#somehow it all comes back to math

[mediamime]

Supernatural and the Concept of Grace

Hi! It's your friendly neighborhood Media Mime and I'm here with a wall of text about my insane thoughts on how Angels work.

From the TV show Supernatural.

I don't know what I'm doing with my life.

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These are headcanons, mind you, so they aren’t supported by the show. I just think way too much about stuff like this.

This all stems from how beings from a different plane of existence would be borderline incomprehensible to humans. The whole, true form and voice not being viewable/hearable led to me thinking about them in more abstract forms.

I’m going to give you some weird background stuff below, but feel free to skip to the end if you’re just here for the Grace mechanics and things.

*Edit: Making the lil click more bar because I realized I never did this and the Post Is Too Long.

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My day job is as a Math Adjunct, so you can imagine I have a bit of a fixation on recurring principles, formulas, geometry, and so on.

It’s my jam. 

Specifically, I have a focus on Mathematics in Nature. It's fascinating to me that we see the same shapes and patterns recurring over and over again in all natural formations.

I want to stress that to get into this kind of thing, you don’t actually need a background in Math. There are several resources online that provide examples and visual guides to this field of study. I’ve provided a visual guide below of some of my favorite phenomena as well as a basic (very basic) explanation of the principle. 

I ain’t getting paid for this right now, so you get what you get!

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Now is also a time to mention that I took some psychedelics in my 20s that made me See Some Shit. This is not meant to be inspirational. I just think I should mention it because you see a lot of Stuff on them, not always Stuff you want to see. You can look up information about psychedelic geometry and skip the hassle of ingesting things you probably shouldn’t.

Don’t do drugs kids, or whatever.

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The Fibonacci Sequence is where numbers ascend by adding the two previous numbers to itself. This plays a key role in something known as the Golden Spiral. For a very basic explanation, you take a square and draw an arc from one corner to the next and repeat with bigger and bigger squares.

1,

1 + 1 = 2,

1 + 2 = 3,

2 + 3 = 5,

3 + 5 = 8,

5 + 8 = 13,

and so on.

The curve itself is seen in the way plants grow, shells form, and weather formations to name a few. 

(The following are not my images, but they are readily available online. )

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Tessellations are repetitive polygons (shapes with 3 or more connecting lines, think triangles, squares, hexagons) that form together, without gaps.

In nature, the real world, there are examples of malformations, but Math is an explanation of the ideal principle.

We can see these structures in scales, honeycombs, and so on.

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Fractals are where we see the same pattern repeat at smaller and smaller forms of itself.

There is a lot of overlap of this with the Fibonacci Sequence (these patterns often appear INSIDE of the spiral), but it is its own concept.

Fun fact, fractals play a significant role in Chaos Theory, which I will not get into here because we would be here all day.

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Anyway!

Sorry!

Carried away there.

Back to Supernatural (what an insane transition) and how this wraps into my concept of Grace.

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Angels are filled with this kind of naturally occurring phenomena, a sort of endless collection of patterns. They are essentially manifestations of this idea or at least they process the physical world in this way.

Castiel mentioned eating molecules ONE TIME and well, I ran with it.

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A couple of examples I feel strongly about, using Castiel as an easier point of entry than say, Lucifer or Gabriel:

Angels think in a series of sensations, like a form of Synesthesia.  Synesthesia is a concept explored in both psychology and cognitive neuroscience where people express the feeling of multiple senses activating at once. So for instance, the words might leave you with an impression of color or sounds may give you a physical sensation. I think Angels can, and do, adopt a more human perspective the longer they interact in the physical world. This is especially relevant during the time they are essentially made human, but I think the way they interpret information remains abstract. Just a fun fact, if you have Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response (which is usually shortened to ASMR), you have a higher chance, according to some studies, of having a form of Synesthesia. 

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Angels also think in patterns. For Castiel, in the beginning: His thoughts are very vibrant. Primary colors denote curiosity. The structure of those thoughts are very rigid. He thinks more in straight lines rather than curves. The movement of the thoughts is calculated and repetitive. Learning something for the first time is difficult, so splitting it into individual pieces is easier to comprehend. This is where we get The Face from, you know the one. He perceives things in his own way which makes him socially awkward in human form. As he gets more familiar with the physical world, and the boys in general, his perspective shifts. He has more robust colors dedicated to the people or objects he interacts with and they shift around easier. His thoughts are less linear and more curved and organic. He has less set structure because he isn’t learning as much anymore, he has an understanding he can build off of and make more defined to himself.  Learning to love humanity requires flexibility that doesn’t come naturally to Angels, so he actively works at it.

Seeing souls is easier than interpreting the actual look of people. This is a doozy, but we will take Dean as an example because I’m Destiel/Deancas pilled. To Castiel, Dean looks the way he looks, smells the way he smells, sounds the way he sounds, and so on in physical form. Castiel learns to interpret him in that way as the series goes on, but his soul, the essence of him, has its own set of sensations. The following are not literal, although I’m sure some would translate that way. He sounds like a crackle of fire and a low drum. His colors are darker oranges and blues and greens. He feels like a soft rain and sun on a warm day. He tastes of barrel aged liquor and smoke. He smells like a hearth and earth after it rains. He feels like every aspect of the impala, from the cold metal to the supple warm leather.  Obviously some of these senses shift and change from time to time, but that forms the basis of what Castiel recognizes as Dean.

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Grace is at least partially visible to other angels and partially felt by humans. Other angels can see each other in their vessels. So they have a concept of what they look like in their true forms, despite being hidden inside of something.  This implies they can experience similar sensations as the other angels they look at, although I don’t like the idea that they can see their “thoughts” necessarily. I would imagine they can “feel” a sudden intense set of emotions/sensations from another angel however, in the way that humans can tell someone’s emotions through facial expression or tone of voice.

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Humans can learn to experience angels, albeit in a form that is easier for them to comprehend.  Dean doesn’t experience anything special about Castiel when they first meet, outside of the generic information we get about Angels and the obvious senses he can use: seeing, hearing, smelling, (gods I wish tasting was on this list but! Alas!) As Dean gets closer with him, he can start to “hear” him. I like to think he sounds like a pleasant hum or a slight ringing, similar to a wind chime, depending on his mood. Dean, specifically, makes him hum lower than usual. If he were to hum out-loud, it would harmonize with the way his grace sounds. It takes longer to perceive colors, but I think Dean would see the little flashes of blue, similar to the way Castiel’s eyes get when he’s using his powers. This is why I typically put a little blue squiggle between them when I draw them together. Plus other senses, sorry but this is long enough as it is. You likely get the point by now!

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Anyway, I’m very happy that literally anyone has even a passing interest in my interpretation of these things.

Formatting this was a nightmare and I feel particularly insane today.

[snixx]

forced myself to wake up and leave my warm cozy blanky at 3:30 am in the winter to speedrun my syllabus because they gave us 12 hours to prep for our endsem are yall proud of me

[skrunksthatwunk]

household enemy to the yyh watchthrough number one is the olympics. it's taken us a week to get two episodes into the gamemaster fight

[helianskies]

ugly maths.

i hate maths, right. i don't usually like numbers, and if i do like numbers it's gotta be an 8 or a 48 and nothing else.

thing is, i've recently caught myself doing maths again. ugly maths. the kind of maths that, really, i've been trying to avoid as much as possible because, well, it's ugly!

you... wanna see?

okay, fine... but don't say i didn't warn you!

ugly, see? look at all those numbers! not a 48 in sight!

huh? what's that? you don't see what i'm on about? oh... oh! hang on, lemme just—

better? yes? no? no? okay, what if i—

mmh, yes. ugly numbers. see it now? can you see why they're ugly?

here, i can make it worse.

these numbers are ugly. the maths they make me do is ugly.

now i'll level with you: the worst ones by far are the yellow numbers. the maths they make me do it the ugliest.

why ugly?

because it makes me ugly.

those numbers turn me into not only a suddenly number-obsessed fool, but a fool who also cannot understand these numbers and what they mean and why i feel like they reflect on me and my ability.

87, 75.

the thoughts are as follows:

• the orange numbers are big, so why are you being ugly about the yellow ones? you should be happy with what you have. so many nice big numbers! not everyone receives that.

• is it that there are two different audiences for these two different fics? perhaps. they are quite different works, with different appeals, and different themes. maybe you are reading too much into it.

• why are you obsessing over numbers anyway? you don't like maths! you left maths behind when you were 16, put it down!

okay, okay, fine! i'll put the maths down. right here, in fact!:

that 87 was an 83 at the start of the year. the 6161 it is attached to was a 5453.

4, 708.

ugly maths.

the 75 is a nice number. in fact, compared to 87, it is beautiful, radiant, enchanting. at the start of the year, 75 was 48. wow. now that is one sexy number!

27.

mmmm.

6161, 1061.

5100.

87, 75.

12.

mmmm.

you know, my most favourite comment left recently on a fic of mine was 2 characters long: :(

it made me :)

well, actually, it made me >:) because it was left in response, presumably, to one of the key scenes in a new chapter which left the exact impression on someone that i hoped it would.

they must be the only one who reacted like that, though.

1.

have i mentioned that that 87 and 75 include author responses?

i won't try to do more maths, there. it might not end well for me. the maths is making me tired enough as it is, and i have an early start tomorrow.

oh! but, that being said, i have another set of ugly numbers to show you, so keep 87 and 75 in mind.

ready?

838, 245.

(want a hint? the green numbers!)

838, 87. 245, 75.

9.6, 3.3.

ugly maths. it's ugly again, see? i don't like it. i'm seeing numbers within numbers within numbers, and i can't seem to stop!

the numbers make me ask new questions:

• why is it not good enough?

• people seem to engage more with one fic over the other, so shouldn't you prioritise?

• is all this maths this really good for you?

no, it isn't.

i want to avoid ugly maths. ugly maths makes me want to tear my hair out. it makes me want to start from scratch. it makes me want to grab someone and scream. it makes me want to cry and press a button that has tempted me many times before when the numbers become too ugly to bear.

ugly maths turn me into an ugly person.

ugly maths make me obsessive, paranoid, anxious, regretful, vindictive, spiteful, alone.

i hate maths. i hate numbers, just like, it feels, the numbers hate me.

[winterwriterstudios]

Lol. My Tags are basically a rant

*you can change the desicions you make, gowever you do not retain the knowledge of it that you have

reblog for larger sample size!!

[flux1563]

Seeking attention ft karina

Words :7k

Tags : squirt, titfuck, creampie

"You're not listening to me, Karina," groaned her friend Winter, her voice cutting through the buzz of the crowded cafeteria.

Karina's eyes snapped back to Winter, a hint of annoyance flashing across her face before she plastered on a smile. "Sorry, what'd you say?"

"I said, you're not listening again," Winter repeated with a knowing look. "You've had your eyes on him all week."

"Him?" Karina played coy, but her cheeks betrayed a soft blush as they turned towards the figure Winter indicated—Y/N, the enigmatic scholar who sat at the corner of the room, nose buried in a book. His tall frame and chiseled features made him the center of attention without even trying, yet he remained oblivious to the whispers that followed him. "What about him?"

Winter rolled her eyes. "Come on, Karina. You can't ignore the fact that every guy in class wants a piece of you, but you're pining over the one who barely notices anyone exists outside of his textbooks."

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch and the start of another dreaded afternoon class. Karina's heart skipped a beat as she gathered her books, her thoughts racing. Winter's words echoed in her mind—everyone else saw her as the object of desire, but she only had eyes for the unattainable. The one who didn't seem to care about her curves or her smile. The one who was perfect for her, yet so out of reach.

As the students shuffled out, Karina took a deep breath, steeling herself for the challenge she was about to undertake. She had to get Y/N's attention somehow. She had to make him see her beyond her body. An idea began to form in her mind—she would ask him for help with her homework. It was a simple plan, but it was a start.

That evening, Karina found herself standing nervously outside Y/N's apartment, her heart pounding in her chest. She had sent him her address earlier in the day, hoping he wouldn't think it strange. The door creaked open, and there he was—his piercing gaze meeting hers, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

"Hi," she managed to squeak out, her voice betraying her nerves. "I, uh, I need help with my homework."

Y/N looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a curt nod, he stepped aside to let her in. "Follow me," he said, his voice low and even.

The apartment was small but meticulously organized. Textbooks and notepads lined the shelves, and a faint scent of coffee lingered in the air—a stark contrast to the chaos that was Karina's own living space. She followed him to a clutter-free desk, her eyes scanning the room for any personal touches that might give her a glimpse into his soul. But there were none, just the cold embrace of academia.

He sat down and gestured for her to take the chair opposite. "What do you need help with?"

Karina's mind went blank. The words she had rehearsed on the way over escaped her. "Everything," she blurted out, feeling like a fool.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing at the corner of his lips. "Everything is a broad subject. Be specific."

Her cheeks burned as she opened her book to a random page, her thoughts racing. This wasn't going how she had planned. "Just...just math," she stuttered. "I'm really bad at math."

For a brief second, she thought she saw a flicker of something warm in his gaze before it was gone, replaced by the cold detachment she had come to expect from him. "Alright," he said, pulling out a notepad and pen. "Where shall we begin?"

And so, the night of tutoring began—a dance of numbers and formulas that Karina stumbled through, eager to impress him with her ability to learn. Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more she needed to do to capture his heart. Little did she know, the real lesson of the evening was just about to start.

Y/N's patience was unyielding, breaking down complex problems into bite-sized pieces that she could digest. His eyes never left her face, watching as she struggled, nodded, and finally, clicked with the material. It was as if he could see into her mind, understanding her thought process and gently guiding her to the right answers. The way he spoke—so calm, so certain—was like a balm to her frazzled nerves.

As the hours ticked by, Karina's mind began to wander. The way Y/N's fingers moved with precision across the page, the way his tongue darted out to moisten his lips as he concentrated, the way the light hit his sharp jawline—it all painted a picture of a man who was more than just intellect. He was a masterpiece of focus and discipline, and she found herself drawn to him in ways she hadn't anticipated. Her thoughts grew hazier, and the room felt hotter, her heart racing as she stole glances at his strong arms.

The math grew simpler, but the air grew thicker with tension. Each time their eyes met, there was a spark—quick and fleeting, but it was there. Karina's cheeks flushed, and she swallowed hard, her pulse quickening as she wondered if he felt the same. She tried to shake off the thoughts, telling herself to focus on the task at hand, but it was no use. The more he taught her, the more she found herself adoring him—not just for his brains, but for the way he made her feel seen.

Her bladder finally decided it had had enough of the emotional rollercoaster and interrupted her thoughts. "I need to go to the bathroom," she said, a bit too loudly, her face flushing deeper.

Y/N looked up from the book, his eyes briefly meeting hers before he nodded towards a hallway. "First door on the left," he said, his voice a bit gruffer than usual.

