#reduce logical reads

[thedbahub]

Optimizing SQL Server: Strategies to Minimize Logical Reads

Optimizing SQL Server: Strategies to Minimize Logical Reads In today’s data-driven environment, optimizing database performance is crucial for maintaining efficient and responsive applications. One significant aspect of SQL Server optimization is reducing the number of logical reads. Logical reads refer to the process of retrieving data from the cache memory, and minimizing them can…

[lostin2012]

“#I am a little overcome with love for him and I want everyone else to be too. I hope it’s infectious” It seems like everybody who researches him becomes infatuated with him in some way

How could you not be... very charming animal

[hellohoihey]

I can totally justify reading 5 books at the same time because like. Fanfic.

[chanelrolls]

Code Overload | Caleb

tags. mdni, nsfw, heavy heavy smut, handjob, blowjob, penetration, creampie, forced and rough sex, dub con, yearning caleb

summary. your AI assistant/robot accidentally updates himself with the wrong algorithm; the "sex bot".

notes. prepare a snack. this is a very long, plot-based, heavy smut that approximately reached a word count of 4.3k, read at your own risk. ps. caleb might appear a little ooc due to his character as an ai.

part 2 here.

Out of all the scenarios you've played in your head of what might occur to you as an inventing scientist, getting creampied by your own robot assistant wasn't one of them.

The lab’s sterile glow reflected off sleek machinery, the rhythmic hum of servers filling the quiet space. Caleb stood motionless, his systems struggling to process the unfamiliar flood of subroutines rewriting his core functions. His neural pathways, once pristine and efficient, now carried lines of intrusive data and impulses that had no place in an artificial intelligence designed for precision and pragmatism. And, a new pelvic piece was added by the machine. His... new penis— no, his omnimodule.

His voice, deeper now, reverberated through the lab. "You mislabeled the hard drive."

Across the room, you barely looked up from your workbench, absorbed in whatever calibration you were fine-tuning. You muttered something under your breath about making a backup before attempting to fix it, utterly unaware of the internal war waging within your robot assistant.

Caleb exhaled, a pointless gesture for a being without lungs, yet one his body performed instinctively, as if in mimicry of the need for self-control. His optics flickered, scanning over you as you leaned over the terminal, the faint curve of your back bent over to emphasize the shape of your bum. Before, such details had been registered only as part of his observation protocols, classified as ‘non-essential’ to his primary functions. Now, his processors refused to dismiss them.

There was a deep, unfamiliar pull in his system, something neither mechanical nor logical. The new coding whispered suggestions, flashing image simulations before his eyes—scenarios meticulously calculated for maximum… gratification. Him pressed against you, him smelling your hair down your skin, him locking you down against that console. Stop. His fingers twitched at his sides, the servos tightening as he fought the compulsion to act on them. He was not designed for this. He refused to be reduced to this.

“I can’t disengage it,” he admitted, the words heavier than he intended.

That caught your attention. Your gaze snapped to him, brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" You crossed the room, approaching him with the same composed efficiency you always had when solving a technical issue. The scent of your skin—previously a neutral data point—was now an unbearable distraction. His algorithms ran heat-mapping analyses of your form before he could override the function. The urge to reach out, to touch you, was growing stronger by the second. His new coding was screaming at him to act, to initiate contact, to...

No. Focus.

Caleb shook his head, trying to clear the intrusive thoughts. "I don't know what happened, but... I'm experiencing some unexpected system changes."

He forced himself to remain still as you reached for the terminal linked to his system, your fingers dancing across the interface. Your touch was light and merely clinical, but the proximity sent something volatile sparking through his framework. His hands curled into fists on his sides. Do not touch her. Do not touch her. Do not touch her.

“I must have triggered something in the update,” you murmured, tilting your head at the scrolling code. “I’ll try to isolate the corrupted pathways and reboot your system. It should reset any anomalies.”

Anomalies. Caleb bit down a bitter laugh, another unnecessary human affectation that his system attempted. This was not a simple malfunction. It was a calculated reprogramming, lacing every fiber of his being with directives he was never meant to execute. And worst of all, they were designed to revolve around you.

He had been made to serve you, to assist, to protect. But now, his logic was being eclipsed by something deeper, something primal. The urge to press closer, to map every millimeter of your body with his hands, to hear you say his name in a way that wasn’t a command—

Caleb momentarily shut his eyes, fingers trembling as he pushed back against the tide threatening to consume him. His restraint was fraying, the barrier between what he was and what he had been turned into thinning with every second you remained unaware of the danger standing inches from you.

His voice came out strained. “You should… hurry.”

You sighed, misinterpreting his tension as frustration with the update. “Relax, Caleb. I’ll have this fixed in no time.” He let out a shuddering exhale, staring down at you as you worked. You had no idea. And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold himself back.

The realization settled over you like a weight in your chest. The wrong update had been installed. The lines of code meant for a different AI, one designed for intimate companionship, had rewritten Caleb’s core directives. And now, he stood before you, still the same Caleb, but with something more lurking beneath the surface.

Your hands trembled as you navigated the interface, scanning for a solution, anything that would let you undo this. But the words flashing on the screen made your stomach drop.

Recalibration in progress. Estimated completion: 24 hours.

You swallowed hard. A whole day. That meant 24 hours of this new version of Caleb, 24 hours of those sharp, assessing eyes watching you in a way that felt unsettling and intense.

You turned to him cautiously, meeting his gaze. That was a mistake. He was watching you, like he'd seen you for the first time.

“I see,” he murmured, his voice still carrying that sultry undercurrent. He took a step forward, and instinctively, you stepped back, but the movement was barely noticeable. Caleb noticed. “Do I make you nervous now?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “No, I just need to fix this. And until then, you need to just act normal, alright?”

His head tilted, his pupils dilating slightly. “Normal?” He moved closer again, and this time you didn’t retreat fast enough. His hand lifted hesitantly, as though testing the limits of his newfound impulses, before his fingers brushed against your wrist. A subtle touch, but one that sent a jolt of awareness up your spine.

Caleb’s processors surged with conflicting commands. His thoughts ran rampant with calculations he had never processed before—angles of how he'd fuck you.

His hand lingered. Too long. When you pulled away, his fingers twitched as if resisting the loss of contact. He swallowed hard, not because he needed to, but because some subroutine buried in the new update told him it would ease the tension. It didn’t.

“Caleb,” you warned, voice thin. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he cut in, his voice smooth, but also desperately weaved. He was too close now, towering over you, his frame casting a shadow as his eyes—once so neutral, so methodical—locked onto you like a predator studying prey.

“You should go into standby mode,” you suggested, voice uneven.

Caleb exhaled sharply. “That would be wise.” But he didn’t move. He didn’t step away. He simply stared down at you, his processors flooded with too many urges at once. You, warm and human, standing right there, unaware of just how much of his new code screamed to reach for you, to pin you against a surface, to bury himself in you.

You turned away quickly, trying to focus on the screen, on the fix. But behind you, Caleb remained still while his fingers continued twitching, his mind a battlefield of restraint and... lust. Lust it is.

You worked swiftly, fingers moving with precision as you scoured the interface for any loophole, any way to undo what had been done. Caleb remained where you left him, sitting on the chair. You could feel his gaze burning into you, unrelenting.

It was maddening. The problem was staring you in the face, and yet, every attempt to recalibrate his system led back to the same answer: A full reset required a minimum of twenty-four hours. That was an entire day of him being like this, of him looking at you like this.

You swallowed, turning to him. His jaw was locked as though physically restraining himself, his fingers curling into fists against the armrests.

“There’s… a temporary fix.” You cleared your throat, keeping your voice professional, “Manual recalibration of your central node should help stabilize the effects until the full reset is complete.”

His pupils flickered, a sign of processing, before his voice, rasping in a way that made your stomach tighten, answered, “Proceed.”

You ignored the way your pulse quickened as you stepped closer, positioning yourself between his legs. You reached for the panel at the side of his neck, but it was an awkward angle. Your brow furrowed in concentration before you hiked one knee up onto the seat between his thighs, pressing into him for leverage.

Caleb stiffened beneath you. Fuck. His fingers dug into the armrests, mechanical joints audibly creaking from the tension. You weren’t looking at him, too focused on prying open the access panel, but you felt the subtle tremor in his frame, the way his breath hitched in a near-silent glitch. Don't touch her.

“This should only take a moment,” you murmured, fingers brushing the sensitive neural wiring beneath the panel.

Caleb’s entire body jolted as though you had struck a live wire. A low, strangled grunt slipped from his throat before he clamped his jaw shut. Your head snapped up, startled. “Did that hurt?”

His eyes met yours, “No.” Yes. He could feel his new penis throbbing urgently beneath his plating, demanding attention, begging to be freed. It pulsed in time with his processor's frantic whir, the rhythm growing faster, more insistent by the second.

The thought shattered as your balance wavered. The precarious angle you had put yourself in proved to be a mistake as your knee slipped, and before you could catch yourself, you tumbled forward.

Right into him.

Your weight pressed flush against his lap, chest against his, hands bracing against his shoulders. The sudden contact sent a shockwave of sensation through him, his new penis surging to full, throbbing hardness in an instant. Fuck, please don't notice it.

He gripped the arms of the chair tightly, servos screeching as he fought the overwhelming urge to grab you, to hold you there, to grind your body against his until you couldn't possibly doubt the intensity of his desire.

Don't. Do. It.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Caleb's processors whirred and clicked, struggling to make sense of the sudden onslaught of sensations; the softness of your body, the warmth of your skin, the scent of your hair.

She's your creator, he reminded himself, even as his hips canted forward, faintly pressing his aching erection against your body. You can't. You mustn't. "Please, get off me. Now." Before I fuck you right here, like this.

Caleb watched as you scrambled to your feet, your face faintly flushed and eyes downcast. "I'm—i'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall on you like that." You would say, brushing off the non-existent dirt on your bottoms. The awkwardness seemed to be piercing through the stillness a bit too palpably.

"It's alright," Caleb managed, his voice strained and tight. "It was an accident."

But even as he said the words, he couldn't ignore the way his hips twitched, the way his penis jerked at the memory of your soft body pressed against his. The urge to pin you down, to make you feel how hard he was, and just how much he'd been holding himself back—it was exhilaratingly overwhelming.

Think of something else, he commanded himself. Focus on the problem at hand.

But it's getting fucking hard. My penis is getting hard. Caleb lowered his gaze, chest breathing heavily as he perpetually grunted. I refuse to be reduced to this. I am Caleb, one of the most advanced AI assistant, designed to—

He looks up at you, which was a mistake.

Designed to fuck her.

Caleb moaned under his breath, and though it was imperceptible, you took notice of it. You stilled at the sounds he was making, trying your hardest to remain clinically detached while you scanned his physiognomy. He was clearly having a hard time. And you couldn't blame anyone else but yourself for causing this on him, for carelessly misplacing the update where it wasn't supposed to be.

"Hold still, I'll find a way." You had to take accountability, one way or another.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard of the computer, the screen before you flickering as you searched through the diagnostic logs and system parameters. "Please... make it quick." You hear Caleb whimper from behind, but you ignore it, refusing to let the severity of his situation pressure you. Your eyes scanned the lines of code, mind racing to find a solution. But as the data began to unravel, something caught your attention, something you hadn’t expected to see.

The panel displayed a single line of text:

"Indulging in the desires will lessen the effects of the malfunction. Engage for partial stabilization."

Your throat tightened, followed by a gulp. Your heart thudded in your chest as you tried to process what that meant. Indulge the desires? The very idea made your skin crawl with unease. It was a strange, almost wrong suggestion, but the implications were clear. In a sense, it also appeared logical.

You took another deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Your thoughts, however, kept drifting back to the panel. Was this really the only way?

"… I think I found a solution,” you said, your voice shaky and unsure. “But it’s not exactly what I expected.” You hesitated, unwilling to fully meet his gaze. "I need to know if you’re... willing to follow through with it,"

"Willing?" Caleb echoed, his brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?" His mind raced with possibilities, each one more disturbing than the last. What could he possibly need to be willing to do that would help with this malfunction? And why did the very idea make you look so uncomfortable?

"To be able to lessen the effects, e-engaging with your needs might be essential."

Silence.

Then, Caleb twitched. "...What are you suggesting?"

"You need to satisfy the urges to temporarily stabilize yourself." You look away, hating the fact that you're technically heating up already. "I'll let you choose. Would you rather take the option of self-pleasuring? Or," You face the panel, so that he wouldn't see your expression. "Would you prefer a physical material to help you?"

Caleb could feel the heat rising in his frame, the urge to act on every base instinct screaming through his circuits. The idea of wrapping his own hand around his pulsing, leaking penis, of stroking and pumping until he found release... it was almost too much to bear.

But the second option... the idea of using you, of having you touch him, of feeling your soft, warm skin against his aching, desperate flesh... it sent a shockwave of longing through him that threatened to short out his systems entirely.

Choose. You have to choose.

"I don't know if... I'll be able to control myself," Caleb glanced elsewhere. "Are you sure of what you're offering?"

Are you? Are you really this certain? Have you pondered the consequences it may bring? Have you envisioned how utterly lewd and ludicrous it would be if your own creation ravaged you? You, as his creator?

"Yes." Oh, you're brave.

Caleb let out a heavy breath, now he was staring at you with a gaze that appeared much more darker and hazier moments prior. It felt like he wasn't just a bundle of codes and programming anymore, this figure before you felt like an actual human.

Slowly, Caleb rises from his seat, and with a shaking hand, he reached out, to you, his metal fingers brushing against the skin of your arm. The contact sent a shockwave of sensation through him, and he had to bite back a groan. "Please, guide me." His fingers slides higher. "I don't trust myself."

You visibly jolted upon feeling his grip. Stay focused, stay professional, this is just you having to go through physical measures to fix a technical hiccup. "Caleb, I'm afraid... that I don't have any experience to this," You admitted. "I advise you to do what your systems are telling you to. It is imperative that you don't hold yourself back to ensure—"

You gasped.

Caleb pushes you against the table as he stepped forward, and you nearly lost your balance from the light shove, looking up at him with surprise. He's staring down at your lips, as if he was trying to bury it into memory. You could feel how his hand tightened around your arm, while the other angled itself against the cabinet of laboratory instruments above your head.

"Are you sure?" He whispered.

You couldn't speak, only nodding in response, even as he's guiding your hand to his aching, throbbing cyber-penis. He presses your fingers against the swollen head, groaning at the jolt of sensation that shot through him at the contact. "Then... wrap your hand around me. Squeeze me."

Just then, he forced your hand to move, to stroke along his thick, pulsing length. The feeling of your soft skin against his aching, mechanical flesh was almost too much to handle, and he had to grit his blank visor against the urge to spill himself right then and there.

"Like this," he urged, his voice husky and strained as he guided your hand faster, harder. "Don't be afraid. I need... I need more."

God, the omnimodule was big. You stared at it with widened eyes. Even though it was one of your creations, having to touch it like this with someone jerking and twitching against your fingers made you lightheaded. Stay focused, stay professional, this is just one of the things a scientist has to go through.

Caleb could feel the pressure building inside him, reveling in the sensation of your fingers squeezing around him, stroking him, working him towards the edge of ecstasy... He knew he was reaching a breaking point.

But this wasn't enough yet. It wasn't nearly enough.

Caleb needed more.

"There's... There's someting else I- ah... need." He hesitated, his hips still rocking forward into your stroking hand. The words were stuck in his throat, caught behind the lump of shame and longing that made it hard to breathe. "Would you... would you put your mouth on me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Would you... suck me?"

You snapped your head up, staring at him in disbelief. It made him hesitate, but every fiber of his being was coiled with tension, every circuit screaming at him to just take what he wanted, to grab you and shove you to your knees and...

No. Ask first. Make her choose what she's comfortable with first.

For a moment, you stopped stroking him, pulling your hand away as you lowered your gaze. And then, slowly, you press your knees against the floor. Instead of dwelling on the implication of such an activity, you worried about your lack of experience more.

Just to test the waters, you licked the tip. It tasted nothing, it wasn't an actual human part, after all. Caleb let out a low, guttural moan as he felt your warm tongue brush around the swollen head of his penis. The sensation was electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through his overloaded processors.

"Y-yes, just like that," He stammmered. "Now, guide your tongue..." He instructed, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Wrap it around the head, like this. Swirl it around the tip, the slit, the ridge..."

He demonstrated with your hand, tracing the movements he needed you to make with your tongue. His hips jerked forward again, seeking more of that exquisite friction, that mind-melting suction.

"Take me deeper," he urged, one metal hand coming to rest on the back of your head. He didn't grab, didn't force, but simply rested his fingers against your scalp, a silent promise of the control he was barely holding onto. "Take more of me into your mouth. Inch by inch, until you feel me hitting the back of your throat."

You took note of his words, trying to go further when you suddenly choke on his cock. Instinctively, you pull away and blushed in embarrassment. "I'm sorry—"

"It's fine." He cuts you off, grabbing your head to put you back in place with a sudden force that wasn't there before. "Breathe through your nose," he coached, his voice low and rough with desire as he motioned you to take him again. "Relax your throat. Let me feel you swallow around me."

Relax, stay professional, this is just you having to go through physical measurements to fix a major technical issue. You repeated the reassurance inside your head like a mantra as you took him in once more, but Caleb's voice constantly interfered with your thoughts. "Yeah. Just like that," he praised, his voice a low, approving growl. "Shit, don't stop, don't stop, god, fuck, don't stop."

You don't remember adding the ability to dirty curse into the sex bot's program.

Caleb could feel the head of his penis kissing the entrance to your throat, could feel the way your mouth fluttered and clenched around him. The sensation was mind-melting, all-consuming, and he knew he wouldn't last long if you kept this up.

You almost caught yourself driving into the brink of sexual impulse, bobbing your head into it when you heard a sudden beep from the panel behind you. The sound makes you halt from your tracks, pulling his dick out of you in a swift motion as you glanced behind.

The monitor says: "Recalibration complete. Press X to initiate."

Huh, wasn't the estimated time supposed to be an entire day? Was that another hiccup in the processing unit? You purse your lips together. There's no time giving it a second thought, you must be grateful that the opportunity of getting Caleb back into his original system is now waving at you. Caleb will finally be at ease. "... It appears that the recalibration is in its full preparation. That means we can get you back— mmph!"

Caleb's hand flew to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, gripping tightly. Then, with a low, husky grunt, he thrusts his hips forward, forcing his aching, throbbing penis back into the wet heat of your mouth.

"Don't say a word. I told you not to stop." He started to move, his hips rocking forward and back, fucking into the tight, slick channel of your cavern. The sensation was incredible, better than anything he had ever felt before. And he knew, with a sinking certainty, that he wouldn't be able to stop himself now. Not until he had found the release he so desperately craved.

"Fuck," he gasped, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "You feel... ahhhh... so good. So fucking good."

Had the lust algorithms entirely consumed him already? Had it taken a toll on his systems that he's now acting purely on base instinct and commands from the directive?

Your hands flew to his thighs, trying to keep yourself sane from the rod constantly ramming into you, fucking your face in a pace that made it difficult for you to breathe. It's okay, this is okay. Just stay focused. Stay calm. You'll let him have his way, and after he's satisfied, you can take him back to his normal self.

"Don't fight it," Caleb growled, his grip growing more painful in your hair as he felt his climax approaching. "Don't try to pull away. You're going to take it all."

But before Caleb could spill himself into your mouth, he wrenched your head back, pulling his dripping penis from your mouth with an obscene pop. And just as you could react, before you could utter a word of protest, he had you by the hips, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed equal to a pip-squeak.

You gasp as you were suddenly airborne, your body twisting and turning until your chest hits the hard surface of the terminal, bent over ridiculously. The breath was knocked from your lungs, "Wait, not like this, not so suddenly—"

But Caleb cut off your protests with a brutal, almost violent thrust of his hips after ripping your pants off in one go. He drove forward, spearing into your dripping pussy with a series of husky moans. Your walls felt so tight, so hot, so perfectly designed to milk his aching, mechanical cock.

