#Writing this down so I can remember for later

[hyukascampfire]

𝓖INGER & 𝓢NAP ` ꕀ. k.th

you were the last person taehyun expected to appear on his doorstep. sweet and fluffy and oh-so-proper; he never thought he’d see you again. but... there you stand. and, much to his own chagrin, he fears that nobody else could get him more bothered. ׄ ⋆ ִ

་༘ ՚՚ ꒰ 🪵 ꒱ ･ 7.9k

ρairings gingerbread!taehyun x frosty puff!reader

𝒢 ‧̥ smut, fantasy, strawberry shortcake au

⍵arnings brat taming, brat tamer!taehyun & brat!reader, his cum is frosting, creampie, ofc no sex ed in strawberryland, thigh riding, oral m!receiving, cumming into mouth, cum eating, corruption of innocence & innocent!reader, banter, chubby!reader and buff!taehyun, manhandling, he throws her around a bit and she's so into it, they don't like each other but also def do, he likes to teach her manners, reader is also spoiled & rich and taehyun is not, hair pulling, he gets mean, no protectiom, let me know if i missed some!

✎୭ ashlynn's note this collab has been seriously so fun. writing fics is fun, but there's something about talking your friends and scheming all the yummy ways you can incorporate certain things into your fic. @thetxtdevil mae baby, thank you so much for being the best and even coming up with this idea. your mind amazes me... like actually. everybody did so unbelievably good, and i'm blessed to have been a part of it. now... let's get foody and smutty lol. some of this was written in a benadryl haze, but that's the fun part. i'm sorry mine came out a lil later than everybody else's, but hopefully it's still fun!

... back to the masterlist ⌇ back to strawberryland

Raising your fist to the door, your knuckles rap against it with a few thick knocks. The door is frosted around the edges in little swirling white puffs of icing, framing the gingerbread door. It’s the same all around his house: gumdrops and candy canes and the like, all twinkling with sugar crystals.

It’s all so sweet—unbelievably so. The man that calls it home is the very antithesis of sweet. He does not take after the gumdrop, nor the sweetness of the icing, and most definitely not the brown sugar and molasses of the gingerbread. Taehyun is the quick snapping of a leg, or the sharpness on your tongue when you get to the cinnamon and nutmeg. 

You loathe it. Even being stood here, knocking at his door, you hate. He is everything uncouth and abrasive—he is everything you should not entertain. 

Here you are, entertaining it. The door swings open. Your fingers and toes have begun to slow with the cold, like frosty-whip in the fridge. Through the forest, stepping over sugar bushes and cocoa streams, you had fought the bite. Why did he have to live all the way out here? Secluded, as though the rest of Strawberryland were beneath his meddling. You know why: it’s that he believes it. He is exactly as your parents told you he’d be, all those years ago. Of course, they were right. They always are.

When he catches sight of you at his door, his distant eyes morph, and his lip tugs into a scowl. The rise of his brows ruffles your feathers with an infuriating ease. “Is there something you want?” he asks. His tone is infuriating, too. It’s the kind of question that means much more beyond the words said. You catch exactly what he means—how he intends to get under your skin.

Hidden behind the door, he has one hand on the handle. It's an unspoken thing, too. He wants you to remember that he could close it. You can’t let him, or else you’ll have drug your pretty new furry winter boots through the powdered snow for him to slam a door in your face. “Yeah, actually. There is.” You run preening fingers through the ends of your hair. “We’re partners for the bake-off.”

“I don’t do the bake-off,” he says. His eyes would be chocolate and smooth if it weren’t for the way he wields them sharp. “Sorry. You’re gonna have to find somebody more your speed for that.”

Barking an incredulous, perhaps even snobby, laugh, you look around. Snow comes down on the ground, sweet and creamy. It’d been enough of a battle to come here. If you were going to give up so easily, you would’ve turned your little bottom around perhaps two hours ago. Does he think you hadn’t considered that? It was a long walk; you had plenty of time to mull over the many things he might do. Sometimes, you imagined him diplomatic and affable. You stomped those wispy thoughts out. Perhaps it’s been years since you’ve spoken with him, and perhaps what happened between the two of you is dusted over, but you know better. Here he stands in front of you: bitter as ever. 

“You’re just gonna leave me without a partner?” you say. Your jaw trembles, seized finally by the cold. “Everybody is already paired up. Literally everybody.”

Shrugging, he says, “I don’t see how that’s my problem. I didn’t sign up for it.”

Your brows knit. That means somebody else had signed him up. You have a sneaking suspicion who might’ve—Blueberry Kai always tells you that he just feels excluded. It’s hard not to laugh when he does. Taehyun? Excluded?  He is exactly where he wants to be. Where most are sweet in Strawberryland, the snappy gingerbread finds it easier to justify his bitterness when he lives off in his little gingerbread home, out and away in his own neck of the forest only to be found by a winding gumdrop road, where he can pretend he’s above it all.

It’s entirely ironic. Him, better than you? Gingerbread, and all his ruggedness? His unpolished edges? Once, you’d believed that the two of you weren’t so different. That you could be friends, even. Seeing what he’s grown to be, you think you understand why your parents stepped in. Back then, though, as just that soft little girl who followed the charismatic boy around with crystal stars in your eyes, it had been the worst thing to ever happen to you. He had been so gravity-defying, moving through the soft, marshmallow edges and the sugar-whipped reality of Strawberryland as something different.

No. Not gravity-defying. Rather, in the powdery and sweet sweet Strawberryland, you think that he is the only thing with gravity.

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” he echoes, letting a little patronizing laugh out along with it. “That’s sweet.”

It’s hard not to shift or cross your arms over your chest, abraded by the dripping sneer.

“What? It’s not. It’s not fair that, just because you don’t want to at least give it a try, I can’t participate,” you say. Really, you should just crawl back home and beg to join somebody’s duo, but you can’t lose like that. You can’t lose to him. If you leave it like this, then he’ll have gotten the better of you. 

“Can’t get everything we want, huh?” he says, straightening up and taking the door in his hand once more. “Just because everybody else has bent backward to give you what you want doesn’t mean that I will.”

“Wait,” you say, sighing in a white swirl. “Don’t close the door. Don’t you know your manners? It’s rude. You’re just going to let me freeze out here? I walked all the way out here, and even got snow all over my new boots, just for this, just for you to slam a door in my face? I mean, a gentleman would at least invite me in to warm me up.”

Lips twitching into a laugh and his eyes suddenly alight, he says, “A gentleman, huh?” He pulls the door open a little further. The warmth from his home, warm and spiced and oh-so-inviting like oven-warmed gingerbread, brushes over your twinkling skin. “Sure. Show me your manners, then. I want you to ask me nicely.”

Your jaw tightens. Sending him a once over, sharpening your eyes, you decide to just do it. His tone is nasty, but you don’t want to be disqualified for not having a partner. Even if he’s the worst you could’ve been paired with in all of Strawberryland. Or maybe the best, because it’s a gingerbread house competition this year. “Will you just do it?”

“I said ask nicely. Say please.” 

He wears a mean smile—he’s having fun watching you squirm. So, you make a conscious effort to straighten up. “Will you please be my partner for the competition?” you say, making your voice sugary and batting your eyelashes in an overdone way. He thinks he’s funny.

Stepping out of the doorway, he motions you inside. It might look gentlemanly if it weren't for the sting in his eyes. You swallow down petty words and push through, your arms full with supplies. Arms aching, you finally let them clatter down over the countertop. The inside of his home is fresh-baked and spiced, aromatic like a true gingerbread cookie straight from the oven. You’re sure the glowing fire helps carry the smell in warm air. It wraps your cold bones up and smooths over some of the frayed edges. You’d been out there for so long… Nobody else had to walk that far for their partner.

Better just to get this done as quickly as you can. You just have to put up with him today, and you’ll be done, and then you can have fun with the competition. He won’t even show up for it; you’re sure. 

“I’ll do it all if it’s that big of a deal,” you tell him, laying out the walls and warming the icing between your palms. “You can put the peppermint on, I guess. So then we can say we both worked on it.”

