach the last moment of WAR fighting, there's nothing quite as bad as the others but most of the panel is taken up by conversation and we're left with one image. I'm sorry but one image doesn't make up for the countless times they've been mocked in this event.

That's it, that's everything, that's how We Are Robin was portrayed in Robin War and it was absolutely. fucking. horrendous.

I think it's pretty clear that they only saw We Are Robin as an army, a group of people lead to fight others. This should've been obvious to the writers but WAR isn't an army or a gang, it's a movement and a movement is very different. The Robins aren't pawns to send off into battle to fight super villains. They're kids trying to make a difference, they work together to protect others, they inspire others to join and together they can bring change. That's where their strength comes from.

Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian talk lots about what it means to be Robin and they talk a lot about how WAR aren't Robins. From the get go we're more likely to agree with them, they have all been Robin and we're likely way more attached to those characters. None of them really see anything wrong with their words and you never get to see an argument for WAR's opinions on what Robin is. This removes so much nuance, undermines the entire movement and makes everything they're doing seem meaningless.

Another thing that I think is important to mention is in We Are Robin #6 (the last one before Robin War) the team face off against a Talon. Duke gets shot and Riko steps in front of him, fiercely facing them down. After Riko is taken care beaten alongside Duke, Izzy pulls out a gun to defend them and herself. Dre and Dax saw this from blocks away and came running, saving the others and fighting alongside them. All of them run in head first and the versions of them in Robin War almost look like cowards in comparison.

Then we get this amazing internal dialogue and fight scene, I'll let it speak for itself.

In We Are Robin five of them are taking on one Talon and they didn't even defeat them, in Robin War they seem to be able to beat Talons almost singlehandedly. But they still felt so much more powerful in We Are Robin, fighting side by side with each other. It felt impactful and to me, that small victory was infinitely more important than any win seen in Robin War.

It saddens me because if the writers cared a little bit more it could've been good but they didn't and it really shows.

[sunwukxng]

I was scouring the Internet for ways to make money online so I could afford the $520 to apply for the legal ability to make money offline (and therefore be able to find work beyond freelancing editing gigs that take literally over six months to pay out and still haven't as of this very moment; not to mention, pay it forward much more often than I've been able to previously) and everyone was swearing by Branded Surveys. So I joined BS (aptly abbreviated, mind you), and for all of like 2 surveys, I was earning "points" to redeem towards a cash payout.

Literally every other time I tried to take a survey, they'd do screening questions, and then be like "sorry, this survey isn't available to people like you" (not in those words, but that was the sentiment).

Or you'd find an interesting research survey you'd love to take part in, but then it tells you it's full and unavailable and only so many spots, so you can't take the survey.

Or you'd take a survey on something like, say, Bridgerton, for a random and totally not experienced example, that says it'd be 20 - 25 minutes, you would painstakingly answer questions about a franchise and its future that you have never seen, engaged with, or watched a single second of, answering questions about future seasons and potential spinoffs and ideas for merchandise and themed Bridgerton experiences and events and books and perfumes or cookbooks, and this goes on and on and on for an hour, and then you complete the survey only to be greeted with a page that then informs you that you don't qualify to take the survey you just spent an hour taking and after they got all the answers they wanted and made a Booboo the Fool out of you, which means that your alleged lack of qualifications renders the previous hour's worth of effort null and void and also that you don't get any points to go towards your balance (aside from maybe a literal, single, one (1) solitary consolation point for not qualifying for the survey you just spent the past hour of your life that you'll never get back (while your legs fell dead because you were on the toilet) taking), so you just stare at the black screen of your phone and contemplate why humanity is allowed to exist.

Or you'd figure okay maybe that was a one time fluke, maybe it was my connection, so you go for another big survey and take a while to answer it satisfactorily only to be told at the very end, after they get all the data they want regarding Caroline Herrera perfume bottle shapes and what imagery they evoke for you, that you don't qualify for the survey so you don't get the points you've earned and again are given one (1) single fucking patronizing point that goes towards your balance you've got to acquire $20 dollars' worth of points before you can cash out and you realize you were never going to get the points or money you worked for because Branded Surveys aka BS never intended to pay out and was just using your desperation and time to rob you instead of paying you and so you ultimately stopped taking surveys and found people on Reddit (which ironically was what recommended BS in the first place) having the exact same experience regarding "not qualifying" for surveys upon completion of said surveys so you're back to staring at your screen and broke and jobless and without the $520 for the Employment Authorization Document application (i-765) form and also the $25 for your phone due on June 5th.

I also very likely almost died because some entitled, arrogant, selfish piece of shit decided to literally cross lanes at the last second to make the exit and the only reason I'm not an anonymous smear on the road as a result of someone's complete lack of regard for anyone else's life and well-being is because my uber driver was paying attention and swerved to avoid getting hit.

So that's how my Pride Month is going so far. :) How's everyone else's?

[soelstress]

Ambivalent Research

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x female!reader

Summary: Working with Ransom was never easy, so why did you think a joint research trip would be any different?

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI , nsfw , sex/smut, p in v sex , unprotected sex , oral sex (f receiving) , vaginal fingering , some language

A/N 1 - This is my first joint submission for @steviebbboi 200 Followers Celebration Writing Challenge and @yenzys-lucky-charm & @sweater-daddiesdumbdork Horny Hoes Hootenanny. Sorry it's last minute!

A/N 2 - Prompts - - Enemies to lovers - "Slower, baby, I'm not going anywhere" - "We're both adults, we can share a bed for one night" - "Are you fucking kidding me?" - Withholding - getting scared during a horror movie

As a bonus, I asked Yenzy for two spins on the trick-or-treat wheel of potential doom... and for this one I chose the pillow fight!

A/N 3 - Do not Steal, Copy or Plagiarize any part of my work - GIF taken from google but page was listed for @writemarvelousthings

A/N 4 - Please let me know if I've missed a warning, knowing me it's more than likely. Hope you all enjoy ☺️

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The annoyed shout caused silence to fall as you stepped into the rustic lobby of the lodge. Optimistically, you had hoped that this trip would go smoothly… but of course nothing ever went to plan when he was involved, you thought with a disappointed sigh. “You’re fucking with me, right?” As you walked towards the check-in desk, you saw a staff member trying to apologize profusely to the person causing the ruckus. Any other person would probably see an exquisitely dressed, well groomed handsome man. All you saw was your boss Harlan Thrombey’s grandson, your fellow researcher and the biggest pain in your ass. 