In the bathroom, Karina took a deep breath and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The idea that had popped into her head in the cafeteria now seemed silly and desperate, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she needed to do something drastic. With a shaky hand, she turned the faucet the wrong way, watching as the water spurted out and drenched her shirt. Her heart raced as she called out, trying to sound more panicked than she felt. "Y/N! Help, the sink's broken!"

The footsteps grew closer, and the door swung open. Y/N's eyes widened at the sight of her, his expression a mix of concern and confusion. "What happened?"

"I...I don't know," she lied, trying to look as flustered as possible. "It just sprayed everywhere." Water droplets clung to her lashes and trickled down her neck, her shirt clinging to her skin.

Without a word, he stepped in, his movements efficient as he turned off the faucet and began to mop up the mess. The tension in the room was palpable, and Karina felt her breath hitch as his arm brushed against hers. This was it—her chance to get closer, to show him she wasn't just a pretty face.

He handed her a towel, and she took it, her eyes never leaving his. The fabric of her shirt had grown translucent in the dampness, the lacy outline of her black bra visible beneath it. She knew he could see it, could see the curve of her breasts and the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

Summoning all her courage, Karina took a step closer, her hand shaking slightly as she reached out to him. Before she could second-guess herself, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was tentative at first, a soft brush of skin on skin, but as he didn't pull away, she grew bolder. She felt the towel drop from her hand as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

Y/N's body stiffened for a moment, but then, to her surprise, he relaxed into the embrace. His hands found their way to her waist, holding her gently as he returned the kiss with an intensity that made her knees wobble. Karina's pulse raced as she felt his warmth envelop her, his scent overpowering the lingering smell of ink and coffee in the room. It was everything she had hoped for and more.

Breaking away, she whispered, "Just touch my breast, dear." Her voice was a breathy plea, her eyes searching his for any sign of rejection. For a moment, she thought he might push her away, that she had crossed a line she shouldn't have. But instead, his eyes searched hers, as if looking for an answer she hadn't given. Then, ever so slowly, his hand moved up, his thumb brushing the fabric of her shirt before sliding beneath to graze the sensitive skin of her collarbone.

"Ahh," Karina moaned as his hand finally reached its destination, cupping her breast gently. The feeling was exquisite, and she leaned into his touch, her breath hitching. His thumb traced lazy circles around her nipple, eliciting a whimper from her lips. The warmth of his hand seeped through her damp shirt, sending shivers down her spine.

Without breaking eye contact, Y/N reached behind her and deftly unclasped her bra. It fell away, revealing her full, round breasts to the cool air. He took a step back, his eyes drinking in the sight of her exposed flesh. The look of amazement on his face was all the validation Karina needed—she was more than just a pretty face.

"You should be proud of yourself, Y/N," she murmured, her voice filled with passion. "Everyone in this university wants my body, but they can't have it because I've fallen in love with you."

Y/N's gaze remained locked on her, his expression unreadable, but his actions spoke louder than words. His other hand found its way to her other breast, kneading it gently as he bent his head to take her nipple into his mouth. The sensation was heavenly, and Karina's back arched as a soft moan escaped her. She had dreamt of this moment, of feeling his warm breath against her skin, his lips wrapped around her sensitive flesh. His tongue danced around the peak, flicking and suckling, sending bolts of pleasure straight to her core.

Encouraged by his responsiveness, Karina grew bolder. She reached for the button of his pants, her trembling hand slipping it free and pushing the fabric down just enough to reveal his thick, hard erection. She couldn't believe what she was seeing—nine inches of pure masculine beauty, the girth of it making her mouth water. "Oh, my god," she murmured, her eyes going wide.

Y/N's eyes snapped to hers, a mix of surprise and arousal. He didn't protest as she guided him to sit on the edge of the tub, his back against the wall. "What are you doing?" he breathed, but she could see the desire in his eyes.

"I never knew you had such an...impressive size," Karina said, her voice a seductive purr. She knelt before him, her eyes never leaving his as she wrapped her hand around his shaft, feeling the heat and power of him. "It's like you're holding a piece of the universe."

Y/N's cheeks colored slightly at her words, and he couldn't help the smug smile that tugged at his lips. "I've never had anyone...measure me up quite like that," he said, his voice thick with desire.

Karina's hand looked almost comical around his length, her fingers not even coming close to touching her thumb. "Look, my hand can't even wrap around it," she said, her voice filled with awe. "You're just too big."

Y/N's smile grew wider, a hint of pride in his eyes. "I've been told I'm...gifted," he said, the word rolling off his tongue with a hint of arrogance.

Karina couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing through the bathroom. "Gifted is an understatement," she said, her hand still stroking him. "But I'm going to need two hands for this."

With a sly smile, she leaned in closer, her ample breasts pressing against his thighs. "Do you like it when my boobs wrap around you?" she asked, her voice playful and full of mischief.

His eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. "I...uh...yes," he finally managed to say, his voice strained.

With a knowing smile, Karina leaned in closer, her breasts pressing against his thighs as she began to move her body up and down in a rhythmic motion, her nipples grazing his shaft with every pass. The feeling was exquisite, and she watched with rapt attention as his expression grew more intense. Her breasts moving faster and faster around his thick cock.

"Karina," he gasped, his eyes squeezed shut as she worked him with her body. "I'm gonna cum."

"Cum on my boobs," she whispered, her voice a siren's call. "I wanna feel it on me, I wanna feel you in me."

The words were barely out of her mouth when she felt him tense, his hands tightening on her shoulders as he let out a deep groan. Warm, sticky cum shot out, covering her breasts and chest in a hot, pulsing wave. She moaned in pleasure, feeling the warmth spread over her sensitive skin. It was a sensation she had never experienced before, and she reveled in the power she had over him in that moment.

Panting, Y/N opened his eyes, looking down at her. His gaze was a mix of shock and lust as he took in the sight of her cum-covered breasts. "I've never..." he trailed off, unable to find the words to express his thoughts.

"It's okay," she murmured, standing up and reaching for him. "We're just getting started."

Their clothes discarded in a pile on the floor, Karina led Y/N to the bedroom, her eyes never leaving his. The air was charged with desire as they tumbled onto the bed, their bodies entwined in a passionate embrace. His hands roamed her body, exploring every curve and valley, worshipping her in a way she had never felt before.

He kissed her again, his tongue delving into her mouth as she straddled him, her wetness coating his stomach. His cock was still semi-hard, and she felt it nudge against her inner thigh, sending a thrill through her. She wanted more—needed more.

With a seductive smile, Karina slid off him and lay down on the bed, her legs spread wide. "Keep playing with me," she murmured, her voice a sultry whisper.

Y/N's eyes darkened as he complied, his fingers moving back to her swollen clit. He teased it mercilessly, circling and flicking, watching as she writhed and moaned beneath him. Her hips rose and fell, seeking the friction she craved, and he took the opportunity to glide his fingers down her body, tracing the path of her curves before returning to her core.

Her breath hitched as he pushed a finger inside her, feeling the warm, wet embrace of her pussy. It was tight and slick, and he could feel her muscles contract around him as he began to move in a slow, deliberate rhythm. He watched her face, memorizing every expression that played across her features—the way her eyes fluttered shut, the soft moans that escaped her lips, the way her cheeks flushed a deep pink.

He added another finger, curling them inside her as he continued to rub her clit with his thumb. Karina's moans grew louder, her body trembling with the effort of holding back. "I'm close," she panted, her eyes squeezed shut. "So close."

"Cum for me, Karina," he urged, his voice thick with need. "Let go."

And with that, she did. Her body arched off the bed, a high-pitched scream tearing from her throat as she came, her pussy clamping down on his fingers. The sensation was unlike anything she had ever felt before—intense and overwhelming. It was as if every nerve ending in her body was on fire, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her.

As her orgasm subsided, Y/N didn't give her a moment to catch her breath. He kissed his way down her body, his mouth finding her sensitive clit once more. He began to suck and lick with renewed vigor, his tongue swirling around the swollen nub in a way that made her hips buck against his face.

"Oh, fuck," she gasped, her eyes flying open. "Oh, oh, oh!"

Y/N felt the warmth of her climax flood over his face, a salty sweetness that only added to his own arousal. Karina's body convulsed above him, her legs trembling and her toes curling as she squirted like a fountain, her juices spraying across his cheeks and chin. It was a sight he had only ever seen in porn, but here it was, happening in real life. He lapped at her, eager to taste every drop, his cock pulsing with need.

Her body finally went lax, her breathing ragged and her skin glistening with sweat. Y/N sat back, wiping his face with the back of his hand, a look of wonder on his own. "I've never seen that before," he said, his voice filled with awe.

Karina giggled, a lightness to her tone that hadn't been there before. "I've never done that before," she admitted, a shy smile playing on her lips. "But with you, it just feels...right."

He leaned in, kissing her deeply, tasting her on his tongue. His hands found her hips, pulling her closer to him. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

The words sent a thrill through her, and she felt a newfound confidence bloom inside her. This wasn't just a physical attraction anymore—it was something deeper, something she hadn't even realized she craved. "Thank you," she whispered, her eyes searching his for any sign of doubt. But all she saw was desire—pure, unbridled lust that mirrored her own.

Without another word, Karina swung her leg over him, straddling his waist. His cock stood at attention, and she took it in her hand, feeling the weight of him, the heat and power of his arousal. She positioned herself over his tip, her heart racing as she lowered herself down. The first inch was tight, a slight burn that made her gasp, but she didn't stop. She wanted all of him—needed all of him.

Y/N watched with bated breath, his eyes never leaving hers as she took him in. His hands found her hips, guiding her, urging her to take more. She felt the head of his cock push against her tight entrance, and then with a sudden, desperate need, she slammed herself down onto him. The pain was there, but it was overshadowed by the pleasure—a white-hot spark that ignited within her.

"Ahh, you're so deep," Karina screamed, her voice echoing off the walls of the small room. His cock filled her completely, stretching her in a way that she had never felt before. She paused, panting, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so completely filled. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she began to rock her hips, sliding up and down his length.

Y/N's eyes rolled back in his head, his hands gripping the bed sheets tightly. "You're so tight," he groaned, his voice strained with the effort of not losing control. "So fucking tight."

Karina's nails dug into his chest as she took him deeper, her body moving in a rhythm that was both agonizing and exhilarating. Each time she slammed down onto his cock, she felt him hit a spot deep within her that no one else had ever reached. It was a feeling she had only dreamed of, a feeling that made her feel alive. "Ahh, so good," she moaned, her voice breathy and full of need.

Y/N watched her, his eyes dark with desire. He could feel her walls tightening around him, her muscles clenching as she grew closer to the edge. "Cum for me again, Karina," he ground out, his own release building.

Obeying his command, Karina raised her pace, her hips moving faster and faster as she chased the elusive orgasm. She could feel it building, the pressure growing until it was all she could focus on. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she threw her head back, her long hair cascading down her back.

Then it hit her—a wave of pleasure so intense that it stole her breath away. "Ahhhh," she screamed, her pussy spasming around Y/N's thick cock as she squirted against his belly. He watched in amazement as a gush of liquid spurted out, painting his stomach and chest with her essence. The sight was erotic, and he couldn't hold back anymore.

"Now it's my turn, Karina," Y/N growled, his eyes dark with need as he raised his hips to meet her thrusts. "Let's come together."

His words sent a jolt of excitement through her, and she eagerly leaned into his rhythm, her body moving in perfect sync with his. She could feel him swelling inside her, the heat of his climax building with every stroke. The room was a symphony of moans and skin slapping together, the sweet scent of sex hanging heavily in the air.

With a final, powerful thrust, Y/N buried himself to the hilt, and Karina felt his warmth flood her as he came with a roar "AHHHHHH". Her own orgasm crashed over her, a second wave of pleasure so intense it left her trembling. She threw her head back, her mouth open in a silent scream, as she felt herself squirt again. It was as if her body was claiming him, marking him as hers.

Collapsing onto his chest, Karina tried to catch her breath, her heart pounding like a drum in her ears. Y/N's chest heaved beneath her, his cock still hard and pulsing inside her. She felt the sticky warmth of their combined releases, the evidence of their passion smearing between them as she moved.

They lay there for what felt like an eternity, the only sounds in the room their heavy breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. The weight of his body was comforting, anchoring her to the world. The feel of his heart beating against her cheek was reassuring, a steady rhythm that matched her own racing heart.

Finally, Y/N pulled out with a groan, and Karina felt a sense of loss as his cock slipped from her. He rolled to the side, taking her with him, and they lay there, their limbs tangled together. She could feel his softening length against her thigh, the stickiness between her legs a constant reminder of what they had just shared.

The silence grew heavier, and Karina felt a twinge of nerves. What came next? Would this be a one-time thing, or had she finally broken through his icy exterior? She turned to look at him, his eyes closed, his face a picture of peace. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.

Y/N's eyes fluttered open, and he looked at her with a softness she had never seen before. "For what?" he asked, his voice low and gruff.

"For making me feel...important," she said, the words spilling from her lips before she could stop them. "For noticing me for more than just my body."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "You're more than just a pretty face, Karina," he whispered, his breath sending shivers down her spine. "Much, much more."

The words were a balm to her soul, and she nestled closer to him, her heart swelling with happiness. The night had started as a simple homework session, but it had turned into so much more—a confession of feelings she had never dared to hope would be reciprocated.

But as the reality of what had just happened sank in, Karina felt a flicker of fear. This was uncharted territory for her—she had never been with someone who valued her mind as much as her body. Would she be able to keep his interest? Would she be enough for him?

Y/N must have felt her tension, because his arms tightened around her, pulling her closer. "Don't worry," he said, his voice a gentle rumble. "I've noticed you for a long time now. And I like what I see."

The words sent a shiver of pleasure through her, and she let herself relax into his embrace. For now, she was content to lay there, basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking and the promise of what was to come.

But as the moments ticked by, Karina grew restless. She knew she couldn't just lie there forever—there was still so much to explore, so much more of him to experience. With a sultry smile, she rolled off of him, her body still sticky with their combined arousal. "Now get all on fours," Y/N said, his voice a command that sent a thrill through her.

Without a second thought, Karina did as he asked, her hands and knees sinking into the plush comforter. She felt his body shift behind her, the heat of him a stark contrast to the coolness of the room. "What kind of stamina do you have?" she asked playfully, peeking over her shoulder at him.

Y/N's eyes never left hers as he lined himself up with her wet, pink opening. "Let's find out," he replied, a smug smile playing on his lips. With one powerful thrust, he pushed into her, filling her completely. Karina gasped "ahhh", the sensation of his thick cock stretching her was almost too much to handle. It was a feeling she had never experienced before—like a mix of pleasure and pain that left her breathless.

He didn't give her any time to adjust. Instead, he began to pound into her, his hips moving with a fierce, almost brutal rhythm. His hand found her hair, and he gripped it tightly, pulling her head back as he slammed into her again and again. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure through her body, making her toes curl and her nails dig into the bed. "AHHHH!" she screamed, the sound a mix of pleasure and surprise.