Hair the fluffy brown of true gingerbread and dusted with snowflakes like powdered sugar. Taehyun shakes his head, and it moves with him. “No,” he says, the corners of his lips still turned up as though he knows something you don’t. He rolls the sleeves of his gaudy, knitted Christmas sweater up to his elbows. The corded muscle there, flickering with movement, catches you off guard. Gingerbread, built like that? Tearing your eyes off him with the effort of metal tearing itself from a magnet, you watch him approach the kitchen counters. “I’ll help. We’re partners, right?”

No matter what he says, there’s a twist of something sparkling in those sharp eyes that has you watching him closer—has you trying to gauge exactly what he’s playing at. “Uh… Yeah. Sure. If you want to, I guess.” You gesture at the walls. “Two for us, and ten for display. Can you start the walls?”

“Ten?” he says. “We’re making twelve gingerbread houses?”

With your lips pulled taut, you say, “Yeah… Twelve. Is that too much? I didn’t think any amount of gingerbread houses would be too much for you. That’s a little ironic.” Everything is warm in his home—even when you look down at your own hands to tug off your white woolen gloves, your skin that usually sparkles like frost rests just beneath the surface is tinged with the warmth.

“I can handle it just fine,” he says, taking the wall and base sections of one. “Just wouldn’t want you to ruin your pretty outfit. Twelve is a lot of icing.” He spits the word pretty out like it tastes bad. On his tongue, you’re sure it does. He never cared for pretty things the way you do. Your mommy always said that he was just jealous, but when the both of you were little, before your parents’ meddling, you learned that it was just a different lifestyle. One that you don’t understand, perhaps. Who doesn’t enjoy dressing themselves in lush furs and sugar crystals over their necks? 

“I’ll be fine,” you say, snipping the tip of the piping bag open. “I wore these knowing they’d get dirty. They’re my baking clothes. My boots already got all messed up…” 

“Oh,” he says. “You put on cashmere knowing you’ll get it dirty. Mommy and daddy paid a pretty penny for that, huh? And it’s your throwaway outfit?”

“Look. If you like it so much, I’ll let you have it when we’re done, yeah? Maybe you’ll make a pretty penny off selling it.” You ice a warm white line down the length of a wall. “Can you hurry? I’m already icing. I don’t want to be here all day.”

There’s  a few long, thrumming moments of quiet, where only the sound of your piping back crackling fills his home. Finishing a wall, you tear yourself away from your work to spare a glance his way.

Taehyun’s jaw is tight, a muscle flickering where he grits his jaw in the low light that washes over him. There’s a fire blazing in his eyes, and though he doesn’t turn them on you, the smoke rolling from them is enough to make your skin warm. You’d successfully gotten under his skin. Why stop here, when seeing that look on his face is so fun? He looks as sour as an apple; as spiced as cinnamon. “Wall?” you say, sharp and haughty as you offer your hand out to him in an impatient demand.

Snapping his head up, he hands you a wall with the heat of a thousand ovens in his face. You feel the scald he intends for you with it, and you revel in it.

You bark commands at him, watching his shoulders grow tense and his lips twitch with each. Crush the candy canes, you tell him. Melt the icing. Sprinkle these over that. Soon enough, you’re sitting back and watching him work more than anything.

He doesn’t say a word. You see them brimming in his eyes, but he doesn’t let them burst out all venomous like you know he wants to. It’s quite the show. 

“Would you at least help me hold this up?” he says, holding the walls of a house together with one hand. His hands are a mess of runny sugar and powdered sugar for snow, and yours are perfectly clean. You can at least help a little bit if you want to claim any part in the competition. 

You reach for the piping bag, fat with the sweet sweet icing, and straighten a wall up. You trace the seams with it, thick and like glue. With a bit too much pressure, the side of the bag bursts. White rivulets of slow icing run down your fingers and over the table. You curse, dropping it to the counter. That’s all of your icing, flopped down and deflating over the surface all sad-like. It’d been so much, that you thought it would last you each house and then some. Of course, you hadn’t brought extra.

Bringing your sticky fingers up to your mouth, you suckle the mess off. It’s so very sweet—warm and weeping, nutty and spiced with something like nutmeg. It’s Taehyun: the smell of it, the way it spreads over your tongue… You stick your tongue out to catch it where some drips down your forearm. “Mmm,” you say, sticky-armed. “Tastes good.” That’ll be good on the gingerbread houses; maybe the two of you do have a chance at winning. 

When you look up to Taehyun, he stands frozen in place, his hands still holding up a half-constructed gingerbread house. His eyes are different. It’s a look you don’t recognize—a look you’ve never seen before. Rather than deep and warm, his eyes are blackish and heavy. A swallow goes down his throat; a tense, barely contained thing.

 You frown, your lips still a sugary mess. “I didn’t mean to make a mess. Sorry. I’ll clean it up…”

Clearing his throat, Taehyun says, “Yeah…”

He watches you clean the counters, where the icing had pooled, and now the bag is empty, with the same intensity. You can feel it on your skin in a foreign, itching way. You swipe and scoop and work at the spill, and still, he watches. He does not speak. 

You survey the houses you’ve managed to finish. They’re pretty, and absolutely competition ready: looping swirls of icing like shingles on the roofs, peppermint chunks all red and white catching light where you’d sprinkled them into the frosting, gumdrops lining the paths true to Taehyun’s own home, and powdered sugar sifted over the entirety of it like snowfall. It’s all great, but there are only four.  “What are we supposed to do now?” you say, lips pouty. “That’s all the icing I brought. We literally can’t make any more.” You wipe at a smear on your cheek. How’d that get there? “I think I’m gonna have to come back tomorrow… Can you hold on to the houses for me?”

“Yeah—yeah, sure. Tomorrow,” he says, blinking something away. He straightens. “It’s a long walk. I think you should get going.”

You want to say something snarky or ask him why he wants you out of the house so fast, but it’s true. Night’s creeping over Strawberryland, and you have no icing, and tomorrow’s the last day before the bake-off. If the two of you don’t work harder tomorrow than you did today, then you won’t even make qualifications. You’ll lose before even starting.

You never lose. Not like this, and certainly not to the man standing before you. 

ꕀ

“C’mon. You can do better than that, can’t you?” Taehyun says, drooping icing from rooftops like icicles as you sprinkle crushed candies over the top. 

You grit your teeth. If he’d been snappy yesterday, he’s made it his mission to be your worst nightmare today. You think it’s his sort of revenge for ordering him around how you did. “What would you like, then?” you say. Maybe it’s feeding right into what he wants, but your life has lent you a short fuse. “You don’t even care about winning. Why does it matter? Let me do it how I want.”

He’s in another sweater. The sleeves are bunched up to the elbow just like yesterday, but you think he’s making a point with it this time. The shifting of his muscles is a bit too intense for piping icing. You’d made it through three more houses, wrangling your inner demons with each passing snide remark or nasty smile the whole time. It doesn’t help that he keeps his home terribly toasty, and you run cold down to the core. You melt and melt until all that is left of your temper is a puddle on the floor beneath you. Gone. 

“We’re partners, remember?” he says. He doesn’t even look at you as he says it. “I don’t do things half-assed, Frosty.” 

You’re sent reeling with the old nickname. It’d been sweet then, back when it was just the two of you against the world, but now it’s gone sour like milk. It even comes from his mouth soured. It’s something that you thought you’d left a million lifetimes ago, never to hear again. With Taehyun, though, it’s hard to pretend that you are no longer that. 

He will not let you forget that, at one point, the two of you were friends. An unlikely pair, especially looking at you now. You thought it was all nothing to you, but seeing him has kicked up dust. 

“You don’t?” you say, shooting him a quick glare from the side of your eye. “That’s funny.”

Strong brows shooting up, Taehyun quits mid-piping to look at you. “Funny? What’s funny about it to you?”

You can’t settle the obnoxious smile that curls at the edges of your mouth, mean and taunting and falsely sweet. “Oh, nothing.” You shake a sifter full of powder against your palm. It falls like true snow down over the house. 

“No, tell me,” he says, his eyes trained and heavy on your dismissive shrug. “Tell me what you think of me. I wanna hear it.”

Oh, this will be good.