Don’t-call-me-Hugh ‘Ransom’ Drysdale. When Harlan had said that Ransom would be working with you to research for Harlan’s next few mystery novels, you were filled with dread. From information you’d gleaned, Ransom was considered to be the black sheep of the family, a trust fund prick as they so lovingly called him. When asked, Harlan admitted that Ransom never had a job, only having worked as his research assistant for a summer. It was agreed between you and Harlan that you would have seniority, something you were grateful for as Ransom had been a reluctant participant to start, doing minimal work except for when he took every opportunity to cause trouble for you. He was an arrogant, self important conceited jerk who you wanted to kill… until things reached a peak one day. When Ransom had complained once again about working, you had lost all patience and your filter. “Fine! If you’re happy to keep sponging off your grandfather’s legacy and just remain a Drysdale in the self imposed so-called shadow of your parents rather than make something of yourself by your own efforts, then stop wasting my time and go!” From that day, Ransom had committed to contributing as much as possible. His work ethic might have improved… but he still annoyed you whenever the chance arose.

You subtly jabbed his side upon reaching the desk which caused his glare to focus on you. “Oops! Excuse me, Mr Drysdale. What seems to be the problem?” You offered your name to the staff member, the name you saw from his tag was Paul, who quickly found yours and Ransom’s booking were for the same company.

Another member of staff appeared behind Paul, radiating authority and a zero tolerance for nonsense attitude. Now this was someone who commanded respect, unlike the entitled idiot next to you whose gaze would have you murdered a million times over if looks could kill. “As my colleague Paul already explained to Mr Drysdale, unfortunately the pipes in his suite have burst, rendering the room unusable. Due to other bookings and events being reserved prior to yours, there are no other rooms available for tonight. We have called other hotels in the area, and found another suite at - “

”At a hotel 45 minutes away” Ransom interrupted. “Look, I need to be here for work. I don’t think you realize how important this could be for you, so why don’t you - “

”Share my suite” Three gazes focused on you though your attention was on the one that could potentially - and almost certainly would - make things more difficult. “We can share a room for a night”. Part of your brain screamed in horror and rebellion at the thought of sharing a room with him, but the other part scrambled to minimize the damage the arrogant asshole could cause with his big mouth and even bigger ego. Ransom opened his mouth to argue but when you jabbed him again and raised a brow, he knew to shut up. Or rather his version of shutting up which was to grumble and whine as he stomped over to the elevators. Rolling your eyes, you offered a small smile to the two staff members. “I’m so sorry about him, he shouldn't have spoken to you that way”.

Paul smiled at you gratefully, the weight of the world seemed to have dropped from his shoulders. “We have been trained to deal with such situations ma’am”.

You shook your head. “Just because a customer is paying for a service doesn’t give them the right to speak to you like that. Again, I’m very sorry and will be mentioning how professionally you handled this to my boss”.

”Thank you ma’am. Of course the suite will be refunded and due to the inconvenience, dinner is complimentary”. You thanked them profusely and headed to the elevator where Ransom fidgeted impatiently.

“So when should I get that refund?” Ransom huffed, pushing the call button.

You eyed him incredulously, somehow still amazed by his ego. ”You realise that Harlan will receive the refund, seeing as he paid?” Before you both stepped into the elevator, you pulled out your phone to call your boss. Upon hearing his greeting, a smile graced your lips. “Hello Harlan”

”Ah good afternoon dear girl”. You could hear the formality being replaced with fondness, a rare occurrence from what you had observed of Harlan. “I trust you and my grandson arrived safely at the lodge?” 

“Yes, though there is a slight change in plans”. Briefly, you informed him about the room being refunded and Ransom sharing a room with you instead of having to leave the area.

“Oh dear. I appreciate you being so accommodating, especially as I had wanted you both to specifically research the lodge and surrounding neighborhood for me. I must apologize in advance for my grandsons behaviour, as I know he seems to enjoy unnecessarily needling you”

”As long as I won’t be held accountable for any retaliation for the duration of this trip, short of bodily harm or murder”. You grinned as Harlan chuckled and Ransom gave you the side eye. You bid Harlan a good evening, ending the call.

”Retaliation huh? Now why would my dear Grandfather agree to that?” Ransom leaned back against the elevator wall. Your irritation flared at his casual arrogance. 

“Because he knows you ‘enjoy unnecessarily needling’ me Drysdale, and yes those were his exact words”. Inhaling deeply, you stood straight and held your ground. “Being a researcher is challenging enough, but to work for one as renowned as Harlan Thrombey is the chance of a lifetime and I’d be a fool to let anything ruin the opportunity. Which is what I told him when I applied for the role. After my interview and a few months of working for him, he said that he appreciated my honesty and work ethic, but also recognised I have no patience for drama or bullshit - a good deal of which is found within his own family, much to his disappointment”. Every word you spoke was true, Harlan had said all of this to you. Though you had overheard the specifics about his family while he was speaking to his caregiver Marta but you had met all of them in the few years you worked for Harlan. 

A dark brown arched. “Oh? And just what drama are you referring to?” With a ding, the elevator doors opened to your floor and Ransom hesitated before gesturing for you to move first. Finding your door a few strides down the corridor, you stopped and pulled the key card from your pocket. Opening the door, you waved for Ransom to precede you. 

”Take your pick, from your parents to your Uncle Walt or Aunt Joni. They all have their own drama. Though I wonder about how Harlan would react to hearing how much damage his eldest grandson could have caused by opening his big mouth without thinking. Newsflash Drysdale - any dramas linked to Harlan Thrombey or Blood Like Wine would be damaging. Those are the two names paying your income… and the only names worth mentioning. I’ve been doing this job for some time, so I’ll make it easy for you - despite what you, your mother or father may say no one has ever heard the name Drysdale with recognition outside of your social circle”.

Ransom's face darkened at the mention of his immediate family. “Hey, don’t compare me to those two. I asked Grandfather to show me the ropes for this business, so I could decide if it was something I wanted to do myself. But if by some small chance Grandfather leaves the company to me and not that idiot Walt, I’ve no intention to say that I’ve done my own work from the ground up. I’d say it’s Grandfathers and I’m just continuing his legacy”. A chuckle from you had him frowning. “What?”

”I think hell just froze over because I agree with you”. And you did. It irritated you that Linda, Ransom’s mother and Harlan’s eldest child, claimed to have built her business from the ground up by herself when in actuality she had used Harlan's money. And her husband wasn’t much better, you saw Richard’s eyes wander when you visited Harlan at his estate. All of the family repulsed you, trying to constantly outdo one another whilst trying to impress Harlan. But hearing Ransom say that he would honour and continue Harlan’s legacy rather than try to claim it for his own softened you slightly. 

Ransom had walked into the main area with a small seating area against the wall but a large king size bed dominated the space, facing beautiful views outside the windows. “You gotta be shitting me” he groaned, almost as if in pain.