Karina felt herself stretching to accommodate him, her body adjusting to the relentless onslaught of his thick cock. It was a delicious pain, a feeling she had never experienced before. Each time he hit the deepest part of her, she felt an intense pressure that bordered on unbearable—but she never wanted him to stop. "Yes," she panted, her voice barely audible. "Harder, Y/N. Just like that."

Y/N complied, his movements becoming more forceful. He could feel her body tensing, her muscles clenching around him as she grew closer to climax. He watched her in the mirror, the sight of her bouncing breasts and arched back making him even more determined to push her over the edge. "I'm gonna squirt again," she screamed, her voice echoing off the walls.

He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back as he whispered in her ear. "Do it, Karina. I want to feel you come all over my bed."

And with that, she did. Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, crashing over her body with a force that made her see stars. Her pussy spasmed around him, gripping his cock like a vice as she squirted uncontrollably. The bed beneath her grew wet, the fabric soaking up her juices as they spurted out in a torrent.

Y/N's hand didn't stop moving, his palm connecting with her ass cheek with a loud smack. She yelped, the pain mixing with pleasure, sending another bolt of sensation straight to her clit. It was a delicious cycle—each spank making her cum harder, each orgasm making her more sensitive to his touch.

"Yess..." she gasped, pushing back into him. "Spank my ass, baby."

He complied with a smack that was harder than the last, and Karina's eyes rolled back in her head, her mouth forming a perfect O of pleasure. "U like that, don't you?" he taunted, his voice a dark growl.

"Yes, I do," Karina moaned, her body begging for more. Each slap of his hand against her flesh sent a fresh wave of arousal through her, making her pussy clench around his cock.

"You're such a good girl," Y/N said, his voice thick with satisfaction as he continued to pound into her. "So responsive to pain."

The smacks grew more intense, each one sending a jolt of electricity through her body. Karina could feel the beginnings of another orgasm building, the pressure in her pussy growing tighter with every hit. "AHHHHH," she screamed, her voice raw and needy. "Y/N, I'm gonna cum again!"

He leaned down, his teeth grazing her ear. "Come for me, baby," he murmured. "Come all over my cock."

With a final, hard spank, Karina's body shattered into a million pieces, her orgasm consuming her completely. She screamed his name as she squirted once more, her pussy flooding him with her release. Y/N groaned, the feeling of her tightening around him too much to resist. He thrust into her one last time, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself deep inside her.

Their bodies went still, both of them panting and trembling with the aftershocks of their shared climax. Y/N leaned down, kissing her neck and shoulder before slowly withdrawing. Karina felt the emptiness acutely, a sudden coldness where he had been so warm and hard.

They lay there for a moment, their limbs entangled, their breaths mingling in the quiet of the room. Then, with a soft groan, Y/N rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so she was nestled against his side.

Karina lay down beside him, her heart racing. She looked up at the ceiling, trying to process what had just happened. It was more than she had ever dreamed of—more than any of the fantasies she had concocted in her loneliest moments. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "For giving me an orgasm that no one else ever has."

Y/N's eyes searched hers, his expression unreadable. "It was nothing," he said, but the tenderness in his voice belied his words. He stroked her hair, his touch gentle and soothing. "You're welcome to come over for homework help anytime."

The room was quiet, the only sounds their breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. Karina felt a warmth spread through her, a sense of belonging that was new and exhilarating. "I will," she said, her voice filled with promise. "As long as you don't mind me...distracting you like this."

A smirk played on his lips, and he leaned in to kiss her forehead. "I don't mind," he said, his voice low and intimate. "In fact, I might just enjoy it."

With that, Y/N pulled her to her feet, scooping her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing. Karina giggled, her arms wrapping around his neck as he carried her back to the bathroom. The cold tiles against her back were a stark contrast to the warmth of their bodies, and she felt a thrill of excitement at the thought of what was to come.

He set her down gently, his hands sliding down her body to grip her ass. "Bend over," he ordered, his voice firm and commanding. Karina complied eagerly, her hands braced against the cool porcelain of the sink. She felt his cock nudge against her wetness, and she pushed back, eager for more.

Y/N didn't disappoint. With one swift motion, he plunged into her from behind, his cock filling her completely. Karina gasped, her eyes squeezing shut as she felt him stretch her open. He began to move, his hips slapping against her ass as he fucked her with a ferocity that left her trembling.

Each thrust was punctuated by a smack, his hand coming down hard on her ass cheek. The sound echoed through the bathroom, mingling with her cries of pleasure. "Oh, fuck," she moaned, her body writhing beneath his touch. "You're so rough."

"You love it," he grunted, his hand coming down again, this time harder. "You love it when I spank your pretty ass."

And she did. The sting of his hand only made her more aroused, her pussy clenching around him as she pushed back to meet each of his movements. The mirror in front of her was foggy with steam, their reflection distorted but unmistakable. She watched as he claimed her, his hand rising and falling in a rhythm that matched his strokes.

Her body felt alive, each touch a spark that ignited a fire deep within her. She could feel another orgasm building, the pressure in her core growing tighter and tighter with every smack. "Yes," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Keep going."

Y/N's hand never stopped moving, his fingers finding her clit and rubbing it in time with his thrusts. Karina's legs began to shake, her body on the edge of something she hadn't felt before. It was as if every nerve ending was alight, every inch of her skin sensitive to his touch.

And then it hit her—a climax so intense it felt like a supernova. Her pussy clamped down on him, her body convulsing as she screamed his name. He didn't stop, his hand never faltering, his cock plunging into her with a relentless pace. "Cum for me," he growled, his voice a dark command that sent shivers down her spine.

And cum she did, her pussy spasming around him as she squirted once again. Y/N watched in amazement, his own release building until he couldn't hold back any longer. With a final, brutal thrust, he came deep inside her, filling her with his warmth.

They stood there, panting and shaking, for a long moment. The only sound in the room was the dull thud of their hearts and the distant rush of the shower. "You're mine," Y/N murmured, his voice a gentle rumble in her ear.

Karina leaned back into him, her body still trembling. "Yes," she whispered, the word a declaration of ownership. "I'm yours."

Their bodies were slick with sweat, their breaths mingling as they held each other close. The world outside didn't matter anymore—all that existed was the two of them in that small, steamy room.

But eventually, the moment passed, and reality began to creep back in. "We should clean up," Karina murmured, her voice still shaky with the aftermath of pleasure.

Y/N nodded, his arms sliding from around her waist. He stepped back, giving her the space to stand up straight. "Let's get you cleaned up," he said, his voice a mix of satisfaction and concern.

Karina felt a blush creep up her neck as she turned to face him. She had never been so exposed to anyone before, not even herself in the mirror. But with Y/N, she felt a strange sense of vulnerability that was thrilling rather than terrifying. She watched as he grabbed a towel, his own body still flushed with arousal.

He wrapped the towel around her waist, tucking it in gently. "Come on," he said, taking her hand and leading her to the bathroom. The cold tile felt good against her hot skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the room they had just left.

Y/N turned on the shower, the water spraying hot and steamy. He stepped in, pulling her in after him. The water cascaded down their bodies, washing away the sweat and cum that had painted them both. He took a washcloth, his movements deliberate and tender as he began to clean her. The sensation of the cloth moving over her skin, combined with the warm water, was almost too much for her to handle. "You're so gentle," she murmured, her eyes drifting shut.

He didn't respond, his focus solely on her. He washed her thoroughly, taking his time to pay special attention to her breasts and pussy. His touch was soft but firm, as if he was afraid to break her. Karina felt her body responding to him again, her arousal building once more.

But she knew they couldn't go on like this forever. "We should get out," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "We're going to turn into prunes."

He chuckled, his eyes meeting hers. "You're right," he said, turning off the water. He stepped out first, grabbing two towels from the rack and handing one to her. They dried each other off, the silence between them a comfortable one.

Once they were both dressed again, Y/N turned to her, his expression serious. "I need to tell you something," he said, his voice low.

Karina felt a sudden knot in her stomach. What was it? Had she done something wrong? "What is it?" she asked, her voice small.

He took a deep breath, his eyes searching hers. "I didn't just do this because you're...beautiful," he began, his words tentative. "I did it because I care about you, Karina."

The confession was like a weight lifted from her shoulders. "I know," she said, her voice firm. "And I care about you, too."

He leaned in, his hand cupping her cheek. "I want us to be more than just...this," he whispered, his thumb brushing against her bottom lip. "I want to get to know you—all of you."

Karina felt a warmth spread through her chest. "I'd like that," she murmured, standing on her tiptoes to press her lips to his.

The kiss was sweet, filled with all the unspoken promises of a future together. When they pulled away, she knew that this was just the beginning. "Let's go back to the living room," she suggested, taking his hand. "We have the whole night ahead of us."

Y/N nodded, a smile playing on his lips. "I've got an idea," he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "How about we start with a movie?"

They settled onto the couch, their bodies still humming with the aftermath of their passionate encounters. Karina curled up against him, feeling more content than she had in a long time. The TV flickered to life, but neither of them really watched it. Instead, they talked—about their hopes, their fears, their deepest secrets.

And as the night grew darker outside, their bond grew stronger, weaving a web of trust and desire that neither of them wanted to break. For the first time in a long time, Karina felt truly seen—not just for her body, but for the person she was inside.

Y/N pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her in a fierce embrace as they lay down on the bed, their limbs intertwined. The scent of their lovemaking still lingered in the air, a potent reminder of the passion that had just transpired between them. Karina's heart fluttered in her chest, the feeling of his naked skin against hers both familiar and new.

The sun had just begun to peek through the blinds, casting a soft glow across their entwined bodies. The light danced across Y/N's features, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the softness in his eyes. He leaned down to kiss her, a gentle pressure that spoke of affection rather than lust. Karina felt her heart melt a little more with each brush of his lips.

"We should get ready," Y/N murmured, reluctantly breaking the kiss. "We don't want to be late for class."

Karina groaned, burying her face in his chest. "Just five more minutes," she begged, her voice muffled. But she knew he was right—they had to face the world outside of this cocoon of intimacy.

With a sigh, they both sat up, the cold air of the room hitting them like a slap in the face. Karina watched as Y/N stood, his cock still semi-hard and glistening with their combined juices. The sight made her stomach flutter, and she couldn't help but admire the way his muscles rippled as he reached for his boxers.

They dressed quickly, the act of putting on their clothes almost mundane in comparison to the intensity of the night before. But even as they stepped into the crisp morning air, Karina felt a newfound lightness in her step.

They walked together to the university, her hand in his, their bodies close enough to feel the heat of each other. As they passed other students, she noticed the glances thrown their way—a mix of surprise and envy. Y/N had always been the quiet, brooding genius, and she had always been the flirty, popular one. But now, they were something more—something she hadn't even known she wanted.

Men's eyes followed them, lingering on Karina's curves and the way she leaned into Y/N. They whispered among themselves, their voices filled with disbelief. "How did he get her?" she heard one of them murmur, the words sending a thrill through her.

Y/N seemed oblivious to the attention, his focus solely on her. He held the door open as they entered the lecture hall, his grip on her hand tightening slightly. Karina couldn't help but feel a sense of pride, a swell of happiness that he was hers—at least for now.

As they took their seats, she couldn't stop herself from laying her head on his shoulder, her hand wrapping around his arm. He tensed for a moment, then relaxed, his hand coming up to squeeze hers. It was a silent declaration, a promise that no matter what the day brought, they had each other.

The professor droned on about calculus, but Karina's mind was elsewhere. She was lost in the sensation of Y/N's warmth beside her, the feel of his muscles shifting as he took notes, the way his eyes would occasionally flicker over to hers. It was as if their night of passion had forged an unbreakable bond between them, a connection that went beyond the physical.

But she knew it wasn't all rainbows and butterflies. They had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed, and she couldn't help but wonder how it would affect their dynamic outside of his apartment. Would he still be cold and aloof in class, or would he treat her differently? And what about the other students—would they whisper and gossip?

Karina pushed the thoughts aside, focusing instead on the steady beat of Y/N's heart beneath her ear. For now, she was content to bask in the warmth of his presence, to revel in the knowledge that she had managed to crack open the shell of the enigmatic student she had been pining for so long.

The rest of the world could wait—for now, all that mattered was the here and now, and the promise of what was to come.

---

Winter's words played on a loop in Karina's mind as she sat in class, unable to focus on the lecture. "I think you got what you wanted, Karina," Winter had said, her voice filled with a knowing smile. "Tell me your stories." Winter's curiosity was palpable, and Karina felt a blush creeping up her neck as she thought of the tales she could now share.

Her thoughts drifted back to the night before, the way Y/N had looked at her with such intensity, his eyes dark with passion. It had been more than just a physical connection—it had been a meeting of minds, a melding of souls that had left her feeling both exhausted and invincible.

Karina leaned back in her chair, her eyes glazing over as she remembered the feel of Y/N's cock sliding into her, the way he had filled her so completely. It had been more than just sex—it had been a declaration of intent, a claiming that she had never experienced before.

But Winter was waiting, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Karina knew she had to tread carefully, to choose her words wisely. After all, this was new territory for her—how did you explain to your best friend that you had not only slept with the guy you've been crushing on for months but had also managed to break through his stoic exterior?

---

"So, what happened?" Winter asked eagerly as they met up for lunch, her eyes wide with anticipation. Karina took a deep breath, her heart racing as she recounted the events of the previous night. Winter's jaw dropped, her eyes never leaving hers as she listened to the details of their steamy encounter.

"You've got to be kidding me," Winter whispered when Karina finished, her voice filled with awe. "You actually did it. You got him to crack."

Karina couldn't help the smug smile that played on her lips. "It wasn't easy," she admitted, "but I think I've figured out the trick."

"Well, spill it," Winter said, leaning in. "I want to know everything."

Karina took a sip of her soda, her mind racing with the memories of Y/N's gentle touch, his fierce passion, and the way he had made her feel. "You just have to be...persistent," she said finally. "And vulnerable. He's not like other guys—you can't just throw yourself at him and expect him to catch you."

Winter nodded, her gaze thoughtful. "So, you had to show him that you're more than just a pretty face," she mused. "That you actually care about him, not just his body."

Karina nodded, feeling a warmth spread through her. "Exactly. And once he saw that, he couldn't resist."

The cafeteria buzzed with the chatter of students, but the two of them sat in their own little bubble, lost in their conversation. Winter's eyes were filled with admiration, and Karina felt a sense of pride that she had managed to do what no one else had.