“It’s just that,” you say, “you’re not really known for doing things the best way, you know? Living all the way out here, an ass when anybody tries to talk to you… Well, really, it’s just that nobody likes you. But, don’t worry! I’m sure there’s at least somebody that does.”

His face falls, the twinkle of delight at taunting you that he’d been holding in his eyes gone away. All that’s left is the peaking of something deeper and roiling from out of the cracks. You get the funny feeling that maybe you’ve taken it a step too far.

But, you never lose.

“Is that what it is?” he says. “I work for my shit. You? Everything you’ve ever had has been handed to you.” He measures his words delicately. Like a measuring cup full over the top, he cuts the excess words and coarseness off. He doesn’t say all that he thinks, but you see all he leaves unsaid toiling furiously behind his eyes. 

His eyes. They’re clear and, sharp as they are, they pin you. It’s a reflection of that look he gave you yesterday: deep and swirling and wild. It’s more than that, this time, though. It’s laced with anger and bursting at the seams of him. You’re not sure he’ll be able to hold back whatever it is that storms just beneath his skin, this time.

“It is,” you say, punctuation your words concisely. “It’s exactly why my parents said I shouldn’t hang out with you. They said that I’m above… all this.”

Oh, you’ve absolutely taken it too far now. You don’t really mean it. Sure, that’s what they told you, but you don’t really believe it. For some time, you did, but not now. It’s too late for sorries, though. Taehyun’s jaw goes tense.

For a long, awful moment, you just stand there and burn in his silence. It’s worse than any words he might spit. It’s hot—hot, hot, hot, and you turn liquid in it.

In a blink, nothing more, you collide against his countertop. Something clatters and thuds behind you. The gingerbread houses? That doesn’t matter right now—all that your dizzy mind can manage is his body crushing you and his fingers biting into the plush of your cheeks.

Where he had fractured, like true gingerbread, he snaps. You can see it in his eyes; even you know when you’ve pushed too far. Perhaps you ought to have seen this coming.

His knuckles curl white around the edge of the counter beside you, and his fingers dig deeper into your face. He’s oh-so-hot up against you. “I’m sick of your fucking mouth,” he snarls. His breath is hot as it fans over your face, too. “Someone needs to put you in your place. Where are your goddamn manners?”

Your heart thrums in your chest, and your pulse goes wild in your neck. You can’t form the words to answer him.

“Quiet now, huh?” he says. The husk in it makes the place between your thighs feel weird. You don’t know what’s wrong with you.

He shut you up real quick. You’ll give him that.

That funny feeling does flips, roaring to life when his fingers hook under the waistband of your bottoms. “That’s your problem.” His eyes send a chill up and down your spine. “You’ve never been told no. You’ve always gotten what you wanted.” Peeling down all the layers, he tugs your knitted stockings and your little fur skirt, and your sweet frosty panties, too. They bunch at your feet. Between your thighs, right where those foreign, throbbing waves reign, cool air laps at a wetness there. The hair all over your body rises. You’ve never felt anything like it. “Not with me. I'll set you straight. I don’t put up with spoiled brats.”

“I’m not a brat,” you say. “You’re just an ass.” They’re the first words that come to you. Damn your temper.

With the same hand he’d been holding your face in place with, he curls his fingers right into your scalp and yanks hard, baring your neck to him. You lose a strained squeak, tears pricking the corners of your eyes at the sting. If your heart had been racing before, it runs wild, now. You strain your eyes to look at him and his curled lips. Painted with a sneer, he says, “Watch your mouth.”

A swallow goes down your throat hard. It’s all unfamiliar: the aching between your thighs, the burning in your blood, and the dazing of your thoughts. “Taehyun, I… I feel weird. It feels weird.”

Something knowing passes over him. “Yeah?” he says. “Show me where. I can help.”

Show him? You hesitate, searching his eyes for an ounce of joke or aversion. You find none, and that pounding is syrupy-sweet, and he says he can help. That’s all you want; all you need. Taking a trembling hand, you bring it down your body, running the palm down the planes of your belly and resting it just over the spot where the lower bit gives way to the apex of your thighs. Going any further—the thought tightens your throat and pinkens your cheeks the color of strawberry frosting. “There. It feels weird there.”

Taehyun smiles a snappy, spiced smile. He likes that. “Want me to make it feel better?”

Your thoughts feel replaced by something powdery and weightless. You give him a dumb nod.

“Say please.”

Something bratty crawls up your throat, but you want help, and he’s the one who will give it to you. He’d meant that: teaching you a lesson. Melted around the edges already, you say, “Please, help make it feel better.” Your voice wavers.

“There we go. That’s how good girls talk. That’s how you ask to get what you want.” He nudges your thighs apart with a knee and slots it between them, pressed right up against that coolness. Right up against that need. “Grind down on it.”

Neck aching at the angle, you say, “Grind?”

He brushes his clothed thigh right up against you. The friction is delicious—sweet and melty and just what you need. It shoots yellow sparks throughout you.

It feels so good. Your mouth waters in anticipation.

“Grind,” he says. It’s harder, this time. Not a sweet suggestion.

You bring yourself back down on it, gasping at the contact, and you do. You grind, tummy tightening at every brush of the fabric hard and delicious. Your chest constricts, one hand flying up to dig your fingers into his shoulder and the other fighting the hand he has still in your hair. It aches and hurts, and so does the friction as you grow more gaspy and frantic. 

It feels so, so good. You want more—you want him to touch you there and everywhere else. He smells just right all over you, nutty and musky like a gingerbread twist. “Taeh—hyun,” you mewl. It burns, but something slick eases the burn a little bit. Just enough for you to enjoy that burn.

“That’s it,” he coos. It’s not a sweet coo; it’s the type of sound one might make when you play right into their mean game. It’s mean. “Make yourself a mess on my thigh. I don’t even have to touch you. What would mommy and daddy think of you now, huh? What would they think if they saw their precious princess fucking herself on my thigh?”

No. That would be the end of you. You whine, thighs twitching. Something twists in your center, scary and foreboding, and still you chase it. None of your thoughts are solid enough to stop. Each time he flexes a muscled thigh or presses it harder into you, you shudder and curl your fingers into his shirt harder. 

“Don’t like that, huh?” he laughs. “Then you haven’t learned your lesson. You’re no better than me; I mean, look at you.”

You want to cry when he pins your hips back to the counter, stilling your wild bucking. Squeezing your eyes shut, you claw and reach for that wave, even as it recedes from you. “Why?” you say, voice thin. It’d been so yummy—the sweetness still rests on your tongue. Your heart thumps hard, longing for it.

“I said, look at yourself,” he growls, taking his hold on your hair to crank your head down.

Right where you’d been on his thigh, there’s a sticky, marshmallowy mess. Your mess. 

Taehyun releasing his grip on your hair is almost a relief, but he doesn’t even give you time to relish it. The walls of his house blur around you. All that you register in between the motions is his shoulder in your belly and your limbs dangling from you. You dig your hands into his back to balance yourself, but he’s got you.

He has you slung over his shoulder. He’s carrying you like you weigh nothing at all. That place between your thighs flutters anew. In all your life, you never worried too much about the plushness of your belly or your thighs. It is who you are; all mallow and soft around the edges and starkly sweet. But you did get nervous when somebody tried picking you up. Usually, you protest and giggle it off. Watching somebody strain to pick you up when they lift other girls like sacks of flour is just something that makes you feel a little strange.

But, Taehyun does not strain. He doesn’t huff; he carries you right down the hallway and into his room, and he even manhandles you down onto the bed with a bounce without so much as a sound. He is a solid pillar beneath you, and then he is a solid, muscled chest above you. With strong fingers, he pins your hands to the mattress above you. With the other, he leads your shirt up.

He’s so warm against your cold skin. His breath like waves from the oven over your mouth, he says, “You think you’re so much better than me because you have all this?” Curling his fingers around a necklace circling your throat, he tears it off with a clattering of a few snow-drop beads.

 You gasp, glaring right into his eyes. “What the hell?” you hiss, arching your chest to wiggle beneath him. Your necklace. Who does he think he is, breaking your stuff? That was one of your favorite necklaces, and now it lies all over his floor. Still, your center pounds and longs for the return of his touch. Everything about him just calls for more from you. You don’t know how you went so long without him, or how you made yourself forget just how drawn you are to his magnetism. Maybe he is just what your parents turn their nose up at, and you too, but that does not make him any less a powerful personality. 