When you saw the size of the couch, you knew that neither of you would be sleeping on it. It was soft and squashy looking, but more for sitting on than sleeping. Which really left you with one option. “For Gods’ sake. We’re both adults, we can share a bed for one night”. He glanced at you with an indecipherable look before sighing and stalking off to the bathroom and closing the door. Unsure whether to check on him after the look in his deep blue eyes, you hesitated. Oh yes, along with your annoyance of him came the reality that he really was a handsome bastard. Not that you’d ever tell him that. Dark hair swept off an angular face with soft pink lips and eyes to drown in, he really had won the genetic lottery. But his appearance aside, you had shared a few soft moments with him after the family gatherings he attended. Sometimes you would gently rub his back or pat his shoulder to ease the tension and resentment radiating off him. There were moments that you wanted to verbally comfort or reassure him, but after the brief physical contact he would pull away and annoy you before walking away. Part of you knew it was a defence mechanism, lashing out because it was all he knew. This time you decided to give him space.  

After eating dinner and making a plan to explore the area the next day, you changed into your pajamas - a matching set of cotton shorts and tank top -  and sat to watch a horror movie that you discovered had used the lodge you were currently staying at as a filming location. Harlan knew you were thorough in your research, so encouraged you to investigate any adaptations made to avoid plagiarism. You hated horror movies, much preferring a thriller or a mystery. But this was your job. As you sat watching, you hugged your pillow to your chest. Your heart began to pound watching the lead female edge into the dark room - 

and jumped as something grabbed you. Reacting on instinct, you swung out with your pillow and walloped whatever it was that had grabbed you. Surprised and amused blue eyes met yours. “Seriously? You hit me… with a pillow?”

Embarrassment was chased away by irritation. “Seriously” you mimicked his voice with a scowl. “You decided to scare me while watching a horror movie? Real mature, Drysdale”. 

“Pot, meet kettle” he huffed, grabbing his pillow and whacking you back.

It might have been immature, childish, just downright idiotic… but this man existed just to make your life a living hell. And you’d had reassurances from Harlan that any retribution this weekend would not be held accountable, So you decided the hell with it. And whacked him repeatedly with your pillow. Ransom was caught off guard for a moment before retaliating, making every effort to hit you with his pillow. At one point, you had stolen Ransom's pillow and struggled to keep hold of yours, Ransom in close proximity. Both your eyes locked as you panted, straining to win the pillow. 

The next moment the pillow was thrown aside and you were under Ransom, grabbing desperately at his hair, his sweater - anything to bring him closer. Your mouths clashed in a heated battle for dominance, filled with teeth and tongue. One arm propped his torso up to keep his weight off you while the other slid around your waist and pulled you against him. 

Once again your brain screamed at you - why the hell were you kissing Ransom Drysdale? More importantly, why the hell were you enjoying it so much? But your heart pounded loudly, drowning out your screaming thoughts and focusing on Ransom - how good his lips felt against yours, how smooth his hands felt gliding over your flesh, how he ground against you as desperately as you were to him. “Too many goddamn clothes” he hissed, yanking your top over your head and immediately latched his lips onto a nipple, fingers tweaking the other. Your back arched, pushing yourself closer to him. Desperate to feel his skin on yours you tugged at his sweater before he pulled back with a curse, almost ripping it off and tossing it aside before plunging his mouth to yours. His denim clad crotch ground against you, causing you to moan at the feel of his erection. Ransom pulled your shorts off, exposing you to him. His finger drifted up your thighs and across your folds before slowly sinking into your heat. He groaned against your lips, pushing in a few times before adding a second finger and curling them against your inner wall. 

His fingers worked a steady rhythm inside you as his palm rubbed against your clit. You moaned when a wave of pressure began to slowly build, rising to crest through you… and you whimpered when his hand stopped moving altogether. Desperate for friction you tried to grind your hips against his hand but he pulled it away, raising his head to look at his wet fingers. “Hmm.. I think you could be a little wetter, dear girl” he crooned, lightly mocking Harlan's usual endearment. When a snarl started to leave your throat, his fingers returned to the previous rhythm and any fight left you. His lips glided from one breast to the other, his tongue teasing and tasting your skin in time with his digits. The wave of pleasure built again, threatening to consume you and just as you tasted the first hint of release Ransom stopped again. You heard a soft chuckle which only fueled your frustration at being denied.

”Drysdale. So help me, if you don’t make me cum right now-” a soft brush over your clit briefly interrupted your threat. “I know a half a dozen ways to end you without weapons or toxins” your growl turned into a breathless whimper when he blew softly onto your pulsing heat. Looking down, you could see him watching you inches from where you needed him.

”Is one of those ways smothering me with this wet cunt?” Those blue eyes sparkled with wicked sensuality. “Then end me right now, baby”. Suddenly he licked firmly into your dripping folds, groaning deeply as the first drop hit his tongue which had you squirming from the vibrations. “Goddamn… you taste so fine, kitten”. He lapped away, humming as you began to grind against his face. The tension from your two prior denials built with a vengeance and in your desire, you gripped his hair and pulled him closer. His nose brushed against your clit and you cried out which he answered with a pleased hum as he firmly suckled on your clit.

”Fuck!” Pleasure coursed from head to toe, your mind solely focused on prolonging the feeling as long as possible. Once the tremors had stopped, you laid for a moment to gather your thoughts. Glancing to the side you saw Ransom facing you, laying on his back with his hands behind his head and that goddamn smug-sonofabitch-smirk etched on his face, lips glistening from your juices. 

Suddenly filled with an urge to wipe the smirk off his face you moved to pull his jeans and boxers down, watching as his cock was freed. God, no wonder he walked around with that attitude. He was big, and for a moment you wondered how the hell it was meant to fit in you but you didn’t want to say it aloud and give him yet another ego boost. Scrambling to straddle him, you squirmed as his flesh rubbed between your folds. “Woah… slower, baby, I’m not going anywhere” Ransom chuckled which turned into a gasp when you squeezed him with your hands. Guiding his tip, you both moaned when it rubbed over your clit. Biting your lip you began to sink onto him. “Shit” he hissed, hands moving to grip your hips and control your descent. Moaning from the stretch you wriggled on him, unable to sit comfortably on his thighs. Cursing, he gently pushed you to lean back and you slid flush against him, the movement causing his cock to rub deeply within you. At your whimper, his eyes flashed to you. “You ok?”

Grinding against him, a small keen echoed through the room. “Feels so good… fuck… you’re so big”. 