[mariasont]

mariaaa!! i have another idea!! > 3 <

ok, so…

sleepy, needy, & clingy bimbo!reader with hotch

either before they together or when they first get together <3

Hot & Bothered (No, Like, Literally, You Have a Fever) - A.H.

summary: bimbo!assistant!reader is feverish, clingy & just a little delirious, except, not too delirious to shamelessly flirt with your very attractive, very exasperated boyfriend. pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: sick!reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, soft!hotch, flirty banter, suggestive-ish content, clingy!reader, hotch ignoring all cdc guidelines, reader is kinda being a baby about everything (just like me fr), theatre kid hotch. wc: 2.3k

You started off playing it cute. All little sighs, sending Aaron pouty texts filled with emojis, making sure he knew you missed him, but in a haha, just kidding (unless?) kind of way. Now you're way past that. The cute phase had dissolved into something far more desperate.

You were sick-sick. The terrible kind of sick where your limbs feel like they're made of granite, and your skin somehow manages to burn and freeze at the same time.

Worst of all, Aaron wasn't here.

And really, what was the point of having a boyfriend as stupidly gorgeous, painfully competent, and naturally overprotective as Aaron Hotchner if he wasn't going to be around when you need him most?

You knew you were being dramatic. You knew this was your own fault. Aaron had practically ordered you to let him come home with you, standing there in his office with his disapproving frown, telling you that you shouldn't be alone if you weren't feeling well.

But in your infinite wisdom, you had waved him off, told him to stay at work. Because at the time, you were fine. Or, more so, fine-adjacent. And because sometimes, your brain tricks you into thinking you are a capable, independent woman who does not, in fact, require Hotch-shaped supervision.

So now you're curled up in bed, drowning in the well-worn fabric of his FBI academy hoodie, the one that smells like him. And it helps. But not enough.

Because if he were here, he'd be so good at taking care of you. He'd probably be all bossy and stern about it, telling you to drink your water, go to sleep, and stop pouting. But then he'd turn around and betray himself completely by smoothing your hair back so, so softly, by tucking the blankets up to your chin like you're something delicate. Contrary to popular belief, he did have a soft side.

Maybe you should call him. Maybe you should be really, really pathetic about it and beg him to come home.

Maybe you're just a little too codependent. (Just a little.)

The second the front door opens, you think you must be imaging it. You convince yourself it's the fever, twisting reality into want instead of what actually is. Because Aaron shouldn't be home yet.

You squint at the clock, but it's just a bunch of blurry numbers, and math is already hard enough without feeling like your brain is actively melting.

But then there's the sound of leather against hardwood, and not just any leather.

You know those shoes. The custom Italian Oxfords you forced him to let you buy. He'd grumbled about the price, all exasperated and dramatic (as if he had any real concept of what good leather actually costs), but he still let you drag him to the store. Still let you lace them up for him. Still let you kiss him senseless in the parking lot because he looked too insanely sexy in them to be allowed to exist without immediate compensation.

You'd told him once that good shoes take you good places. And now look where they took him.

Straight home to you.

The relief is so instantaneous, it makes your head spin. And suddenly, he's there, shoulders broad against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes warm despite the unimpressed look he's attempting to pull off.

"My poor baby," he says, half-teasing, but mostly just achingly soft.

Your bottom lip wobbles. "It's not that bad."

Aaron sighs loudly, already loosening his tie as he strides over, assessing the damage, which, in this case, is you, buried under what is objectively a very reasonable amount of blankets.

"Uh-huh." Flat. Dry. But he's already reaching to fix them, like he can't help himself. "That why you're buried in every blanket we own?"

You burrow deeper into said blankets. Maybe if you commit hard enough, he'll stop looking so smug.

"They're comfy."

He crouches beside the bed, undoing the last button on his cuff before pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. His touch is cool, and you lean into it immediately, shameless at how much you enjoy his skin against your overheated own.

"You're hot."

You blink at him, dazed, and—without thinking—mumble, "So are you."

The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret them. Not because they're untrue, that's indisputable, but because of the sheer pathetic delivery of it, all scratchy and pitiful and nothing like the effortless flirtation you usually bring to the table.

You groan, squeezing your eyes shut like that might somehow reverse time.

Aaron, of course, is completely unbearable about it. His lips twitch, and you can see it happening in real time, his struggle not to laugh directly in your face.

"Flattered," he drawls, his thumb brushing over your temple, fingers carding through your hair in slow strokes. "Have you been drinking enough water?"

You wrinkle your nose. "Water is boring."

"You're boring."

You gasp, sniffling as you try to look offended, despite the congestion ruining your tone. "Boring? You weren't calling me boring last night when I—,"

"Okay."

Aaron cuts you off immediately, already leaning down, pressing kiss after kiss to your face—forehead, cheeks, anywhere he can reach. You squeal in protest (or, well, try to, your voice is too weak for it to be truly effective), but he just laughs against your skin, relentless.

"Okay, I take it back," he murmurs, kissing your nose like an apology. Like a bribe. "You're the most exciting person I know. Now be exciting and drink some water before I have to force it down your throat."

"Force it down my throat?" you rasp, a weak smirk pulling at your lips as your fingers prod into his dress shirt. "You promise?"

"So inappropriate." He lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, but his hands are already cupping your face, his lips pressing to yours, like he loves kissing you too much to stop himself.

You barely have time to enjoy it before your brain remembers how sickness works.

"Wait, germs!"

Aaron just smirks, tilting your face up with a knuckle under your chin. "Since you brought up last night, that's an interesting concern, considering where your mouth was last night."

You should say something flirty in return. Something about how that was different because it was basically an act of public service (one you love providing). Because that's what you do. You throw him off, make him sigh like you're exhausting and adorable at the same time, watching his ears flush pink when he pretends he's not affected.

But the words never come, instead, your brain hands you a far worse visual. Aaron, like this, but worse. His face pale, head pressed against a pillow, forehead creased with discomfort he wouldn't acknowledge. You can see it clearly, the way he'd insist he's fine, the way he'd make it through a workday half-dead before even considering rest.

And suddenly nothing is funny.

Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, like holding onto him will somehow fix the terrible, awful, no-good mental image you just had.

You're frowning, and you don't even realize it, not until Aaron does, his thumb pressing lightly against the center of your forehead, like he can smooth it away.

"I don't want you to get sick."

"My sweet girl," he murmurs, fingers threading through your hair once before he stands. "I can handle a cold. What I can't handle is you being miserable and dehydrated. Be good and let me take care of you."

Aaron disappears before you can argue and by the time he returns, a glass of water in hand, you've barely had a chance to process how much you missed him in those few seconds.

You watch as he puts it down on the nightstand beside you.

"There. Now drink."

"Yes, sir," you mumble, taking a few small sips just to prove that you're listening.

But if he really wanted you hydrated, he should've just kissed you again.

Aaron's eyes narrow, shooting you a pointed look.

You sigh, loud and put-upon, then take another sip, longer, just to appease him. You make a show out of it, before immediately reaching out, patting the empty space beside you with undeniable urgency.

Aaron snorts. "Didn't last long, did you?"

"I'm sick. I need warmth and love."

He exhales so dramatically, shaking his head. "If that's what my poor, suffering girl needs, then I suppose I have no choice."

Alright, theatre kid.

You bite your tongue, not because you're wrong, but because self-preservation is a skill, and you'd like to see another sunrise. And, fine. If he wanted to pretend like sitting still for five minutes was his own personal crucifixion, then who were you to deny him. It wasn't your fault, he ran himself into the ground, like he was trying to beat time himself, working to the bone until someone (you) had to physically drag him to bed.

You watch, maybe a little too intently, as he kicks off his shoes, undoes his belt, and swaps out his boring, stuffy work pants for the sweats. Your sweats. The ones you have a deeply personal attachment to.

You have history with those sweats.

"You know, you put those on and suddenly I start feeling a whole lot better." Call it divine intervention, maybe. "Do you think if you let me sit on your lap, I'd be at full strength again? Because I think we should at least try. For medical purposes."

Aaron settles in beside you, pressing one, two, three kisses to your lips, because he can, because he wants to. When he pulls back, he's smirking.

"Cheeky girl," he murmurs, thumb skimming your jaw. "And here I was, thinking you needed me to take care of you. Turns out you just wanted an excuse to climb all over me. How tragic. I've been completely fooled."

You brain-to-hand coordination is questionable at best, but that doesn't stop you from attempting to very subtly slip your fingers along the waistband of his sweats.

Aaron grabs your wrist instantly laughing—an actual, real, Hotchner laugh.

"Sweetheart," he muses, so damn amused, his thumb tripping over the pulse point of your wrist. "You can barely hold your head up, and you're trying to start something?"

"With a boyfriend like you, I'm like, legally required to start something."

Aaron lets out the longest, most suffering sigh known to man.

Like you said—theatre kid.

"Don't I know it. You're insatiable."

You open your mouth, fully prepared to launch into a passionate defense of you very reasonable levels of attraction to him, but a sneeze—tiny, weak, kind of embarrassing—ruins it.

Aaron's smirk evaporates. It happens fast, like a switch flipping, like he's just remembered, really remembered, that you're not at full strength, that beneath all your teasing, you're a little delicate, too easily worn down.

For a second, he just stares, jaw tight, brows furrowing ever so slightly, like the sight of you, flushed cheeks, fever-glazed eyes, pathetic sneezy, physically pains him.

And then you're moving, no he's moving, pulling you in, tucking you into his chest, as if you were something his hands were built to protect.

"And yet, here you are," he murmurs, kissing your temple, breathing against your hair, "disease-ridden and tragically adorable."

You sigh, shoving your face as close as humanly possibly, like some kind of human limpet. His heartbeat is strong beneath your ear, soothing, a constant thump thump thump that makes your eyelids droop.

"I really missed you today."

Aaron's arms tighten around you, but then you sniffle. Not the same pathetic little sound from earlier. This one's different. This one is softer, wetter.

He tenses just enough for you to feel it, enough to make you regret it, because now he knows.

You blink rapidly, tilting your face down, trying to breathe past the sudden, stupid sting behind your eyes, willing it go away before he—

Too late.

His arms loosen just enough to tilt his head down, scanning your face like he's already trying to figure out how to make it better.

You turn, burying your face in his chest. "I'm fine."

A lie. A bad one at that. So laughably transparent that even you wince a little.

Aaron doesn't call you on it, however, just pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your cheek, catching the tear before it falls.

"Oh baby," he breathes, voice a little rough, like he wants to pull the sadness out of you and keep it for himself.

He presses another kiss to your temple, then another, then another, like he needs to fix something unfixable, his fingers curling around the nape of your neck.

"You're killing me here."

You sniffle. Again.

"M'sorry," you mumble. "This is probably like... super unattractive."

Aaron shifts again, tilting your chin up as his thumb brushes against your cheek.

"Still the prettiest girl I've ever seen," he murmurs, but his jaw is tight, his fingers flexing against your skin. "I should've come home sooner."

"You wouldn't have lasted," you mumble, voice slowing, words dragging just a little.

Aaron raises an eyebrow. "And why's that?"

"Because you'd stress yourself out." You hum sleepily, tracing absent circles against his shirt. "You'd take my temperature every hour. Make me drink disgusting tea. Then, once you ran out of things to fuss over, you'd start deep-cleaning the grout just to feel useful."

He snorts, shaking his head. "You make me sound unbearable."

"You are unbearable," you murmur, but your grip tightens around him, contradicting yourself entirely. "But in a very sexy, very productive way."

He laughs and presses a kiss to your temple.

"You know what would make me feel better?"

Aaron's chest rises with a deep inhale, like he already knows. His arm tenses around you. "Sweetheart—,"

You grin against his shirt, weakly.

"A very hands on wellness check."

Aaron chokes out a laugh, tightening the blankets around you. "Christ."

He presses one last kiss to your forehead and you think you hear him mumble should've seen that one coming under his breath.

You hum in agreement, mentally ranking all the times he should've seen something coming.

This moment, obviously.

The time he let you fall asleep on him once and then acted surprised when it became a permanent thing.

The time he told you to be serious and then immediately realized that was the worst possible way to get you to stop joking.

The time he tried to fight it, tried to keep you at arm's length, tried to act like this thing between you wasn't inevitable.

You should tell him. You should. But then he tucks you closer, breath hot against your temple. And before you can launch into your incredibly important findings, you're already too far gone.

💌 masterlist 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

[mysticmoosenger]

thinking ab a loser!choso who is oblivious to your class crush on him! (part 1)

cw: y/n is down bad, pining, maybe mutual pining, slightly suggestively spicy, sfw, part two will def be nsfw

normally, you’d have no issue skipping the dumb 9am math class that you had to take to graduate. but… that’s normally. having a class crush that you are so down bad over is not really normal for you though. you swear that he unlocked a new type for you, and that you could never go back to everything you have always said you liked in a guy previously. this guy was just… different.

somehow, you developed what honestly feels more like obsession than a crush on the emo boy who sits in the back corner of the lecture hall.

it had all started when you were running 20 minutes late… on the first day of class. naturally, by the time you got there almost all of the seats were full. you weaved your way back through the rows to one of the only spots available, right next to him.

from the few seconds you made eye contact with him you could have swore you had already soaked through your panties. his dark, smudged eyeliner lined eyes lingered on yours for a bit before he ripped them away from you to play with the several rings he had on his fingers. oh… the the things he could do with those hands.

you drank in his appearance, he had messy black hair tied up in two high buns and several piercings lining his ears. his face was adorned with an eyebrow piercing, a septum piercing, and a lip ring. a thin black line stretched across the bridge of his nose, and you wouldn’t be surprised if it was actually a real face tattoo judging by how heavily tatted the rest of his visible body was from the areas not covered by his baggy jeans and loose band tee. as he was moving his bag closer to his chair to give you a bit more room next to him in the cramped seats, his arms flexed revealing massive biceps and a few prominent veins marking his hands. wow… wonder if the rest of him is that ripped too?

despite slowly trying to get closer with him, he remained oblivious. or you thought so, at least. eventually, after several weeks of trying to make moves, you finally got somewhere. by sheer luck, and probably fate too if we are being honest, the professor had selected him to be your partner for the big end of semester project. he typed his name and contact info into your phone, also giving you his snap. while you don’t use snap much anymore, you certainly would be now. as he was handing you your phone back, his fingers brushed against yours and sent what felt like lightning bolts across your body. while you didn’t see it, his ears blushed and he had to turn away to “look for a pencil” in his backpack. this poor, oblivious boy.

the second you got home, you sent him the first snap…

(part two coming soon)

[remxedmoon]

so all you need to do right now is disappear.