He knows exactly who he is and what he wants, as solid as the gingerbread cookie. And you, plush and impressionable as whipped marshmallows, take to him just right. It’s something you once knew, but the sneered words of adults obscured that memory.

“Don’t whine,” he says. “I want to see your pretty neck without all that shit. That’s your problem: you’re spoiled.” He reaches down to mess with his pants.

His length springs free. Cheeks flushing, you take it in. You can’t look away, even as embarrassment crawls spindly legs over your skin at the interest you take in the sight. You’ve never seen anything like it—long and hot and weeping something thick and white from the slit at the pinkish tip. A pearl of it dribbles down, landing on your belly in a string where he holds it.

Taehyun collects that wetness and then urges more from the tip with a few drags down the length of it. Wrapping his fingers around it, he begins to slowly work his fist up and down it. It’s nothing short of impossible to tear your sights off it—it’s another thing that inexplicably fans the flames of something roaring in your center. “Do you want to touch it?” he says, watching your tongue dart out to wet your lips. 

The sight of him growing restless over his pumping fist is enough to get you nodding. 

“Fuck,” he says, sharp and under his breath. He lets his hand off it. “Go ahead. Touch it. I won’t tell anybody you did.”

When he frees your pinned wrists, you reach out a slow hand. You curl your fingers around it the way he had. Your fingers don’t even touch around jt. The weight and warmth of him in your palm makes your blood tingle. Looking up, you search for guidance in those intelligent, swirling eyes. His bangs hang over his eyes as he watches.

Placing his hand over yours, he drags it up and down his rigid length the way he had been doing a few beats ago. “Like that,” he says. “Just like that.”

You pump your closed fist up and down him, encouraged to squeeze harder and flick your wrist faster with each tight breath he lets slip. The skin of your palm gets stickier and stickier, the slick sounds sending your ears and core burning just the same. You like that it makes him feel good—that he’s making those noises just for you. 

He twitches under your fingers. “Feels just like I thought your pretty hands would…” he says, stomach tight. “See—what happens when you give up that bratty fucking act? Shit… harder—give it to me harder, Frosty…” Shivering at the name, you oblige him. You reach your thumb up and collect more of that beaded liquid from the slit, and you work your arm harder. Faster. Your forearm begins to burn, but you don’t let it slow you. All you want is more of this; more of him. Finally, he lets sounds out from his chest freely. He grunts and hisses through his teeth, letting his head fall back. “Holy shit. I’m gonna—gonna ice your face, okay?” he says. “You said you liked the taste, huh? Wanna taste it again? Give me your tongue…”

Whatever that means, you push yourself up and situate your face in front of his length, your tongue out. Taehyun’s sounds tighten, and his hips begin to stutter and chase your hand. He picks his head back up to look down at you half-lidded—to watch. With only a few last runs of your palm down his length, skin so slick that your hand just slips and slides up him, he growls through gritted teeth. The weight of him in your working hand twitches once more, and from that weeping tip he shoots dancing ribbons of white. It lands on your tongue hot and sweet, melting out all spiced and snappy.

Snappy like gingerbread. Like gingerbread icing. Swallowing it down, you meet his gaze. He pants, chest rising and falling, but there’s something clear and knowing in his heavy eyes when you do. You think you know now, why he’d been so dazed as you made a show of licking that same sticky icing off your hands and said how good it tasted. 

When you release him from your palm, it glistens with his sweet essence. He softens in front of your eyes just the littlest bit.

Eyes just as hungry and still catching his breath, Taehyun says, “Open your mouth. I wanna see your tongue.”

Belly doing wicked twists, you do. You stick your tongue out for him, still laden with the headiness of his taste. He does taste good. 

“Swallowed it all down?” he says, eating the sight of you with your mouth dropped open up. “You really are so nasty. They all think you’re so sweet—you think you’ve got them all wrapped around your finger.” He pushes you back down to the bed with a palm. “Well, not me. I know that you’re just as filthy as you are spoiled. Somebody had to deal with you.”

Like always, snarky words swirl in your mouth. All it would take is letting them fall off your tongue. But you don’t—not with the feeling between your thighs, and not with the way your blood, frost turned to snowmelt, begs for him to fix it. Not when you know that all it will get you is more of Taehyun’s wrath. 

It’s not like what he says is true, or anything. That’s what you tell yourself anyway.

“Taehyun, please. I need it…” He takes a marshmallow thigh of yours, pressing it up so that it melds with your belly. Cool air reminds you once more of that strange wetness between them.

Dark, blown eyes catching the sight of it, his lips quirk into a scoff. “Need what?” he says, reaching a hand down. At the contact of his fingers, just as they had against his thigh, your hips jolt and an explosion like the breaking of sugar glass shoots down the muscles of your thighs. He scoops that stickiness up from its source, bringing the soft cream up to his mouth. Tongue darting out, he has a taste of you just as you had tasted him. “Shit—you taste good too, frosty. You’re so sweet, how’d you turn out like this? That’s okay. I’ll deal with you, and then you’ll be just as sweet as you taste.” That fat tip of him presses flush to the source of all your want. “I’ll straighten you out.”

You don’t know what that means, and you are absolutely sure that you don’t deserve it, but any sass is staunched with the utter sweetness of the stretch in your center. Taehyun presses his hips up into you, slowly and internalizing the dropping open of your mouth, the pinching of your brows into a worrying line, and the press of your palms to his broad chest. He takes it and metabolizes it down like cream cake or the plumpest fruits, and he gives you more. More, all the way up until there is no length of him left to give, and nowhere else for him to go.

You feel so, so full. No amount of twinkling jewels or new skirts hold a candle to this. You don’t know what it is, and you don’t know why Taehyun knows, but whatever. Who cares? Breathing out a shudder, you squirm beneath him to search for that dazzling feeling he’d made you feel earlier.

“Stay still,” he barks, steadying himself beside your head with a sturdy, powerful arm. When had he lost his sweater? You don’t know. You might drool over the definition and warm skin there if he didn’t pull the length of him out until just the tip of him threatens to pop out, and then drive right back in before you could. A gaspy breath falls from your mouth, devolving into mewls and whimpers when he does the same over and over and over again, quick with snapping hips and the smacking of his skin against the soft skin of your bottom. Your thigh quivers in his hold, his fingers digging into the fluff of your thigh as he holds you into it. 

Each and every time he slides up against something inside you that makes you feel different. Different from what you felt when you were on his thigh, and different from anything else you’ve felt in the entirety of your life. It’s deeper, right at the very bottom of your belly, sending your veins lazy and your hips twitchy. You want to chase it as much as you want to hide from its power, so all you do is stay in a hazy limbo of sharp gasps and long, drawn out mewls for more.

“No,” he says, his face right in yours. The smell of him, manly and so very sweet like oven-warmed gingerbread, settles over your bones and wiggles its way through your thoughts. It does something to your melted mind, planting a need to cling to him right in the center. Your hands perch all over him: the hair at the back of his head, his working waist, his biceps that flex and strain with his effort, and finally around him so that you can push your cheek to his chest and feel his heart racing there. “You’ll take exactly what I give, and thank me for it. You don’t get to ask for more; not with your mouth.”

“Why?” you say, whining. “I want it—so bad. Please? I’ll be so… so good…” Your voice bounces with each collision of your bodies, and your toes flex and curl at the twisting in your core. Nonetheless, you want more. Whatever this is—this syrupy, pure goodness—Taehyun has shown you something that you will never be whole without again. He has bloomed a flower right in the chest of you, something hungry that will want and want this, and you fear that he will be the only one able to satiate it. 

The thought of the smile he’ll wear, should you come crawling back to his doorstep just for this… 

Taehyun stops, pushing off you with a curled lip. “What will it take to get you to fucking listen?” he says. He pulls himself from you, leaving you to whine and long for that feeling once more. You want to complain and pull him back over you, but with the fire churning in his dark gaze and the sight of his length, covered in that same white, whipped stuff you’d left all over his thigh. 

You’d made a sticky, frosty, frothed mess all over him once again. Really, what would people think of you now? Your mom? Your dad? 