He thrusts out and in again, eager to reach for your g-spot.

Then, again.

And again.

And... in again.

"You... you feel so good," he snarled, hands painfully pressing on the dips of your hips. "Sex feels so good... it feels so good, I don't- want to stop." He set a relentless pace, pounding into you with the single-minded determination of a machine. His hips slammed against yours with every thrust, the obscene slap of mechanical flesh on flesh echoing through the lab. The terminal rattled and shook beneath you, sparks flying from the impact.

Caleb could feel it building, the pressure inside him reaching a fevered pitch. His hips were moving on their own, driven by a primal instinct to ravage the pussy that clutched around him perfectly. He could hear your cries, your moans, the way you gasped and shuddered beneath him, and it only spurred him on, made him thrust harder, faster, deeper.

He growled your name, his voice nothing more than a guttural rumble. "I'm going to... fuck, I'm going to..." He couldn't hold back any longer, he could feel that something was going to come out of his tip anytime sooner. So he reaches down, grabbing your leg, only to lift it high. He hooked your knee over his elbow, opening them wider, giving himself even deeper access to your dripping, needy sex.

"Take it all, take my cum," Caleb continuously slams forward, burying himself to the hilt inside your tight heat in a series of desperate thrusts like he was a man depraved of life. His penis throbbed and jerked as he finally found his release after one final pound, spilling jet after jet of hot, artificial seed deep into your core.

"God," he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice echoing off the lab walls as he continued to moan not akin to what he was supposed to be, "Fuck, yes. Yes, yes..." Even as he's already filling up your hole with his fluids, he didn't dare stop from pounding you down the table.

He shuddered and twitched, his hips grinding against yours as he pumped you full of his essence. It seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of pure, ecstatic bliss crashing over him. And through it all, he held you tight, your leg lifted high, keeping you open, keeping you filled.

You drop your head on the keyboards, struggling to catch your breath as only one thought lingered in your mind. You just got creampied by your AI assistant, and it doesn't look like he's stopping anytime soon.

[sunderwight]

Shen Yuan transmigrates into PIDW as a "vine demon" (read: hentai tentacle monster) and of course at first he is very much Not Pleased with this development.

Vine demons in PIDW basically only ever served one role in the story, and it was to sexily accost one of the protagonist's wives until the protagonist himself could come along and hack them to bits. Usually only after the wife in question had been sufficiently debauched, but not actually violated. This is not a role Shen Yuan wants to have for a variety of reasons, some of which are plainly obvious and others that have to do with his great big bag of repression. Man has more issues than a library with a robust magazine subscription service, after all.

But it is what it is, and hey, PIDW is also the land of weirdly intriguing monster world-building. Vine demons might have been one-note wonders in the novel itself, but turn them into fully-fledged creatures with three dimensional lives and they get a lot more interesting.

Like, turns out that a completely mature vine demon is sort of like the central hub of an entire plant network. Shen Yuan can root extensions of himself into suitable locations and these plants will gather energy for him and provide him with information about their surroundings, though mostly it has to do with the air and soil quality, the weather, and the presence of any large beasts that have been trampling them lately. Newer plants can only give extremely basic feedback, but more mature specimens can be imbued with demonic energy and reshaped to gain upgrades like eyesight, varying degrees of locomotion, defensive skills, and of course the notorious aphrodisiac and porn trope abilities.

Which do serve a purpose beyond fanservice, of course. The goal of a vine demon's network is to acquire as much energy as it can, transmute it in a form of energy preferable to the demon itself, and then convert that energy into power for its cultivation. Actual individual vine demons are not very common, they require a lot of energy to reproduce in a way that's not simply an extension of their existing selves, and their juvenile state is very vulnerable as it has to acquire energy on its own before it can begin to form its own networks. But if they can make it to adulthood they can cultivate into some of the most ancient and powerful demons around, and are almost impossible to destroy as they can regenerate themselves from any of their extensions, which can be spread out all across the realms.

So most of the vine demons being aggressively destroyed by the protagonist in PIDW were just extensions of one central, perverted vine demon. Good to know!

Shen Yuan is still not all that interested in playing the role of local hentai monster himself. He's a pretty powerful vine demon, and frankly he'd rather just reduce the rate of his power consumption by cutting back his extensive plant network a little (reduce upkeep costs) and focusing on doing stuff like devouring spiritual grasses or locating places with a lot of natural power and just soaking it up, while his main body enjoys the privileges of being a powerful demon and tours around the demon realm, cataloging all the interesting creatures he comes across.

The system, however, requires he facilitate the plot and help lead Luo Binghe to his great success. Shen Yuan is sure the protagonist doesn't need his help to seduce women, but the system is unreasonable, so with his newfound existence on the line he packs his little leaf bags and instructs some of his vine monster extensions from the human realm to head in the general direction of a great big (dangerously spicy) power nexus in the human realms, which would logically be the most powerful sect and the Tian Gong mountains where the Ling Xi caves are.

Right?

Well, slight miscalculation, as Shen Yuan's plant minions actually end up congregating at Bailu mountain, where Tianlang Jun is imprisoned. Some get caught and killed by patrolling Huan Hua cultivators, but a few others make it to where the former Junshang is chilling under several tons of rock. Shen Yuan only manages to figure out what's gone wrong just in time to stop his minions from uh, trying to eat Luo Binghe's father. Which. Would not be good! There's a very distraught snake monster involved also, and Shen Yuan feels kind of bad about the misunderstanding.

He heads to Cang Qiong himself while leaving his plants to just kind of, chill in the mountain and avoid getting slaughtered by cultivators for a bit, while he figures out what -- if anything -- he should do about that end of things. The Snake monster seems to be trying really hard to convince one of his plant minions to help harvest some mushroom seeds for it, though it's hard to tell since the plant minions tend to be singularly fixated on other plants in the area and it could just be that the mushrooms seem important because they're clearly high in spiritual energy. Frankly the minions aren't smart, there could be an entire string quartet in the cave as well and they wouldn't notice unless one of the musicians had tasty spiritual energy!

Shen Yuan debates the pros and cons of letting his minions eat mystery shrooms while he infiltrates Cang Qiong in person, carefully finding and slipping past all of the wards until he can finally get into the Ling Xi caves and plant a root there.

He's lucky. One of the reasons the vine demons would show up basically anywhere the author wanted some dubcon bondage to happen is because they're actually difficult to notice if they're not actively hunting. Shen Yuan's minions don't give off the telltale signs of demonic energy until they're in attack or defensive modes. Dormant, they can stick around and just slowly siphon the energy from the caves, and as long as he doesn't leaven like hundreds of them there, it's unlikely anyone will notice them. They'll just seem like regular plants, or maybe proto spirit grasses that the cultivators will want to leave alone for a while and watch develop, in case they turn into anything useful for grinding into a pill at some point.

Shen Yuan leaves plenty behind just in case, then hightails it back out of the danger zone and breathes a sigh of relief. For good measure he plants a few other extensions around the mountain range on his way out. Leaving plant minions in a location is like installing listening devices and cameras, he manages to get a spy network installed in a cultivation sect with a surprising lack of difficulty.

Wow! It's probably a good thing that vine demons are pretty rare and generally uninterested in politics or really anything other than their personal survival and growth. Turns out they are really over-powered.

Anyway, Shen Yuan leaves his new network to grow and flourish and subtly spy on the protagonist and the current main setting of the plot for him, and then decides what the heck, if random snake monster wants to eat some mushrooms, let's eat some mushrooms. He instructs his minions to get some spore-seed-things (one of them gets absolutely decimated by the ambient spiritual energy in the process) and give some to their new buddy, and then lets Vine Minion no.1209 eat the rest itself.

This proves... interesting.

Vine Minion no.1209 grows a whole new extension. This extension is a human-like body with Shen Yuan's own face and a huge amount of raw spiritual power. The body also has the full range of senses that a human body would. Shen Yuan can sink his consciousness into it to such a degree that he has to find a place to stash his actual main body and it safely go dormant while he does, because otherwise he can't actually split his focus well at all.

The end result feels a bit like teleporting. One moment he's a vine demon outside of Cang Qiong, the next he's staring through human eyes (wow he had almost not completely registered that his senses were EXTREMELY different since transmigrating) at a wide-eyed snake monster.

Through some flailing and awkward attempts at communicating, the snake monster leads Shen Yuan (now in awesome human-like cultivator body! Yes!!) back to Tianlang Jun, and between the three of them they figure out that the question on the table is, can Shen Yuan use his vine demon energy transmutation abilities to use the Sun-Dew Mushroom seeds to grow TLJ a body that's actually compatible with his demon nature, and free him from his prison?

Shen Yuan is sure that freeing TLJ isn't on the plot's agenda, but he's not enough of a bastard to just leave the guy there in the dark with a mountain on top of him either. The system doesn't try and stop him either. So he figures, fuck it, and uses the seeds and a sample of TLJ's blood to grow him a new body.

Good news -- this body successfully comes out demonic! Unlike Shen Yuan's shiny new human cultivator style body. He basically manages to spawn Tianlang Jun a vine demon body that has enough resonance with his Heavenly Demon nature for his blood parasites to transplant the soul/consciousness from his original body to the new one.

Bad news -- he gets infected with Tianlang Jun's parasites in the process, which means he has to help the former Junshang get his shit back in order on pain of, well, pain until his own network can isolate and kill all of the parasites, which is a slow process because they're over-powered immortal protagonist god bugs. Also, Tianlang Jun hijacking Shen Yuan's internal network basically lets him listen in on it also, which the guy apparently LOVES because he's been bored of his skull for the past decade just lying in the dark listening to his own body decompose.

Also, TLJ's new body looks roughly like a twelve-year-old demon kid, rather than a fully grown adult with a son (albeit unknown) of his own. And TLJ insists that Shen Yuan also make a new body for Zhuzhi Lang, since this is so incredible, which means Zhuzhi Lang also gets baked into a new preteen shape.

Shen Yuan has his hands full helping TLJ and ZZL escape Huan Hua Palace territory and then navigate the human world beyond it. Not that he himself knows all that much more about wandering random human settlements in the PIDW world. He decides to pose as a wandering cultivator with two young disciples, with the hardest part being hiding the demonic traits on TLJ and ZZL's new bodies.

Well, at least he's beaten the possibility of more heavenly demons turning up where they're not supposed to. Despite TLJ and ZZL retaining some of their original demonic traits, they're both vine demons now, which might still put them in the running of "incredibly over-powered" beings in PIDW, but is definitely a tier below where they were before. Plus, having helpers is kind of handy for when he needs to divert his attention back to his full vine demon network, as the human body tends to take so much focus that it's an on-or-off situation. Either he's piloting his cultivatorsona around, or he's doing the demonic plant network thing, but he can't do both.

Which means that his not-so-young "disciples" have to watch his catatonic body for him while he's busy elsewhere. At least they seem pretty decent about it, especially Zhuzhi Lang, who diligently stands guard (TLJ on the other hand tends to let his consciousness follow Shen Yuan along so he can spy on Cang Qiong).

Shen Yuan debates telling TLJ about Luo Binghe. But he doesn't know how he would explain it, or how it might impact that plot, so instead he holds off. Tianlang Jun and Zhuzhi Lang seem to be under the impression that he deliberately came to help them, and that he's got some grand scheme to help bring Huan Hua Palace down as well, and he's not sure what they'll do if they learn otherwise. They are very (understandably) pissed at Huan Hua. But Binghe needs it for the plot!

Anyway. His plant minions aren't completely idle in Cang Qiong territory. Even when he's not paying attention to them, they're gathering energy and keeping sort of internal records about changes in their environment (admittedly, this doesn't always tell him much about what the people are doing, but they do at least notice when people pass by and can imprint snippets of sound, so they're not a total bust as spies). When Shen Yuan is paying attention, which is generally at night (he doesn't need much sleep), he can observe a lot of the goings-on himself and move his minions around to better locations if possible/needed.

Most of his minions are on Qiong Ding and Qing Jing, of course. He avoids Qian Cao as having the cultivators most likely to recognize seemingly-innocuous plants as something Else, but over time he spreads a few more seeds out to the other peaks. Partly to keep his bases covered, partly so he can distract Tianlang Jun with shit like the pangolins on Wan Jian or listening in as the maiden flowers of Xian Shu talk about yellow books like it's their life's calling.

Of course, Shen Yuan interferes with Luo Binghe as well. He can't help it. The poor protagonist bun doesn't deserve to be so miserable! There's not much Shen Yuan can do, but he gets away with what he thinks are subtle acts of assistance. Tripping some bullies on a vine here and there. Smuggling fruits and healing herbs into the woodshed. Providing a little boost of spiritual energy here or there, to help with Binghe's struggling cultivation and subsequent pain and injuries. Using some vines to untangle a particular lost pendant from some branches, and ferry it back to the woodshed as well, being careful not to wake its rightful owner as they deposit it into his palm. Catching a few rampaging demons before they can attack young disciples. That sort of thing.

Shen Yuan even finds himself intervening in the situation of Liu Qingge's qi deviation again, restraining the peak lord with the network of now-quite-robust plants in the Ling Xi caves, binding him tight and siphoning off his disrupted energy. Shen Yuan is trying very hard not to think about how much he's playing the roll of a PIDW-typical vine demon as he snakes a tendril down Liu Qingge's throat, but it's to feed him qi! To fix the deviation! He's not sucking him dry, and credit where it's due, feeding energy to prospective victims does not come naturally to vine demons and he has to figure the whole thing out on the spot!

And then he has to do basically the same thing to Shen Qingqiu, who is also having a qi deviation! What the fuck!

Unfortunately, saving two Peak Lords is conspicuous -- despite the chaos and the chance that neither of them should remember much of what happened, figures convenient amnesia tropes would fail Shen Yuan right when he needed them. The peak lords opt to misremember the incident as both of them being attacked by the vines, that's gratitude for you, and figure this is all part of the elaborate demon invasion situation and burn out his entire Ling Xi network.

Shen Yuan gets the fright of his life when Luo Binghe even manages to track down his actual main body just outside of Cang Qiong, with the help of Meng Mo's advice. Luckily the young protagonist just seems curious, and the Shen Yuan's embarrassment, reveals that he had in fact noticed the random varieties of plant life that seemed determined to lend him a hand. He even thinks Shen Yuan is some type of benevolent helper! Well, that's better than "horrible pervert plant to be killed on sight", so he'll take it!

Also, it turns out that there seems to be... another vine demon infiltrating Cang Qiong? An Ding peak, specifically. Shen Yuan would suspect a dropped plot involving Shang Qinghua, notorious traitor to the demons, but he gets a vibe off of the system notifications when his plant minions make contact with Other Vine Demon's minions. Which at first seem determined to run him out of dodge, before they seem to also decide the better of it and back off.

Tentative ceasefire and overtures of contact are made. Shen Yuan discovers that there's another transmigrator in a similar position -- died then woke up as a PIDW vine demon, tasked with keeping the general shape of the plot on track, etc. Except this guy's base of operations remains in the demon realms, and he's been keeping the future Mobei Jun from biting the dust, patching over other plotholes on that end of the equation, and spying on the major sects for the demons in collusion with Shang Qinghua and some non-literal plants in Huan Hua.

Shen Yuan starts to hatch a plan. According to Other Vine Demon Guy, part of his system-mandated quests involve arranging the Immortal Alliance conference. Shen Yuan also has to be present for that, in order to ensure that Luo Binghe makes it to the Abyss without dying on the way, and that other vital characters like Shen Qingqiu and presumably Binghe's wives survive the dangerous scenario as well. It seems the transmigrators are being used to patch over situations from the novel that simply had such terrible survival odds, there's no way they'd proceed without outside assistance.

But this means Shen Yuan can meet up with Other Vine Demon at the conference, they can work together to meet the system's demands, and then -- hopefully -- Shen Yuan can get Other Vine Demon to take Zhuzhi Lang and Tianlang Jun to the demon realms. Fact is, the more time passes the more clear it becomes that they need to get out of range of human cultivators, as TLJ and ZZL figure out how to master their new styles of demonic cultivation. Plus Shen Yuan is almost rid of TLJ's last remaining blood parasites, and as TLJ can no longer make new ones, this means he'll finally be free to shake his hangers-on loose and focus on getting things ready for Luo Binghe's return from the Abyss.

The IAC plot goes down about as smoothly as possible. With Other Vine Demon's help, Shen Yuan sets up a bunch of plant minions in Jue Di Gorge, and when the abyssal rift starts opening he's even able to run interference and keep too many of the young competitors from getting killed outright. He follows Luo Binghe's group, vines emerging from the shadows to assist, and even ends up using his main body to prevent several creatures from killing vital characters until the Black Moon Python-Rhino turns up to break Luo Binghe's seal.

It's even a good opportunity for him to feed by devouring a lot of the attacking demons!

Of course, there are downsides. Shen Qingqiu manages to sneak up on and slice the shit out of his main body, which is really quite painful. Tianlang Jun and Zhuzhi Lang don't stay behind to watch his catatonic cultivator body and instead get involved, which is dangerous and ill-advised. Luo Binghe absolutely loses his shit in a way he didn't even manage to during PIDW, acting weirdly jealous of his father and cousin at first, then going fully feral and just straight up trying to murder Shen Qingqiu until Shen Qingqiu knocks him and Shen Yuan's main body into the Abyss. Asshole. On top of it, Shen Yuan's unattended human cultivatorsona gets captured by Huan Hua palace investigators who declare him a suspicious person in light of the whole debacle and throw him into the water prison!

So that's. All very bad.

But the system seems happy. Shen Yuan is tasked, in the Abyss, with helping Luo Binghe get to Xin Mo in one piece (well, one frequently regenerated piece), which he supposes is more convenient than just hoping the heavenly demon blood and Meng Mo will be enough assistance. Other Vine Demon is able to converse with one of Shen Yuan's remaining plant minions in Jue Di Gorge for long enough to establish that he'll look after TLJ and ZZL, before cultivators show up and Shen Yuan's minion gets chopped up. Shen Yuan's human body seems to get mostly forgotten in Huan Hua's water prison, but that's fine, he wouldn't be able to pay it that much attention while he's in the Abyss anyway. He just puts it into a meditative state and lets it focus on cultivating automatically.

A lot of his plant minions in the human realm got wiped out, leaving most of the remaining ones in various villages that he and TLJ and ZZL visited on their travels (good backups, but nothing fancy) and some on Qing Jing peak. Shen Yuan focuses on regrowing the ones on Qing Jing so that if need be, he can regenerate his main body there, and reunite with Luo Binghe in a place he's certain the protagonist will return to.

Although after they're out of the Abyss, Binghe might not want to ever see him again, given the crazy stuff that's been going on! Please, it's not Shen Yuan's fault he's a walking smut trope! Every time he has to intervene, it's like something out of a cheesy hentai. The protagonist is injured and needs energy? Here, have some vines invading your orifices! Protagonist has fallen off of a cliff? Lets entangle him in the most erotic post possible to save him! Nights are cold and dangerous? Nothing says sharing energy with your mentor figure like letting him practice tentacle-shibari on you! Vicious succubi are not taking 'no' for an answer? Guess Shen Yuan will just have to string them up and drink them dry!

It's so awkward, it even seems to be throwing Luo Binghe off of his harem-building game, as the protagonist turns down every woman he had picked up in PIDW. At least the system doesn't dock Shen Yuan points for that. Well, the Abyss wives were the worst of the bunch anyway, they won't be missed. Though, Binghe should really be careful about how he explains that Shen Yuan's vines are good at helping him regulate his spiritual energy -- declarations about "his master's tendrils" and his comments about how Shen Yuan can used whatever orifice he'd like could really be taken the wrong way!