HHHHAPPY ISATVERSARY EVERYONE. here’s redraws for every single battle cg in the game. 36 drawings this time around, with 11 of those being custom (though admittedly a good portion of those are edits). combined with the portrait redraws i made back in september, i’ve made 114 redraws for this project! jesus christ! just like those redraws, these are completely free to use!! as long as i’m credited and it’s not for commercial purposes, go wild!! do whatever you want!!!

no i didn’t make these for isat’s 1 year anniversary this is just wildly good timing.

i genuinely can’t fit all of these cgs in one post even with the 30 image limit on browser, but i’ll still try to fit Most of them below the cut (without making this post horrifically long), along with some notes that might be important 👍

okay! once again, i labeled all of the custom art as such in the drive(UPDATE. NNOT TRUE ANYMORE. reformatted file names to be easier to mod in auau. apologies!), but if you want a full list, the customs are hatless siffrin jackpot, bonnie jackpot, bonnie special attack, bigfrin attack, and a bunch of alts which are definitely not related to any projects i’ve been thinking about don’t worry about it. and out of those customs, only like. 3 of them are actually completely from scratch.

while i did my absolute best to keep the aspect ratios completely the same as the originals, there’s 3 exceptions that i just couldn’t get to work.

isabeau’s hair in his special attack cg wouldn’t fit in frame if i kept things completely accurate to the og, so i moved his cg down a bit. it shouldn’t cause any issues with modding or anything, it’ll just appear slightly lower than it does in game. alas…

isabeau’s sleeve and mirabelle’s hair made their jackpot sprites a little larger than the originals? i’m hoping this doesn’t have too much of an effect (since the jackpot sprites have inconsistent sizes) but i can’t test this myself unfortunately. aaa feel free to let me know on discord if any problems arise!!

i managed to fix these, so they aren’t going to cause problems now, but my original drawings for mirabelle and siffrin in the final attack scene were a pain in the ass to fix. mirabelle’s sprite was slightly too talk to fit in frame and siffrin’s hat whacked bonnie in the face while i was editing everyone together. i’m only mentioning this because it took like an hour and a half to fix them and finish the scene.

all that aside, these were a fucking BLAST to work on. apparently this ended up taking 57 hours over exactly 10 days. which is a little worrying if you do the math on that but somehow i have not burnt myself out. i will be doing enemies at some point!!! but probably not for a little bit. i think my friends will actually kill me if i don’t take a break.

once again, happy birthday isat. you’ve ruined my life and i wouldn’t have it any other way (silly).

also, on an actual serious note, this little timeloop game has genuinely changed my life for the better? you guys are probably sick of hearing it at this point (or maybe not, i don’t talk about myself That Much. i hope), but i was practically a ghost for about 2 years before joining this fandom. it’s a little surreal to suddenly have friends (plural!!!) and people who Care about me, or even know i exist, honestly. it’s weird!! in a good way!!!

i don’t think i would’ve ever come back to social media if this community wasn’t so welcoming. i’ve met a lot of really great people through this game!!! so, uh, thank you isat, i guess. here’s to another year.

[pathologicalreid]

christmas (baby please come home) | s.r.

in which Spencer isn't home to put his kids to bed on Christmas Eve, but they wake up to a surprise on Christmas morning

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: spencer's first post prison christmas, frankensteined the plot of "surface tension", the same family as "here with me", crying, christmas word count: 3.19k a/n: merry christmas!! this is kinda like my gift to you, mostly since it's been sitting in my brain for forever!!!!!!! i love u all! also happy first day of hanukkah if you celebrate <33

“But Daddy’s not home,” your daughter whimpered as she shuffled under her covers, she looked up at you with wide, curious eyes.

You carefully smoothed out the top of her floral comforter, “I know, baby,” you whispered, reaching up to pinch her cheek affectionately. You’d let them stay up late to watch the Santa tracker, but eventually, Finn fell asleep on you, and Livvy’s yawns were enough to convince you that it was bedtime. “You still have to go to sleep. Santa will come whether Daddy’s home or not, and we’ll just do the gifts from Mommy and Daddy when he gets back.”

At three years old, Olivia was beginning to understand Spencer being gone the same way Eleanor did; she knew his absence was entirely out of her control, and that didn’t sit well with your middle child. You knew you had gotten incredibly lucky when Spencer had been home for Finn’s birthday and Livvy’s had fallen during his sabbatical, but you also knew that you were due for a missed holiday, you just wished it could’ve been Thanksgiving or New Year’s.

You kissed her forehead before leaving, making sure to leave the door open a crack so the monsters wouldn’t get her before you went to Nell’s room. “Hey, honey,” you whispered, closing your eldest’s door behind you before going to sit on the edge of her bed. She had her own Christmas tree set up in the corner of the room, the artificial purple tree providing the glow that her nightlight normally would. “Are you ready for bed?”

Nell was lying on top of her covers, staring at her still ceiling fan as she ignored your question. While Livvy was just starting to understand what it meant when Spencer was gone, Nell understood it best, and she had for years now. She’d understood when Spencer was in prison, and she understood that he was missing Christmas now.

Slowly, you laid down next to your daughter, propping your head up on the bed and smoothing her hair back. “It’s still Christmas,” you tried to reassure her, but part of you knew that it was a thankless effort, there was nothing you could tell her that would fix her father’s absence. “We can call Dad in the morning while we open presents,” you offered, hoping she’d appreciate you coming halfway. “If he’s not busy, maybe we can video chat, and you can show him everything Santa brought you.”

“It’s not the same,” she told you, furrowing her brows and turning away from you on the bed.

Sighing, you pressed a kiss to the back of her head, “I know, Nellie. I know it’s not fair that he doesn’t get to be here for Christmas, but Daddy will come back.” There was a sense of urgency in your voice; you were afraid that if your five-year-old lost the joy in Christmas, you’d somehow failed her as a mother. “He’ll be home for your birthday, I promise,” you whispered.

“You can’t promise,” she reminded you, knowing that you and Spencer were generally very specific about your promises, leaning toward the ‘I promise I’ll try’ variety.

You hummed in response, “I’d pinky promise you that. Dad will be home for your birthday.” You held up your pinky finger, waiting for her to roll over and reciprocate.

Eleanor rolled over, holding up her pinky finger while brown eyes watched you apprehensively, “Okay,” she breathed, hooking your fingers together and kissing them.

As soon as Spencer told you about the bureau’s contingency to him returning to the BAU, you’d done the math. Eleanor’s sixth birthday would fall near the beginning of his next sabbatical, so you didn’t hesitate to make this promise. “It’s time for bed, my girl,” you whispered, smiling at her softly as she pulled the sleeves of her Christmas pajamas over her hands. “Santa can’t come if you’re not asleep,” you reminded her, sitting up on the bed and getting up, tucking her purple comforter under her chin before you made your final stop of the night.

You’d brought Finn to his room before getting the girls settled, but now that you knew they were alright, you came back to his room. The white noise machine was going, and he was fast asleep in his crib. His pacifier, which you were trying to wean him off of, had fallen from his mouth and onto the sheets, so you set it to the side. To you, the second Christmas was always more exciting than the first, now that he was fourteen months old, he had the dexterity to help open presents.

Ruffling his hair, you kissed him goodnight, just like you’d done with the girls, and you left his room, closing the door so that no one would disturb the light-sleeping baby.

There was a late night ahead of you, but first, you settled yourself onto the couch in the living room and pulled out your phone. Upon opening your messages with Spencer, you couldn’t help but be disappointed to find that there was nothing unread. You thought about sending him a text telling him that you all miss him but eventually decided against it. You didn’t want to make him feel guilty. At least, no more guilty than he likely already did.

You turned on the TV, quietly playing a Christmas movie as you began the festivities. All of the gifts had been expertly hidden in the master bedroom, split between being shoved under your bed and in your closet, but a new playhouse for the girls had been dropped off earlier. It was too big for your room, so your parents had stored it in their basement in the interim.

That would be a struggle to bring in from the garage, so you decided to start small, pulling all of the kids’ stockings from their hooks and laying them out on the floor before going upstairs to get the stuffers.

With the movie playing, you filled the stockings with treats and little toys. A few times you imagined your phone buzzing, but each time there was nothing on the screen. The loneliness started to set in as you rehung the stockings, making sure the kids’ names faced forward above the fireplace.

This wasn’t your first Christmas alone, Spencer had been in Idaho for Olivia’s first Christmas, but neither of the girls remembered it.

They’d remember this one, you thought to yourself, walking back up the stairs to grab a load of boxes. Thankfully, they were already wrapped, but you did have to avoid getting ribbon in your mouth as you carried the armful of gifts down the stairs.

Masterfully, you adjusted them beneath the tree, trying to visualize where they’d all end up in the end as you heard something distantly, but you brushed it off as someone leaving your neighbor’s holiday party. You stood up, wiping your hands on your pajamas as you evaluated your handiwork, shrugging before you turned around for the next load, “Oh,” you breathed, watching the handle on the door from the garage turn.

The door opened slowly, revealing your husband on the other side, his black peacoat draped over his arm and purple scarf looped around his neck. He hooked his car keys on the key hook before he noticed you, brown eyes finding your pajama-clad figure. His lopsided smile was all-knowing as always, he knew he had surprised you. In fact, it had been his goal.

You remained exactly where you were, watching him from the den as he put his shoes away and hung up his outerwear. It was almost as if you’d convinced yourself he was a mirage, and any sudden movements would cause his visage to dissipate. “Hey,” Spencer said, cocking his head at you as if he were confused why you hadn’t come any closer to him. He peeked around you to look at the tree, “Did the kids get to bed okay?”

Instead of answering him, your body naturally responded to what seemed like the miraculous appearance of your husband by producing tears. At first, they just welled along your lash line, but as they started to fall, you buried your face in your hands.

Spencer was there, not only in the house but also taking the initiative to approach you, he wrapped his arms around your torso, taking your tearful form under his care, “Is everything alright?” He asked, slowly dragging his hand up and down your spine, humming as you reciprocated his embrace and pressed your face into his shirt, drying your eyes and taking in the moment.

“Everything is wonderful,” you responded, your voice muffled by his shirt. He smelled like stale dark roast and the jet, but you were too relieved by his arrival to truly mind.

Tightening his grip briefly, he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, “Right, well. You’re crying, so I had to make sure,” he murmured, swaying gently to the music coming from the film.

You loosed a breath of relief, “I can’t believe you’re here. The kids were miserable at bedtime, Nell wouldn’t even talk to me until I told her you’ll be home for her birthday,” you informed him, keeping your arms wrapped firmly around him while you tipped your head back to see him.

Spencer nodded in understanding, reaching up a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “We made the arrest at eight and wrapped up around nine. Somehow, Emily convinced the pilot to leave in the middle of the night, and we were on the jet by ten. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve spent holidays in worse places, but I’d rather be here with you than in Milwaukee.”

“I will kiss Emily Prentiss on the mouth,” you told him candidly.

He raised his brows curiously, “Mhm, and what about me?”

Grinning, you pushed up on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his, an amalgamation of a welcome home and a Merry Christmas kiss, but you pulled away before you could get carried away. “Merry Christmas, Spencer Reid, we have work to do,” you told him, taking on a mock seriousness as you nodded your head toward the Christmas tree, which only had a fraction of your kids’ gifts beneath it.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” Spencer reciprocated, pressing one more kiss to your lips, “Let’s get started.”

Spinning out of his grip, you found you had much more pep in your step with his arrival, beaming as the two of you went through the house as quietly as possible, gathering the gifts for the kids without rousing any suspicion. Even grabbing the playhouse from the garage didn’t seem like as much of a task with him around.

You adjusted the stockings as it neared two in the morning, Spencer returned from upstairs with the last few gifts, having changed his clothes into pajamas that neatly matched yours—a family set that was a gift from your Penelope. “They look great,” Spencer assured you, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he stood back, admiring your handiwork.

Walking backward until your back was against your chest, you tilted your head to the side, appraising the mountain of gifts beneath the tree, “Do you think we went overboard this year?” Between the gifts from Santa and the gifts from the two of you, the heap was rather intimidating.

“No,” Spencer answered, “bigger kids, bigger gifts.” He put his arms around your waist, resting his chin on top of your head, “besides, they’re good kids.”

You hummed in response, leaning into him ever so slightly. Part of you felt like Spencer was still experiencing guilt surrounding the three months he spent away from you and the kids while he was in prison. No amount of time at home or therapy would ever absolve him of that guilt, but it never hurt to try, “Hey,” you whispered up to him, “I got you something.”

He frowned down at you, “I thought we said no gifts this year?”

Scoffing, you walked over to the home office, “We say that every year and neither of us ever stick to it, so go get whatever it is you got for me.”

Spencer rolled his eyes, but even so, he made his way upstairs to where you knew a gift was hiding in his bedside table. Upon his return, he faltered at the large box you’d placed on the coffee table and held up the small box in his hands; you beamed at him as he eyed the behemoth of a present.

He handed you the smaller box, instinctively, you admired the wrapping before starting to open it, recognizing the jewelry box before you had even discarded your wrapping paper. “Oh, Spence,” you said, looking at the necklace in the box, a dainty chain with five small gemstones on it. His birthstone and yours, followed by Nell’s amethyst, Livvy’s sapphire, and Finn’s tourmaline all strung next to each other, “it’s perfect,” you told him, lightly touching the gems with your fingertips. You’d mentioned wishing you had an everyday necklace a few weeks ago while getting ready, and he must’ve been listening more attentively than you’d thought.

Finally, you had him open his gift, and he was entirely speechless as he opened the cardboard flaps. His mouth gaped as he lifted one of the books in his hand, the title and edition identical to one that had been previously ruined in your house. “Fuck,” he cursed, looking from you to the books and back again.

You shrugged, “It’s not all of them, but a pretty good amount of them. Some of those editions are proving difficult to recover, but I’ve—” You’re cut off, startled by Spencer pressing his lips to yours. “I’m still looking for some,” you said breathlessly once he pulled away.

Spencer seemed unsure of what to do with himself; you’d managed to find replacements for three-fourths of the books that had previously been burned by an accidental fire set earlier this year. The only time your marriage had ever been on the rocks was when Diana lived with you, but even then, you’d been planning this surprise. “You are…” Spencer started, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, “This is incredible,” he told you, shaking his head in disbelief, setting the book down in the box and nearly tackling you in a hug.

Laughing, you buried your face in his shoulder to muffle the sound, “I love you,” you murmured to him, his body now next to yours on the couch.

“I love you too,” he said, looking at you with glassy eyes. “Wow,” he said, sniffling, “I need to get you something else. A necklace isn’t enough,” he told you, likely already thinking of options for addendums.

You shook your head, “Trust me when I tell you that your being here is worth all of the rare books in the world to me,” you reassured him, running your fingers through his hair. Humming, you adjusted your head on the pillow, “Are you gonna fall asleep like this?”

He nodded, “If you keep playing with my hair like that. How long do you think we have until they wake up?” He asked, keeping his eyes closed while you peeked over him to check the time.

Last year, Finn had woken up the whole house on Christmas Day at four in the morning, and seeing as it was nearing three, you wondered if it was worth sleeping at all. You continued combing through Spencer’s hair, “Do you want to go upstairs?”

“This is a really great couch,” he mumbled, already falling asleep on the couch, leading you to grab the blanket that was thrown over the back and haphazardly drape it over the two of you.

Unfortunately, it felt like you’d gotten no sleep at all when you heard the first stirring upstairs, “Mommy,” Olivia called out, which would likely wake up Finn and Nell.