Manhandling you again, he flips you onto your hands and knees and shoves your face into the bed. Any yelp or gasp that tears from your chest is muffled into the sheets. Taking the swell of your hips, his fingers like bites against the powdery, soft skin there, his voice comes from behind you. “Won’t you just listen to me? If you’re gonna be mine, you’re gonna have to start learning how to hear no.” Curling your hair up and pulling it like a handle, he snaps your head back into another stinging, awful tug. It turns the arch of your back into something that you can imagine is a sight to be seen. If the burning where you feel his eyes raking down the curve of it has something to speak of it, that is. You squeeze your eyes shut as if that’ll help you any. “You don’t get everything you want. That’s not how this works.”

You don’t say anything. You have nothing good or sweet left to say.

“Say thank you, and I’ll give it to you good, okay?” he says, running a flattened hand down your spine. “That’s all I want to hear. Show me you can be good.”

The last thing you want to do is to thank him. That would mean admitting that you’ve lost, and that ruffles your preening feathers. But you want that goodness back, you want his hips snapping into you and that tight knot back in your belly. You’d do anything for it; even forget your ego.

Your mind is gone, anyway. Whatever your rational self would do, it doesn’t matter. There’s one thing that you want right now, and getting it is so easy. “Thank you, Taehyun. Thank you so much… I’m sorry I’ve been a brat, and I’m sorry about what I said to you. Please, just… help me. Please, I need you so bad.”

You? Sorry? It’s absurd, and yet, you entirely mean it. Maybe it’s your lazy brain talking, or maybe he really has won.

“See? So sweet when you act right,” he says. “Let me show you what happens when you do.”

You could cry real tears when he sets that same pace, his hands bracing on your hips to pull you deeper into each thrust and the front of your body bouncing against the sheets with each. Your cries grow hoarse and beyond needy, and your insides twist and turn even more dangerously.

You are on the brink of something divine. Something that will melt down so well, good on the tongue and as smooth as chocolate, but as sharp as the snapping of gingerbread.

And, snap, he has.

“Yes!” you cry, straining your shoulders as you reach behind you and curl your fingers around the place where he meets your skin. “S..So good! Right there—thank you, Taehyun!”

He doubles down on you. His length hits a spongy spot in your core, pounding up against the walls there and turning your insides against you. It’s almost too good. “There we go,” he says, voice shaking with a growl. The delivery of his thrusts grows sloppy. You think he feels just as good as you do. “That’s what—” Falling over you, he supports himself with each strong arm dug into the mattress beside your head, his solid front melded to your soft back. “That’s what I like to hear. Here you go—fuck, I’m gonna give you what good girls get, okay?”

You hope it’s more of that melty icing he shot from his length earlier. The knot in your belly tightens, just on the brink of a glittery, bright explosion. “Mhm!” you say, your voice cracking. You want it—you want it so bad. The intensity of it, turning over in your veins and rendering your thighs jelly, sings in your ears. It’s a frightening greatness, but you rage against the urge to drop your hips into the mattress and run from it. You need to finally taste what you’ve been chasing. “Taehyun! Right there—please, don’t stop!”

You were demanding more from him again, but Taehyun didn’t stop this time. Not when his growls and whines against your shoulder tell you enough about how he’s feeling. He tongues and nips at your shoulders, the only sounds echoing off the walls of his room, the hollow smack of his hips against your bottom, and the only smell of the sweet mingling of his gingerbread sharpness against your heady marshmallow. It’s good enough to eat.

Crying out with a frantic whine, the feeling deep in your belly changes once more, and you’re writhing and squirming against him. Your hips buck and chase and run, wild and just as explosively as the tightness shooting down your thighs and up through your lower back.

Everywhere. You feel it everywhere. It’s in the continued bouncing of your body, in each nudge of his tip to a sweet, spongecake spot deep inside you, in his breathless pants into your skin, and in the curling of his fingers into your hair when he releases a hip to do so, and in your pleads when he chases his own delicious release. Your throat tightens, and suddenly the sheets are all too warm around you, and you realize with blistering intensity that another one of those knots builds up in your belly. It’s quicker, short, and bright. You’ve barely even made it through the last, but still, it comes.

“Holy shit,” he growls, hips stuttering and then stilling. He reaches a hand down between your thighs and finds a very sweet button. The breath in your throat catches, and in nothing more than a blink of an eye, you crash again, and then your bodies are two twitching, elated things. He presses himself impossibly deeper into you before shooting that same hotness, sweet ropes of sugary icing right into you, and your fluttering insides hold him tight and eat it up. Your heart pounds in your chest, running amok in your ears and your neck, and you try to catch running breaths to no avail.

Occasionally grinding up into you, though there is hardly any space between your joined bodies to do so, Taehyun shoots more lazy spurts for a few long moments. His breaths slow against your skin, and yours do in your chest. Slowly, you recover as two entangled bodies, all clammy and melted like left in the oven for a bit too long.

Pressing hot, wet kisses to the back of your neck, and then down your spine when he pushes off you and pulls himself out, his tongue darting out against your skin for some, he says, “Taste so good… So sweet, even on your skin…” He brushes the wild tangles of hair from your face and adds, “I wonder if you’ve gone all sweet inside, too? You look like it…” The mess of you, your thick creaminess staining your thighs and his runny load pooling from your hole, is all over. It even makes the sheets beneath you dirty with dribbles of his release as it drips. “I told you I’d get you sweet.”

If that sluggish, sugary thing moving through your veins is sweetness taking over you from the inside, perhaps you have gone sweet. Or, perhaps you now have every reason to become his worst nightmare—just if it gets you this.

You’ll play sweet for now. The softer kisses he seasons your skin with are no less enthralling than the delightful goodness still ebbing away between your thighs. You think that, for the first time, you have lost. 

And, to your very own dismay, it tastes so very sweet. 

... back to the masterlist ⌇ back to strawberryland

✎୭ ashlynn's note BRAT TAMER TAEHUN, amirite?

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[honeypiehotchner]

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part two

I'm bored so [smashes plate] ANOTHER! I've been writing this faster than I thought I would 🤭 Hope everyone is having lovely and relaxing holidays xx

Warnings: just angst and the case progressing! Hotch is kinda an asshole but it's just how they show their love to each other xoxo

“You and Hotch still got it, huh?” Morgan teases, leaning his head over to grin at you. Part of you missed car rides with Derek, and the other part of you remembers just how much of a little shit he can be.

“Shut up and look at the road,” you mutter, pushing his face away from you.

“I’m looking, I’m looking,” Derek taps the wheel, shaking his head to get your hand off him. “What is it with you two, anyway?”

You shrug nonchalantly. “We’ve never gotten along, you know that. You were there when we met.”

“Uh, yeah, I remember being glad Hotch got all the heat instead of me,” Derek chuckles. “You’re intimidating when you’re pissed off.”

“Good,” you say, smirking. “That’s the point.”

“Alright,” Derek says, letting the topic go. For now. “We’ve got five minutes ‘til we reach her house. What are we telling her?”

“Well, I want to take a look around, if you’d like to talk.”

“I can stall,” Derek nods.

“Five bucks says there will be no pictures of the father in the house, at least not in the living area or hallway, where family photos most commonly are.”

“You sound like Reid,” Morgan quips.

“Our IQ’s are really close,” you remind him. “I just don’t have a damn eidetic memory. That shit is insane. I don’t envy him there.”

“Me either,” Derek shakes his head. “I remember things plenty without a magic memory.”

“I hear that.”

Derek turns into the driveway of Lila’s home. One car is in the driveway, a silver Ford. Her mom’s car.

“Ready?” Derek asks.

“Never,” you reply, opening your door. “But it’s our job.”

Derek knocks on the front door, but stands back so you’re the first face the mom will see. Given who her ex-husband is, you suspect she might be distrustful of all men, regardless of whether or not they’re here to help.

As expected, the mom eyes Morgan’s badge more closely than yours.

“May we come inside?” you ask.

“Yes,” she says, pulling the door open to let you both inside. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Morgan says politely.

After shutting the door, the mom begins talking — rambling incoherently, more like.