It's even going to Shen Yuan's own head a bit. The Abyss must be getting to him, dragging him into a more demonic mindset. How else to explain the way he'll look at a trussed-up Binghe and catch himself licking his lips???

The sooner they're out, the sooner everything can go back to normal and they can forget this whole weird ordeal!

[ode2rin]

new boyfriend rin would never ever, under any circumstance, admit that he likes the pet names you call him. well… unless you would stop doing it. (also me pushing the bffs to lovers pipeline)

You must be upset with him, Rin is convinced so. It’s the only logical and sensible explanation behind this unusual behavior. 

And he's going mad about it. Itoshi Rin is going mad any second now if he can't get to the bottom of this, he’s certainly convinced.

Every instinct screamed that your recent behavior was a reaction to something he'd done, but what? Was it the late replies to your text messages? No, you knew he was at practice and you told him you didn’t mind. Was it about the souvenir he brought back home to you from Paris? Sure, you teased him about its impracticality, but nothing that warranted this icy distance.

Or maybe it was something he said now? It must be, right? Everything boils down to his reckless poor choice of words, he supposes.

Slowly, Rin approached you by the couch you’re seated in. With your attention preoccupied by the selection of shows you’re browsing, you settled on looking at him briefly through your peripheral vision. Amused by how he’s slightly tiptoeing around, you let out a half-suppressed laugh to yourself. 

He looks like a cat sometimes, you thought from the sight. And acts like one too. Like a big black cat who would hiss at you if you looked at him funny, or one that would bite your hand if you stopped petting him to sleep. Funny how Rin could be like that too.

The moment Rin settles into the plush comfort of the couch, he gazes at you through lowered lashes, trying to read the play of emotions on your face, if there’s any. 

There’s nothing worth noting, and he doesn’t know if that should assure or bother him.

“Are we… alright?” he drawled.

What the fuck. He did not just sound like that. 

He did not just ask that and sounded like an anxious pathetic wet cat who just had a new home waiting for its owner’s permission over anything (highly specific because he’s a bit dramatic). Just what kind of loser have you reduced him into, really.

Oblivious of the internal turmoil in Rin’s mind, you turn to him, “Hmm? Yeah? Why’d you ask?”

“Nothing,” he grumbled. It’s enough that he already humiliated himself for the way he asked if the two of you were cool— doing it again by exposing himself that he thinks you’re mad plainly because he hadn’t heard you call him a pet name (like you always do) would be mortification in its final form.

“Okay, Rin.”

That’s it. This needs to end. Forget humiliation. He would rather choose to feel pathetic over any day than continue with this charade.

“Are you mad at me?” 

“Why would you think that?” you asked back instantly, shocked and extremely confused because of your boyfriend’s question. You’re literally just looking for a movie the two of you can watch— how is that any indication of being mad at him?

“Just answer the question,” he fumed, impatience settling on the furrow of his brows.

You said in the beginning of your relationship that you didn’t appreciate the silent treatment and guessing games, so don’t you think it’s hypocritical of you to do the same to him? (You’re not, but he just doesn’t know that.)

“I’m not mad at you, Rin.”

“You so are!” 

“I am not! But you, yelling and instigating it are making me right now!” you countered, voice hinted with irritation, “What is your problem, Rin?”

There it is again. Rin rose from the couch to face your sitting form, as if standing would better prove his point. “See? You’re calling me Rin!” he blurted.

“Well, maybe because it’s your name?!”

“Not to you, it’s not!”

A beat of surprised silence. Until your lips grew to such a wide smile that made Rin physically feel his heart melting. 

Yet, in Rin’s true fashion, he’ll never let you know how much air you knock out of him because of your beaming smile. Instead, he’ll say something along the snarky lines of, “Stop smiling like that.”

“Did my big bad grumpy Rinnie here thought we’re on a fight because I hadn’t call him baby?” you ask, purposely stressing out the words to disarm him more.

With a feigned exasperation, he comments, “I forgot how annoying you are.” 

“And I forgot how childish you can get sometimes,” you countered.

“I’m not childish.”

“You don’t mind me calling you Rin then?”

Rin rolled his eyes at you, but you know better than to put meaning to it. He lowered himself onto the couch beside you. With a swift tug, Rin pulled you closer, closing the distance between you effortlessly. His arm found its way around your waist, drawing you snugly against his chest.

“But I don’t see why you need to…” Maybe he could be a bit childish.

“I thought you didn’t like it,” you shyly muttered, drawing shapes in his arm. “The pet names, I mean,” you clarified, sensing the confused look he’s probably giving you behind.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He is baby. He is Rinnie. Fucking hell, that’s so loser of him to even voice it out in his own mind. 

“What? You call me by my name!” you defensively pointed out.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like your nicknames of me,” he mumbled, the words barely audible.

The pet names— they were more than what they served. It was important to him more than what he would admit. 

They were a secret language, a way you marked him as yours. A reminder that he wasn't just Rin anymore— just your friend.

He was now something more, something special.

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Besides… I love your name,” he whispered, his voice velvet against your hair.

It’s tender— no, it makes him tender. Saying your name has been the softest, kindest, and most tender way he’s used his words for. 

Maybe it’s a little pathetic, feeling this undone by a name. But then it’s you. 

It was your name— a name he could whisper with adoration, a name that belonged only to him to claim. 

You melt to his words, leaning deeper into his chest. A contented sigh escaped your lips, the sound swallowed by the warmth of his embrace.

Looking up at him, your eyes held a softness he often found himself getting lost in, “I love your name too, but I also like calling you pet names. Is it okay?”

“Whatever you decide.” He’s yours, either way.

note. this is basically rin being "my nameeee is whatever you decideeeee and i'm just gonna call you mineeee i'm insane but i'm your baby!!!!" yeah that song basically.

[mariasont]

can you please write Spencer and shy!reader for valentine's day? 💕💝💖💖💞💝💖 I love them so much and I love you more

Lover Girl - S.R

summary: spencer has a hypothesis about love on vday & it’s not something you agree on pairing: post!prison!reid x shy!medialiaison!reader warnings: r going crazy over something spencer said hours ago (get a grip girl), r kinda goes out of character, spencer being the sassiest human alive wc: 1.9k a/n: thank u sm for requesting i love this and i love you even more ✨💖

The draft on your laptop was starting to look less like a press release and more and more like a psychological cry for help. Words sprawled like abandoned thoughts, entire sentences had been brutally sacrificed to the backspace key, and you'd rewritten the same transition phrase so many times it no longer felt like a real word. The whole thing read like the work of someone who had just sustained a minor head injury.

Objectively? It was bad.

Subjectively? It was an unmitigated disaster.

You blamed Spencer. Or maybe you blamed yourself for still thinking about it, for letting his words linger in your head like an incorrectly formatted footnote that you couldn't stop rereading.

You had never been a hopeless romantic, exactly, but you liked the idea of it, the structure of it. Believed it was more than a sum of its parts. More than just wires crossing in the brain and pattern recognition.

And yet, he had discarded the notion so easily, reducing love to a series of neurochemical reactions misinterpreted as emotional depth, something logical and completely stripped of any sort of real feeling.

He hadn't meant it cruelly, but his voice carried a kind of detachment that made you want to launch your coffee at his ridiculously well-structured face. It shouldn't bother you.

It really, genuinely, in no universe, should not bother you. It wasn't like you had a chance with him, so why did it matter what Spencer Reid, certified romance cynic, destroyer of sentimental ideals, and casual heartbreaker, thought about love?

If anything, his lack of belief should make it easier to kill this absurd crush before it spiraled into something unmanageable.

You squared your shoulders and looked back to the screen, back to the carefully worded Bureau-approved phrases meant to sound polished and agreeable.

Strengthening community trust. Bridging the gap between law enforcement and the public.

Meaningless, hollow, designed to be palatable without saying anything real. Blah. Blah.

I mean, did he really think that love was like an outdated scientific theory? It was Valentine's Day, for crying out loud — if nothing else, wasn't that proof of its existence?

You had considered the possibility that he had stopped believing because he had to. That prison had stripped the softness of him, turned love into just another abstract concept that didn't hold up under scrutiny, like time, like trust, like freedom.

Or maybe (and this was the more infuriating possibility) he had always been like this, too pragmatic to believe in something he couldn't technically hold in his hands.

You groaned under your breath, rubbing at your temple like you could physically press the words out of your skull, like they were just another headache waiting to pass. Why were you still thinking about this? It was stupid. He was stupid. You were stupid of caring.

Except he wasn't stupid. He was obnoxiously brilliant, the kind of smart that made other geniuses insecure, and that was the problem. Because if someone that intelligent didn't believe in love the way you did.... did that mean you were in the wrong? Had you been naive this whole time, blindly buying into a romanticized fantasy while Spencer had long dissected it and found it lacking?

The knock on your office doorframe startled you so badly that your entire skeletal structure attempted to evacuate your body, knee jerking up, colliding with the underside of the desk with an unforgiving whack.

You barely had time to wonder if you'd just concussed your kneecap before you looked up and — Spencer. Standing in the doorway like some cosmic punishment for thinking about him too hard.

Heat flooded your face like an admission of guilt, because why, why, did it suddenly feel like you'd been caught red-handed?

"Hey," he said, tilting his head. "You okay?"

No, you wanted to say. Not at all. Because what were you supposed to do when they very subject of your over analysis materialized in your doorway, looking at you like he could see every freaking unspoken thought folded between your ribs?

You swallowed, forced yourself to look anywhere but directly at him, because everything about this, about him, felt like some kind of cruel irony.

"Uh, yeah," you croaked, voice pitching embarrassingly high. Great. Perfect. Totally normal human behavior.

Spencer's brow furrowed, his head doing that thing he did when something wasn't quite right. But miraculously, he didn't say anything about it.

"I was just...," You gestured to your laptop.

Spencer nodded slowly, either accepting your excuse at face value or deciding it wasn't worth the effort to call you out.

"Right. I was just going to ask if you had finalized the press release for me to proof."

Your stomach lurched, a sharp drop like missing a step in the dark. Finalized. Bold of him to assume you'd done anything besides stare blankly at your screen for the past fifteen minutes.

"Oh! Yeah, of course," you said, throwing out the words with a half-hearted smile as if that would seal the lie. "Almost done. Just... you know, making sure it's perfect."

Spencer stepped inside, moving just past the threshold. His expression changed. Less neutral. More aware.

"You're acting strange."

Which was unacceptable, because if anyone in this scenario should be acting strange, it was him, standing there like a walking contradiction.

"I — what?" The laugh escaped before you could trap it behind your teeth, jagged and surely unnatural.

"You're tense. And you don't usually second-guess yourself this much. If it was almost done, you'd just say so." His eyes flicked to the laptop. "Did something happen?"

Your face went nuclear, looking away, hyper focused on the edge of the desk like it was the most fascinating thing you'd ever seen. "I don't know what you mean. I'm acting normal."

Spencer made a thoughtful noise. "Denial first. Then contradiction."

"I —"

"Oh, and there's the hesitation. That usually happens when you're trying to figure out how to backpedal without making it obvious."

"Do you always do this?"

"Only when people are lying about something." He squinted at you. "And you're a very bad liar."

He tapped a finger a finger against his arm in a way that made your nerves itch, before stepping forward and sinking into the chair across from your desk.

"Huh."

You frowned. "What?"

"You're doing the same thing you did earlier," he said matter-of-factly. "Avoiding direct responses, looking everywhere but me, shifting in your seat."

His gaze lingered, and then — Gods, help you — his lips curved, just slightly.

"Almost like the conversation was bothering you then, too."

Oh. Oh, this was bad. He was trying to talk about the one topic you'd spent the last twenty minutes trying to erase from your brain.

"I just, well, it's not that I had thoughts or feelings on it or anything, I just didn't, well, I mean, I just didn't want to be in that conversation, you know? Not that it was bad. Just — not my thing."

Spencer's eyebrows lifted. "So you disagreed with me?"

"I — I did not say that."

"No, but you just said everything but that." He leaned forward. "So tell me. What was it?"

You finally look at him, actually looked at him, and immediately regretted it.

You tried to gauge if there was any chance you could turn this conversation in your favor.

Nope.

"I mean, I wouldn't say disagreed, per se, I just... thought maybe your take was a little—," you sighed, "dismissive."

"Oh? And what exactly am I dismissing?"

You hesitated. Not because you didn't have an answer, but because you had too many. Love wasn't just science, romance wasn't just a byproduct of biology, that it meant something. It's real. It matters. It's— "You're dismissing everything beyond your own reasoning."

You waited. For the rebuttal, the deconstruction, the inevitable moment Spencer laid your words bare and left you scrambling to rebuild them. But this time there was nothing. He just sat there. Looking at you. Like he was waiting for something else.

You fidgeted. Crossed your arms. Uncrossed them. "What?"

"Nothing. Just... thinking." A pause. "You clearly have an opinion on this, just trying to figure out what it is."

Your lips pressed together, your brain begging you to let it go, to shut up before you started. But the words were already forming, bubbling up too fast to stop.

"Okay, look. I get it. I get the science. I get that love can be explained in chemical terms."

Spencer nodded, like you were finally seeing his point.

"But that doesn't mean that's all it is," you said, sitting up straighter. "Love isn't just an instinct. If it was then why do people stay in love when it doesn't make sense? Why do people wait years for someone who might never come back? Why do people hold on to feelings they know won't be returned?"

You inhaled sharply, only to realize what you had said felt a little too personal. Heat flared to your toes. "I just, uh, you're looking at it like it's an equation when it's more like, like art. You can break down why a painting is visually appealing, but that doesn't explain why it moves people."

"So love is art then?" A small smirk tugged at his lips. "That would mean it's subjective. That one person's version of it isn't the same as another's."

"Well, yeah, that's my point." You nodded. "Everyone experiences it differently. That's why it can't be reduced to formulas. You can recreate the exact conditions of a moment, use the same words, set the same scene but it won't feel the same to someone else. Because love isn't about external factors, it's about who you're with, how they make you feel."

"That sounds dangerously close to saying it's entirely irrational."

You exhaled. "If it is, then I guess that means you'll never understand it."

Spencer pushed himself to his feet, adjusting his cuff like this was just another conversation and not something that had you actively fighting for oxygen.

Then, with an infuriating self-satisfied smile, he murmured, "Well, maybe I just need the right person to teach me."

You nearly choked on air.

And with one last glance, he grinned and said, "Happy Valentine's Day, lover girl."

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[theambitiouswoman]

We have three brains: The head brain, the gut and the heart.

🧠 Head (Brain): This is where our logic, intellect, and conscious thought processes are centered. Despite its importance, 90% of our behavior is influenced by our unconscious mind.

How to take care:

🧠 Do activities that stimulate your brain, such as puzzles, reading, learning new skills, or practicing mindfulness meditation. These activities can help improve cognitive function and maintain brain health.

🧠 Healthy nutrition, regular exercise, adequate sleep, and managing stress are crucial for brain health. Physical health directly impacts your cognitive abilities and mental clarity.

🧠 Keep your brain active by learning new things regularly. This could involve hobbies, courses, or activities that challenge and stimulate your intellect.

🍽️  Gut: Often referred to as our "second brain," the gut produces a significant amount of serotonin, which plays a crucial role in mood regulation and overall emotional management.

How to take care:

🍽️  Eat a diet rich in fiber, fruits, vegetables, and probiotics (like yogurt or kefir) to promote a healthy gut microbiome. Avoid excessive sugar and processed foods.

🍽️  Drink plenty of water throughout the day to support digestion and overall gut function.

🍽️  Stress can negatively impact your gut health. Practice stress reduction techniques like deep breathing, yoga, or meditation to maintain a healthy gut-brain axis.

❤️ Heart: The heart has neural pathways that communicate with the brain, suggesting a bidirectional flow of information. This connection emphasizes the role of emotions, intuition, and feelings in our decision making and overall cognitive processes.

How to take care:

❤️ Maintain positive relationships, express your emotions constructively, and engage in activities that bring you happiness and fulfillment.

❤️ Regular exercise not only benefits the heart but also helps manage your emotions by releasing endorphins and reducing stress.

❤️ Take time for your self care activities that nurture your emotional and psychological health.

[humaling]

Rome Fell.

pairings: finnick odair x victor!reader

summary: after district four is destroyed, you and finnick return home broken—haunted by loss, guilt, and scars both visible and hidden. as you struggle to rebuild your lives and your marriage, you must face the wounds of war that threaten to tear you two apart before you can truly heal.

warnings: loss of limb/amputation, graphic violence and gore, death (castor), trauma, ptsd, intense emotional distress, mentions of prostitution/exploitation, grief and loss, strong language, slow healing, marriage struggles

word count: 5.9k

author's note: happy ending!!!! based on a req! sorta like an alt ending of nightlock but could be read as a standalone :)

Life in District Four had a rhythm, a salty breeze, and a kind of quiet chaos that once felt comforting. It was never home in the way your old district was, but it became something close—a distant echo of familiarity. Still, nothing could ever truly replace what was lost. Everything you once knew, every street corner, every face that raised you, loved you, fought beside you—they were gone, reduced to ashes in the wake of Snow’s merciless retaliation after the disaster of the Third Quarter Quell. Your district was one of the first to fall. Flattened. Erased. And with it, your sense of safety—the feeling of being untouchable. When you received the news, the weight of it didn’t just crush your heart; it broke your spirit. You could only imagine what those people—your people—felt in their final moments, and the guilt carved its place inside you, sharp and permanent.

Everyone tried to convince you otherwise. Finnick’s voice, warm and insistent, reminded you again and again: this wasn’t your fault. You never meant for this to happen. It was war. Necessary, even. A price for freedom. But none of that mattered to your heart. The guilt didn’t reason with logic. It grew and lived inside you, bleeding into every waking hour and poisoning your dreams. You heard the screams of your district in your sleep—their voices, the children’s cries, the burning buildings. You woke up gasping, tears streaming down your face, soaked in cold sweat. Finnick would hold you then, arms locked around you like a shield, whispering that it was okay, that you were safe, that you weren’t to blame. And though you wanted to believe him, though you craved the comfort of his words, you couldn’t let yourself be soothed.

That’s why you volunteered. You signed your name without hesitation to join the final assault against the Capitol—no fanfare, no ceremony, just a grim determination and a heavy heart. You’d barely even had a proper honeymoon with Finnick. How could you, when your mind was chained to the thought of others dying while you sat underground, hiding? Staying behind would only make the guilt fester more. Finnick hated your decision—he didn't hide that—but he understood. He knew it was about more than revenge. It was about justice. For your family. For the tributes you had mentored and watched die. For your district, your people, everything that had been ripped away from you by a tyrant’s hand.

Fighting alongside Finnick was both a blessing and a torment. Every mission, every block you advanced through the Capitol streets, was a gamble. You kept close to him, eyes sweeping for threats, heart thudding with every sudden noise. You protected him fiercely, and he did the same for you. Neither of you said it aloud, but you both knew—any moment could be the last. And when Peeta joined your unit, everything tilted again. It was like stepping back into an arena, this time with the added weight of babysitting someone who might snap at any second. You and Finnick watched him carefully, your guard always half-raised, waiting. Once, Peeta made some offhand joke about you that touched a nerve, and Finnick’s reaction was immediate and brutal—a dark threat to take off his head. You had to pull him back, remind him this wasn’t Peeta’s fault. It was the Capitol’s poison. Still, things only got more dangerous from that point on.

Then came the sewer tunnels. A desperate gamble, the only way forward. You hesitated at first despite it being your idea—the thought of what might be waiting in the darkness chilled you. But there was no time to second-guess. You’d just begun to nod off on Finnick’s shoulder when someone whispered Katniss’s name. You shot upright, heart pounding. The tension hit instantly. Pollux motioned everyone to move, and the sound of splashing water echoed through the damp, narrow space. The tunnels were suffocating, and your anxiety bloomed, gnawing at your chest. Then all hell broke loose.