Hearing your voice crack on the last word, Ransom began to roll his hips watching as you lost yourself to pleasure. Head tipped back, chest heaving and hands grasping for something. Ransom bucked up into you and then groaned when your hands dug into his flesh. ”Oh… my kitten has claws” he whispered, relishing the sight of the red marks. Feeling you clench around him Ransom continued to buck into you, his hands gripping your hips. ”Fuck yes… you want my cum kitten? Gonna cream this sweet little pussy”. You moaned loudly at his words, his hands guiding you through deep strokes as your walls sucked at his throbbing cock insistently. Your body began to tremble with that oh-so-familiar heat and you clenched tightly around Ransom, suddenly terrified he was going to edge you again. “Not gonna stop, baby” he murmured, gasping as your body shook with pleasure. “That’s it kitten, squeeze me. I’m gonna cum so hard for you”. Suddenly he tugged you down to him for a deep kiss, groaning against your lips as he came deep within you.

Panting, you rested against Ransom’s chest and heard the gentle lub-dub of his heart. His fingers brushed cautiously against your cheek, cupping your face when you pushed further into his touch. He tensed and you worried that he was going to revert to his pattern of lashing out. You couldn’t handle that, not after this. You cared about him, somehow falling for him along the way despite the antagonism between you. “Please”. He looked down at you, worry lining his face. “Please don’t pull away, Ransom”. 

Shaking his head, Ransom held you close. “I’m sorry baby, for being an asshole and making things difficult for you. Honestly, I just wanted you to notice me. But I’ve wanted more since you basically told me to grow some balls and make something of myself. You’re the first person apart from Grandfather to see something in me”. Ransom sighed heavily. “I’m a mess, kitten. Fuck, you’re more than familiar with the shit show that is my so-called family”. Your heart ached at the bitterness lacing his voice and moved your hand to rest on his chest. “I don’t know how to do this” he gestured between you before capturing your hand with his and pressing his lips to your palm. “But I want to try. For you. With you. I’m probably going to upset you and definitely annoy you… but I want to try and make you happy”.

“Like our research”. He cocked his head at your answer. “Research means that you don’t know, but are willing to find out”. At your soft giggle, his blue eyes sparkled. “Together. We’ll do it together”.

[granolawriting]

Within the confines of a ship ˚✧

pairing: Jedi!reader x Jedi Anakin

Summary: Spending night after night having sexual tension with a certian Jedi on a mission surrounded by your peers in a ship comes to a head when one day he stops trying to be discrete about what he wants.

Content warning: 18+ NSFW, minor exhibitionism, dom!Anakin, tension, Anakins a tease, breif aftercare, you guys stop caring about making no noise like halfway through, p in v unprotected, he cums in you, I don't think I actually wrote anything that explicitly makes the reader female, Anakin is glaringly cocky

word count: 2.6k

masterlist

A/N: so sorry this took so long to put out!!! I just moved to a new state :)! I hope u enjoy the second installment of my kinktober list, I'll see you all again on the 10th ;). Make sure if you like my work to check out my requests/comissions or my ko-fi!!!

The silent hum of a ship deeply comfortable in hyperspace and the muffled talk of fellow Jedi upon the ship fills your mind as you try to ensure that's all that enters it. Subconsciously you hone in on voices, unable to discern conversation but by mere tone and inflection alone could you spot him if he was there. 

… 

There he is. 

You felt the sound of his voice sink deep within your stomach, igniting your body ablaze. Even the mere sense of him in distance to you made you grow weak, feeling as a pool builds through slick underwear at how your mind allows it to wander. Anakin had never been explicitly sexual with you, never did his hands trail down the waistband of pants or under hooked lines of bras, never did his lips even touch yours or the flush of bodies against one another. You were completely left to your imagination, though not without the help of Anakin. 

You and him have always had a history, a tension of sorts. Never properly actualized with action but words were more than enough. The way his eyes devoured you when you walked past, soft words exchanged in private halls or even implicit praise after simulated battles between you and him. 

“Ooh, good girl. Seems like someones been practicing.” 

Small things. Though as he strung you along this road of implication and suggestion your mind was allowed to run wild with what else may lie within his own mind. The reactions to the things you’ve said in kind, and how if they were anything like how you responded-- with hands sinking to the ooze between your legs the moment you were home, you were more than certain that it couldn't last like this forever. What you would do more than anything to please him, hear how he moans, the way he’d praise you. The feeling of him inside of you, what did he even look like? 

It didn't help that you two were constantly surrounded by one another in hidden corners of a ship, it wasn't cramped but it was definitely rendering you on edge as every corner you turned had a much higher potential of holding anakin than it usually would. Though, with that, the tension only grew stronger. Seeing him fresh out of showers with only cloth wrapping his lower half, catching staring eyes from across dining room counters and most of all, the words exchanged in the few moments left alone with one another in the confines of the ship. 

“Where are you off too darling? 

“To my room, didn't think anyone else was awake. I was just going to head to bed.” 

You remember how close his face would inch towards yours, the soft clank of a heel that indicated one more step closer to yours. You remember the sly look on his face, a half cocked brow and egotistical smile, arms crossed and strands of hair littering his face. 

“I don't think anyone else here is awake either. Well, I'm glad I caught you before then.” 

The way he looked you up and down, subtle gnawing on his lip as he drank you in. the warm tug that drew your lips to his. 

“Why's that? Did you need something?” 

“Well I could tell you quite a few things I need from you.” 

You also remembered the hissing of a door behind you as it indicated its opening. The feeling of the flutter in your heart quickly dies as dread follows in the wake of something interrupting such a moment. To turn behind you you greet a jedi that you barely remember the name of. And with that does Anakin take off once more through the same door-- eyes locked on you and a smile that feels as though it was coated with lust as his mind was a secret to you but his body told a similar story. Every part of it. 

Lifting yourself off the bed you trail slow feet towards your door, an entrance to the room where anakin shared. Unsure of what you were meaning to do when you got to him, all you knew is that you needed to see him. Talk to him. Something. 

Walking out into the common area you watch his eyes on you once more, growing from notice to intrigue as you grow closer to him. Those around him stop conversation briefly, tuned in also to what means you had to be out there. 

“Hey Ani, do you think I could talk to you for a second?” 

“Oh yeah, what's up?” 

“Um, 

Pausing for a second you don't know what to say. Everyone's eyes lay on you as they dissect your motives, morbidly curious about what you’re to say to him. 

“Alone, please? You can just come into my room.” 

A look on Anakin's face that was initially worry quickly molded into something much more lustful, the cocky grin coated his face once more and a hood to his eyes that insinuated that his mind was someplace much different than the rest of the people in the room regarding what you were implying. You didn't even know what you were implying. All you wanted was to go out there and see him, watch the way he moved and allow yourself to sink deep within his eyes and embrace the enchantment you held for his every feature. The desire you had for every inch upon his body. 

“Say no more.” 

A smirk curved on the right side of his cheek as he lifted himself up from his seat. Watching as his fingers comb through long hair that pushed it back for just a moment before laying perfectly upon his face, sculpting his face did slight waves along its side make way for a weakening gaze to fall upon you that made you feel as though your knees were to give out. 