“I don’t know what I was thinking, dropping her off at school this morning. I knew something felt off when I woke up, it just— I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Ma’am,” Derek says. “Please, sit down.”

“I can’t,” she says, waving both of her hands like windshield wipers in front of her body. “I need to pace. Helps me think better.”

Derek looks at you, and you shrug. She’s obviously too wound up to sit down. Which is a good sign. If she was indifferent or resigned, there would be a bigger issue at hand. Clearly, she had no idea this would happen, so she definitely wasn’t in on it.

You take a look around the living room while Derek calms the mother down, mostly just letting her ramble, and take mental notes of what to ask her about later.

As you predicted, there are no photos with the father in the picture. All of them are the mother and Lila, mostly baby photos. Lila is a pre-teen, she clearly doesn’t want her photo taken. There is one where Lila looks older, but she’s not happy.

You take a closer look. She’s really unhappy.

“Mrs. Monroe?” You turn toward her, a sympathetic smile on your lips. “Has Lila been depressed lately?”

Her mom nods. “She’s been struggling ever since uhm— Ever since her father left. I’ve had her in therapy every week, but her therapist says she’s not really opening up. She might later, but right now she just doesn’t talk at all. She doesn’t want to.”

“I understand,” you murmur. “You’ve done the right thing by getting her help. Even if it doesn’t seem like it right now.”

“She still ran away!” Mrs. Monroe cries.

“Please,” you move toward her, resting your hand on her arm. “Let’s sit. Can Agent Morgan get you a glass of water?”

She nods, looking up at Morgan. “Thank you.”

Derek disappears into the kitchen.

“What makes you think Lila ran away? Other than her mood, were there any other signs?”

Mrs. Monroe shakes her head. “She’s talked about it before, told me she wanted to run away and that she hated me. I thought therapy would help with that, but it hasn’t.”

“Would her father help her at all? Run away, I mean.”

“Richard?” Mrs. Monroe asks. Derek reappears with a glass of water, handing it to her. “Thank you. No, he wouldn’t, he— She doesn’t even know what he’s done. I’ve never told her.”

“Would she be capable of finding out?” Derek asks. He takes a seat in the chair adjacent to you, resting his elbows on his knees.

“No,” Mrs. Monroe shakes her head. “I monitor all of her Internet searches, who she texts, who she emails, everything. She thinks I drove him away. That I didn’t love him anymore and told him to get out. She doesn’t know that it was because I caught him burying a body.” She sobs into her hand, her words barely decipherable now. “And now she’s gone and she hates me and I don’t even know where she’d go— it’s like I don’t even know my own daughter.”

You take the glass from her hand and allow her to sob into your shoulder. You know what this is like. Because you were once Lila, a runaway who left her mother in pieces until she returned home. Your circumstances were different, but not by much at all.

“We will bring her home, I promise,” you say, despite yourself. Despite not knowing what the rest of this case will entail, what else you’ll uncover. “Did Lila have any friends that you didn’t approve of?”

Mrs. Monroe shakes her head again. “She doesn’t have many friends, but she talks to one girl, Marie, almost every day.”

“Where is Marie right now?”

“At school,” Mrs. Monroe says, sniffling. “I called her mom right away. My mind went to the worst case scenario, you know, I thought Lila would grab Marie and convince her to go with her—”

“Convince?” you question. 

Derek hears you and asks the next question you have on your mind. “Does Lila ‘convince’ Marie to do things she doesn’t want to do often?”

“Sometimes,” Mrs. Monroe admits, beginning to sob again. “Oh, God.”

You share a look with Derek, not liking where this is going, but you don’t know if you’ll get much else out of her right now.

“What things would Lila convince Marie to do?” you ask.

“Just small things, I don’t know,” Mrs. Monroe replies. She’s shutting down. “I don’t know why I said that, I—”

“Okay, okay, it’s okay,” you try to calm her down. “Do you mind if Agent Morgan and I take a look in Lila’s room?”

“How will that help?”

“We might be able to find something that could tell us where Lila might have gone,” Morgan explains. “Sometimes kids leave clues. We might be able to find them.”

Mrs. Monroe nods. “Okay. Can I— Is it alright if I lay down while you do that?”

“Of course,” you smile. “Come on, let’s get you to your room.”

You help her stand and walk back toward her bedroom, getting her inside. She lays down on top of the covers and shuts her eyes.

You close her door and meet Morgan back in the living room, his phone pressed to his ear.

“Y/N’s back, you’re on speaker, Hotch.”

You roll your eyes involuntarily. Hotch couldn’t leave the two of you — mainly you — alone, could he? 

“Alright, I want the two of you to stay there and go through Lila’s room. Tell us anything you find. The school has given Garcia their security camera footage; she’s going through it now. It’s like she’s disappeared into thin air and that is not good.”

“We’ll find her, Hotch,” Morgan says.

Hotch is quiet.

“Mrs. Monroe doesn’t think Richard had anything to do with this. She says Lila doesn’t even know—”

“Morgan told me,” Hotch says. “Call me back when you have something new.” He hangs up and you roll your eyes again.

“I’m gonna keep a tally of how many times you do that,” Morgan teases.

“Be my guest,” you reply. “And keep me updated. I bet it’ll be in the hundreds by the time this case is over.”

Lila’s room is everything you’d expect from a regular pre-teen girl. And reminds you too much of your room when you were her age.

It’s almost like she’s too open. Posters are everywhere. Her favorite movies, actors, and bands. Her bed is made. Her closet is neat. The desk is covered in schoolbooks, yet also clean. 

“Morgan, I know this room.”

He turns around. “What?”

“We can know everything about her from one glance. She’s organized. She loves English, hates science, but is very good at math. She likes alternative music, not boybands,” you point to the posters. “Fantasy movies only. Her closet is too neat. It’s like she’s not even living here.”

“I’m not following.”

“I think she’s been planning her escape for a long time,” you say. “Which makes me think she had help.”

“Okay,” Morgan goes with it. “From who? You heard her mom, she watches everything Lila does.”

My mom did too, you think to yourself as you pull out your phone. You already have Garcia on speed dial, something she suggested for you.

“What can I do for you, my new angel?” 

Morgan chuckles while you answer Garcia. “Can you possibly see the search history after it’s been deleted?”

“Duh,” Garcia says. “Give me the IP address and I can show you all the dirty, dirty secrets on there.”

“Perfect, I’m going now,” you leave Lila’s room, peeking in Mrs. Monroe’s room to be sure she’s still resting. She is. 

You head to the living room where you saw Mrs. Monroe’s computer. Thankfully, after wiggling the mouse, it comes right up. No password or anything.

“Okay, she must really watch what Lila does,” you mumble. As in, Mrs. Monroe must stand over her daughter’s shoulder before even letting her turn the computer on. “How do I…?”

Garcia laughs and tells you what to click to pull up the information she needs. You recite it to her and she quickly works her magic.

“Oh, no.”

“Garcia,” you reply warily. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Morgan hears you and comes into the living room. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” you glance at him. “Garcia, what is it?”

“I’m going to need a minute to go through everything but…”

“Garcia, spit it out,” you put her on speaker, lowering the volume so only you and Morgan can hear her. “Garcia?”

“I don’t know for sure, but at first glance, this looks…it looks like she wanted to go with this person.”

“Shit,” you mutter. “Okay. We’ll call Hotch, you keep digging.”

“Aye, aye.”

You turn the computer off and pocket your phone. “We need to go back to the precinct. I don’t want to risk her overhearing.”

“Okay. Good call.”

“I’m gonna let her know we’re leaving,” you say. “I’ll meet you in the car.”

You wake Mrs. Monroe briefly to let her know you and Agent Morgan are leaving. You assure her that you’re going to bring Lila home, but that you’re needed at the precinct right now, and don’t want to disturb her rest. You hand her your card, telling her the number is the same, even though it doesn’t have BAU yet on it. 

Morgan is leaning against the car when you emerge outside, sick to your stomach.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just hate lying to mothers.”

+++

You and Morgan decide to wait until you’re at the precinct to tell everyone what Garcia found. Better to break this news quietly in person than on the phone.

Hotch is speaking to a deputy when you walk in, but you flag him down with a nod, hoping he won’t take it personally. You’re too on edge right now to bother being irritated with him.