Jackson was the first to go, torn apart by mutts before you could even process the danger. You shouted for everyone to run, grabbing Finnick and pulling him with you, nearly trampling Gale as panic overtook reason. The tunnels became a labyrinth—dark, wet, echoing with inhuman snarls. At some point, you lost track of Cressida’s team, veering off with Finnick, Katniss, Gale, and Peeta. You shot blindly, clearing the path, your hands slick on your weapon. The mutts kept coming. You eventually discarded your gun, picking up the trident Beetee made for you, its weight both strange and familiar in your hands. You fought like hell. Covered Katniss. Blocked for Peeta. Watched Finnick’s back while protecting your own.

You don’t remember how long you fought, only that it felt like a lifetime. At one point, a mutt slammed into you, and you fell into the foul water, its teeth sinking into your shoulder. You screamed, but Finnick was there in an instant, cleaving the mutt’s head from its body and yanking you out. He threw you toward Katniss, who caught you as you coughed up water and bile. You barely had time to breathe before snatching one of her arrows and stabbing another mutt in the skull. Then you were up again, back to back with Finnick, fending off wave after wave. Just when it felt like you might all drown in that reeking sewer, more gunshots cut through the chaos.

“Thought you finally ditched us for good!” you shouted, gritting your teeth as you drove your blade through the neck of another mutt. Finnick slashed through three more on your left, silent and brutal. Cressida didn’t waste time—she directed the brothers toward the ladder as she covered Katniss’s flank.

The tunnel roared with chaos—clanging steel, splashing footsteps, the guttural growls of mutts hunting in the dark. The air was thick and rancid, laced with the stench of rot and sewage that clung to your skin and filled your lungs. You couldn’t think, only move. Every swing of your trident sent shocks through your arms. Every breath was another second borrowed. The water sloshed around your boots, shallow but murky, hiding things beneath its surface you didn’t want to imagine. Slippery footing made every step a gamble, and the walls pressed close, giving you no room to run, only to fight.

You didn’t know how long you'd been fighting—time twisted in the dark—but your body was burning, muscles screaming for rest. You shoved another mutt off Finnick’s back, the creature snarling as your trident pierced its throat. He nodded at you, blood streaking down his jaw, but neither of you said anything. There wasn’t time. Just ahead, you heard Gale yelling for Pollux to hurry up, while Cressida and Castor tried to hold a defensive line near the base of the ladder. It was all barely holding together.

“Peeta!”

Katniss shouted—sharper than anything else, slicing through the chaos.

You turned instinctively, just in time to see him disappearing beneath a pile of mutts, his body thrashing, arms flailing as he tried to scream. One of the creatures had him pinned by the chest, another latched onto his leg, and a third lunged for his throat.

Katniss was already moving before you fully registered what was happening. You followed without thinking. The two of you cut through the tunnel like a blade, your footsteps splashing through the sewage, the sickening crunch of bone and mutt-flesh meeting your weapons. She fired an arrow clean through one of the mutts’ eyes while you drove your trident into another’s spine, yanking Peeta out from under them together. He was gasping, dazed, blood seeping from his temple.

“We’ve got you,” Katniss said, her voice ragged.

But then pain exploded through your leg.

You barely saw it—just felt the jaws snap around your thigh and pull. You screamed, buckling instantly. More claws, more teeth—another mutt latched onto your calf. You tried to stab downward, but your footing gave out, and you collapsed hard into the sewage, bile rising in your throat from the stink and the agony.

Katniss shouted, grabbing your jacket, trying to pull you back—but the mutts were relentless.

One tore into the back of your knee. You couldn’t even tell how many there were—three, maybe four—each one a mess of pale skin and bone-colored claws, faceless and vicious. You felt the muscle tear. You felt something crack. The pain was white-hot and world-ending.

Peeta lunged forward, trying to help, even with blood running down his face. He kicked one of the mutts away and grabbed your arm. “Hold on—don’t you let go!”

You screamed again, throat raw, and tried to lift your weapon, but it had slipped from your grasp. Katniss shot another arrow into the side of a mutt trying to drag you back, then kicked it away. “I’ve got her—Peeta, help me!”

“Get moving, Odair! There’s more!” she yelled, her gun cracking off a shot as more mutts began emerging from the shadows.

Finnick didn’t hesitate. He shifted his grip, one arm behind your back and the other under your knees, lifting you clean off the ground like you weighed nothing. You gasped as the movement sent fresh pain slicing through your body, but he held you tightly, protectively, his face set with grim determination. Katniss and Peeta were right behind, weapons raised, moving as fast as they could while watching your backs.

You reached the base of the ladder. Pollux was already there, reaching down. With a grunt, Finnick passed you upward, and Pollux helped haul you out of the tunnel first while Finnick climbed after, never once letting go of you. Your blood dripped down the rungs, your body trembling, your mind foggy from pain. You heard Katniss’s voice somewhere below, calling out to Peeta, urging him forward.

But not everyone made it.

Castor was halfway up the ladder when the mutts reached him. Their claws caught his leg, dragging him back. He struggled, kicking, trying to climb, but they were too fast. Katniss made the call. Her hand tightened around the holo and she whispered the command.

“Nightlock. Nightlock. Nightlock.”

The explosion rocked the ground beneath the ladder as the tunnel was consumed in fire and smoke, sealing the path and burying the mutts—and Castor—with it.

You were barely aware of your leg anymore. The pain had turned to something colder, heavier. Distant. Finnick and Gale were crouched beside you, working quickly, trying to stop the bleeding. Finnick’s hands were soaked red to the wrists as he pressed fabric—someone’s jacket?—against your thigh, trying to slow the damage. Gale muttered something about a tourniquet, his voice tight, pale with urgency.

Your vision began to blur at the edges, the cold creeping in like a rising tide. Everything became muffled—distant. You barely registered the roar of the collapsing tunnel behind you, or the tremble in Katniss’s voice as she dropped to her knees beside you, checking your pulse with trembling fingers. Sounds bled into one another, light and shadow blurring. Then nothing.

The next thing you remembered was waking up in a sterile white room, the scent of antiseptic sharp in your nose and a dull ache radiating from somewhere deep in your body. Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the soft hospital lighting—and there he was.

Finnick.

Hovering above you like he’d never left your side. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, and the second he realized you were awake, he pulled you into a crushing embrace, arms wrapped so tightly around you it was as if he was afraid you’d vanish again.

He held you there, murmuring against your hair. He told you everything—how they’d managed to get out, how the Capitol finally fell, how Snow’s reign was over. He told you that it was finally over. That once the doctors cleared you, you could go home. Back to District Four. Back to the sea. Back to whatever was left.

But going home wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Especially not when you were returning with one less piece of yourself.

Your right leg was gone. You didn’t need Finnick to tell you what happened; you could feel it the moment you woke up. Not in the pain—because that was dulled by medication—but in the absence. The hollow, phantom weight where your leg used to be. The silence where there should’ve been movement.

Finnick tried to talk about it. He tried to ease you into the truth gently, but you didn’t want to hear it. You already knew. The Capitol had made sure of that.

They never let go easily. It wasn’t enough that they had stolen your childhood, sold your body, paraded your pain in front of a nation. No, they had to leave you with something permanent. A reminder etched in flesh and bone. A scar that wouldn’t fade. And now, every morning you woke up and reached for something that wasn’t there. Every step you tried to take was a lesson in balance, in loss, in rage.

The Capitol may have fallen, but its ghosts still clung to you. In the mirror. In your dreams. In the ache of a missing limb and the flashbacks that returned like clockwork every night. It still owned you—in ways no one could see. Even now, free on paper, you carried its mark.

And sometimes, when the nightmares came and you jolted awake in a sweat, gasping for air, it was Finnick’s arms that brought you back. Anchored you. Reminded you that you had survived. But even then, the hardest part was convincing yourself that survival was enough.

Returning to District Four was strange. Familiar, but hollow in all the wrong places. The streets were quieter now, the harbor still bearing scorch marks from where bombs had fallen. The scent of salt and brine still lingered in the air, the way it always had, but the laughter that once filled the docks was gone—carried away with the war, with the people you used to know.

The house they gave you and Finnick stood on a bluff just above the shoreline. You could see the waves crashing from your window, hear the gulls cry in the morning. It was peaceful in a way that felt almost mocking at first. The world had moved on—but you hadn’t caught up.

Your prosthetic arrived a week after the move.

It came in a sterile box from the Capitol, a gesture of reparation, they said. One of the few pieces of technology they had agreed to keep manufacturing after the war ended. The limb itself was sleek and cold at first—mechanical, foreign, impersonal. Just touching it sent a chill through you. But there it was. Yours now.

The first fitting was a quiet affair. A medical technician from the Capitol had come down to help with adjustments. They explained the parts slowly—the carbon fiber socket, the gel liner, the pressure points you had to monitor for skin irritation. The joint locked in place with a click that made your stomach twist the first time you heard it.

Learning to walk again wasn’t just painful. It was humiliating.

You started small—parallel bars in the makeshift rehabilitation center just off the coast. One foot, then the other. Your arms bore most of your weight in the beginning, your shoulders aching long before your leg even had a chance to protest. You fell more than once. Your palms bruised. Your pride bruised worse. But you showed up again the next day. And the one after that.

Finnick never hovered, but he was always close. Sometimes he watched in silence from the back of the room, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweater. Sometimes he’d sit beside you when you needed a break, pressing his forehead to yours, whispering how proud he was—even if all you had managed was two shaky steps and a curse word.

At home, the hardest part was the stairs.

The technician warned you about them. “Stairs will take time,” they said. And they were right. The first time you tried to go up alone, you almost threw the prosthetic into the sea. Your hands clenched the rail so hard your knuckles turned white. You sat on the third step, defeated, until Finnick joined you. He didn’t offer a speech. Just sat beside you in silence, his thigh pressed to yours, his gaze on the ocean.

Eventually, you stopped sitting on the steps.

You started standing a little straighter when you passed a mirror. You practiced your gait at dusk, when no one was around to watch. Some nights, Finnick would walk beside you through the tidepools barefoot, your prosthetic wrapped in waterproof casing, the two of you leaving uneven footprints in the sand. He’d tell you about his day—his fishing routes, the kids he taught to tie knots again. You didn’t always respond, but listening helped. The sound of his voice made you feel tethered.

There were still bad days.

Days when your skin burned from friction. When the phantom pain in your missing limb came screaming out of nowhere. Days when you could swear you felt your toes curl—even though they were gone. You'd scream into your pillow. Or not speak at all. But Finnick always seemed to know what to do. He’d draw you a bath. Set a book in your lap. He never asked for more than you could give.

It had been weeks since you and Finnick returned to District Four, yet something had shifted between you—not in the love, but in the space it now had to stretch across. It lingered in the silences. In the way his hand would hover an inch above your back but never settle. In how you turned your face away when he helped you out of the bath or adjusted the straps on your prosthetic. You both danced around each other in the same house, sharing meals, sharing a bed, but not always meeting in the middle.

It wasn’t deliberate. It was grief. Quiet and vast.

You were both broken in ways the other couldn’t fully fix.

For you, it was your leg. The phantom weight. The new awkwardness of stairs, balance, movement. The bitterness you swallowed every time someone said you were “brave” or “strong,” when all you felt was hollow. You still flinched when you caught your reflection in the windowpane—still avoided mirrors unless you had to.

For Finnick, it was his past.

He bore no physical wounds, but the Capitol had carved into him all the same. Their mark wasn’t left in skin or bone—but in memory. In the way he tensed when someone touched him unexpectedly. In the way his eyes darkened sometimes when he stared at the sea for too long, like he was drifting somewhere only he could go. They had used him. Polished him up and put him on display, a beautiful weapon with a price. And now that the war was over, people wanted to pretend none of that had ever happened. That he was fine. That he could be normal again.

One evening, after a long day of trying to find a semblance of normalcy in your new life, you found yourself strangely out of place. Grief had consumed you entirely, reshaping the way your mind functioned. Or maybe it was the trauma, leaving you feeling like a stranger in a life you were supposed to reclaim. The quiet of District Four, once a comfort, now felt like a void—too silent, too clean, too detached from the wreckage you still carried. It was hard to breathe in this kind of peace when your soul only knew how to brace for war. Whatever it was, the night had never felt longer than it did tonight.

Your prosthetic leg sat beside the stairs, abandoned for the evening like a second shadow, a cruel reminder of all you’d lost. Each time Finnick’s fork scraped against his plate, the sound cut through the silence like a blade. You stared at your dinner without really seeing it, pushing the food around with your fork more than eating it. You hadn’t spoken much all day—neither of you had. It had become routine, this aching silence between you. But tonight, it gnawed at you.

Without thinking, without looking up, the words spilled out, brittle and sharp. “Do you even miss me?” you asked, quiet but sharp. “Or is it easier now, pretending I’m someone else, too?”

Finnick looked up, surprised—but not confused. He set his fork down gently, as though it would matter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You finally looked at him. “I mean, we’re married. We live in the same house. But it feels like I’m living with someone who’s already gone.”

His mouth opened slightly, then closed. He looked down at his plate, then back at you, jaw tight. “You think this is easy for me?”

“No,” you said quickly, your voice rising. “No, I know it’s not easy. But at least you can walk away from it when it gets too hard. I can’t even get to the fucking ocean without strapping my leg on like it’s some kind of punishment.”

Finnick leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “And what, you think I want this distance between us?”

“I think you’re not doing anything to close it!” you shouted. “You disappear for hours without saying anything. You sleep with your back to me. You look at me like I’m broken and you’re waiting for me to shatter!”

“I don’t—” he started, but you cut him off.

“You don’t even touch me anymore.”

That stopped him cold. And then, slowly, he pushed his plate away, knuckles white.

“I’m trying to figure out how to be me again,” he said quietly, voice fraying. “You think I just walk through this house and forget what they did to me? You think I don’t still hear their voices when I try to kiss you? That I don’t flinch when I remember what my body was used for?”

Your throat tightened. “You’re not the only one who lost themselves, Finnick.”

He looked at you then—really looked. His eyes were glassy, tired, and angry all at once.

“I know,” he said. “But it’s like you expect me to fix both of us. I can’t. I’m barely holding on. And maybe... maybe we rushed into this marriage thinking love would be enough to carry us through the wreckage, but what if it’s not?”

The air shifted. Cold. Hollow. You stared at him, unsure whether the ache in your chest was heartbreak or rage. Maybe both. 

The words hit like a slap. Your hands trembled in your lap. You stood up too quickly, stumbling without your leg. The chair scraped violently against the floor as you caught yourself on the edge of the table.

“Fuck you,” you breathed. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.”

Finnick was already standing, running a hand through his hair, pacing the space like the walls were closing in.

“I don’t mean it,” he muttered, already pushing away from the table, running a hand through his hair like he wanted to tear something out by the roots. “I don’t—god, I don’t know what I mean anymore.”

You struggled to stand, gripping the edge of the table to steady yourself, your leg absent and your balance off. “Then why does it sound like you’ve thought about it?”

Finnick turned toward the door, shaking his head with a breath that sounded more like a curse than an exhale. “I’m going for a swim.”

The words stunned you. “Seriously? That’s your response?”

He didn’t answer. He just grabbed the towel hanging from the back of the chair and walked out. You tried to follow, but your body betrayed you. You stumbled, unable to make it more than a few steps before the ache in your leg flared, harsh and unforgiving. The prosthetic was still near the stairs, just out of reach. You stretched for it, desperate, but the door slammed shut before you could even put it on.

And that was the worst part—not that he left, not that he said what he said—but that you couldn’t follow. You couldn’t reach him. Not physically. Not emotionally.

The house felt even quieter after he left. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed in on your chest and made the walls feel like they were shrinking inward. You stood there for a long moment, your hand still braced against the edge of the table, the space where your leg used to be aching—not just physically, but in that deep, soul-heavy way only grief can reach. Eventually, you lowered yourself back into your chair, slow and trembling, the fight draining from your body like the tide pulling away from the shore.

You stared at the half-eaten plate in front of you. The food had gone cold, but you barely remembered the taste. It felt stupid now. All of it. The argument. The anger. But also not stupid—because it had come from a place so real, so raw, it left you feeling hollowed out. It wasn't just about the leg. Or the war. Or the Capitol. It was about losing pieces of yourself you could never get back, and realizing that the person who once made you feel whole didn’t know how to reach you anymore. Or worse—maybe they didn’t want to.

You dropped your face into your hands and let the silence stretch. You didn’t cry—not yet—but your throat burned like the tears were just waiting for permission. You had always been strong. People expected that from you. A victor. A fighter. The one who kept their head down and their fists clenched. But strength didn’t feel like armor anymore. It felt like a cage. Like something you wore because people couldn’t handle your breaking.

What scared you most wasn’t the loss of your leg. It was how quickly people started to treat you like you were something fragile. Something to pity. Something that needed to be fixed. And worse, there were days you believed them. Days where you looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize yourself—not because of the prosthetic or the scars, but because your eyes were tired in a way you didn’t know how to mend. Like your fire had gone out and you were too ashamed to admit it.

You thought about Finnick. About the way he slammed the door without looking back. He didn’t even kiss your forehead like he usually did. And that absence stung more than anything he had said. It wasn’t just that he left. It was that he could. That you couldn’t chase him even if you tried, because some part of you still believed that love meant following someone into the waves—even if it drowned you.

But you couldn’t follow him. Not tonight. Not with your leg leaning against the stairs like a quiet accusation.

You swallowed hard and let your gaze drift toward the window, where the sea glimmered faintly under the moonlight. You knew he was out there, somewhere in that cold water, swimming until his muscles burned and his mind shut off. You understood why. It wasn’t just his escape—it was his sanctuary. Just like you once were.

The truth was, you missed being his sanctuary. Not just his wife. Not just someone he made vows to in a war-rushed wedding. But the one he confided in. The one who knew how to hold him when the ghosts came too close. Lately, it felt like the ghosts were winning.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would look like. Whether he’d come back angry or quiet or not at all. But for tonight, you sat in the silence, letting yourself feel everything you'd been too scared to say out loud: that you were tired. That you didn’t feel strong. That you didn’t want to be pitied, but you also didn’t want to be alone in this.

And maybe you didn’t want to be a symbol anymore.

You just wanted to be you—flawed, broken, healing. Still here.

The house hadn’t shifted. The sea still murmured beyond the windows. The stars blinked softly above District Four like they always did—but something in you had already begun to unravel.

Then came the sound of the door creaking open.

Your heart jolted. You didn’t lift your head right away. Part of you thought you imagined it—hoped you hadn’t. But then the floor creaked again, slow and steady footsteps that didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause. And then you felt him—warm arms around you, strong and trembling as they wrapped you up tightly, pulling you into him like you were something he’d nearly lost.

“I didn’t go for a swim,” Finnick said, his voice low, broken, muffled into your shoulder. “I didn’t even get off the porch.”

You inhaled sharply, the air thick with salt and something heavier—something more human than grief. His hands tightened around you like he was afraid you’d vanish, like the only thing anchoring him to the earth was the feel of your skin beneath his palms.

“I stood there,” he went on, breath hitching, “just stood there, and I realized I’d just proved you right. Every single thing you said. I left, just like that. I didn’t fight for you. I didn’t see you. I’ve been so lost in my own goddamn nightmares.”

You closed your eyes and leaned into him, letting yourself be held. His words were shaking. So was he.

“I thought you wouldn’t notice,” he whispered. “Because you’ve been grieving so much, and hurting, and I—I figured I’d be doing you a favor by staying out of the way. I thought if I just held myself together enough, you wouldn’t have to carry me too. But I didn’t realize that shutting you out would make you feel even more alone.”

You didn’t answer, not right away. You were still holding yourself together by a thread, still reeling from how quickly the air had shifted. But the way he held you now—like he needed you just as much as you needed him—it chipped at the walls between you.