The short walk to your cabin felt like miles as every step that loomed behind you was an aura of uncertainty and tension that built up with every foot you moved closer behind that door. 

The sound of the doors open and subsequent closing made your heart well up in anticipation, fear almost. You didn't know what to do, what to say. You had nothing to talk to him about other than your insatiable lust for him, and that wasn't quite on the table to casually discuss. Though as you look for the words to speak he says them for you. 

“And what exactly did you need to talk to me about in silence, hm?” 

He taunts you, it's clear in dark tone and greedy eyes that he knows precisely what is so hard to get out. 

“Oh well I, I don't quite know how to say it.” 

“Oh come on, use your words.” 

“I'm trying it's just that I-” 

“Spit it out baby I don't have all day.” 

Banter back and forth as he capitalizes on your meekness comes to a head, and with the inability to put words into sentences at the face of him towering over you with a taunting glance you lean in for a kiss. 

Anakin, caught by surprise, has eyes wide open, but after a moment passes a smile can be felt to grow wide on his lips as he deepens the kiss. Arms snake around your waist as he yanks you closer, both bodies flush against one another as your back curves slightly at the tug of his arms on the small of your back. 

“Good girl, I wonder how long it’d take you.” 

He lets up for breath and whispers in your ear as he moves a hand to your head, stroking your hair as your senses are overtaken by the words pouring into your ear. He sounded greedy, cocky. He had been toying with you, seeing how long it took until you broke. He loved watching you writhe under him, hums escaped your lips at the mere vibration of his voice against your body, the touch of his lips against yours. 

You feel his knees bend slightly as his hands make swift moves to the back of your thighs, lifting you up does he return his lips to yours. Feeling him grunt inside your mouth as he walks you over to the bed, interlocking your legs around his as he tosses you on unmade sheets. Crawling on top of you does he deepen the kiss evermore, sticking his tongue into the back of your throat do you feel a growing bulge within his pants. Laid directly on top of you did you feel it grow mere inches above your heat, desperately you find yourself unconsciously grinding on it to feel it even more. He's big, even through loose pants does he leave no room for imagination as it presses up against you. Feeling it twitch through thin layers of cloth. 

“Fuck-- ngh. Wasting no time hm?”

His hands caged you in at either side, he let up from your kiss to focus on the feeling you provided him below his waist. You felt as his hips started to follow rhythm with your waist, inching lower down your body so his bulge laid directly atop your heat. 

Through desperate buckling of hips you speed up pace, feeling him right on top of you as the only thing separating him from you being a few pieces of cloth. Biting back your lip do you desperately try to hold back the moans that scratch at your throat at the feeling of him rubbing on you. 

A hand falls on your mouth the moment you let one slip. 

“Don't make a fucking sound. I know how much you love my cock baby, but we’ve got to stay quiet hm? Think you can do that for me?” 

You nod your head in agreement. He removes his hand and fixes his rhythm atop you once more. 

“Fuck it. I need to be inside of you.” 

Legs straddle your lower half as his body folds to take off your pants. Cool air hits the exposed wetness of underwear as you feel a finger drag along its center. 

“All of this for me baby?” 

He teases your clit with his index, moving it in slow circles as he trails up and down your folds. 

“You’re so fucking hot.” 

Taking his own pants off does he leave no underwear on himself, revealing his cock that stood mere inches from your entrance. 

Fuck he’s huge. 

Leaning on you once more does he flush exposed cock along the slick coating your underwear. Kissing you slowly as he moves his hips up and down your heat. 

“Mmhg, god, anakin please” 

“Please what? Come on, speak up baby.” 

“Please, please fuck me. I need to feel you I can't stand it anymore.” 

“I love hearing you beg for me.” 

He snakes a hand down to your underwear, pulling it to the side as he coats his cock with your juices. It takes everything in you not to whine out his name as he slowly teased you, feeling how hard his cock was against you moments before he finally put it in. 

As he waits at your entrance for a moment, you feel him slowly sink into you as muted groans escape bitten lip. 

“God you’re so tight.” 

His head bucks up as he inches deeper in you, exposing a neck with small beads of sweat and defined jaw as his face looks up at the ceiling. 

As his body grows flush against yours, you feel more full than you have in your whole life. No finger could ever suffice the sheer size of him, all the times you’d imagined him inside of you with even 3 of your own deep within you could never amount to how it felt now. The curve of his cock hitting the entrance to your womb, your entire body engulfed in flames at the feeling of him merely being warmed inside of you. 

With steady motion he began moving in and out of you, your hands grip the sheets of your mattress at the mere feeling of him pumping in and out of you, legs instinctively shutting together at the feeling. Though with stern hands does he push you back upon again; 

“Open your legs for me, baby. I wanna see you.” 

And you obliged, heavy calloused hands grip on your thighs as he gets steady motion inside of you. Labored breaths as his brows contort in pleasure upon finally feeling inside of you. 

“You don't know how long I've wanted this baby. To finally fuck you like you deserve, I could have never imagined how tight you would be imagining you as my fist every night.” 

your head turns into the sheets of your bed as he begins to pump into you harder-- your body overtaken by white hot pleasure that sank deep into your stomach as the only thing you could think of is how your body memorized his cock. The feeling of every vein and every inch, the way it curved into you and the constant push on the perfect spot that made you feel like you were going insane. 

“Huhh, Anakin please don't stop. Please, please” 

You begin to beg in a hushed voice as every word you spoke was laced with whines and moans. 

“Oh what? Are you going to cum baby?” 

You respond in a hummed moan that gives him all the information he needs. His hand trails to your clit as he begins to play with it as he thrusts into you. Picking up the pace of not only his hips but his fingers as they both make you go dumb with pleasure. 

“Come on, cum on my fucking cock. Get even tighter for me baby I know you can do it. I want to feel your legs fucking shake for me, feel you convulse on my cock.” 

You feel it well up inside of you as you boil over, and only a few more seconds after his demands were you plunged into a frenzy of movement under him. His arms grip your legs together as he pumps into you through your orgasm, never stopping for a moment as he rides it out using you even after you’ve finished. 

“God-- anakin I cant. I cant please,” 

“Come on, I know you can take it. Be a good girl will you?” 

You lay flat against the bed as he uses you, fucking into you as though you were just a toy. But as your orgasm finished his was soon to build up. His thrusts becoming irregular and desperate, sweat collected on the ends of his hair as it fell into his face. 

“Say my name.” 

“A..Anakin” 

“Say my fucking name.” 

“Anakin!”

You yelp his name as he slams into you, feeling him pour into you as he dumps every last drop of himself inside of you. You feel him twitch inside of you as his cum seeps out of open edges of your insides as he stays flush to you through his orgasm. Legs slightly twitch as he seems hard to stand, and slowly he pulls himself out of you to leave only a pool of white leaking out of you in its wake. 