Once everyone is in the conference room, you shut the door.

“Garcia should be calling any minute,” you begin. “She’s going through Mrs. Monroe’s computer. Mrs. Monroe said she watches everything Lila does, but clearly not close enough, because Lila was on a popular chatting site talking with someone regularly.”

“Right she was,” Garcia joins in, having been listening on the nearby computer. Her smile is sad. “And it does not look good. I’m still digging, but a Rich34 was in constant contact with her. I’m talking every single night for hours. Mostly from 1am to 4am, while I’m assuming her mother was sleeping.”

“What do the chats say, Garcia?” Emily asks.

“Nothing more than small talk right now, but I’m digging. It’ll take a while though, sir, I’m afraid they’ve been talking for months. Almost a year, I think.”

“Dammit,” you mutter. “I was afraid of that.”

Morgan sends you a sympathetic look.

“Garcia, see if you can track Rich’s identity in any way possible. It could be her father,” Hotch says.

“Or someone posing as her father,” you suggest, earning a glare from Hotch.

“Hey Garcia, send over all the chats, I can help you look through them,” Spencer offers.

“Alright kiddo, PG out.” The line clicks.

“Reid, look for anything relating to Richard Monroe’s history, or maybe Lila’s mother. Lila and her mother haven’t been getting along, and Rich might’ve used that to get Lila away,” Hotch instructs. 

Reid nods, already leaning over to grab the chat messages off the fax machine. Garcia knows him so well; she sent over hardcopies instead of electronic.

“Do we think it’s Richard Monroe in the chat room?” Emily asks.

“I’m not convinced,” Rossi says with a small shake of his head.

“I don’t,” you answer, shaking your head. “The username is too obvious.”

“He could be taunting us by using an obvious screen name,” Hotch counters. “He’s evaded us for this long. Why would he bother hiding now?”

“Yes, but I don’t think Richard Monroe is behind this,” you argue. “Murder in cold blood is his thing. So why wouldn’t he just go grab her from the house? Why is he playing the long game like this? Why form this emotional connection if he’s just going to kill her?”

“Because he’s a murderer with no regard for anyone’s emotions other than his own,” Hotch fires back. “And because he likely holds a grudge against his ex-wife for divorcing him and taking Lila away.”

Now all eyes of the team are on the two of you, going back and forth like a tennis match.

“He murders women his own age. Lila is barely thirteen. If he wanted her so badly, he could have easily grabbed her by now and killed her. Why wait almost a year?”

“Her mother is watching her closely, and he—”

“Oh now you agree that her mother is overbearing.”

“Yes, because you met with her and confirmed it with actual evidence,” Hotch snaps. He pauses, staring at you. “We cannot rule out Richard Monroe.”

“We’ll be wasting our time if we don’t.”

“Why are you so insistent?”

“Call it a gut feeling.”

“You haven’t been doing this job long enough to have a trustworthy gut feeling,” Hotch says coldly. “Now, if you want to continue arguing, I suggest you do so with the wall. Otherwise, we have a young girl to find and her father is a priority suspect. Am I clear?”

“As river water,” you mutter. “Excuse me.” You push past your new boss, hating that he’s already gotten so deep under your skin. Again.

[sonicboomrevisited]

THE WEEKLY CHECK-IN

Issue 2 Updates:

12/22 Pages have been fully inked!

Pages 11-12 are really cool. They also mark the point where I can start to share some WIPS without anything being too spoiler-ish.

Deep behind the scenes, I have been working to reformat the scripts Qwerty and I share. They were a mess before. Now they are neat and tidy!

Working on Page 13 today. It has a troublesome background shot in its first panel. Wish me luck!

Holiday WIPS:

Our holiday short story "I'll Be Home for Christmas" started when I began developing the Team Sonic Christmas Card to celebrate the holidays. I thought it would cute to show Robo-Sonic participating in the holiday activities. As I was drawing, though, a story started developing in my head around the little gift sticker I had put on Robo-Sonic's visor (which you may notice was altered in the final version!) I threw the idea of Eggman "gifting" Robo-Sonic back to the team for the holidays to Qwerty. I usually do a lot of the writing on SBR while Qwerty pitches in for brainstorming and dialogue improvement (you can thank her for Robo-Sonic 2.0's line of dialogue in issue 1!) I was NOT going to have time to write and work on Issue 2, though, so we tag-teamed. I gave her a general idea of what I thought would be cool, we brain-stormed, then she got to work writing while I drew and drew and drew.

I actually got to watch Qwerty write it in real time which was a lot of fun. I remember a long writing pause during the scene where Knuckles asks Amy if she wants him to "deck Eggman's halls". The final version has Knuckles also ask if she wants him to leave a, "knuckle sandwich" in Eggman's stocking. However, for the briefest of moments, Qwerty had put down, "want me to jingle..." before backspacing. I later asked her if she was going to type, "want me to jingle his bells." We both thought better of it...

Issue 2 WIPS

Alright guys, because it's the day after Christmas I've decided I'm going to be SUPER nice and leaf you guys with a really good Issue 2 WIP. I know I just said we're getting into non-spoilerly WIP territory but, like I also said, I'm SUPER nice; viewer discretion is advised.

*wink* *wink*

Alright, alright! I'll see myself out...

[pedrospookie]

it seems that the eldest daughters of tumblr all want Joel Miller to come and take care of them (dear god, please please please, my soul needs it). this inspired me to start writing a couple of little Joel tales but until then, i thought this might tide us over.

someone (I think it was @itsokbbygrl ) said in the tags that Joel is a fixer and is def into parental issues and i literally cannot stop thinking about that— cause you are RIGHT.

it’s not my best work but alas!

Joel Miller x eldest daughter!reader imagine

nothing wild, mostly fluff! Joel soothing an eldest daughter’s nervous system one day at a time.

Joel would wash the dishes every night just because he knows how much you hate washing the dishes. It’s the least I could do, darlin’ he’d praise, taking immense pride in seeing the relief fall on your face.

Joel would kiss you just to kiss you; in the comfort of your home as you pass in the hallway, or out at the stables while caring for the horses, even at the bar in front of all the folks who know you. It was his small way to show his unconditional love and appreciation for you. He’d spend all day kissin’ you if he could.

Joel would take the time to rub your feet and ask about your day. His genuine curiosity about the townsfolk you encounter or the adventures you have brought a warmth to your chest as he works on the knots along the arch of your feet. He would always remember the little details of where you’ve been or what you’ve seen, or the names of the people you mention in your stories. Joel wasn’t perfect and would often get confused between Jess, Jessica and Jessa, but he certainly would do his best to keep it all straight.

Joel would listen and hear you. If it was important to you, it was important to him. He didn’t care if it was about how you admired the pretty pink colour of the flowers you passed by on patrol or how you had to remember to mend your socks later. He listened and cared. So much so, that whenever he could, Joel would bring home a small bouquet of said flowers for you after his patrol.

On bad days, Joel would be there. He would hold you through your big, ugly feelings, and tell you that it is okay and that he’s got you. Joel would force himself to stay calm and to speak softly to you, keeping his own panic and worry at bay. He would tell you that he was proud of you and your “smarts”, and that the only thing that matters is that you made it back home to him. He would slowly and gently wash your body and hair clean of all the blood and guts from the nearly failed patrol, and would mend every scrape and wound, sealing each one with a kiss.

And on the nights where you were plagued with terrors, the kind that woke you in a panic, the cold sweat glueing your hair to your neck and forehead, Joel would be there. To hold you and coax you back to sleep, rubbing soft circles on your back, and softly murmur that it is okay, that you’re safe.

In the mornings, you always woke to the smell of coffee wafting it’s way into your room. Joel always made sure to wake up before you, to let you have those extra few minutes in bed because he knew you needed them. He’d greet you with a big smile and a kiss, the kind that made you feel like you were back in the early days of your relationship. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, he would say as he placed your meal in front of you. Joel never let you leave the house without something warm in your belly.

Joel knew that you were more than capable of caring for yourself. Hell, you had survived 20 years in that hellscape overrun by infected, raiders and god knows what else. You had told him time and time again, often through gritted teeth, I’ve got this. I can do this myself. I do not need your help. Can you just let me handle this, please!