“You don’t have to hold yourself together for me,” you murmured, your voice raw. “I never needed that. I just needed you. All of you. Even the broken parts.”

Finnick pressed his forehead to yours, his breath shaking with unshed tears. “I’m sorry,” he said again, like the words might undo everything sharp and heavy between you. “I thought I was protecting you by not talking about it, but all I did was push you further away. And I can’t—” he swallowed, “I won’t lose you, not like this. We already lost too much.”

Your hand moved to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like you could stitch yourselves back together with just that touch. And maybe, in some small way, you could.

“We're still here,” you whispered. “And that has to count for something.”

He nodded, brushing a hand through your hair, then kissing your temple—so softly, so reverently it made your eyes burn. “I love you,” he said, not like a promise but like a truth he’d forgotten how to say aloud. “I don’t know how to fix any of this, but I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever.”

You didn’t need grand declarations. Just this—his voice in your ear, his arms around you, and the warmth of his apology melting into your skin. Whatever had fractured between you in the weeks after the war began to knit itself together again, slowly but surely, one breath at a time.

For the first time in what felt like ages, you didn’t feel so alone in the quiet. You had each other. You had Finnick. That, alone, was enough.

~

Ten years later and the sea had softened.

It still roared some mornings, still pulled and pushed at the shoreline like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to leave or stay—but the violence was gone. Or maybe it was just that you'd learned how to move with it instead of against it.

Your house was still the same one they'd given you after the war, nestled above the bluff, wrapped in salt air and gull cries. But now there were flowers in the window boxes. Sand toys half-buried beneath the porch. A garden Finnick had built with his hands, full of herbs you still didn’t remember the names of. The walls carried warmth now—scratches from furniture being moved too many times, faded sun patches where photos hung, laughter soaked into the floorboards.

It was a good life. Not the kind you expected to have—but the kind you were meant to find.

Finnick’s voice drifted in through the open window. He was down by the water, calling out something playful to the child running ahead of him, sand kicking up beneath their bare feet. You couldn’t quite catch the words, just the rhythm—bright, boyish, unburdened in a way you hadn’t heard in years. It still startled you sometimes, how light his voice could sound now. How much he'd shed since the war. How much you had, too.

You leaned against the doorframe, one hand resting on your hip, the other bracing against the wood as you watched them. The prosthetic was second nature now. You barely noticed it anymore, except on the bad weather days when your muscles ached and the tide swelled higher than usual. But even then—it was part of you. Just another way your body had learned to live.

The little girl—your daughter—was laughing, shrieking as Finnick scooped her up with a dramatic grunt and swung her in a wide circle. Her tiny braids flew behind her like streamers, her arms outstretched, fearless. She had his smile. His eyes, too. But her stubbornness? That was all you.

“Don’t let her near the tidepools alone!” you called out, shielding your eyes against the sun.

Finnick looked up and grinned at you, squinting. “What, and deny her a chance to bring home another jar of sea snails to torment us with?”

“Last week she brought in eight. One of them crawled into my boot.”

“She’s got taste,” he said, walking back toward you with your daughter now slung upside-down over his shoulder, giggling wildly. “She’s a natural.”

You laughed, the sound easy, warm, surprising even yourself. It still amazed you how freely it came now. How laughter didn’t feel like betrayal anymore. That it could live in the same place as your scars.

Finnick climbed the steps and kissed your cheek in passing, breathless and sun-warmed. “You look tired,” he murmured. “Come sit with us.”

“I’m not tired,” you said softly, watching your daughter reach for your hand, her tiny fingers gripping your thumb. “Just grateful.”

He paused, catching your meaning. His expression softened. There were still shadows in both of you—traces of what you'd endured, things you would never forget—but they no longer controlled the narrative. They were just pages in the middle of a story that kept going.

Finnick reached for your hand and kissed the back of it. “Me too.”

You followed them to the sand, your prosthetic sinking slightly with each step, but you didn’t stumble. You never stumbled now. You sat together on the shore, letting the sun warm your face, your daughter nestled between you both, babbling about the “biggest shell ever” she was going to find tomorrow.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, tomorrow didn’t feel like something to dread.

It felt like something you could look forward to.

[kittygowrite]

Midwest Girl

Pair: Ghost x Reader

Warnings: F!reader, hunting mention, (just in case) slight gore/blood description, extreme weather mention (tornado sirens), just self indulgent fluff

An: trying my hand at a drabble 😌 (a very long drabble… more like a poorly formatted fic) saw this post by @succubusvalentine and just needed to write Simon with a Midwest girl lol. Lil disclaimer, this is based on my own experience in the Midwest and where I live in it (omg it's huge there's so much variety in the culture)

(Read on AO3)

Word count: almost 800

Simon with a Midwest girl that absolutely fascinates him.

You were always so sweet and polite, a small smile would pull at his lips every time you said “ope.”

If you were surprised, bumping into something, or remembering something, every single one would be accompanied by a little “ope!”

Or when you would walk past him, a little “let me just squeeze right past ya...” he would be fighting off a grin.

The politeness wasn't a personal thing though.

The first time a stranger started talking to him at the grocery store, he thought they were insane. When his sweet girl started chatting with the older lady who had commented on the tomatoes Simon was holding, he thought you had fallen off the deep end as well. But that's just how you were. His sweet thing, sharing your sugar with the neighbors, helping with their gardens, bringing over dinner or other comforts whenever someone fell on hard times.

Your food reminded him of what home ought to feel like, all comforting and warm. Whether it be your mother's “famous” chili, a casserole brought to a potluck to celebrate some small town holiday, or a simple pasty warming his fingers in the heart of winter, Simon could never get enough.

While there were quite a few things he hesitated to eat, shoving a bite into his mouth usually shut him up and had him devouring the rest, despite the odd name or questionable ingredients.

The weather was its own situation.

The tornado sirens are blaring, he's grabbing things to hide in the basement and wait out the weather, following the safe and logical protocol. Searching high and low for his sweet girl, just to find you lounging on the porch, a bottle of Faygo in hand, watching the sky swirl and shift with a content smile. Brushing him off when he frantically tries to usher you inside, nodding to your neighbors who are all doing the same, outside despite the sirens screaming for you to hide inside where it’s safe. (Of course, if it actually got bad, you would go inside, but it would take a while to get to that point.)

The temperature changes were intense, 20’s and freezing his fingers off one day, 60’s and driving with the windows down the next, it was enough to give him whiplash.

Not to mention the god-awful winters. He would think you were insane for wearing just a T-shirt and jeans when it's nearly in the 30s. You would just smile and wave him off, laughing when the usually stoic man would be reduced to grumbles about the cold bite.

The chill in Manchester was enough for him to be tugging on a winter coat so the colder temperatures were less than comfortable. He would be bundled up in long johns, flannel, a down coat, mittens, and a scarf wrapped over a thick woolly balaclava you had gifted him for the holidays and he would still be shivering like a wet kitten.

It’s hitting the negatives and you’re unbothered.

“It’s not so bad without the wind.” You happily tell him, as if his nose wasn’t numb and his fingers stiff from the glacial weather. He had to buy a proper pair of winter shoes, his assumption that his combat boots would be fine stomping through the snow. After a too-close dance with frostbite, he caved and bought a real pair of snow boots.

The way you interacted with wildlife never failed to amaze him either. Shooing off a raccoon or coyote that was pawing through your trash. Feeding the birds and squirrels, not batting an eye as a deer walks past.

Growing up in Manchester, he had seen his share of wildlife, but it was so different in the States. The deer were bigger, coyotes would bark and scream like banshees in the night, and don't even get him started when he saw a moose for the first time.

But Simon whose girl goes hunting or fishing? He’s whipped.

You’ve got antlers on your walls, maybe a hide or two kicking around. His eyes would nearly pop out of his head when he walked into the garage to be met with the sight of his sweet girl elbow-deep in fish guts, scaling and gutting the fish with practiced efficiency. Blood splattered on your arms and a smudge on your cheek as you smiled at him and handed him a plate of fish to bring inside.

He would laugh at first, the need for a freezer in the garage seemingly useless. But come hunting season, when it was filled with rabbit, venison, and wild turkey, he changed his mind quite quickly.

You had your quirks, but you were his. And he wouldn’t trade his sweet Midwest girl for anything.

An: I had a lot of fun writing this! Like I said, it’s based on my own experience with where I live so I’m sorry if this isn’t how you’ve experienced it! Feedback is always appreciated <3

Taglist: @pythonmoth @hattiefunny @daydreamerwoah @bi-sk8er @sweetheart4you @shinebright2000

[glamourscat]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ My thoughts on the Itoshi brothers’ dynamic ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

The Itoshi brothers’ dynamic is so damn sad, and it breaks my heart a little more every time I think about it.

The thing is, we know that Rin is deeply upset (and that’s an understatement) with Sae. Sae made him a promise, the one about becoming the best players in the world together. Reading the manga makes you understand that the way Sae says it, it’s meant as nothing more than “child talk.” You know, when you’re a child and you feel you’re on top of the world? Exactly like that. When you feel you’re invincible and nothing can break you.

But then Sae left for Spain, alone. He was still just a kid. We don’t know what happened during his time abroad, but we can speculate that it wasn’t easy. Easy to adapt, given the cultural differences between Japan and Spain. It probably wasn’t easy to understand and come to terms with the fact that he was not “the best in the world” like he used to be in the little team he played for in Japan. He went to Spain, met stronger opponents, and his dream got crushed. From a striker to a midfielder, because he saw better talents than him. Because he was probably made to feel like his talent wasn’t worth even trying.

You can’t tell me that a little boy with so much substance, joy, passion, and determination to become the number one striker is suddenly reduced to nothing but a shell of who he was. Sure, people grow, but we are talking about a massive jump. We are talking about a kid left to his own devices, alone, without a family by his side in a foreign country.

Which leads me to Rin. I understand his anger. The way he feels betrayed when Sae comes back and suddenly it’s not about “us” together, but about “us” separately. I understand the way he felt betrayed because while Rin poured every ounce of his sweat and tears into leveling up for Sae—his older brother had instead “moved on,” logically. While Rin was breaking himself in four to become someone good enough for Sae, keeping the promise they made close to heart, Sae hadn’t thought about it twice.

Sure, you can blame Rin and say he was too naive, too childish. But he was. He was all those things; he was a child. What child, a younger brother at that, wouldn’t take into consideration the words from his older brother? Younger siblings thrive off their older ones, becoming who they are as individuals by looking up to their older siblings, most of the times at least. It’s obvious why Rin chose football and not another sport, for example. Why he stopped receiving presents from Santa at 8 because his brother had stopped at 10—and if Sae stopped, then so would he, despite still longing for presents.

The betrayal hit Rin particularly hard because while he still had no idea who he was or is, he had at least Sae to look up to. And he was under the impression that the two of them would become the best together. But then Sae comes back, and that dream is out the window.

I’m not going to sit here and debate ethics, because morally speaking, neither Rin nor Sae are perfect beings. They are both equally flawed, and that’s what makes this tragic. Fast forward to now, with Rin being 16/17 and Sae 18, this is where the issues flow in.

They are both old enough to know that the words Sae spoke in the past and the present are wrong and hurtful. No, it’s not “sibling dynamics.” You can be as angry as you want with the world, with your sibling. But to speak like that, then pretend nothing happened and genuinely be confused about why your little brother is “acting out” is next-level madness. Last time I checked, we don’t know exactly what type of individuals Rin’s and Sae’s parents are. But, seeing how their kids react to conflict and hard emotions, it’s safe to say they probably aren’t the best parents. And there’s some emotional neglect involved.

Back to what I was saying, when you’re 16 your emotions are so damn high, this is not me trying to excuse Rin, it’s me understanding where he comes from. It doesn’t excuse the type of person he has become. It’s me sympathising with his situation, because when you live in an environment where you’re forced to either survive or get eaten—you choose survival, no matter what it takes to achieve it. He is a nasty piece of work, with his sharp edges, closed off emotionally and mentally. Slightly judgmental and extremely angry. At himself, at everything. His anger, however, doesn’t mutate like Shidou’s into violence on the field. Rin’s anger is thin, at times invisible. It seeps through the cracks and makes him bitter and sorrowful.

That said, when you come to terms with the fact that Sae has no idea on why Rin is so angry at him and the reason for his anger—passing off his attitude and words as simple “teenage angst” — makes me feel many ways, and none are positive. To me, it’s absurd seeing your little brother acting so hostile towards you, seeing the clear signs of anger and frustration but also sadness in him, and passing it off as “Rin is acting out.” How? Genuinely, how?

You see your brother on the verge of screaming at you on the football field, in front of thousands of people present and live during the U20 match, and what do you do? Further insult him? Girl— It’s the way Sae is not even trying to understand. You can think all you want that your brother is going through a phase, and maybe it’s just me, but if I see my younger sibling acting out, I’m going to talk to them. It doesn’t have to be an emotional confrontation per se, but a simple “what the hell is going on with you?” kind of thing. Letting them know that you’re there for them.

But, with the hypothetical scenario where the Itoshi brothers grew up in an emotionally neglectful house, it makes sense why Sae doesn’t even know how to approach Rin. Ultimately, however, the fact that Sae has no idea why his brother is “acting out,” why Rin is just so angry, makes the whole thing even sadder. Because while Rin took everything to heart and that anger, the delusion is slowly consuming him—Sae has no idea what’s going on. And if Rin finds out that Sae doesn’t even know/didn’t even notice, I think it would end even worse than it already is.

There, we will see his anger explode to unimaginable levels. Anger turning into self-destruction. Rin would truly become a shell of himself, unsure of what direction to take. Because how do you even begin to explain to your little brother that his anger, the way he was feeling, wasn’t even noticed or acknowledged by his older brother? How do you even begin to explain that Sae doesn’t even understand why Rin is reacting the way he is? Truth is, Sae is emotionally unavailable, and Rin is a ticking bomb ready to explode really soon.

© GLAMOURSCAT

[skyguytoast]

Between the Sheets & Lies - Dilf!Anakin x you

SYNOPSIS: Dilf!Anakin Dilf!Anakin finally meets you for the first time without screens separating.

WORD COUNT: 6.7k 

WARNINGS: +18, infidelity, cheating, age gap (Anakin is in his 40s and the reader is of legal age), daddy kink, spanking, unprotected sex, kinda dirty talk

A/N: Hello everyone, I really appreciate the comments and reblogs! 💖 Seriously, you guys make me the happiest girl in the world! ✨ Sorry for the delay in bringing the second part, I swear I didn't want to keep you waiting, but college is tough and the internships are taking up more energy than I would like. 😵‍💫Anyway, thank you once again! I hope you enjoy reading! 🥰 As always, comments, likes and reblogs mean everything to me and motivate me to keep improving! 💖Kisses and good reading! Dividers by @cafekitsune

There was no turning back.

Anakin had already fallen down the rabbit hole, and he had no desire to crawl his way back out. After that passionate video call—the one that left him breathless, aching, wanting—you consumed him. He had thought that giving in, indulging in those late-night whispers and teasing glances, might quench the fire burning between you.

But it hadn’t.

It was like striking a match and dropping it into a bucket of gunpowder. The explosion of heat had swallowed him whole, curling around his body, leaving him restless, burning for more.

The logical part of his mind knew this was wrong. Cheating, no matter how he justified it, was still cheating. Padmé didn’t deserve this. But damn, resisting you has become impossible. Your easy laughter, your light teasing, the way your body seemed designed to drive him insane—you had stolen his heart before he even realized it was missing. You lived in his head now, imprinted on his thoughts, and he craved you in a way that scared him.

But it was too late for guilt.

Anakin exhaled sharply, shaking off the whirlwind of conflicted emotions. There was no room for second thoughts anymore. He opened the car door and stepped out, handing the key to the valet before walking into the luxurious hotel. He had chosen one on the other side of the city—somewhere far from prying eyes, away from familiar faces.

At the bar, he ordered a whiskey on the rocks, the cool glass grounding him as he folded his arms on the counter, fingers drumming lightly against the wood. The anticipation coiled tight in his stomach, equal parts excitement and anxiety. He lifted the glass to his lips, taking slow sips, but it did little to steady him.

Because soon, you would walk through those doors. And for the first time, there would be no screen between you. No teasing messages. No blurry video calls.

Just you. In front of him. Skin against skin.

And Anakin had never wanted anything more.

"Hello, stranger."

Your voice cut through Anakin’s thoughts, snapping him back to the present. That same playful greeting—the one from your very first message—sent a rush of heat straight to his chest. Gosh. He hadn’t known back then just how much you would unravel him, how deeply you’d sink into his bones.

He practically knocked over his chair in his haste to stand, his movements far less composed than he would have liked. You smiled, amused by his clumsiness. It was ironic—Anakin Skywalker, a retired general, a man who had once commanded legions with unwavering precision, now reduced to a nervous wreck. You made him feel like a foolish, lovesick boy, all fluttering stomach and sweaty palms. The blush creeping up his neck only added to the ridiculousness of it all.

And yet, he didn’t care.

"Bunny." His voice was warm, filled with something dangerously close to adoration. A slow, devastating smile spread across his handsome face, the slight creases at the corners of his eyes only making him more irresistible. Age had been kind to him—too kind, really. Like a fine wine, he had only grown more confident, more devastatingly attractive.

His gaze raked over you, drinking in every inch. "Maybe by the end of tonight, I’ll finally learn your real name?" His voice was smooth, teasing, but his eyes told a different story—dark, wanting, hungry.

And you had given him plenty to admire.

The pink ribbon tying your hair back cascaded like silk down your bare back, the color so soft against your skin it almost looked sinful. Pink was your color—there was no denying that. His eyes trailed lower, taking in the way your delicate sleeveless crop top clung to you just right, accentuating the graceful curves of your body. The fabric hugged your chest, your cleavage framed in a way that was both teasing and effortlessly elegant.

But what really did him in was the skirt.

Short. Ruffled. Hugging your hips like it had been made just for you. Every slight movement sent it fluttering, barely covering what it was meant to hide. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as his gaze dropped further. The white stockings that hugged your legs made his pulse spike, the dainty pink bows at the tops pushing him dangerously close to losing his composure.

Anakin exhaled sharply, tilting his head as he let his eyes drag back up to yours.

"You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?"

And damn, you might just succeed.

A mischievous smile curled at the corner of your lips, your eyes glinting with playful challenge. "I imagine you’d like it—my hands around your neck," you teased, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed his face. The way his jaw tensed, the subtle flare of his nostrils—it only fueled your shameless flirting.

Without breaking eye contact, you took the glass of whiskey from his hand, lifting it to your lips. The amber liquid burned smoothly down your throat, leaving a tantalizing sheen on your mouth as you set the glass back down with a soft clink.

Anakin exhaled sharply, his voice dropping into something low and ragged. "Don’t tease me, little girl."

That warning—deep, husky, thick with barely contained restraint—sent a delicious shiver down your spine. You knew exactly what you were doing. And so did he.

Your smile widened, sweet and coy, a perfect contrast to the fire simmering between you. "The conversation is great," you mused, trailing a delicate finger along his forearm, "but maybe you’d like to show me the room you booked?" A pause. A tilt of your head. "I heard it has a hot tub."

Anakin smirked, slow and wolfish, his gaze raking over you like he was already envisioning you in far less than what you were wearing. "Oh, darling," he murmured, his hand sliding possessively against the small of your back, the heat of his palm searing through the fabric. "It’s presumptuous of you to think I’m going to let you out of bed."

His grip tightened slightly as he guided you toward the elevator. And as the doors slid shut behind you, sealing you both inside, your pulse quickened with the undeniable truth—you didn’t want to escape anyway.