You got up from the couch, waking up Spencer in the process. Your poor husband, who was probably already running on little sleep, got up and folded the blanket you had been using, returning it to its home while you went upstairs to get the kids.

Livvy’s eyes went wide when she saw you come from downstairs, “Did Santa come?” She asked you, nearly bouncing with excitement.

As you expected, the door to Eleanor’s room swung open, revealing your sleep-deprived five-year-old in her rumpled pajamas, “Yes, Santa brought gifts for everyone,” you answered, ruffling her hair before going into Finn’s room, hoping to wake him gently before the voices did a less delicate job. “Hi buddy,” you whispered, looking back to see the girls gathered at the door, completely unaware that their dad was waiting for them downstairs. “Merry Christmas,” you said softly, his scrunched face not processing what you were saying, but happy to see you, nonetheless.

You picked him up from the crib and herded the girls to the stairs, letting them lead the way down while you carried the baby. Right behind them, you watched the realization dawn on their faces as soon as they caught sight of Spencer, “Daddy!” Nell shouted, leading her little sister as they ran to him.

Laughing lightly, you let a squirming Finn down, running to Spencer in the same way the girls just had. From a distance, you watched as all three of your kids entirely bypassed the gifts under the tree and on the mantle and went straight to what was more important—their father was home for Christmas.

Spencer crouched down to get Finn, and at the same time, Livvy jumped in excitement, leaving Spencer falling backward and sitting on the ground while the kids formed a less-than-graceful dog pile on the floor. You took that as your cue to join in on the festivities, kneeling on the floor next to the familial pile, uncontrollable giggles emanated from everyone involved.

You wrangled the two littles in your arms, giving each of them dozens of kisses and receiving more laughter in return as Eleanor settled down. Your eldest took her moment of alone time and laid her head on Spencer’s chest, the grin on her face overtook the rest of her face, “Best Christmas ever,” she whispered before rolling off of him, Spencer instinctively lifting his hand so she doesn’t hit her head on the leg of the coffee table.

Nellie sat up giving you a toothy grin, sticking her tongue through where she was missing a front tooth. Everyone took notice of Olivia pointing at the tree, her mouth shaped like an “o” in awe, “Can we open that one?” She asked, pointing to the largest present in the stack—which, of course, had her name on it.

“Stockings first,” Spencer said, leading to a pout from your middle child, but it was quickly wiped away when he kissed the crown of her head. Your husband got up first, taking Finn from where he was tucked into your side, and set him on his hip, “Okay, who wants their stocking?”

Everyone’s hand went up—including yours.

[flamingpudding]

Code: GHOST

It all started when a number code flashed across the screen of the Batcomputer while Tim was working on a case.

7 8 15 19 20

Flashed across the screen several times to the point it made Tim think that someone somehow managed to hack into the Batcomputer. It was also a number code he was not familiar with at all. So Tim reported it back over their comms in hopes that maybe one of the others knew what the numbers meant. Because all he managed to figure out from it was that the number code was an alert on the Batcomputer, one that came with coordinates that lead into the middle of nowhere.

Tim was about to join the discussion Dick and Jason were having on it when Bruce silenced them all apruptly speaking up.

"Answer code 2 1 20, sent them to the coordinates attached. I will be in the cave in ETA3 and take over from there."

The sudden silence on their communication line spoke volumes especially when Tim new the numbers was a simply code for Bat. He still did what Bruce asked him to do but that didn't stop the questions running through Tim's mind. He watched on the screen of the Batcomputer how the moment he sent the code in return, Programs started like on autopilot. A map opening that contained nothing at first but then changed into a map of a whole good damn city. Tim could only gap at what was happening on the Batcomputer before Bruce appeared and pulled him away from his seat to take over himself.

Bruce without a beat of delay started to input more codes and apparently access codes too as more and more windows opened on the Batcomputer. Tim did not realise that with time Dick, Cass and Damian had joined him as they watched Bruce work away on the Batcomputer. At some point an audiotrack opened but all they could hear was only static. They thought Bruce was going to run it through one of the noise filtering programs.

But to the shock of them, Bruce suddenly triggered a hidden compartment on the console, causing it to flip over and reveal communication link build in a way non of them had ever seen before. It was silver with green accents and looked far... older and less sleek than any of the ones they used. It was clearly not designed to stay completely hidden if put into your ear.

They watched how he simply put that earpiece on and then replayed the audiotrack.

The batkids shared a look of confusion. Non of them sure what to make of the situation until suddenly Bruce stood up from the Batcomputer.

"Prepare for a rescue mission. Nightwing, Orphan and Robin will come with me, the rest of you will stay in Gotham." Was all the man said before storming of towards the Batplane.

"Bruce what is going on?!" Dick instead of going to prepare asked stoping the man before he could get away from them. "What is the meaning of that code? Aside from the fact that simply translated it means ghost."

Bruce eyed the batkids present for a moment before letting out a grunt. "Ghost is finally ready to join the family."

"Ghost?" Tim echoed confused, never having heard that alias for any of them.

"Father what do you mean, 'join the family'?" Damian chimed in clearly frowning with suspicion.

The man eyed them once more his eyes going over each of his children, it looked like he was contemplating telling them more for a moment before he stood to fully face them and let out a sigh. "Like Clark, I too have clone child."

There was a stunned silence. No one speaking up until Dick did. "How long...?"

"14 years ago"

The silence continued as they all did the mental math. Once more it was Dick who spoke up first, clearly stunned. "You had a clone since I was eleven and now is the first time I hear of that?! You never bothered telling any of us?!"

There was a long suffering sigh. "We got to Danny before he was aged up, he was a normal baby even if created in a laboratory, so it was best for him to grow up normally, with the league we arranged for him to be sent to selected family since I had my hands full with you and-"

"Danny?!" Dick cut in. "His name is Danny? Does he even know about us?"

"Dick." Bruce called out his tone warning. "Of course I kept an eye on Danny's life. And I did made contact with him when the time was appropriated considering some of the things that were happening for the boy as he grew up, however he is not aware that he is a clone and it will stay that way. He will get to know all of you once we finished this rescue mission."

Before Dick or any of the others could say anything more Bruce spoke up firmly again. "Get ready now, we do not have any more time. Anything else will be handled later."

[coffeebanana]

i headcanon that gabe and emilie would want to create a sentibaby that's a mix of their own DNA--which, why can't they do that? Dusuu's got to use some sort of genetic material

but what if they wanted to test the possible combinations of their DNA before deciding on their perfect designer baby? what if you're adrien agreste model 1.0? it's a little weird when you come into the world, fully grown, and the first thing you're asked to do is turn around slowly on the spot. there's some lady in a mask and a peacock dress, smiling as you stand there, awaiting judgement. her counterpart, standing behind her, seems uncertain. but you don't think much of that. there's no time to think much of that--not when all of a sudden you're sitting at a desk, with pages of equations written on them. problems you're meant to solve.

somehow, you know you've learned this math somewhere--even if you don't remember when or how. but they keep watching you--scrutinizing every line of your pencil. you finally dare to ask them about it--because it's weird, right? and god, if they could just leave you alone for ten minutes, you could probably finish this easily. but your examiners' lips turn down at your outburst. and you're snapped away before you even manage to look back down at the page

what if you're adrien agreste model 13.6, and everything you do elicits little whoops of joy from the peacock lady? in your several hours of existence, you've spoken five different languages and carried out a slew of endurance, agility, and cognitive tests. and most importantly--although you don't know why your examiners seem to praise you for this--you never talked back once

the peacock lady claps her hands together, and even the man behind her--who you've come to realize isn't nearly as easy to crack--can't seem to stop smiling. and you don't understand why something about that fills you with dread, but it does. it's a sort of all-consuming, impossible to shake dread. but you smile through it anyways

you don't know that once you disappear, a smaller version of you will come forth into the world. or that, years later, you'll feel that same sort of sick feeling in your gut

you're adrien agreste model 13.7, and you don't know there's anything weird about the way you came into this world. you don't realize your mother sometimes misses 6.8's dimples, or that your father often wishes they'd gone with 11.2--who would have had a real head for business

and you never do figure out why something always feels just a little bit wrong

[bower-quinn]

Bruises

Eddie is injured, seriously. You're taking care of him, and somehow…feelings are coming up, between both of you. CW: Handjob, penis, description of injuries

You're just coming back from school. The day has been long, the sun is hanging low over Hawkins, and all you really want is to go home. Your head is pounding from your last math class, the radio plays some classic rock song you’re not in the mood for, so you switch it off. Hawkins rolls past your window – familiar, quiet, somehow sluggish.

But then you see it. In a side alley, just barely in the corner of your eye: movement, shadows, someone falling. Your foot slams the brake before you even realize what you’re doing. Your heart immediately starts racing. For a moment, you're frozen, staring through the windshield at the scene. Two, maybe three guys hovering over someone. Fists flying. One of them kicks.

You yank the wheel to the right, park half on the curb, and leap out of the car. Your body moves faster than your mind can follow. You shout, without thinking:

“Hey! Are you out of your minds?! Stop that right now!”

You instantly put yourself between the guy on the ground and the attackers. One leg shielding his head, the other his stomach. You have no idea who it is, but that doesn’t matter. They turn to face you. One of them elbows you reflexively in the face. Pain explodes behind your eye, and for a second, you see stars. Your knees almost give out. But you don’t fall. You burn with anger. You ignore the pain.

“Back off. Now. Unless you want me to tell my dad what you’re doing here – and trust me, the city council will be interested.”

At that, the three of them hesitate. It’s Jason and his brain-dead goons. You already can’t stand them, but this? This takes the cake. Violent, stupid assholes. One of them mutters a half-hearted “Sorry” – not to you, not to the situation, not really. Jason just stares. His eyes cold, smug, as always. He looks you up and down, nods once, and says:

“The freak had it coming.”

You don’t answer. You just glare at them, fists clenched. You fully expect them to come at you next, but they don’t. A few more glances, and then they walk off, disappearing around the corner. Only then do you kneel down. Your ears are ringing with adrenaline. Your eye throbs.

“Hey… you okay? Can you…?”

The guy groans, slowly lifts his head. And your heart skips a beat.

Eddie Munson.

His eye is blackened, his lip split, blood trickling from his temple, and his nose is bleeding. He clutches his side, where he was probably kicked.

“Oh my god… Eddie…”

He tries to grin, but it comes out more like a grimace.

“Not my best day,” he mutters.

You help him up, loop his arm over your shoulder. He leans on you, heavier than you expected. Every step draws a strained grunt from his lips. You open the passenger door; he practically collapses into the seat.

You circle the car, climb in, turn the key.

“I bled on your seat,” he mumbles, holding a tissue to his nose, head tilted back.

“Doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “And keep your head forward or the blood’ll go down your throat.”

“Mhm.” He obeys.

You signal and drive off. Your hands are shaking – with rage and adrenaline.

“Those fucking idiots. Think they’re gods just because they can play basketball. Jason and his dumbass fanboys… I swear, if I’d gotten there just a second earlier—” You glance at him. Eddie looks so wrecked your chest tightens.

He laughs – hoarse, painful, but real.

“You’re… something else, you know that?”

“Shut up. Just hurts more when you talk.”

“Fair point.”

“Do you want me to take you home or…?”

He shakes his head instantly.

“No hospital. Please. Just drive me home.”

You nod. But you don’t drive to the trailer park. You take a right instead of a left.

A few minutes later, you pull up in front of your house.

“Uh… this isn’t my place,” Eddie mumbles weakly.

“I know. But you didn’t say which home. And here, I can take care of you better. I’ve got ice for my eye. Blankets. Painkillers. And what if they’re waiting for you back there? You’re safe here.”

He looks at you. For a long moment. Then simply nods. No protest. No sarcasm. Just silent agreement.

You help him out of the car. Slowly. Carefully. You bring him inside. Into your home.

You guide Eddie to the couch in the living room, support him as he half sits, half lies down. He winces as his injured body adjusts to the softness of the cushions, his eyes flickering around the room – over the thick carpet, the old piano in the corner, the heavy curtains, the overflowing bookshelves.

Despite the pain in his face, there’s something in his eyes – surprise maybe. Or awe. But you don’t notice.

You’re already on your way to the kitchen, grabbing an ice pack, the first-aid kit from the bathroom. Everything in you moves on autopilot – act first, feel later.

When you return to the couch, he tries to smile again – it still comes out crooked.

“Didn’t think I’d end up on your couch when I woke up this morning.”

“But getting beat up?”

“Occupational hazard.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you gently take his chin, tilt his head toward you. His gaze meets yours – dark, vulnerable – and your stomach flips. There’s something electric in the silence.

You study his black eye. Then he notices yours.

“You got hit too,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in. Eyes still locked. “It was worth it.”

You press the ice pack to his eye gently. He flinches, grits his teeth, but lets you. You reach for the disinfectant, soak a cloth, lean in to clean the wound on his temple. He hisses softly, drops the ice pack. You recoil instantly.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

But he grabs your hand. Firm, but not rough. His fingers tremble slightly.

“Keep going,” he says softly. “It’s okay. Really.”

You exhale, steady yourself, and continue. You clean his temple, dab ointment on his split lip, then press a bandage gently onto the cut near his hairline.

He closes his eyes. And for a second – just a second – you see something that looks like peace. Relief. Not just from the pain. From… something heavier.

You replace the ice pack over his eye. Silence settles again. Soft. Gentle.

Eddie slowly moves the pack down to his lap, just to look at you.

You scoff, part amused, part exasperated, and reach for it again.

“Hey, it’s supposed to stay on there,” you say with a half-smile. “Otherwise it’s useless.”

He murmurs something that makes you stop.

“I just… needed to make sure I’m not imagining this. You. The councilman’s daughter. Taking care of me.”

His gaze drops, then returns to yours. There’s something shy there. Honest. And it hits you like a punch.

“Maybe I died in that alley,” he adds, “and you’re some kind of angel.”

You laugh – a real, warm laugh, from somewhere deep, even though none of this is funny. You open your mouth to reply, but the words stumble out too quickly.

“Then this can’t be heaven. ’Cause I’d still be alone in this house.”

You freeze. Your cheeks flush. The moment the words leave your lips, you realize what you’ve said. You bite down on your lip and look away, like you could somehow take it back by being embarrassed fast enough.

Eddie chuckles – raspy, weak, but full of warmth. Then he winces, clutching his side.

“Shit…”

You lean in, worry overtaking everything.

“Is it bad?”

He nods. Tries to breathe evenly.

You hesitate. Then quietly:

“Can I… look at them? Your ribs?”

Eddie meets your gaze. The moment stretches – heavy, full of unspoken things. Not a glance. A decision.

He nods. Barely.

Then he lifts his shirt. Slowly. Wincing.

Your breath hitches.