“Let me get you cleaned up. Stay right there.” 

He commands you as he walks into your bathroom a few feet away, gathering a towel to wipe along your heat and anywhere that has substances that can't quite stay there. Though through labored breath he continues; 

“I think we’re going to have to do that more often, baby.”

[cherrriesinthespring]

72 with dom!spencer pls 😫

again, tried to be inclusive!!

warnings: spanking, punishment, talk of later punishment and a belt but not shown, teasing, marks left on the reader. use of daddy!!

mdni!!

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a dinner party at rossi's mansion, the third one you'd been to since getting with spencer. you knew his coworkers pretty well, not only based on his perfect descriptions of each, but also you're friends with a few.

earlier that night, spencer had teased you relentlessly as you got ready. it started when you were in the mirror, styling your hair. he came up behind you, whispering in the low tone he knows you love "can't wait to pull on this later.."

you weren't used to him having such an interest in dirty talk, he was never one for it unless you were the one guiding him through something you begged for. one thing is though, he loves seeing you flustered.

slipping on your outfit, he came over again, as you perfected the last touches. "I've watched you put this on so I can figure out how long it'll take to get it off" that rendered you speechless.

you begged him to touch you, he refused. your asks got more and more simple, a kiss on the lips, on the cheek, a hug?! none of it. so you decided to make it impossible for him not to touch you, no matter what kind of touch it was.

the party began, you didn't drink all that much, neither did spencer. one glass of champagne loosened you up enough to put your plan into action. sauntering over to derek, you asked him to dance, why would he deny you?

spencer eyed both of you from across the garden, his hands dangerously close to your hips. the touch wasn't particularly intimate, but enough to set spencer off. derek seemed to notice the way spencer watched closely, fidgeting, his hands gripping his glass so hard it could've broke.

he doesn't say anything though he ignores it when spencer comes up behind you, murmuring something about "need to talk to you" biting back a smirk, you let go of derek and follow spencer inside, his steps are calculated, eager, he knows what he wants and he's going to get it.

once you two are tucked in a guest room, far off from any of the main lounge rooms (just to be safe) he scoffs at the innocent batting of lashes.

"what do you think you're doing, Y/N?" hes agitated, pulling his tie off as he speaks, reaching for his top button. your head tilts, acting all sweet and normal once again, voice light and airy.

"what do you mean?" that spurs him on further. he comes close, lips connecting with yours, his hand wrapping around your neck, practically dwarfing it.

"strip off your bottom half. lay down, ass up. now." as soon as he's finished you begin stripping off like he said, you know he won't ask again. you're also finally relieved you're getting touched.

you strip, he pushes you down over the mattress, your face buries into the white fabric, it almost reminds you of a hotel bed. the sheets smell better than a hotel bed though, and you know it's rossi's place. it's probably cleaner than a-

'SLAP' and a moan erupts from you. you choke on the breath you attempt to take in and he smirks. another one, he can see the curve of your ass changing colours, the marks visible.

"please- FUCK, fuck- I'm sorry.. I'll be good, daddy i swear!" you're loud, but it's no worry, the party is out back. another loud slap echoes through the room and you hear it before you feel it. you're practically soaked, trying to rut your hips against the bed to feel something, it doesn't work.

"I'm going easy on you, you should be getting the belt right now " his hands play with the plush fat of your ass, squeezing and grabbing at what he can. another two slaps across marked skin and he pulls you up by the hair, smirking at the mess between your thighs.

"we're going back out there, keep your hands to yourself, and no more champagne. we need you to be sober for when we get home, eat too, you'll need the energy" you know he means it.

he's gentle as he slips your outfit back on, and can't help roughly shoving you against the wall to make out with you a little before intertwining your hands. you walk out with a smile on your face, as promised, you fill your plate and opt for soft drinks.

[muddyorbsblr]

timeless

See my full list of works here!

Summary: While doing some research to help out Mobius on a 'moonshot project', you and Loki come across a startling revelation about your lives. All your lives.

Pairing: TVA!Loki x TVA!Reader

Word Count: 3.5

Warnings: some talks of smutty times, but overall this is just fluff [let me know if i missed something!]

Things to be aware of: established relationship, talks of soulmates, references to my other stories

"I really don't get why you're in here bugging me for something to do, Y/N," Agent Mobius chuckled, shaking his head as he thumbed through another folder's worth of records that he hadn't told you quite yet what they were for. "No high-level variant threats have been reported, timelines are--well, they're relatively stable. Things are quiet for a change. I say enjoy it while it lasts and go on a vacation or something with Laufeyson. Just don't--"

"Don't cause any Nexus events, yes yes, Mobius, we know." A smile broke out on your face at the sound of Loki's voice cutting off the TVA Agent, your cheeks nearly aching from your grin widening when he walked up behind you and long arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close. "Thing is we already have partaken in quite a handful of adventures across the timelines, indulging ourselves in the…numerous pleasures and luxuries that they have to offer."

One look at how you were reddening with the implications of your boyfriend's words had your fellow Agent scrunching up his face in feigned appalment. "Time and place, you two, jeez."

You and Loki shared a confused look when an analyst from another table yelled "And you did it at my birthday dinner!" and rendered Mobius into a cackling heap, laughing into his sleeve to muffle the sound.

"Anyway…" you spoke up, making the grey-haired agent look back up at you. "Are you sure there isn't anything we can help with? Doesn't even have to be high-level, I'll literally take up a timeline reset caused by a woman at a grocery store grabbing a can of peaches instead of a can of mangoes, I'm getting antsy here."

"Alright alright fine," he sighed, motioning toward you and the god behind you. "It's something of a moonshot but we've been trying to find proof of the existence of soulmates throughout the timelines, so we need concrete cases that no matter the circumstance, no matter the obstructions between two souls, they always find each other and they always end up together."

"You mean like in that TV show where they've got fairytale characters in like Maine or something and there's this couple that constantly goes--"

"I'll find you, I will always find you," you and Mobius said at once, causing you both to break out into laughter.

"Exactly like that," he confirmed when he calmed down some. "Preferably without the cheesy catchphrase because in case you do find one I would actually prefer to not include in my report that all soulmates have some line they tell each other that's so cheesy it's pungent."

"Right so…soulmates, no cheesy lines, across the timelines. Got it." You gave him a little salute before you went off to the shelves, holding Loki's hand as he followed a few steps behind you.

"Darling we have been scouring through files for hours. Perhaps it's time to report back to Mobius. Tell him that every pair we've found so far have broken the pattern at some iteration down the line. The most we've come across is a pair that were together for five iterations of their lives before the sixth showed they never even met in that lifetime."