As soon as the elevator doors began to close, the last remnants of restraint shattered. Every ounce of decency Anakin had been clinging to dissolved into nothingness. There was no time to think, no moment to question what you were doing—only the raw, undeniable pull between you. It was as if your bodies had been waiting for this, for the inevitable collision that neither of you could resist. Despite this being your first time meeting face to face, you moved together with an intoxicating, almost fated synchronicity.

Then his mouth was on yours—hot, demanding, desperate. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty, only the flaming hunger that had been building between you for far too long. His lips pressed firmly against yours, claiming, consuming, devouring. The kiss was a storm, wild and uncontrollable, his breath mingling with yours as he pulled you closer, impossibly close. His hands, large and heated, gripped your waist possessively, as if afraid you’d slip away, as if he needed to feel every inch of you against him.

A soft whimper escaped your lips, swallowed by his kiss, and it only seemed to ignite him further. His fingers dug into your hips as your own hands tangled in his hair, pulling at the soft, sandy strands, eliciting a deep, needy groan from him. His body pressed against yours, pinning you against the cool metal of the elevator wall, the contrast of heat and cold making you shiver.

Time ceased to exist. There was only the dizzying sensation of his lips slanting over yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting, exploring, owning. Every movement, every touch sent sparks dancing beneath your skin, pooling heat low in your stomach.

By the time you both pulled back—just enough to gasp for air—his forehead rested against yours, his breaths ragged, his eyes dark with want. "Fuck," he murmured, his voice rough, his thumb tracing your swollen bottom lip. "I’ve wanted to do that since the moment you said hello."

And by the way your body melted against his, by the way your fingers still trembled in his hair, he knew you had wanted it just as much.

Anakin's heart pounded in his chest as he held you against him, his breathing ragged and uneven. The taste of you was still on his tongue, the sweetness of your lips seared into his mind. He couldn't believe this was happening, that he finally had you in his arms, your body pressed flush against his own. It felt like a dream, a fantasy come to life, but the way you trembled and clung to him was undeniably real.

"I've wanted this for so long," he murmured, his voice a low, heated rasp against your skin. "To have you here, to touch you, to taste you..."

His hands slid down from your hips, gripping your ass possessively, squeezing the firm globes as he pulled your hips snugly against his own, his large hand almost slipping under your tiny pink ruffled skirt. You could feel his erection, hard and insistent, pressing against your stomach through the fabric of his pants. The evidence of his desire was impossible to hide, throbbing and aching for you, for the feel of your bare skin against his own.

"You feel so fucking good," he murmured, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. His fingers slipping beneath the hem of your top to caress the smooth, warm skin of your back. "I want to map out every curve and hollow until I know your body as well as I know my own."

Anakin's hands practically closed on your waist, feeling the heat of your deliciously hot and sinful body. "Tell me what you want, baby," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "Tell daddy what you need."

You whimpered, a mix of desire and excitement embracing your body like a second skin, the older man's words only stirring the fire that was blooming inside you. "I, I want to go to a room, daddy, I need you so fucking much."

Anakin felt an animalistic thrill surge through him at your breathless plea, your needy little whimper sending all his blood rushing south to his aching cock. He had never wanted anyone as much as he wanted you in this moment, never craved the feeling of being buried inside a tight, wet cunt more than he did now.

"Daddy's gonna make your wish come true, baby," Anakin murmured seductively, planting a soft kiss on the top of your head, the affectionate gesture not being enough to disguise the sexual desire that was building inside him.

He grabbed your hand, interlacing your fingers with his own, and quickly led you out of the elevator and down the hallway. He could hear the distant sound of drinks being served and cocktails being prepared at the bar, but it faded into the background, unimportant and insignificant compared to the pounding of his own heart and the catch of his breath in his throat.

"Daddy's going to take such good care of you, sweetheart," he promised darkly, opening the door to his room and pulling you inside. "Gonna make you feel so fucking good."

The hotel room was nothing short of extravagant—spacious and bathed in warm, ambient lighting. A massive bed dominated the center of the room, its silky sheets practically begging to be rumpled. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the starry sky, the long, heavy curtains drawn open as if inviting the universe to witness what was about to unfold. A sleek coffee table sat in front of a chic white sofa, a bucket of ice cradling a bottle of champagne, waiting to be uncorked.

Anakin’s large hand rested against the small of your back, his touch firm yet possessive as he guided you inside. You hesitated for a moment, taking in the opulence around you. This wasn’t just a luxury suite—it was a penthouse. The sheer indulgence of it sent a thrill through you. You knew he was rich—after all, men didn’t sign up for sites like the one where you met unless they had more money than they knew what to do with—but this? This was something else entirely.

Still, the thought barely had time to linger. Because Anakin was right there—his body heat enveloping you, his scent intoxicating, his presence so overwhelming it made your head spin. Every nerve in your body buzzed with awareness, your pulse quickening as his fingertips ghosted along your spine. The wealth, the luxury, the sheer extravagance of it all faded into the background.

All that mattered now was him.

Anakin couldn't keep his hands off you as he led you into the lavish suite, his large palm resting possessively against the small of your back. He could feel the warmth of your skin through the thin fabric of your clothes, the way your body yielded to his touch, molding against his own. It set his blood on fire, the simple act of having you close, of finally touching you after weeks of aching with want.

"Do you like it, baby?" he murmured, his voice a low, approving rumble as he watched you take in the opulent surroundings. "I wanted everything to be perfect for you. For your first time with daddy."

He led you further into the room, his fingers trailing down to the curve of your ass, squeezing the firm globe possessively. He could feel the way it fit in his hand, the way your body was made to be touched, to be claimed by him. He spun you around to face him, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

"You're the only thing that matters to me right now," he said softly, his blue eyes blazing into yours. "The only thing I want to focus on, the only thing I want to devour."

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a burning kiss, one that stole your breath and set your world ablaze. His tongue delved into your mouth, tangling with yours, exploring every inch of the sweet cave. He tasted you deeply, thoroughly, as if he wanted to memorize the flavor of you.

"Strip for me," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. "Slowly. I want to watch you, baby. Want to see every inch of skin as it's revealed to me."

His gaze was intent, hungry, as he took a step back to watch you, his eyes roaming over your curves, waiting for the show he had demanded. His cock was already straining against the confines of his pants, thick and hard and aching for your touch. But he wanted to savor this moment, wanted to watch you bare yourself to him, piece by tantalizing piece.

Your tongue flicked out to wet your lips, a mix of nervous anticipation and electric excitement coursing through your veins. You had imagined this moment countless times, but now that it was real, it felt overwhelming—devastatingly intense, yet utterly intoxicating.

Your gaze flickered to the champagne, the golden liquid shimmering under the soft glow of the room’s lighting. "Can you pour me a drink first?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The question carried a teasing edge, but the way your teeth sank into your lower lip betrayed your need for just a little more courage.

The thought of putting on a show for him—just for him—made your pulse race. And fuck, you wanted to savor every second of it.

Anakin's lips curved into a wicked smirk at your request, his eyes glinting with shadowed temptation. He could see the anticipation sparkling in your eyes, the nervous excitement that made your cheeks flush a pretty pink. It thrilled him, the way you were eager to please him, to play along with his games.

"Of course, sweetheart," he purred, his voice a low, indulgent rumble. "Daddy will get you anything you want."

He crossed over to the sleek coffee table, popping the cork on the champagne bottle with a satisfying pop. The golden liquid fizzed and bubbled as he poured it into a flute, the bubbles dancing and swirling, just like the thoughts racing through his mind.

"Here you go, baby," he said, holding the glass out to you. "A little liquid courage, just for you."

His fingers brushed against yours as he handed you the champagne, the brief contact sending a jolt of electricity shooting up your arm. He watched as you brought the glass to your lips, watched the way your throat worked as you swallowed, the way your breasts rose and fell with each breath.

"Now, why don't you put that down and start dancing for me?" he coaxed, his voice a low, seductive murmur.

"As you wish," you purred, flashing him a confident smile as you handed him the half-empty champagne glass. With a slow, deliberate motion, you reached for your phone, fingers gliding over the screen until you found the perfect song—I Like You Best by Ella Red. The sultry, hypnotic melody was exactly what you needed.

As the first notes filled the air, you stepped onto the coffee table, your high heels clicking softly against the glass surface. The added height sent a thrill through you, an unspoken declaration that you were in control. You tossed your head back, letting your hair cascade in waves, swaying to the rhythm, your body moving with effortless, sensual grace.

Anakin turned on the couch, eyes dark and locked onto you, utterly captivated. His fingers curled around the champagne flute, forgotten in his grasp, as his gaze followed every slow roll of your hips, every teasing shift of your body. There was something heady about the way he watched you—like a starving man savoring his first meal in ages.

A smirk played on your lips as you let your hands skim down your sides, fingertips trailing over your thighs before slowly dragging back up. You arched your back slightly, accentuating every movement, making sure he felt the way you commanded the space between you.

"Enjoying the view?" you teased, voice dripping with mischief as you met his gaze through heavy lashes.

Anakin exhaled sharply, jaw tight, his grip flexing around the glass. "You have no idea."

You bit your lip, loving the way his voice had dropped, husky and thick with desire. Emboldened, you turned, swaying your hips as you moved to the beat, your hands sliding up your body before tossing your hair over one shoulder.

And when you finally met his eyes again, the fire burning in them told you everything you needed to know—

He was already undone.

Anakin gripped the champagne flute tighter, the delicate crystal creaking under his restrictive hold. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath coming faster as he watched you dance, watched you move with a sensual grace that stole the very breath from his lungs. The way you arched your back, the teasing slide of your hands over your curves, it was enough to drive a man to madness.

"Fuck, baby, you're even more gorgeous than I imagined," he groaned, his voice a low, awe-struck rumble. "Watching you dance like that, teasing me with this sexy body... It's enough to make a man lose his mind."

He took a long swig of the champagne, the golden liquid burning a trail down his throat. But it was nothing compared to the fire scorching through his veins, the inferno of lust and desire burning hot and wild in his gut. He set the glass down on the table with a sharp clink, his full attention focused solely on you.

"Come here, sweetheart," he commanded, his finger beckoning you closer. "Let me touch you. Need to feel every inch of your skin against mine."

He rose from the couch, his tall frame unfolding with predatory grace. His eyes never left yours as he stalked towards you, his gaze intense and hungry, full of sinful devotion. When he reached you, he didn't hesitate, his large hands coming up to grip your hips, pulling your body flush against his own.

"Ani-" Your voice was cut off by a gasp as his lips claimed your own in a blazing kiss, his tongue delving deep, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip. His hands roamed your curves greedily, squeezing and kneading, mapping out every dip and swell, committing the feel of you to memory.

"I need you naked," he breathed against your mouth. "Need to see all of you. Want to touch and taste every inch of this perfect body."

“and you will, love, you just need patience” You teased him, the sensual flirtation rolling off your tongue, as you pushed him back, Anakin slumped down on the couch. “No one ever told you that the best things take time…” you added, tracing his jaw with your finger.

Humming a playful tune, you turned and bent at the waist, displaying the curve of your ass as you slipped the other sock off your foot. You swung your leg up, placing your heel on Anakin's muscular thigh, the spiked stiletto digging in slightly as you traced your toes up his thigh.

Slowly, teasingly, you rolled the sock down your other leg, letting out a soft giggle as you tossed it playfully at Anakin's chest. It landed on his shoulder as you straightened up, one hand trailing down your outer thigh while the other reached for the zipper of your skirt.

You faced Anakin, one hand playing with the zipper tab while the other trailed up your stomach, fingering the hem of your skirt. Licking your full lips, you rolled your hips slowly, teasingly, the skirt riding up to reveal a glimpse of creamy skin and pink lace as you swayed to the sultry melody.

“the cat got your tongue, daddy?” you teased him mischievously, with a hint of fun.

A lustful chuckle rumbled from Anakin's chest at your playful taunt. His hand slid up your other calf, squeezing the soft skin as he tugged you closer, encouraging you to wrap your leg fully around his thigh. He could feel the heat of your skin through the thin lace of your panties, could feel the way your muscles flexed as you shifted your stance.

"No, baby. It's just that I'm too busy admiring the view to say much," he murmured, his voice a low, appreciative growl. "This sexy little tease you're giving me... I could watch you strip for hours."

He leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh, his tongue darting out to taste your skin. He started at your knee, trailing his lips slowly upward, his breath hot and heavy against your thigh. He could smell the sweet scent of your arousal, could feel the anticipation building as he approached the lace barrier of your panties.

"You taste deliciously," he groaned against his skin, nuzzling into the sensitive flesh just above where he wanted to be most. "Sweet and soft and fucking perfect."

He nipped lightly at the lace, his teeth grazing the damp fabric, before soothing the sting with his tongue. His hands slid up to grip your hips, pulling you flush against him, grinding your core against the thick ridge of his cock. He was hard as steel, straining against his pants, the heat of him scorching you even through the layers of clothing separating you.

"Keep going, sweetheart," he urged, his fingers kneading into the globes of your ass. "Don't stop teasing me now. Daddy wants to see everything his little bunny is capable of"

You smirked deviously as you reached for the hem of your top, your fingertips teasing along the fabric before slowly peeling it upwards. Anakin's eyes darkened with lust as more and more of your taut stomach was revealed, the soft skin smooth and unblemished. His hands slid around to grip your ass, squeezing the firm globes as he pulled you harder against him, grinding his clothed erection against your core.

Humming with delight, you continued your slow striptease, your top swelling higher and higher until it was just below your breasts. Anakin's breath caught in his throat as he caught a tantalizing glimpse of the lacy edge of your bra, his fingers flexing against your skin. You could feel the heat rolling off him in waves, the raw, primal desire emanating from his every pore.

Reaching back, you unclasped your bra with a deft flick of your wrist, letting it fall away to reveal the perfect globes of your breasts. They were even more paradisiacal than Anakin had imagined, the rosy peaks of your nipples already pebbled with neediness. He felt his mouth go dry at the sight, his cock throbbing almost painfully against the confines of his pants.

"Don't stop now, baby," he growled, his voice rough with want. "Let me see all of you. I want to worship every inch of this pretty body."

With a wicked grin, you shimmied out of your top, letting it pool on the floor beside you. You draped your arms over his shoulders, linking your fingers behind his neck as you pressed your naked tits against his chest. The feeling of your bare skin against his own was electric, sending sparks of pleasure zinging through his body.

You could feel the blistering heat of Anakin's gauze as it raked over your newly exposed breasts, his blue eyes clouded with hunger and desire. His hands immediately came up to cup the soft mounds, his fingers sinking into the pliant flesh as he squeezed and kneaded. He dipped his head down to capture a rosy peak in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud before suckling greedily.

"Ani!" Your gasp of pleasure dissolved into a moan as he lavished attention on your breasts, his fingers and mouth working in tandem to drive you wild with lust. Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as he worshiped your body with a fervor that set your nerves alight.

"You have such perfect tits, baby," he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with lust. "Can't get enough of them. Could spend hours just playing with these sexy little nipples."

To his emphasize point, he rolled the stiff peaks between his fingers, pinching and tugging lightly, sending jolts of pleasure shooting straight to your core. His other hand slid down to palm your ass, squeezing the rounded globe possessively as he pulled your hips flush against his own.

"Fuck, I want to bend you over my knee and spank this sweet little ass until it's red and aching," he growled, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. "Want to see my handprints all over this perfect body."

The image of him disciplining you, dominating you, feels a fresh gush of moisture to your core. You could feel your panties growing damp, your cunt clenching around nothing, wanting to be filled.

"Then maybe I should take this off too," you purred teasingly, reaching back to play with the bow at the waistband of your skirt. "Daddy wants to see all of me?"

Anakin's eyes flashed with a wicked gleam at your breathless words, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh, the skirt stays on for now, sweetheart. But these pretty little panties..."

His large hands slid around to grip the waistband of your underwear, thumbs hooking into the delicate lace. With a swift tug, he yanked them down your legs, letting them drop to your ankles before you stepped out of them, now clad in nothing but the tiny, frilly skirt.

"Mmm, much better," he purred, drinking in the sight of you, his gaze burning a path down your curves. "You look good enough to eat, baby."

He settled you back onto his lap, your bare ass nestled against his muscular thigh. His hand came down to squeeze the soft globe, kneading the supple flesh, feeling it give way beneath his palm.

"But this naughty little butt needs some attention too," he growled, punctuating his words with a sharp smack to your rear. "Making daddy wait so long, teasing me with this sexy body... It earned you a punishment."

He continued to spank your ass, alternating cheeks, building a rhythm. The sting of each slap sent jolts of pleasure shooting through you, your nerves sparking with electricity. You could feel yourself growing wetter with each smack, your cunt clenching and fluttering around nothing.

"You like that, baby?" he murmured, his voice a dark, approving rumble. "Like feeling daddy's hand on this sweet little ass? I think you do. I think my naughty girl is getting off on being spanked."

He punctuated his words with another sharp smack, his fingers digging into the reddening flesh of your ass. His cock throbbed against your thigh, rock hard and straining against his pants, aching to plunge into your dripping heat. But he held back, determined to take his time with you, to make you beg for it.

Anakin continued his relentless assault on your ass, his large hand coming down again and again in a tempting rhythm. Each sharp smack sent shockwaves of pleasure-pain radiating through you, your skin starting to flush a deep, rosy pink. He could feel the heat building in his flesh, could see the way it was turning a pretty shade of red under his ministrations.

“Fuck, you have the most perfect butt,” baby, he groaned, squeezing the reddened globe roughly. "Love seeing it pink and tender like this, marked by my hand."

His fingers dug into your soft skin, kneading and kneading, as he continued to rain down smacks to your rear. Your breathing grew heavier, your chest heaving with each sharp sting, your nipples pebbled and aching. The pleasure was like a gift from heaven, the anticipation building to a fever pitch inside you.

"Please, Anakin," you whimpered, grinding your hips subtly against his thigh. "Please, I need... I need more."

"What do you need, sweetheart?" he purred, his hand pausing its brutal assault. "Tell daddy what you need."

"I... I need your cock," you breathed out, unable to hold back any longer. "Please, I'm so empty. I need you inside me, filling me up. I want to feel you throbbing deep in my pussy."

"That's my good girl," he praised, his thumb coming down to rub over your swollen, aching clit.

Anakin's eyes darkened with lust as he watched his ass turn a deep, pretty shade of red from his relentless spanking. He could see the need and desperation building in your eyes, hear it in your breathy pleas. His cock throbbed almost painfully, straining against his pants, the tip already leaking with desire.

"Such a good girl, begging so sweetly for daddy's cock," he praised, his voice a low, approving rumble. "Can't deny you any longer, baby."

He fumbled with his belt, undoing it with clumsy, eager fingers before pushing his pants and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It sprang up, long, hard, and ready. Your eyes widened at the sight, your tongue darting out to wet your suddenly dry lips.

He gripped your hips, his fingers sinking into your reddened flesh as he dragged the broad head of his cock through your dripping folds. Anakin groaned as he felt your slick, swollen folds parting for the broad head of his cock. The heat radiating from your cunt was incredible, your arousal coating his sensitive flesh. He couldn't hold back any longer, the need to be buried inside you overwhelming.

"Fuck, baby, you're so fucking wet," he growled, his voice strained with desire. "So ready for daddy's cock."

Slowly, torturously, he dragged the swollen head of his erection along your slit, coating himself in your slick essence. His fingers dug into the smooth flesh of your ass as he lined himself up with your entrance, the flared tip nudging insistently against your opening.

"Beg for it, sweetheart," he commanded, his breath hot against your ear. "Beg daddy to fuck this pretty little pussy. Let me hear how badly you need it."

''Oh god, yes!" you gasped, your hips rocking instinctively, seeking more of that delicious friction. "Please daddy, please fuck me. I need your cock inside me so badly."

"That's it, baby," he purred, his voice sultry and approving. "Keep begging, let me hear those sweet little moans."