His left side is a mess. Dark purple, red, blue-yellow hues blooming like a storm beneath his skin. Scuffed. Raw. Swollen.

He watches you. But says nothing. Maybe he expects you to look away.

But you don’t.

You reach out – slow, reverent – and gently touch the edge of the bruise. You don’t break eye contact.

“That must hurt like hell,” you whisper.

He smirks faintly. “Only when I laugh. Which… is a problem. I’m ticklish.”

Normally you’d laugh. But something’s shifted.

You try not to stare at the pale skin of his stomach. At the faint trail of hair leading downward. But your heart beats too loud. Too fast.

Then you feel his fingers wrap around yours. Soft. Warm. Shaky.

His thumb strokes your hand – featherlight. You forget to breathe.

And he’s watching you.

But you force your eyes to stay on the bruise.

Only the bruise.

Just that.

Your fingers gently trace his side. You don’t press—just a light touch, following the lines of his body, feeling for the swelling, the heat of the inflammation. And you feel it—how his muscles tense under your touch, how his breath hitches, how much it hurts. But he says nothing. Not a sound. He doesn’t want to show it.

“Eddie…” you murmur, not looking at him, afraid you might lose control if you do. “You can tell me if it hurts too much.”

He stays silent for a moment, then exhales softly through his nose. “I’m scared something’s broken,” he admits quietly, almost like a child.

You take your time, palpating with growing certainty. Then you shake your head lightly.

“Nothing’s broken,” you say. “Bruised, yes. But nothing broken.”

He exhales audibly, but doesn’t pull his shirt back down. It stays rolled up around his chest, and your gaze—against your will—lingers on his stomach. You don’t want to stare. But you do. And then… you hesitantly lift your hands, grab the fabric—and gently pull the shirt over his head.

Eddie lets you.

You need a moment. To breathe. To look. There are tattoos on his chest, his upper arm—your fingers move on their own, softly tracing each one. The spider. The bat wings. His skin is so warm under your fingers, so soft. You can hardly believe you’re touching it.

Eddie inhales sharply, but this time… it’s not from pain.

You look up at him, your fingers still on his skin. And then, quieter than a whisper, you drive yourself insane.

“Maybe you should take your pants off too,” you whisper. “Maybe… something’s bruised there as well.”

You don’t even know where the courage comes from. But that feeling in your gut—that burning need to see Eddie Munson without pants—is strong. You’re surprised yourself by how much you want to see him naked.

Eddie holds his breath. For a moment, everything is still. Then he slowly shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “Not… not like this.”

You frown, confused. “What do you mean?”

He lifts his arm, pointing with trembling fingers at your eye. The place Jason hit you. The mark that shows someone hurt you.

“That happened just because you helped me,” he says quietly. His voice almost breaks. “Imagine what would happen if someone found out I was here. That we… I don’t know… had sex. Or were even together.”

You’re silent. For a long time. Your heart is pounding against your ribs—not from fear, but because you see him now. Not just the cuts. Not just the blood. All of him. His fear. His insecurity. And the heart in his chest, that still reaches out to you.

You look at him. Calmly.

“Is that what you’d want?” you ask, gently, almost shy.

He raises an eyebrow questioningly. “What exactly do you mean? The sex or the relationship?”

You fidget with your fingers, avoiding his gaze. “Both, I guess.”

Instead of answering, he takes your hand—very gently—and places it on his crotch. A soft gasp escapes you when you feel his erection.

“Okay,” you say, not pulling your hand away, “that answers question number one. And the second?”

Eddie looks at you like you just turned his whole universe upside down. Then he laughs—a real laugh this time—and immediately doubles over, holding his ribs. “Ouch…”

You watch him, waiting for his answer.

He shakes his head, laughing through the pain. “Babe… everyone in Hawkins has a crush on you. And anyone who doesn’t is either lying or a damn idiot. I’m in love with you. Have been for ages.”

You can barely believe it. You laugh softly, almost disbelieving, out of pure happiness. But then you turn serious again.

“Then why don’t you want it?”

“Because,” he gestures at himself, “I’m me. You should hate me—like the rest of this damn town!”

You look at him, questioning. He rolls his eyes.

“Darling, please. I’m loud, obnoxious. I listen to metal, barely have friends, play DnD, and random assholes beat me up for fun! Because they think I’m doing satanic rituals or something!”

“And? Did it work?” you ask curiously.

He grins.

“Not really. I only summoned you.”

You laugh softly.

“So it did work.”

He doesn’t laugh—just looks at you very seriously.

“You’re the complete opposite of me, and that’s exactly why it’d be smarter for you to hate me too.”

“Hm,” you hum, your fingers tracing across his stomach, watching him flinch, “so far, you’ve only given me reasons to hate them. Not you. Quite the opposite.”

He inhales softly, like your words truly caught him off guard. His eyes rest on your face—long, intense—like he wants to memorize every little movement, every micro-expression.

“Quite the opposite, huh?” he repeats, whispering.

You just nod, your fingers now drawing lazy circles on his skin—casual, but you know exactly what you’re doing. And so does he. You see it in the way his breath hitches, the goosebumps rising on his arms.

“You know…” he begins, voice rough, vulnerable. “I really believed someone like you would never be in my life. That it just wasn’t possible. Not for someone like me.”

“And now?” you ask softly.

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Now I’m scared I’m gonna mess it up anyway.”

You lift your head and look at him seriously. “Then don’t.”

Simple. Clear. No drama.

Eddie looks at you like you’ve just said something almost impossible. Like a spell he’s afraid to believe in, but desperately hopes is real. Then he takes your hand, brings it to his lips, and gently kisses your knuckles.

“I can’t promise you anything,” he says quietly. “I’m chaotic, sometimes I’m a coward. And I have no idea how to do this… the right way.”

“Then we’ll learn together,” you say.

There’s silence for a moment.

Then he pulls you gently down, so you’re lying half on top of him, still holding your hand. His other hand strokes your hair, his touch almost reverent. As if you might slip away if he doesn’t hold on.

“You know I’m a little bit in love with you right now, right?” he murmurs.

“Only a little?” you tease.

“Alright,” he whispers, “a lot. Probably too much.”

You pull him closer, resting your face in the crook of his neck. His heart races. So does yours. Time seems to vanish. You have no idea how long you lie like that.

Then Eddie whispers into the silence, “I didn’t even know you liked me. Like that.”

“Neither did I,” you admit. “If I hadn’t stumbled into that fight by chance, I probably never would’ve figured it out.”

“Hm… maybe I should thank Jason then?”

“Don’t you dare,” you say, mock-serious. “That idiot would get the wrong idea.”

When he laughs, your head bobs with him, and he says again: “Ouch.”

Something comes to mind that makes you grin mischievously. You lift your head and look at him. He returns your smile but still looks a little confused.

“My mom used to say… you should kiss wounds to help them heal faster.”

You slowly lean forward. Brush a gentle kiss on his swollen eye. Then lower, to his ribs—another kiss on the bruised skin. Further, to his forehead, where you place a soft kiss on the bandage. Then you pause—before kissing his lips. Softly. Gently. Almost reverently.

And you feel how fast his heart beats—a rapid staccato under your hand.

Eddie looks at you with wide eyes after the kiss. His lips slightly parted, like he can’t believe this just happened. But you want more. Your lips find his neck—soft, tender. You kiss him where his skin is most sensitive. Then you move on—over his shoulders, to his collarbones. Everywhere your heart leads you. You feel how Eddie holds his breath under your touch, how his muscles twitch—not from pain, not this time.

Then he gently pulls you up, drawing you close. His hands find your back, and he kisses you—deeper, more intensely. His breath mixes with yours, his heart so loud you swear you can feel it in your own chest.

“I have to take advantage of this… while I’ve still got the ‘injured guy’ bonus,” he murmurs into your mouth with a smirk.

You laugh—soft and genuine—stroking his cheek. “Forget it. I’m going to kiss you every day from now on. Injured or not.”

“Good deal,” Eddie says, before kissing you again. And again.

This time, you dare to touch his crotch again. After your conversation, his erection had subsided, but now you feel him grow hard once more under your hand.

“May I?” you ask softly. He nods, swallowing hard.

You undo his belt, then his pants. He winces when he lifts his hips for you to tug them down a bit, but he doesn’t look unhappy.

“Okay, wow,” you say when you see him. His legs, his boxers forming a delicate tent.

“Don’t say it like that,” he murmurs, actually blushing.

Slowly, you slide his boxers down and inhale sharply when you see his cock.

It’s bigger than expected. Thick.

“Jesus,” you whisper. You run your fingers along his length, brushing over the tip. He twitches, and Eddie exhales, sinking back into the cushions.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper—and you mean it. Eddie moans in response.

Encouraged, you wrap your hand around him, stroking up and down, faster. With your thumb, you massage the tip, spreading the precum.

“Babe,” he groans, gripping your thigh. He spreads his legs a little more and you cradle his balls with your other hand. They’ve already drawn up close to his body.

Eddie whimpers, bites his lip, squeezes his eyes shut.

“Too bad you’re injured,” you sigh softly. “Otherwise you could fuck me tonight.”

At those words, he lets out a strangled cry. As he comes, his hot cum spills over your hand. His cock pulses, and he pulls you into a kiss. Deep. His tongue slips into your mouth, and only when you both run out of breath does he break away.

“Darling, you can’t just say shit like that,” he murmurs. “How am I not supposed to come instantly?”

You kiss the tip of his nose, grab a tissue, and clean him up—slowly, gently.

The next day, you enter the school together – hand in hand. The hallway falls silent, but only for a moment. Then the whispering starts. Eddie is still limping slightly, holding one side, and looks like he got caught in a lawnmower. Still, he looks proud and happy.

You’ve got a solid black eye that you don’t even try to hide. It’s not you who should be ashamed of it.

Everyone’s eyes are glued to you. There's whispering, staring, surprise. And of course… then they come.

Jason and his guys.

They stop in the middle of the hallway, blocking your path. Jason lets out a mocking laugh when he sees Eddie.

“Well, would you look at that. The freak’s walking again. And this time, with company.”

Then he sees your hands. And the look on his face shifts – from disbelief to open ridicule.

“Well, well, Munson,” he jeers. “Do we have to beat the shit out of you first before you can finally get laid?”

Eddie’s eyes darken, his hand twitches in yours, but you're faster. You feel your blood boil, and without thinking, you take a step forward. Then another. You grab Jason by the collar and slam him against the lockers. The sound of metal echoes through the hall.

“I do strength training,” you hiss in his face. “If you think yesterday was all I’ve got, you’re dead wrong. That was a lucky hit, asshole.”

He swallows, caught off guard. But you’re not done yet.

“If Eddie ends up with even one more scratch, I’ll hunt you down. One by one. I’ll find you. And I’ll beat the living hell out of you. So bad you’ll be carrying your teeth to the dentist in a bag. Got it?”

Jason says nothing. None of his buddies do. And then, they back off – silent, hunched, their coolness crumbling like old brickwork.

You turn to Eddie, suddenly unsure. Was that… too much?

But he looks at you like you’re a goddamn Amazon. In his eyes: awe. Affection. And so much more.

“Wow,” he whispers. “No one’s ever… done something like that for me.”

You want to say something, but he gently pulls you in – carefully, mindful of his ribs – and kisses you. Slowly. Tenderly. And you know, without him needing to say a word: you didn’t just defend him.

You showed him he matters to someone. Really matters.

[obessioncollector]

loser!perv!rodrick x bimbo!popular!f!reader

warnings: head, m!receiving, use of y/n, pure smut, no plot tbh, rodrick is a hoeless, bitchless loser. this is practically a make a wish for him. set in 2007. kind of bad. idk.

to rodrick, you were the epitome of perfection. he’d often stare at the back of your head in math class, imagining his fingers hooked around your hot pink tube top, rolling it down.. pulling on your long bleached blonde hair while you sucked his-

perverted thoughts like this often overcame rodrick’s mind whenever he thought of you. in fact, he’d jerked off to your myspace pics quite a bit. he felt like such a loser in comparison to you. you were this popular cheerleader, and he was just a lame ass drummer with shit grades.

which, is why it was so crazy to him that only a week later you were blowing him in his bands van.

you looked up at him with with innocent, yet somehow knowing eyes.. like it was clear you’d done this before and he hadn’t, and you found that somewhat funny.

you started out slow, it was obvious to you he’d never even touched a girl, let alone gotten head from one, so you didn’t want to rush anything. your fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, pumping him a few times. he was already hard as fuck. you couldn’t help but be slightly impressed by his length, you could tell he was big before this though, he just had that look.. skinny, pale, emo ish, you knew he had to have a surprise package under there somewhere.

slowly, you took just the tip, your plump, glossy lips humming around it. that earned you a slight whimper from rodrick. you pulled away, looking up at him with swollen lips and round eyes. “you’re sooo sensitive..” rodrick nodded, breath hitching. he found the slight valley girl accent you had extremely attractive. “yeah- yeah” his voice cracked the first time so he cleared his throat and tried again, hoping he sounded cool.

you laughed softly before adjusting your position, you could feel the bruises on your knees forming already. you stuck your long, pink tongue out and opened your mouth wide. you were done teasing. you took his full length, deepthroating him. his cock throbbed in your mouth, filling you up as you sucked.

“oh my god-“ rodrick moaned softly, eyes shut tightly, head tilted back. his prominent adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed his own spit. his hand held your head, chipped black nail polish covered fingernails digging into your usually perfect hair.

you bobbed your head up and down, holding back gags as he thrust his hips into your mouth, hitting the dangling thing in the back of your throat that you swore you learned the name of in science one year.. that might’ve been the year you failed…

“f-fuck- y/n..” rodrick whined pathetically as he face fucked you. “no way this is real..”

the van rocked back and forth as he took complete control of the situation. you loved every second of it. you knew he had it in him he just had to stop being such a loser freak and make a move. you moaned around him, loving the fact that you were his own personal pleasure device.

you watched him from below, tracking how his eyes fixed on your tits. the double D’s bouncing up and down in your pink and white polka dot bombshell bra.

you pulled away from him for a split second, gasping for air before immediately going back to work, rosy cheeks hollowing around his slick cock. it had only been a couple minutes and he’d already reached his climax. you orgasmed with him, the our look on his face making you come too. “y/n- fuck fuck fuck- y/n-“ he pleaded, it was too much for him.

you swallowed it all before pulling away and licking the excess off of him. “good boy.. mhmm..”

[abbotjack]

Wounds Unhealed

pairing : jack abbot x ex-millitary-attending!reader (afab!reader technically if I pursue part two but overall the tone is gender neutral in this)

summary : In the chaos of the emergency department, an ex-military doctor who fled their past is forced to confront everything they’ve been running from when they come face to face with Jack. They struggle to navigate the remnants of their broken relationship.

warnings/content : Trigger warning for grief, PTSD/Survivor's guilt, self-harm, suicide attempt, trauma , emotional abuse(?), flashbacks to combat trauma, violence (graphic descriptions of injury and blood), language, potential medical errors (as I am a math major), dead dad mention. Very angst.

word count : 2,550

Not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : Ok not sure how I feel about this one! But still wanted to share. If any of you are interested in part two let me know ♡

The emergency department didn’t sleep so much as it simmered.