Your shoulders slumped over when you placed your latest folder on your pile, of failed attempts, just about  half the size of Loki's own little mountain of case files. Maybe he was right; every possible lead you'd found all ended up a dud, and that alone would be proof enough that this was all a wild goose chase of an assignment for Mobius.

Then again, he did call it a moonshot, so the realization didn't smart too much.

The frustration you felt began to melt away the moment Loki's hands touched your shoulders, leaning into him when he started working at the knots that he found with expert precision. "Okay, you're right," you sighed. "Let's go tell Cubey his moonshot's a single needle in a city of haystacks."

He placed a kiss to the top of your head, using his seiðr to stack the case files into neat stacks arranged by file number. "Thank the Norns that ridiculous magic dampener fractured some when the timelines diverged," he mumbled, chuckling into your hair. "Now how about I bring us to a nice hot spring and we could simply…enjoy one another's company?" You let out a giggle when his hands traveled down your sides, lightly grasping your waist and pulling you against him.

If only you could have silenced the little voice in your head when you were just seconds away from him whisking you off to Jökulsárlón or Hakone, clad in a dark emerald bikini that your lover would peel off of you as he made good on his promise for you both to enjoy each other's company.

"I can nearly hear the thoughts forming in your mind, darling," he cooed, pressing his lips to the back of your neck, chuckling against your skin when you wordlessly confirmed what he'd said by slumping over again. "What is it?"

"Just one last try?" You wouldn't ever let yourself live it down if you'd gone down this road and not looked at this particular set of files.

He let out a sigh, his slightly cool breath tickling your skin before pressing a tender kiss to the back of your head. "One last attempt. And if we reach another dead end--"

"You can whisk me away to any destination of your choice and have your wicked way with me," you finished for him, letting out a little yelp when he brought his lips to the spot between your neck and shoulder, playfully nipping at the skin.

"What a deliciously reckless promise, my love," he teased, smirking against your neck when he proceeded to lightly suck at the sensitive skin and you had to bite your lip to muffle the whimper that slipped through your lips. "I look forward to collecting on it in a short while."

He rested his chin on your shoulder, still holding you close when you called out for a bit of assistance on your final hunch. "Minutes?"

Your eyes squinted to adjust to the sudden brightness when the orange hologram appeared on the desk in front of you. "Well hello there, lovebirds. What can I do for y'all?" she asked with a small wave of her cartoonish stick arm.

"Could you pull up our files?"

"Well sure I can, Y/N! How much of your files are we talking here?"

You shared a look with Loki before you answered, "All of them?"

"Before I hand 'em over, I think it's best y'all know from the get go that you're about to deal with thousands of files. It'll take a whole lotta time before you can sort 'em all out," she cautioned you both, already giving you a digital visual of how many files she'd already begun to pull up.

"Minutes, as I've come to understand it, we variants apparently have all the time in the world," you countered, shrugging your free shoulder and giving the living hologram a little smile. "We can take it."

"Alright well suit yourself," she comically shrugged both her hands before making the files that were already on the table disperse and go back to their original locations throughout the library shelves before stacks upon stacks of folders materialized in their place. All of them sectioned off into two sides. "Have at it, y'all."

You picked up the first folder from the stack closest to you, your brows knitting together already once you read the name on the file. "Minutes, I don't think this is mine, it says Eve but that's not--"

"Your name?" she finished for you. "Darlin', Y/N is your name in this lifetime--Well, the lifetime you came from before your Nexus event, you get what I mean. The file you're holding is from another lifetime, heck, might even be from another timeline. But one look at that file and you'll see that that's you. All of these are you. Doesn't matter if you're goin' by a different name, the soul remains the same."

The air left your lungs when you opened the folder to find a picture of you with pale skin and matted ivory hair on the front of the file. Only thing was that this version of you wasn't quite human in her lifetime. In fact centuries of it were spent as a vampire.

A few moments later she spoke up again. "Well then that's my cue. Happy sortin', y'all!" And then she disappeared. Leaving you and Loki alone with your couple thousand files each to rifle through.

Had you been there on a different objective, you would have spent a bit more time thumbing through the pages that detailed the life of this version of you, rubbing elbows with numerous prominent figures throughout history and having her fair share of trysts with a handful of them. But your only focus was her most prominent affair. Her great love.

When you reached that page, you felt yourself go breathless once again looking at the picture that stared back at you. "Loki," you breathed out, holding out the file to him so he could see for himself. The god's eyes widened at the photo in front of him. The ebony hair may be matted and the skin somehow even paler than his usual complexion, but there was no denying it. This Eve's companion throughout her years, this Adam, was another lifetime's iteration of Loki.

He began to rifle through his own stacks of folders, finding the one that had the same variant number and interlocked his and your folders together, starting a new stack at the center of the desk. "If you're right, and this yields the moonshot result that Mobius has been searching for, you can pick the destination and have your wicked way with me."

"Why Mischief, how reckless of you," you said coyly, batting your eyelashes at him. "What if I wanna tie you up?"

"It's endearing that you believe you could, my darling." He lightly poked your side, quickly pulling you into his arms the second you started wriggling and giggling in his direction. "But if that is truly what you want then I can promise not to break out for an hour."

"Two," you countered.

"Ninety minutes."

"Deal."

"Now if I'm right and this leads to another dead end, I whisk you away to any destination of my choosing for a fortnight, no tempads, no missions, and not a stitch of clothing on this glorious form of yours." His lips skimmed the side of your face, pressing a kiss to your cheek when you let out a squeal at his finger deftly undoing the top button of your shirt. "Do we have a deal, my love?"

"Okay okay," you relented, turning your head to steal a quick kiss before bring your attention back to the folders you were about to sort through. Before you could pull away, his free hand went up to the back of your head and deepened the kiss.

"What if I told you I've been plagued with visions of stripping you bare and laying you out on the desk before me? That I'd been thinking of enjoying every delectable inch of you as if you were my own personal dessert board?" You let out a gasp at the lustful image his words had conjured in your mind, allowing him to easily lick into your mouth and turn you into putty in his arms the moment your tongues met.

"I'd say I'm not surprised," you breathed out when he pulled away, placing your hand over his before he could undo a third button from your shirt. "But the faster we get this done, the faster oneof us will be at the other's mercy and maybe you can even bring that desk fantasy of yours to life." You pressed another quick peck to his lips before managing to wriggle your way out of his embrace, jutting your chin at his side of the desk. "Pick a file, Mischief."

The next file had you and him initially on opposite sides of the Battle of New York, your story starting in Stuttgart when he had clones force you down on your knees and the injuries from that encounter permanently damaging you. A handful of times throughout the day of the actual battle, he went out of his way to save your life, ensuring your safety from a fatal fall and even the Hulk; the document even had a mention of him asking Thor of what came of you after he was apprehended because you weren't among the Avengers that saw him off to Asgard, only to find out the true extent of your injuries. Then he found himself back on Earth to serve his sentence and falling in love with you, using his magic to undo the physical damage that he dealt you. And then you two went on your own adventure to have 'do-overs' in places that held bitter memories for him, from Stuttgart to Asgard and even the balcony in Stark Tower.