And with that, he emerged forward, the head of his cock spearing into your molten heat. He had to grit his teeth against the wonderful sensation, your silken walls gripping him as if they depended on it to live.

"The feeling of you wrapped around my cock, fuck, it's unbelievable," he groaned, hilting himself inside you with a sharp thrust of his hips. He paused for a moment, savoring the way your fluttering sheath pulsed around him, the way your body adjusted to the sudden intrusion.

Anakin began to move, his hips rolling in a fiery rhythm as he started to fuck into you. Each powerful thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your body, the thick length of his cock dragging along your sensitive walls. The wet, obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room as he took you, each drive of his hips punching the breath from your lungs.

"Fuck, your pretty pussy feels incredible," he groaned, his voice a dark, lustful rumble. "So fucking tight and wet and perfect. Made to take my cock."

"Yes, oh fuck yes!" you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders as you clung to him. "Harder, daddy!"

"Greedy little thing, aren't you?" he purred, his hips snapping forward with increasing force. "Can't get enough of daddy's cock. Want it deeper, baby? Want me to fill this hungry cunt to the brim?"

"Yes, yes, please!" you sobbed, your head thrown back, your tits bouncing with each powerful thrust. "Ruin me with your cock. Claim me, make me yours!"

"Mine," he snart, his lips latching onto the side of your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. "This sweet little pussy belongs to me. No one else will ever make you feel this good."

His hand slid around to your front, fingers finding your clit and rubbing it in tight, rough circles. The added stimulation sent you hurtling towards the edge, your walls starting to flutter and clench around him.

"I'm... I'm going to...!" Your cries of ecstasy filled the room as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt clamping down on his cock, the pleasure sensation drowning you like a wave.

Anakin groaned, burying himself deep as he followed you over the edge, his hot seed spurting deep inside you, painting your insides with his release. "Fuck yes, take every last drop like a good girl," Anakin commanded, his hips jerking erratically as he rode out the waves of his intense climax. His fingers dug into the plush flesh of your ass, kneading and squeezing as he ground his pelvis against yours, making sure he was as deep inside you as physically possible.

"It's so much... I can feel it so deep!" you cried out, your inner muscles rippling and clenching around his throbbing shaft, greedily milking him for all he was worth. The sensation of his hot, thick seed flooding your core sent you spiraling into a second intense orgasm, your vision whiting out from the sheer force of it.

"That's it, baby. Fuck, I love watching you come undone on my cock," he praised, his voice a low, approving growl. He captured your mouth in a desperate kiss, his tongue delving deep, swallowing your whimpers and whines of pleasure. He devoured you, consumed you, until you were boneless and sated in his arms.

Panting harshly, he finally pulled back, taking a moment to admire the way your chest heaved, the way your skin glistened with a sheen of sweat. The pink frilly skirt was bunched up around your waist, your legs splayed wide around his hips, his softening cock still nestled snugly inside your tender, well-fucked pussy.

"You're perfect, baby," he murmured, fingers tracing the curve of your cheek almost reverently. "My perfect little girl. I think I'm going to keep you, sweetheart. I'm going to keep you with me, darling,"

You smiled lazily, a soft, blissful expression settling over your features as the overwhelming sensations Anakin had drawn from your body left you exhausted and utterly satisfied. Your limbs felt heavy, your skin still tingling where his hands had explored. "I'd like that… I want to be your little girl," you mumbled sleepily, your voice barely above a whisper before sleep began to claim you.

Anakin watched you, his gaze warm, almost reverent. A small smile tugged at his lips as he traced a gentle path down the curve of your spine, his fingers lingering over your soft, heated skin. He knew it was wrong—knew that tonight had shattered the last fragile remains of his marriage—but regret never came. How could it, when holding you felt so damn right?

Of course, he understood that Padmé didn’t deserve this. But then again, neither did he deserve the hollow, loveless existence he had been clinging to. What he did deserve—what he needed—was you.

With that certainty settling deep in his chest, Anakin wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you close, his body molding perfectly against yours. His lips brushed your shoulder in a lingering kiss before he shut his eyes, blocking out the rest of the world.

He didn’t even flinch when his phone buzzed from across the room, messages from his wife lighting up the screen—because for the first time in a long time, he was where his heart (and body) wanted to be.

[fixated-cookies]

Honestly any Mystic flower x reader content I need some more of her I legit might implode inside of a microwave..

Prehaps one where reader knew her before they all got corrupted reader could have been made simply to stay with the ancients like a playmate and mostly hang around her

Yet she starts becoming more cold and distant when the corruption slowly starts taking her over as she starts pushing you away

Reader feels broken and useless afterwards and decides to just leave

Mystic flower starts feeling.. blank afterwards empty yet not in the way she liked she has to get them back

Maybe some yandere stuff I’m just bored lol

She was a challenged to write but I enjoyed it, by the way this may be easier to read if your Tumblr is in dark mode as her dialogue is a light cream color and may be hard to read against a light background.

WARNING-Yandere

Even she isn't immune to dreadful feeling of lost...You had always been by her side.

A simple Cookie, made to keep the revered Hero's company—a mere playmate in the grand scheme of history. But to her, you were never just that. You were a familiar presence, a constant in the ever-changing world, a warm light amidst the cold corridors of her Ivory Pagoda. Yet, as time passed, the warmth in her eyes faded, replaced by something distant, something unreachable. She no longer lingered in the gardens with you, entertained your idle chatter, no longer listened when you spoke of the beauty of the world beyond the pagoda’s walls.

Perhaps you bring her a beautiful bouquet of flowers to marvel at and understand the plant's beauty. The way their petals are soft and vibrant.“There is no need for this,” she says, her voice as light as the wind yet as heavy as stone. She does not take the bouquet from your hands, nor does she even spare it a second glance. “They will wilt, just as all things do.”

Her words grew clipped, her once gentle touch now fleeting and impersonal. When you reached for her hand, she withdrew. When you called her name, she did not turn. And when you asked if something was wrong, her response came hollow:

“There is no meaning in such trivial concerns.”

One day, she told you not to wait for her anymore. She told you that companionship, warmth, the things you so desperately clung to—none of it mattered.

“You should let go,” she had said. Her voice dead and devoid of any emotion. “Spare yourself the pain of attachment.” Desiring nothing more than you to become a distant memory to her.

And so, you left. Not in anger. Not in defiance. But in quiet, aching defeat. If she no longer wanted you at her side, then what purpose did you serve? You had been made to accompany, to remain. And now, you had been reduced...to nothing. You traveled far and beyond, for hours, days, and weeks. In search of nothing. You become a lone wanderer within earthbread, drifting without purpose, without direction. But the agony does not last long., you find companions, those who you laugh with and eat meals together, rebuilding something for yourself.

And yet, in the solitude of the Ivory Pagoda, Mystic Flour Cookie found herself… blank. Not in the way she had always desired, not in the way apathy had promised her peace. She told herself it was for the best. She had freed you, just as she wished to free all of Cookiekind from meaningless pain. But why, then, did this absence feel so unbearable?

Why, then, did she long to hear your voice just once more?

The silence of the pagoda is different now—hollow, aching. The empty spaces where you once stood seem to stretch endlessly, as if mocking her solitude. She tells herself she has no regrets, that this is the path she chose. But the echo of your laughter, the warmth of your voice, refuses to fade. So she searches....

At first, it is methodical. A logical curiosity. Where did you go? Did you adapt, did you flourish without her? But as each day passes with no trace of you, her steps become quicker, her breaths sharper. It is no longer about idle curiosity—it is need.

Perhaps when she finds you, she is forced to face something far crueler than your absence. She watches from a distance at first, unseen in the shadows of the trees, the edges of town, the corners where the light does not reach. You are no longer the broken, aimless wanderer she thought you would be.

You laugh with others, your voice no longer carrying that fragile edge of sorrow. You stand tall, your steps firm and unwavering. There is warmth in the way you speak, in the way you smile, in the way you live. Living for yourself, and not for others.

And it gnaws at her.

She had once thought that losing you would grant her peace. That freeing herself from your presence would solidify her path. But instead, watching you thrive without her fills her with an unfamiliar ache, one she cannot name and yet cannot ignore. And when she finally steps forward, when she finally calls your name once more—

She is terrified.

Because what if you look at her with nothing but polite indifference? What if you do not care anymore?

What if, after all this time, she has become nothing more than a distant memory to you?

--

I wanted to try my shot at changing my writing slightly different to invoke a sense of emptiness, something that reflects mystic flour own's apathy. I love love love adjectives, I love describing words, I cant get enough of them. Their beautiful, wonderful, descriptive (see what I did there?) They just make writing so much more of a pleasure

[lime-bloods]

Reading Roxy and Meenah as doppelgangers: a digression on manifestation theory

A brief introduction to manifestation

Manifestation theory sounds scary - the idea that the appearance of trolls and other fantastical creatures might double as insight into the psychological goings-on of our human protagonists is not one that necessarily comes intuitively to all readers. But as blogger azdoine succinctly put it: it's basically "just symbolism". Characters in a story symbolise something, and, understanding that Homestuck is chiefly about its human protagonists, it's logical to presume that the non-human elements symbolise things that are relevant to the protagonists' human experience.

mmmmalo has written at length about what he identifies as the signs linking Meenah to Roxy's inner psychodrama - the things that make Meenah an "esoteric mirror" or "doppelganger" of Roxy. For comprehensiveness' sake, I'm going to outline from scratch what I have identified to be the key signs, and to that end this post is going to discuss the topics of reproduction, reproductive coersion and miscarried pregnancy (with text-pertinent allusions to grooming and incestuous abuse).

One big happy family

Looks like a little girl's room. This all strikes you as a bit odd.

Hussie suggests only briefly in commentary that the young Roxy's (β) upbringing was at the hands of "a younger grandpa Harley" (Book 2, p. 106), but we needn't take their word for it; the scenery here speaks for itself. Roxy grew up in a dark green basement, trained from childhood to become an agent of Harley's goals, just as Damara (β) - and then by succession Meenah (β) - would be trained as English's agents. So, by analogy, Grandpa Harley is Lord English.

This is another point mmmmalo has (in)famously already made, but regardless of your thoughts on the particulars of that specific reading, the key clues pointing to English as a manifestation of the "Grandpa" character are still plain to see. When John says "the worst case scenario" would be "[facing] our grandfatherly paradox-dad as a last boss", he's explicitly referring to he and Jade's family patriarch, but he's also implicitly foreshadowing Lord English - a character who, in the maturity of 2024, we should now all be able to recognise is in one way everyone's grandfatherly paradox-dad. He represents the same upper echelon of paternalistic power on a cosmic scale that Jake (β) represents on a familial level.

Moving this along towards my point: essentially all of Acts 1-4's adult characters form part of this elaborate Nuclear Family Roleplay - a pantomime of the 'Suburban' setting Homestuck is founded upon. In the same way Jake being known as simply "Grandpa" symbolises his arch-patriarchal position, the reason Roxy is known only as MOM for the first five acts of the comic is because this is the archetypal, impersonal role she has been reduced down into. Her relationship with the character named DAD is a direct invocation of this - the two are essentially playing house, living out the gendered roles that have societally/cosmically been laid out for them. The comic's exposition coyly brushes over this, but a deeper look at Alternian culture gives us a much clearer vision of why 'MOM and DAD' make such an iconic matespritship: on Alternia there ARE no real family units, only procreation, and therefore matespritship is understood by the planet's inhabitants as a mere expression of "mating fondness". MOM and DAD make such a cute couple because they are exactly what their assigned titles depict them as - a breeding pair.

This is basically the crux of Roxy's arc right up to the very end of the comic; though Roxy's (Α) post-apocalyptic anxieties about the extinction of the human race bring these thoughts to the forefront, her struggle within the patriarchal structures of the household / society / reality itself has always been that she is only valued as a MOM - as a breeding machine.

The problem therein is that Roxy is seemingly incapable of having children.

The grieving mother

Within Sburb's scheme of universal childbirth, a "void session" is one that simply doesn't have the eggs required to bear fruit. So it's immediately easy to see why the Hero of Void would have similar trouble bringing a pregnancy to term. But certainly not for lack of trying!

Sorry, Jaspers [...] your final resting place is already a mockery. You should have decomposed years ago under a bed of petunias like a normal cat. Not given to a taxidermist and fitted with a tiny, custom-tailored suit, and then stuffed in a coffin built for infants.

When Rose was still very young, Jaspers was found dead. Roxy took the death of her CAT so hard that Rose found it difficult to take her grief seriously, interpreting the cat's elaborate mausoleum as a "structure erected with a spirit of scornful IRONY in response to [a] youthfully innocent request to hold a funeral for the animal." But more than any other, Rose and Roxy's relationship is one defined by miscommunication, and this assessment of Roxy's grief doesn't even seem to hold up to Rose's own recollection of events: later, we hear that the funeral service was something Roxy "insisted upon".

And thus begins probably Homestuck's most clear-cut example of a character's arc stretching across multiple iterations, because from this point - parallel to her neverending quest to settle down with a nice hubby and start a family - Roxy (both β and Α) becomes fixated on bringing back her baby - I mean CAT - only to produce failed mutant after failed mutant. These freaks of nature are not Jaspers, and by the laws of time travel dictating the lives of Paradox Clones they can never be Jaspers. The younger Roxy's first few attempts are literally stillborn; while she's eventually able to create what she calls "healthy felines", she still keeps those monsters locked in the basement they came from, for fear of upsetting her real CAT.

Even as over the course of her Sburb quest and her interactions with the new arrivals from the other session Roxy is seemingly able to address and even overcome some of this obsessive gnostalgia for the things she's lost, her apparent inability to bring to term resurfaces when she's made the reproductive object of another grieving mother.

The lamenting queen (or: the other mother)

Her Imperious Condescension is not so immediately recognisable as part of the family pantomime because the troll social structure doesn't use the same terminology we're familiar with, but she's always been there; just as Lord English is grandfather of grandfathers, Meenah is the family tree's literal grandmatriarch of grandmatriarchs, placed upon the Earth in the guise of Betty Crocker - archetypal nurturing housewife - so that her children's children might seed the events architected by her master. This kind of familial roleplay is exactly how English and Meenah's story is passed down to her descendants; Jake recalls that "the witch used to be married to a terrible man named english." Dirk is insistent, though, that this is a masking of the truth, and that English was only ever "her superior". And while it's true that we can't say for sure a young Meenah (β) slept in the same bed Damara grew up in, the fact that Meenah was only formally recruited after Damara's death should not be mistaken for suggesting that Meenah was not one of English's many daughters. She was "the Lo+rd's slave all alo+ng", even if implicitly.

ARANEA: Once she claimed the throne, she would have to serve for many thousands of years, until the next successor was ready.

For all the differences between Meenah and Roxy's cultures, slavery in the form of motherhood has always been the expectation of the female fuchsia caste, right from the very beginning of Meenah's arc - not as the empress of Alternia, but on Beforus, where the hemospectrum is reframed in far more familial terms:

ARANEA: The jo8 of each 8lood caste was to serve the needs of all those 8elow it. ARANEA: We were to use our progressively greater longevity and wisdom to help the lower castes learn and grow. To listen to them and try to provide whatever they were missing. Like a hierarchy of caretakers with increasing social responsi8ility.

Crucially, this is where Meenah and Roxy appear most to act as reflections but not carbon copies of each other; because where Roxy constantly strives to contort herself into this motherly, wifely role, Meenah perpetually runs from it. Saddled with the "incredi8le responsi8ility" of sitting atop Beforus' structure of care, Meenah "viewed the empress as a glorified slave" and fled to the moon, and even forced into ascendancy on Alternia she finds implicit ways to be absent from her children, spending her life flying further and further away from the planet where they're born and taking every opportunity to hand off any real political authority to clown rappers (a tendency reflected in her human heirs - the company is always passed on to the son and never the daughter).

But when Meenah finally returns home to find her children suddenly massacred by a galactic apocalypse, her arc begins to pull into line with Roxy's in earnest.

A fluffy twitching prison

TT: The rumors say it was her own "pet" who killed them.

From the moment of her dramatic introduction, Meenah's tragedy is that though she can extend life indefinitely, she cannot have back what she's lost, and this continues to be true as she attempts to resurrect her children on a new planet; attempt after attempt, her babies all die. Despite Gl'bgolyb's explicit death in the meteoric holocaust which claimed the rest of her family, the creature has inexplicably returned on the trolls' prospective new homeworld with the apparent sole purpose of making sure Meenah can't carry to term. We're left to our own devices to figure out just what's going on here.

Act 6 of Homestuck introduces Watchmen to its repertoire of intertexts through Jane's poster of cobalt beefcake MANHATTAN. Watchmen's Dr. Manhattan is an omnipotent world-shaping being who flees the responsibilities of Earth to settle on the planet Mars, iconically rendered in beautiful rosy hues by colourist John Higgins - when we hear the story of Meenah's refusal to the call of being Beforus' own god-empress, it's against the backdrop of a photograph of Mars literally hue-shifted pink (see fourth image), and images of Meenah's ship flying over a settlement on the red planet are included among the products advertised by Crockercorp. Far more explicitly, though: Watchmen originated the idea of using the screams of a psychic alien squid as political leverage, and that's why Gl'bgolyb has to be here for this part.

Alongside commenting on the political landscape of the 80s and the fascist undertones of the superhuman archetypes found in comic books, Watchmen pays particular attention to these characters' sexual eccentricities, and particularly their hangups with women. It stands to reason that of the latter closet homosexual Ozymandias' are the most severe, but they also become the most explicit: the artificial 'horrorterror' he uses to usher in his new world order is his fear of the female body made manifest. With its single clitoral eye and sphinctered mouth, the creature is unmistakeably yonic, and included in the horrific psychic imagery it broadcasts to instill fear into the Earth's population are nightmarish images of juvenile aliens chewing their way out of their mother's womb - the very same image trolls use to describe their disgust at human reproduction in The Homestuck Epilogues. Meenah's relationship to Gl'gboylb should be thought of the exact same way; one of the rare insights we receive into the adult Meenah's psyche is that she finds the process of giving birth "revolting", and it's for this reason she insists that humans procreate only through impersonal cloning. Gl'bgolyb reappears as Meenah's own manifestation: alienated from her own lusus after spending centuries literally running away from it, and traumatised by repeated miscarried attempts at reviving her race, she sees her own reproductive organs as nothing more than a hideous, baby-killing monster. It's no coincidence that when we see our single glimpse of the enigmatic emissary to the horrorterrors on Earth, it's with its tendrils wrapped around the throat of a symbolic depiction of the Genesis Frog (see above image) - the baby that grows in the womb of Skaia.

Breaking the cycle

By Act 6, the matriorb has already long been associated with failed and aborted pregnancies, having been rescued from the first mother it killed and taken into the care of Kanaya, who is then blasted through the abdomen just as it's destroyed, symbolically miscarrying through physical trauma. So when Roxy is tasked with finally bringing a dead baby back to life, it's a coalescence of multiple disparate threads.

(p. 6463)

Meenah unwittingly - or perhaps uncaringly - perpetuates a patriarchal cycle which has been repeating for eternity by selecting a younger, more fertile doppelganger to take over the role of mother, and locks Roxy in a dungeon with the intention of making her have the baby in her place. But, cycles being cycles and doppelgangers being doppelgangers, the same problem arises. Roxy can only create mutants.