The lights were too bright, the voices muffled just enough to make everything feel farther away, and the machines ticked with the slow, detached precision of something that didn’t care whether you were ready. You’d only transferred here six months ago, but the tension had never left you—not after the Army, not after your dad, and certainly not after you found out Jack was here. If anything, it had dug in deeper. The quiet in the ER didn’t soothe—it stalked. You didn’t rest between traumas. You waited for the next one to hit.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You came to The Pitt because your father died. Because Cleveland had become too heavy to carry. Every street corner held a memory, every routine a painful echo. Grief hung in the air, thick and suffocating, wrapping itself around everything like smoke. So you left it all behind. And somehow, you ended up here.

He died suddenly. A heart attack. One minute, he was in the kitchen, making your favorite dinner—because you’d promised to come over—and the next, he was gone. No warning. No time. Just a sharp ring in the middle of the night, followed by an all-encompassing silence. You weren’t even home. You were at the hospital—saving someone else. Intubating a stranger. Ordering labs. Doing CPR. You were doing your job.

But not the one that mattered.

You still weren’t sure you’d forgiven yourself for that.

Because you were a doctor. Because you’d memorized the signs. Because the worst part was—you weren’t even supposed to be on that shift. You were covering for a colleague who had a family emergency. If you'd stayed home, if you'd gone to dinner like you'd planned—maybe he’d still be here. Maybe he wouldn’t have died alone on that kitchen floor, waiting for someone who should’ve known better. Someone who was supposed to know how to save him.

And it wasn’t just him.

You thought of all the ones you couldn’t save. The patients back home. The ones you overseas. The ones who looked you in the eyes and trusted you to keep them alive.

You carried them all.

Pittsburgh was supposed to be a clean slate.

It was the kind of irony your dad would've grumbled about for weeks. A lifelong Browns fan, he'd have rolled his eyes at the idea of you living and working in Pittsburgh, of all places. You could almost hear the dry sarcasm in his voice—“So you traded in the lake for black and yellow? That’s how I raised you?”—and the ghost of that teasing made your chest ache more than you were ready for.

You didn’t come to The Pitt expecting to see Jack. It hadn’t even occurred to you that he might be here—until you looked up from a chart, and there he was. Half-turned at the trauma board, shoulders tense, voice low as he gave instructions. And when he glanced over his shoulder and your eyes met, it was like time stuttered to a stop. Your breath caught. Your pen froze mid-sentence. That one glance cracked something open in your chest you thought you’d buried for good.

You’d rehearsed this moment in your head more times than you’d admit—how it would feel to see him again. To stand across from Jack like no time had passed, like the distance between then and now wasn’t filled with everything you never said. You thought maybe you’d feel anger. Maybe peace. Maybe nothing at all.

But standing there, staring at him across the trauma board, it wasn’t any of those things.

It was everything.

The years collapsed in on themselves. Your chest tightened. The ache came back fast, sharp, and blinding.

And threaded through it all, the one truth you hadn’t been able to outrun :

Jack hadn’t come to the funeral.

You told yourself not to care. Told yourself not to expect anything. But part of you had searched for him—in the crowd, in the back, somewhere.

You knew he knew. Word like that didn’t stay quiet—not in your old circles. Maybe someone from the VA passed it along, or a mutual friend from deployment had sent out a quiet message. Jack had ways of hearing things no one expected him to.

But he never called. Never texted. Never showed.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because you didn’t tell him yourself.

You didn’t have it in you. You were too hollow to reach for comfort, too numb to believe he’d even care—not after all the silence, all the years. You hadn’t seen him in so long. Why would he care?

But he did.

You saw it the moment your eyes locked across the trauma board. The instant his breath caught and he looked away—like seeing you was both something he’d been dreading and desperately needing at the same time.

And in that moment, everything shifted.

It hit you because your father had met Jack—years ago, when things had felt simpler. You’d brought Jack home one winter, when flights were too expensive and the stay was brief. Your dad had poured him whiskey, made him feel at home, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

What you didn’t know—what Jack never got to tell you—was that your dad had pulled him aside the next morning. You’d been home less than twelve hours. You were still asleep upstairs, jetlagged and bone-tired. Jack was in the kitchen, helping with coffee, quiet and uncertain in a place that wasn’t his. Your dad had studied him for a long moment before simply saying it: that he’d seen the way Jack looked at you—steady, unflinching, like he’d already made up his mind. That there was a softness in you when you were around him, something rare and hard-earned. That it didn’t feel like he had to worry when you were with Jack.

He told Jack he was the one.

Jack had never forgotten that.

Weeks later, he picked out a ring. He didn’t tell you—not then. He thought he’d have time.

But everything that followed made time irrelevant. The war didn’t stop. The trauma didn’t ease. You both kept going, but never toward each other. After the blast, after the man you couldn’t save, after Jack found you—everything inside you cracked. And once it did, you didn’t know how to look him in the eye anymore.

You didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t explain. You just left.

Just transfer papers. A city with no connection. A number he couldn’t call, and a name that never showed up in his inbox again. You left like you’d never been there. And he let you—because what else was he supposed to do, when silence was all you gave him?

Now it was 3:00 AM, and your gut knew before the pager even buzzed.

Trauma incoming. Field lacerations. Exsanguinating. Unstable vitals. One of those cases that had weight before it even crossed the threshold.

The doors burst open. A man—mid-twenties, bleeding heavily, soaked in sweat and panic—was wheeled in fast. Dog tags around his neck. Vitals crashing.

“Attempted suicide,” the medic snapped. “Self-inflicted lacerations. Found him in his car, barely responsive. No ID except those tags.”

Your whole body locked.

Not because of the trauma. Not because of the chaos. But because he looked like someone you used to be.

And Jack saw it, too.

You could feel his eyes on you before he said a word.

“Back off,” he said quietly, already stepping in front of you.

“Jack—”

“You’re too close to this.”

The words didn’t sting. They steadied you. Like he knew he had to catch you before you broke.

You stepped back without thinking.

You passed Dana in the hallway. She didn’t look up. Didn’t see your hands shaking or the way your mouth trembled. You could’ve been a ghost. And that made it worse.

You found the supply closet and closed the door.

And it hit you.

The man in the trauma bay. The dog tags. The blood. The way he hadn’t screamed, hadn’t fought. Just lay there—silent, resigned, already halfway gone. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen that look. You’d worn it.

That night that changed you wasn’t just one casualty. It was a mass trauma. A convoy ambushed. Bodies dragged in faster than your team could stabilize them. You and Jack were stationed at the clinic tent, barely breathing between patients. You lost count of how many. Lost track of whose blood was on your hands.

One man—someone you knew, trained with—flatlined mid-intubation. You did everything right. You still lost him. And something in you broke. Quietly, invisibly.

When the last patient had been tagged for evac, you told Jack you were going to inventory supplies. Instead, you slipped into a small, dimly lit room off to the side. The door clicked shut behind you, shutting out the chaos. You sank to the floor in your bloodied uniform, shaking, numb.

You pulled the morphine from your personal pouch. Not logged. Not questioned. You knew the dosage. Knew it wouldn’t kill you—not outright—but it might make the noise stop. Might slow down the spinning.

You drew it up and injected it, the cold liquid slipping into your vein with a sense of finality. No hesitation. Just the quiet assurance that, for a moment, you might finally find some peace.

But then, as if on cue, Jack found you.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t call for help. He just knew.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, eyes quickly scanning the scene. One look at the syringe and the emptiness in your gaze, and he didn’t wait. His hands shook, but only for a second before he steadied himself. He didn’t have time for fear or doubt.

“Stay with me,” he said, his voice low, raw—something in it breaking as it reached for you. “Look at me, honey. I’ve got you.”

Without another word, he took the syringe from your hand, his grip firm, almost desperate. He grabbed the Narcan from his kit and pushed the syringe into your arm.

His eyes stayed locked on yours as he checked your pupils, his fingers pressing against your neck to count your pulse. The world outside seemed to disappear, the noise fading into the background. Everything was just about you now, and the panic in his chest was quieted by a single, quiet hope.

“Please,” he whispered, almost too soft to hear. His hands shook, but it was barely noticeable now—like the fear was there, but not enough to stop him from doing what he had to.

You could feel your breath slowly return to a normal rhythm, the fog in your head beginning to lift. The dizziness subsided, the sharp pull of your mind retreating as the rush of life gradually filled you again.

You didn’t cry. You couldn’t. But you leaned into his shoulder when he sat beside you, and he let you stay there for hours.

He never told anyone. Never wrote a report. And when you finally stood up again, it was with his hand at your back.

You never talked about it again.

But the patient in Trauma One—he reminded you. Of yourself. Of that night. Of the moment when all it would’ve taken was one more second alone.

That was the night everything changed.

You shut everyone out after that.

And now he was here. Opening the supply closet door like no time had passed.

“You always run here,” Jack said softly.

You didn’t look at him. “I’m not running.”

“No?” He leaned against the shelving. “Then what is this?”

You stayed silent, and Jack exhaled slowly.

“I’m fine.”

“You were cracking.”

“I didn’t know he’d look like that.”

Jack was quiet, the silence heavier than anything he could’ve said.

“You don’t get to act like you still know me,” you said, finally breaking the stillness.

“I do know you.”

“It’s been years.”

“I still know you.”

He stepped closer. “I should’ve come to the funeral.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Why didn’t you?”

“I thought maybe you didn’t want me there.”

“I didn’t want to be alone.”

Jack’s mouth tightened as he looked down, then back up at you.

“He told me, you know,” Jack said, his voice low. “Your dad. That night at Christmas. He said he thought I was it.”

Your breath caught.

“What?”

“I never told you. Didn’t want to scare you off. I had a ring.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

You stared at him, voice faltering. “I didn’t leave to hurt you.”

“But you still left.”

“I didn’t know how to stay.”

Jack nodded, slowly, like he’d heard it before. “And I didn’t know how to stop hoping you’d come back.”

The silence between you both stretched thin, filled with things neither of you were saying.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you whispered.

You looked at him. Really looked. His face was older, tired, but his eyes were still on you—like nothing had changed.

Jack's voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “You think this doesn’t kill me too? Watching you walk around like you don’t still have a piece of me under your skin?”

Your throat tightened. “I never meant to—”

“But you did.” His voice shook. “You left. You never came back. You let me go. And I still... I still see you every time I close my eyes.”

You stepped forward, just barely. “It wasn’t about you.”

“I know that,” Jack said, his words barely audible. “But it was always you for me.”

You looked down, your voice shaking. “I thought I was doing you a favor. I thought if I disappeared, you’d move on.”

“I don’t want someone else,” he said, his voice steady now. “I want you. Even now. Even when it hurts.”

You closed your eyes. “That’s the problem. I don’t know how to stop hurting.”

Jack swallowed hard. “Then let me help. Or don’t. But don’t keep standing in front of me like I’m the past, when I never stopped waiting for the future.”

You didn’t reach for him.

Not yet.

And this time, he noticed.

Jack blinked hard, like he was trying to push the moment away, trying to stop himself from falling apart. His jaw clenched once, twice, and for a second, you thought he might say something unforgivable, something final.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he took a slow step back, his gaze falling to you. “You’re so rigid,” he said, his voice sharper now, frustration cutting through. “You’ve been working here for six months, and yet your locker is still not unpacked. Like you’re waiting to run again. And I can’t... I can’t do this with you again, if that’s your intention. If you’re just planning to leave me again, like you did before.”

You looked up, lips parted, but no sound came out.

Jack shook his head, the muscle in his cheek twitching. “Don’t stand here pretending like you don’t feel anything. That’s not who you are. And that’s not who we were.”

He lingered for just a moment longer.

Then, he turned and walked away.

No door slam.

Just the sound of your breath catching too late.

Just the feeling that this time, maybe he wouldn’t come back.

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

How would poppy playtime crew react to a kid player? The kid player is wondered where was his friends went (they are dead in Playtime Co.) and kinda got excited when kid player saw the toys

Okay, so, doing the math the oldest the player could reasonably be is about 14~15 years old. So, the player isn't exactly a kid, but mid teen.

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Dogday, Doey, Poppy and Kissy & young Player

Dogday

★ Dogday’s eyes widen when he sees you. His vision blurs, not just from pain, but from the realization that you lived. Now standing in front of him like a beacon of hope. Like an angel. Changed with time but still the same person he knew.

★ Its... strange, strange that you came back. Strange that you remember him and strange you haven't died by now. Why would you come back? You escaped once but returned anyway. The Players all grown up now, like a tragic reminder of what could have been.

★ He knows that your friends have likely died. But he won't be telling you that. Dogday's heart aches, yet he makes the decision to keep quiet. Yes, you will figure it out eventually. No, he won't be the one to tell you. He just can't bring himself to hurt you like that.

★ Dogday is extremely protective of the Player, almost acting like an older sibling. He can't help but see you as that innocent little kid he met before the hour of joy. He still feels the need to shield the Player from harm, much like he did when you were a small child.

Doey

★ By the time you meet him again, you've realized what happened to the other orphans. You were one of them years ago. But thankfully you had been adopted by your parents before the hour of joy. Doey always wondered what happened to you.

★ Despite the years apart, he still remembers when you and Kevin would sneak into the cafeteria to steal extra snacks. Mathew used to tuck you in when it was your naptime. Then things happened, and they were gone.

★ When the player starts to talk about missing their friends, Doey distracts them with whatever he can think of. “Did you know catnap always lands on his feet? Watch this!” He says, trying to keep you from thinking too much. (No Catnaps were harmed during this.)

★ Say “You're not my dad!” to him, and he spends the rest of his day acting like a stereotypical dad from some old cartoon. Just to annoy you and have a little fun. Yes, it was Kevin's idea. Hope you like terrible dad jokes and having your hair ruffled, kiddo! 

Kissy

★ In the orphanage you didn't know her very well, having been put into different groups and being a few years younger than her. As she pulls the lever to help you get through the factory, there’s a momentary pause. The Players face looks familiar, like she knows you somehow, but the details remain hazy.

★ As the Player continues on, Kissy tries to remember how she knows you. But she just can't put her finger on it. When she eventually returns to Home Sweet Home, she sees an old picture of you on the wall. And the pieces finally fall into place.

★ When the Player expresses worry about their missing friends, she can't do much but hold their hand. Offering some support in the only way she can. In times like this, she wishes her voice still worked. That way she could tell you it would be okay.

★ Seeing you alive and well gives her hope. It reminds her that no matter how bad things are, there is always hope for a better future. You survived, she can too. When the Prototype is dead, maybe you could help Kissy make up for lost time.