Another file saw Loki as an English baronet named Thomas Sharpe, and you as his final wife and a sort of partner in crime. Initially you teamed up to play a dangerous game of sneaking around his ancestral home to gather and send out evidence that would put his incestuous and murderous sister Lucille behind bars, and somewhere along the way you two had genuinely fallen in love with one another.

You then found a good handful of scenarios where you both lived in the Avengers Compound, having a bad case of mutual pining and both of you being too hesitant and overcome with doubt that neither of you made a move until the situation practically forced you to confess. One even involved you photographing him for an Avengers calendar where he stripped for you during his session.

"Yeah, this definitely sounds like you," you joked when you showed him one of the pictures from the photoshoot in question where he laid on his side on a white bed wearing nothing but a pair of white boxers. When you opened the next file, you let out a whiny groan out of sheer frustration and disappointment.

"Darling, that is a sound I only wish to hear when I elicit it from you. What's wrong?"

"Might as well just lie down on the table right now because there's no way this isn't a dead end." You waved the file in your hand in the air.

"Much as I would thoroughly enjoy claiming this particular prize, perhaps we need not be so hasty, my love. Tell me what would be such a hindrance that you'd be ready to give up your theory--"

"Place of Birth: Asgard," you read out, cutting him off. "Born to Lady Sif of the Warriors Four--"

"Alright well Sif would surely have some choice words with me if I courted you but--"

"And the Crown Prince Thor, God of Thunder." You gave him a look as if to say "This is why", the realization dawning on him as well that yes, this would be the dead end that would grant him his victory. And yet for some reason, you decided to keep on turning the pages. "Gotta be honest, though, I thought that what would break our streak is if we never met in these--Oh what in the Game of Thrones Targaryen nonsense is this??"

"What is it?"

"The streak isn't broken yet," you croaked out, the disbelief entering his eyes as he frantically started searching for his corresponding variant file. "We were married for two and a half thousand years."

"I surrendered my claim to the throne of Asgard for you," he declared in astonishment. "We have children in this timeline." His voice began to hitch at the end, making you immediately close the distance between you to lace your fingers together.

"Looks like even something as monumental as being your brother's daughter couldn't stop us," you noted with a little smile, breaking out into a full grin when your comment made Loki exhaled in a rather loud chuckle that traveled across the library. You took your two folders and interlocked them, adding to the pile in the center. "Let's keep going."

It was several hours later that you two had finally found your way back to the desk that Mobius occupied, the more tenured agent pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing at the inner corners of his eyes in clear frustration.

"You still got nothing, Cubey?"

"One of these days I'm gonna find a name for you that's just as annoying, Y/L/N, just you wait," he groaned, his posture visibly slumping when he saw the interlocked stacks of folders that you were carting around. "What in the name of the Alioth is that?"

"We found one," you proudly stated. "Proof that soulmates exist and…only some of them have a catchphrase."

"That's just one?!" he boomed, immediately getting shh'd by a more elderly analyst a few tables behind him to which you and Loki shh'd her right back without missing a beat. You nodded your answer to Mobius. "So what's the catchphrase?"

"I was made to be yours," you began, letting go of the cart to hold your hand out to Loki.

"And I yours," he finished, lacing your fingers together before draping his arm over your shoulder and pulling you closer to him.

"Wait a damn minute," Mobius said suspiciously, pointing a finger between the two of you. "Are you two trying to tell me that the first and so far only case of soulmates we have on record is--"

"Us," you finished for him, nudging the cart in his direction with your foot. "Every single lifetime on every single timeline accounted for."

"What about your own?" he questioned. "You both mentioned that you'd never met your timeline's version of each other prior to your Nexus events."

"Well see that's the thing. These files only cover everything prior to a variant's Nexus event, or what the events were in their own respective sacred timelines. We met each other after our Nexus events. So maybe our souls never found each other in the lives that we left behind because…we were meant to find each other here."

"Huh…" he mused, looking carefully at the two of you. "Could be. Nice catch, you two. I knew I made a good call giving you a partner, Loki."

"My darling mortal is quite brilliant," your lover beamed, pressing a tender kiss to the top of your head. "I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude for our introduction."

"Well, you really don't have to but if you feel so compelled, I'm willing to take a jet ski and a vacation to Miami if you two can swing it."

"We'll call you if anything serious pops up, just keep your tempad charged," you shot back, extending your free hand toward him to shake. "But really, Cubey. Thank you. For introducing us. For vouching for me and making sure that I didn't get pruned during my trial with Rennslayer--"

"Otherwise you might have crossed paths with that one-handed variant in the Void and who knows what nefarious and depraved intentions he would have had with you," Loki interjected, resting his head on yours.

"You have a Captain Hook variant?"

"Nah it was a president," Mobius answered with a wave of his hand. "Got his hand bit off by an alligator."

"So…a Captain Hook variant."

"Yeah, you know what you're right. Loki has a Captain Hook variant. You'll meet him soon enough when you get sent on a mission to the Void. Loads of highly dangerous variants usually find themselves there when they try to escape processing."

"If he even dares touch you I'll divest him of his remaining hand," Loki grumbled, once again pressing his lips to your temple. "That heathen can find his own variant of you. You're mine."

"All yours," you beamed, bringing your joint hands to your lips to press a kiss to his knuckles. "And speaking of…we're off for a few weeks, Cubey. We have a date to get to."

"Please don't get arrested for indecent exposure. Or public fornication," the senior agent groaned. "That's a timeline I'll need therapy for if I have to be the sorry ass to reset it."

Neither of you responded other than a little wave and a thumbs up in his direction as you walked away, the god giving you a dimpled smirk as you two made your way to your shared apartment.

"Where shall we head to first, little mortal? A hot spring? Or perhaps a nice scenic tundra? Or perhaps a cherry blossom forest? I can already picture your beauty with the backdrop of the falling petals…"

He stopped listing options when he saw you shaking your head, mirroring his smirk with one of your own. "Bedroom first. And give me your tie. You owe me ninety minutes."

A/N: I'm so glad to finally get this out for y'all to see! This was originally supposed to up weeks ago for something but some of my own revelations were made (translation: I got bitch slapped in the face by reality) which led to the postponing of this story. Anyways, I hope y'all liked it even if it is kinda cringe and silly. I'm always gonna be cringe and silly, so manage expectations accordingly. 🥴🫡

Also if you got all the references within the files (except the OLLA one that's a freebie) I officially love you. 💖💛

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