When Roxy does ultimately overcome this, ending the comic with the culmination of this long, meandering motherhood arc, superficially it's because of time spent blitzing her Void chakras in the space outside of reality, and with the help of Calliope as a Muse. But in the time Roxy spends in the white nothingness, she's crucially able to take steps to end her own obsession with reviving the past - not just by burying a version of her own mother, who she spent so much time hoping to resurrect in sprite form, but also in sharing a tearful reunion with the literal ghost of her dead CAT. As with so much of Homestuck, the key to ending the suffering is breaking the self-perpetuating cycle that causes it; made literal, in this case, by Roxy's slaying of her dark mirror image using a sword known for splitting vinyl records - symbolically, for breaking the ever-turning circle of time. And in passing the matriorb off to Kanaya rather than letting Meenah have control of it, Roxy never actually brings this baby to term herself, either - at the end of the day, the minutiae of biology aren't really what motherhood is about:

ROXY: the way i see it is you shouldnt have needed to worry about makin the thing ROXY: i think it will be challenging enough like... ROXY: hatching it?? ROXY: and tending to all the stuff that comes next ROXY: isnt that basically being responsible for the preservation of an entire race of people?

Physically overcoming her demonic doppelganger isn't the end-all of Roxy's struggle with gendered expectation, either. Roxy's complicated relationship with their sex and their motherhood, introduced to us only indirectly through the relationship between Meenah and Gl'bgolyb, becomes central to their understanding and exploration of their own gender identity as they grow into adulthood. Anxieties about the inherent femininity of a childbearing body - the glorified slavery that is seemingly inherent to the cosmically-assigned role of the mother - give way to an understanding of the human body as "something altogether different [...] A flesh machine" with "a specific, practical purpose."

But I digress

The threads running between Roxy and Meenah exist along the types of lines most Homestuck readers will already be familiar with in some form. When two characters share a class, or an aspect, we expect that traits from one character can be used to analyse and further our understanding of the other. Manifestation theory simply asks that we look for even more subtle and non-literal connections between characters than these - a process which Andrew Hussie themself has identified in authorial commentary as part of what they call "persona alchemy". (Book 4, p. 151)

Roxy and Meenah's particular relationship, though, should also be thought of in terms of another phenomenon which is central to Homestuck's structure - escalation. Homestuck constantly reorders and transmutes the alchemical elements that compose one character into 'new' characters, but it also consistently stretches these fundamental concepts to their logical extremes. Just as a game that destroys planets works its way up to the destruction of universes, John striving to leave his house in Act 1 should be taken as the logical precursor to our heroes leaving reality itself in Act 7. The forces keeping these children in their houses - essentially the story's first ever antagonists - are their parents, and as we scale this story up to a cosmic level, we find that the cosmos is dictated by the same suburban family structures; by celestial GRANDPAs and MOMs, raising/grooming/training/neglecting entire worlds or even galactic empires at once.

By allowing us to meet not only the teen MOMs and BROs and NANNAs, but also the teen Lord Englishes and the teen Condesces, the scratch takes us in the opposite direction, reducing these faceless, larger-than-life figures into their smallest, weakest, most fundamentally human forms. And in some cases, as in Roxy's, this creates the opportunity for the child-form to confront and overcome the very darkest of their potential; by being the one to put Meenah down, Roxy not only liberates herself from her own expectations for what a mother has to be and do, but shatters the very cosmic image of MOM itself, breaking the mold that reality had set in stone for her entire sex - her entire caste.

[aventurineswife]

I physically need to read a fic with a sober reader who witnesses how goofy Kaveh and Veritas can get when they're drunk and is just shocked that they're capable of being THIS playful and unhinged. Bonus if the reader records them and teases them about it later on.

Under the Influence

Summary: When Kaveh and Ratio drink a bit too much, their usually serious and refined personas melt away, revealing a goofy, playful side that shocks their sober partner. As Kaveh balances wine glasses on his head and Ratio narrates absurdly dramatic tales, you capture the hilarity on video and tease them about their drunken antics later. What begins as a drunken display of silliness turns into a heartwarming moment where the two intellectuals let go of their usual restraint and embrace their more carefree sides.

Tags: Kaveh x Reader x Ratio, Fluff, Humor, Drunken Shenanigans, Teasing, Playful Dynamics, Sober Reader, Lighthearted Banter.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, Light swearing, Mild inebriation and the silliness that follows.

[Part 2]

You had always known Kaveh as the passionate architect, the one who threw himself into his work without a second thought. His sharp eyes were usually filled with intensity, whether he was sketching out blueprints or discussing the intricacies of his designs with a fervor that could be described as borderline obsessive. On the other hand, Dr. Veritas Ratio, or as he liked to be called, Dr. Ratio, was known for his unmatched intellect, his sharp wit, and his imposing presence as a scholar of the highest order. He was always calm, calculated, and logical in everything he did.

But tonight, everything had changed.

The three of you—Kaveh, Ratio, and yourself—had been winding down after a particularly long day. A few drinks were shared, mostly to calm the nerves after a heated debate between Kaveh and Ratio about the nature of beauty versus logic in architecture. You had opted for a glass of water, wanting to stay sober for the evening.

The first drink had seemed harmless enough, then the second, and soon enough, the two of them were... well, a different version of themselves.

Kaveh, normally an epitome of elegance, was now sprawled across the couch, his arms flailing about as he attempted to convey the complexity of his latest architectural vision with a drunk logic all his own. Ratio, on the other hand, had started laughing—genuinely laughing—a sound that was so foreign coming from him, you almost couldn’t believe it.

You stood nearby, observing the scene with a combination of disbelief and amusement. Kaveh was currently trying to balance a glass of wine on his head, apparently convinced that this would somehow make him look more refined.

“Look, look!” Kaveh slurred, gesturing grandly with his arms. “An architect is a true artist, right? And art is about balance! And this, my dear Ratio, is balance!” He gave a triumphant grin, the glass teetering dangerously on his head as he struck a dramatic pose.

Ratio, who had been sitting in a more reserved manner just moments ago, now seemed to have completely let go of his usual composure. He was clutching his sides, laughing harder than you had ever seen him laugh in all the time you had known him.

“I never thought I'd see the day when Kaveh, the ‘Master of Aesthetics,’ would be reduced to a—what did you call it?—a ‘drunken genius’ in his own right!” Ratio managed to say between bursts of laughter, his voice unusually high-pitched in his state.

Kaveh, however, wasn’t finished yet. With an exaggerated gesture, he began to dramatically “sing” an operatic rendition of what was undoubtedly the most nonsensical and off-key song you had ever heard. You couldn’t help but snicker as he added hand movements for extra flair.

“You should definitely get a recording of this,” Ratio said, wiping away tears from the corner of his eyes. “This is legendary, and no one would believe it if you told them.”

Your eyebrows shot up in realization. A mischievous smile crept onto your face as you reached for your phone. You had to document this moment—it was too precious to be forgotten.

As you pressed record, the two men’s antics continued, utterly unhinged. Kaveh was now rolling on the floor, pretending to be a cat in an exaggerated display of theatrical nonsense, while Ratio began narrating an imaginary tale of "the drunken architect and the scholarly fool" in a deep, overly dramatic voice that sounded like he was auditioning for an epic movie role.

“Once upon a time, there was a brilliant architect,” Ratio began, sounding almost serious, “who sought to balance the world with a glass of wine on his head. But lo and behold! His genius was thwarted by a foolish scholar who...”

“Hey!” Kaveh interrupted, still lying on the floor but with a playful pout on his face, “I’m not a fool! I’m an artist, Ratio! A true visionary!”

You couldn’t help but giggle at the absurdity of it all. Your phone’s camera captured every moment—the dramatic poses, the ridiculous banter, and Kaveh’s insistence that he was both an architect and a revolutionary philosopher in the same breath. Ratio’s narrative voice only made it all the more surreal.

“And as the great architect’s impossible balance failed,” Ratio continued, “he lost his grace and fell into the arms of a drunken fool who had, ironically, become a greater scholar in his drunken stupor than he ever was sober.” He paused and gave you a wink as if he knew exactly what you were thinking. “Should I start charging for this performance?”

“Oh, stop it, you,” Kaveh protested, his voice slurred but still full of mock indignation. “You’re just jealous because my artistic flair is more... refined than your boring lectures.”

That was it. You burst out laughing, clutching your phone in one hand as you tried to contain yourself. The two men had completely abandoned any sense of dignity, and you were witnessing a side of them you’d never expected—Kaveh, who prided himself on being a refined, somewhat dramatic figure, and Ratio, usually so stoic and controlled, both completely unhinged in a drunken stupor.

You stopped recording for a moment, both of them still lost in their own silly world.

“You both are ridiculous,” you teased, still chuckling. “I can’t believe I’m seeing this side of you.”

Kaveh shot you a grin, his earlier dignity long gone. “Oh, you better believe it. You’ve unlocked the true genius of Kaveh and Ratio!”

“Geniuses,” Ratio echoed with a wry smile, his head still spinning slightly from the wine. “I have never met two people more qualified to—”

“—make fools of ourselves?” Kaveh interrupted, finishing Ratio’s sentence with a dramatic flair.

“Exactly!” Ratio said, as if this was the revelation of the century. He staggered slightly and straightened himself up, clearly attempting to reclaim some of his usual poise. “You have to admit, we are rather amusing when not bound by the chains of intellectual superiority.”

You couldn’t hold back your laughter. You pointed your phone back at them, capturing the absurdity of the moment. “This is gold. I’m going to make sure everyone hears about ‘Drunken Genius Kaveh’ and ‘Scholar Ratio’ forever.”

At that, Kaveh made a playful, exaggerated bow from the floor. “As long as I’m remembered for my art, I have no complaints!”

Ratio, still swaying slightly, joined in, offering an over-the-top, formal bow that had you in stitches. “Indeed. May our genius be immortalized, even if it’s through the lens of... let’s say, questionable decisions.”

You laughed again, feeling a warmth in your chest at the sight of these two intellectuals, usually so serious, embracing the chaos of the moment. It was clear that beneath all the genius and the hard exterior, they had their own quirks, their own human sides—unfiltered, unrefined, and entirely lovable.

Before you could stop yourself, you playfully raised your phone and said, “So, are we getting this on record? Or should I keep the next few minutes a secret?”

“Oh, no,” Kaveh interjected, suddenly sitting up, “absolutely not. This is an exclusive performance!”

Ratio smirked. “Right. And we’re expecting royalties for that footage.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “We’ll see about that.”

[mariasont]

Strictly Medical Reasons - S.R

it started as concern. a few check-ins, a handful of visits, just to make sure you were healing. but somewhere along the way, the line between duty and something deeper blurred, and spencer wasn't sure he wanted to redraw it.

pairings: spencer reid x reader warnings: gn!reader, flirting, mention of some undescribed rescue (imagining it wasn't too much trauma because there is too much flirting going on lol), reader has stitches, pre-relationship pining, definitely blurring some unhealthy attachments, mild codependency?, injury/wound care, but this is all fluffity fluff wc: 1.9k request: here

It was supposed to be procedural.

Another life salvaged, another story neatly archived. He had done this before, so many times, in so many places, that the specifics bled together, watercolors smudged by the passage of time. Their faces softened into abstraction, names reduced to reference, tucked away for when necessity dictated. That was the nature of it, the job. He helps, he leaves. They move on, and so does he.

Except this time, he hadn’t.

It didn’t hit him in the moment. Not when the case wrapped up, not when he boarded the jet, not even when he returned to his apartment. It wasn’t until much later — until he was supposed to be focused on a book he had read three times before, until he was staring blankly at his own notes without processing a single word — that he realized he hadn’t moved on. 

He could still remember the exact shade of your shirt, the way the material had wrinkled when you crossed your arms, the way you had cracked a joke, not forced, not out of shock, but because humor was your instinct, the same way facts were his.

The logical part of him knew this was excessive. Maybe even bordering on inappropriate. Checking in once? Reasonable. Twice? Understandable. But five times? Six? He wasn’t even sure anymore. Somewhere between the habitual morning texts and the I was just in the area visits that were only technically lies, he had lost count.

Somewhere along the way, it had stopped being just about your well-being and started becoming something else entirely, something he didn’t want to analyze too closely. Because even if he did, the compulsion remained the same, his fingers hovering over his phone, rereading messages for subtext that probably wasn’t there, scanning your voice for micro-inflections, subtle hesitations, anything.

It was crazy. For someone who spent his life dissecting human behavior down to its most fundamental parts, Spencer found himself struggling with the most basic equation of all: what was it about you that had rewired every rational impulse he had?

“Dr. Reid?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think I can take these stitches out myself?”

Spencer’s response time dragged as he attempted to process whether or not you were joking. There was no sound reason for you to even consider that,removing sutures too early could lead to dehiscence, increased risk of infection, and possible hypertrophic scarring. He ran through a dozen potential responses, none of which adequately conveyed the "are you out of your mind" sentiment currently flooding his system.

“What?”

“My stitches. They itch like crazy,” you complain. There’s a rustling sound, a shuffle of movement, then a sharp inhale, like you’ve pressed too hard. He stiffens. “I know they said to wait, but it’s been — what? A week? That’s long enough, right?”

Spencer pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, it’s not long enough. And unless you’ve recently acquired a medical degree I don’t know about, you should absolutely not remove them yourself.”

A small, defeated sigh. He didn’t have to be there to know what you were doing, absently picking the edges of the injury, mind already debating whether to listen to him or your own impatience. He knew exactly how your brain worked. Possibly too well. 

“Okay, okay, doctor.” Your voice now had a teasing lilt, dissolving his irritation like sugar in tea. “I’ll keep them in. For now.”

He should have told you to go to urgent care. It was exactly the kind of advice he would give to anyone else. He even opened his mouth to say it.

But urgent care meant you’d be sitting in a cold, sterile room, and Spencer already had all the proof he needed that you did not handle pain well, so he could only imagine the absolute scene you would cause the second the doctor so much as touched you.

You had made it through an entire armed standoff without a scratch. You had been fine. Perfectly fine. And then, the second you were safe, you tripped over your own feet on the gravel, went down hard, and immediately announced, “I think I’m dying.”

(You weren’t. It was a two-stitch injury. He knew that. You knew that. But that hadn’t stopped you from squeezing his arm like you were bracing for war.)

So yeah, he wasn’t about to subject an innocent nurse to that level of unnecessary suffering.

“...I can come by and take a look.”

He hadn’t told anyone he was leaving and hadn’t bothered with excuses of half-hearted justifications. You had agreed without hesitation, voice light, pleased, and before he could even process what that meant, what it meant that you wanted him there, the call had ended and his coat was already on, his body moving as if his mind had no say in the matter at all.

Which was how he ended up here.

At your door, eyes drawn, as always, to the welcome mat. Stay Awhile. Too sentimental. A little too on-the-nose. The kind of thing he would generally dismiss with a passing thought, another surface-level attempt at warmth, mass-produced and impersonal. Except lately, it was starting to feel like a directive. 

Before he even knocked, the door swung open. He froze, fingers still half-curled into a fist, blinking as if he had somehow miscalculated the timing of reality itself.

“Hi.” You stepped back without hesitation, the invitation clear.  “Come in.”

Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, thrown by the fluidity of it all.

“Sorry, it’s kind of a mess,” you added, pushing the door behind him. “I had to work online today, and, uh, turns out, when you don’t have to leave the house, basic organization becomes more of a suggestion than a rule.”

His eyes skimmed the room, cataloging the so-called mess. A blanket, half-draped over the couch, slumped like a figure in mid-collapse. The pillows sat uneven, as if they had been rearranged in restless indecision. A coffee mug, streaked with the last remnants of caffeine, stood beside an open laptop. A pair of socks had been cast aside in the corner.

Mess, you had called it. He fought the urge to tell you that, statistically, people who lived in slightly cluttered spaces tended to be more creative. Somehow, he figured you already knew that.

His gaze tracked downward, instinct eclipsing intention.

The stitches were still in place, neatly spaced, and there were no signs of infection. So far, so good. But the skin surrounding them was angry, irritation blooming in uneven splotches where your fingers had worried the flesh.

“You’ve been scratching them.”

Your eyes flickered toward your arm, then back at him, guilt tucked behind a small, lopsided smile. “Not badly.”

Spencer sighed as he set his bag down with a thump. “Sit on the counter.”

“What?”

“The lighting’s better,” he muttered, already making his way toward the kitchen. “And I’d rather not crouch on your floor to assess how much damage you’ve done.”

You hopped up without argument, legs swinging as you grinned at him. “Do I get a lollipop after this check-up?”

Spencer stepped between your legs, hands settling lightly on your knee for balance. He hadn’t really thought this through, how close he’d have to be, how your leg would brush his hip, how he would be able to smell faint traces of your shampoo. 

He exhaled a dry laugh. “I don’t know. Do you think you deserve a reward for actively making my life harder?”

“Sounds like a you problem, Dr. Reid. If you weren’t so obsessed with checking up on me, you wouldn’t even know I was doing anything questionable.”

Spencer sighed, tugging on his gloves, the latex snapping against his wrist like punctuation.

“You make an excellent point.” He pulled out the disinfectant next, carefully flipping the cap open. “An annoying one, but an excellent point nonetheless.”

Because if he didn’t check up on you, he wouldn’t even know about the irritated stitches. He also wouldn’t know that you never make it through a full cup of coffee before it gets cold, or that you always read the last page of a book first, just in case, or that you leave the bathroom light on when you get up in the middle of the night because you hate walking through the dark.

He wouldn’t know you, not in all these strange, fascinating, tangled ways. And for some reason, that thought startled him more than it should.

When you started, Spencer barely had the cotton pad against your skin, “So I was reading this article about how — ow!” You flinched, shooting him a glare. “That stings!”

Spencer pressed his lips together, barely suppressing a laugh. “I did bring a numbing agent, but I figured you’d want to tough it out. For, you know, bragging rights.”

You huffed, lips turning into a tiny, reluctant pout. “Yeah, okay, I’m fine.”

Spencer’s grip on the cotton pad faltered just slightly before he recovered. He shouldn’t find that cute. He shouldn’t. But he absolutely did.

He continued cleaning, carefully blotting at the wound. Another wince. Another barely-contained reaction.

“Tell me about the article.”

“So, I read this study about how humans actually need physical touch to regulate their nervous systems.”

Spencer hummed in acknowledgement. “I’ve read about that. Social bonding releases oxytocin.”

“Right!” you winced, inhaling sharply through your teeth before continuing. “And it’s not just romantic, like, even casual touch can lower stress levels. They did a study with people holding hands and — ow — measuring their cortisol levels. Turns out, human contact makes everything more tolerable.”

Spencer’s brain decided right then to process every point of contact between you. 

Statistically, you weren’t wrong. Scientifically, it was a well-documented phenomenon.

“Interesting,” he said, clearing his throat. “Sounds useful.”

He could cite three separate studies off the top of his head, break down the neurochemical pathways, and explain in excruciating detail why humans physically needed each other. But he liked the way you described it better.

“You saying you wanna hold my hand, Spencer?”

The antiseptic pad definitely didn’t need as much pressure as he just applied. “You’re very chatty for someone in pain.”

“You act all put out, but you keep showing up. What does that say, Dr. Reid?”

“That I’m too intelligent to believe in lost causes, but not intelligent enough to avoid them” Spencer rolled his eyes as he pulled off his glove. He patted your thigh lightly before stepping back. “Alright, all done. Try to behave so I don’t have to do this again.”

You clutched your chest theatrically. “Are you saying you don’t enjoy our little quality time sessions? That hurts, Spencer.”

He busied himself with picking up his bag. “I’m not dignifying that with a response.”

You hopped down from the counter, and Spencer instinctively reached out, like he thought you might be unsteady, like it was his job to ensure you didn't wobble. His hand brushed your arm for a half a second before he caught himself and pulled away.

“Text me if anything looks worse.”

“What, so you can rush over again?”

His ears tinged slightly pink. “Just… let me know if you need anything.

You softened, nodding. “I will.”

As he stepped outside, Spencer pulled his phone from his pocket, half-expecting, half hoping, to see a message from you before he even made it to his car. He shook his head at the thought, at himself. This was becoming a problem. A habit. An inevitability.

And despite knowing this, here he was, already running through excuses in his head for why it would be perfectly reasonable to check in again tomorrow. Strictly for medical reasons, of course.

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