Slowly, yet surely, with patience and kindness, Joel slowly broke down your walls until you were ready to let him in. To accept the peace and love he had to offer. Joel is not a perfect man, but he tries. Which is more than most. He tries his damnedest every day to keep showing up for you the way he knows you deserve. To show you and make you feel the love, peace and respect that you deserve. And that? Well, that makes Joel feel a deep sense of joy that he hasn’t felt in years. He will gladly do it until his dying breath and that is a promise he will never break. The easiest job he’s ever had was lovin’ you.

tagging some folks who may like this (if not/tags aren’t your thing, just tell me to buzz off! I wont be offended!): @slimybeth69 @itsokbbygrl @mrsmando @evolnoomym @sanarsi @marilovespedro @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal

[the-lazyyy-artist]

Pairing: Yukimiya Kenyu x GN!Reader Synopsis: playing along might lead to something, right? Especially when everyone in your family knows where this leads to. Themes: fluff!! Best friends to lovers, fake dating (kinda??), Yukimiya is a joy to write, cliche situations, rom-com coded Author's Note: Denisse had a dream (legit). When I woke up yesterday, all I could remember was Yukki being there. Wth???

"He's really everything we wanted for you," your auntie's high-pitched voice said, irritating your ear and causing you to scrunch your nose as you plastered on a fake smile you've been wearing since the celebration started. "Yeah, I know, Auntie!"

You can see him laughing and playing with the little kids from afar. They love him. Who wouldn't anyway? He's gentle, mindful, kind-hearted... Exactly what your auntie said. He's everything you wanted. 

Yukimiya chased after the kids, his voice faintly heard from the garden as the children screamed in excitement. He caught one of your little cousins and lifted him, flipping him upside down. You smiled softly at the view of seeing him being goofy, and he met your gaze. His orange eyes softened as he stared at you for a moment and then back at your cousin who was starting to wiggle off his grasp. Oh, how you wish...

Where did it even begin?

University wasn't as kind as people say. You had difficulty catching up with classes since it seemed so different from when you were in middle school. You'd rush to your classes, sometimes just in time, sometimes just a few minutes late, but there was one particular class you took where you bothered to arrive early. It was one you had with him.

Yukimiya with his pretty hair, always styled most perfectly. Yukimiya with his soft voice, floats in the air every time he participates in class or delivers a report. Yukimiya was fairly popular as a model and one of the best players on the university's soccer team. Yukimiya, who you wondered why he bothered to be friends with you.

He always made you wonder why he chose you to be his seatmate that day, how his little snarky comments about your professor made you giggle silently, how he would help you out everytime you were in a sticky situation in your class, how he became a frequent visitor in your little dorm, be it hanging out or studying together. 

It's been 3 good years of having him as your closest friend, the one who knew you more than anyone in your family.

Yukimiya felt the same way. He was intrigued by your presence when he saw you on your seat, eyes meeting the moment he entered. He thought it was normal to look at the person who just entered the class, but a part of him thought otherwise. That's why he sat beside you that day, and the days afterward. He was comfortable being silly with you, letting his personality shine with you. He feels like he can act normally outside his modeling and soccer spheres. 

A week before winter break, you've received calls from your mother and aunties, reminding you to come home for a big family gathering before Christmas. It has been like that since you were a baby. The family always made sure that everyone would be there, with no excuses or exceptions.

"When will you come home? Hmm? Do you have enough money for the trip? Remember not to bring too many clothes, okay? You still have enough here."

Your mother's voice fills your empty dorm room as you flip through the pages of your reviewer, trying to at least study once more before your exam later that day. You heard the door click open, revealing a bundled-up Yukimiya entering your dorm.

"Yes, Mom," you sighed as you watched Yukki slip off his shoes and wear his slippers, "I'll be home next Wednesday after I finish everything I need to do in school. I still have exams this week."

"Okay. That's good. Make sure to take the early morning bus. Your aunties and uncles will be here on Saturday to prepare for the gathering," your mom replied, the busy chatter of the kitchen blending with her voice. Yukki already sat beside you at the little study table you had at your dorm, listening and keeping his mouth shut. "Oh, and honey," your mom chimed again, "please, at least, this time bring someone home?"

You groaned and said a flat "I'll try" before rushing to end the call with the excuse of studying (though it was true. It was embarrassing for Yukki to hear that). After so many kisses, goodbyes, and okays, the call ended, and you leaned back in your seat. "So, you had to hear that," you said, chuckling. Yukki offered a small smile as he leaned on his seat, shaking his head. "I understand. My mother keeps asking to bring someone too, so I understand the frustration." 

"Oh, yeah, I bet," you replied, rolling your eyes at him. Yukki laughed and started to poke your shoulders. "What? You don't believe me?"

"No? You're too good-looking to be single, Ken. Come on. You might be having a relationship behind my back by now!" You replied, scoffing. 

"I don't. I would've told you by now if I had one."

"One??" you exclaimed as you leaned forward on the table, resting your chin on your hand. "So you could probably bag two then?"

"That's... not what I'm saying," Yukki laughed. "What's going on in your brain? Getting all jumbled up with exams?"

You sighed in response. Yukki knew that you were getting overloaded with worries and expectations for you to bring a guest, so he decided to elevate your worries a little...

"Hey," he spoke softly, "how about I help you with your studies? And you can bring me to your family celebration as your guest, you can tell them I'm your best friend though," he added, teasing you. Your eyes widen at him at the suggestion, making your heart beat a little faster. "You know they'll assume anyway," you replied, stating that families are just like that. "Yeah, but if they assume stuff, we can just clarify it every time. Won't hurt anyone, right?" 

And so, that Wednesday, you were in the morning bus sitting beside Yukki, waiting for it to leave. Your mother was overjoyed to hear that you're bringing Yukki, already mistakenly calling him your boyfriend and you had to correct her twice in the call. The trip was smooth, you two enjoyed the view of the countryside from the window as you two shared earbuds, listening to his playlist (in your opinion, he has a better taste in music). "Won't your family wonder why you're not home for the break?" You asked him, your head resting on his shoulder. You felt him shrug then watched him open his text messages to his mom, something he was really comfortable doing with you (though in your opinion, again, you find it weird and uncomfortable that he just shows you his texts with his mom out of nowhere). "I told her about your family event and that I'll go home afterward. She's fine with it, and she knows you."

Your childhood home has always been the hub of all celebrations, mostly family reunions, given how spacious it was inside with a bigger garden in front and a backyard for the kids to run around. The moment you opened the gate of your home, your mother was already by the door, waiting for your arrival. "Oh! My sweet baby has come home! Finally!" She squealed as she came running towards you, showering your face with kisses. Yukki relished what was happening, smiling to himself. "Oh! And you must be Yukimiya," your mother said, turning her attention to your best friend. Yukki, with his best manners, bowed to greet your mother, flashing her his kindest smile. His soft eyes have captured your mother's affection, blushing slightly. "Oh dear, you never told me your boyfriend was a charmer!"

"Mom, best friend," you corrected her. She only tsked and moved away from the both of you, as if she was eyeing how you two looked beside each other. "Your father and I were best friends before we got together. You two are on the right path, you just don't know it yet. Now, come along and I'll show you to your room."

As embarrassing as it was, you two were assigned to sleep in your childhood room, with all the plushies and little toy collectibles still on your shelves, untouched. "We cleaned as much as we could since you'll be sharing your room with your boyfriend," your mom said, drawing the curtains open. "I hope you don't mind my sweet baby's collection, Yukimiya. They had too many hobbies growing up!" 

"It's alright. I can say it's the same for me, though it's just soccer-related," Yukki replied, examining your toy collections. "Oh? An athlete? Sweetheart, you never told me your boyfriend was the sporty type! We're gonna have the athlete gene in our family!"

"Mom, please stop," you groaned, pushing her out of your room, "and again, best friend."

Your mom just laughed as she walked out. "I'll give you two some time alone now," she teased as she closed the door behind her. You sighed and plopped on your bed. You two couldn't even fit on this bed, and you don't have anything for him to lie down on if he pushes sleeping on the floor (which will not be happening, not on your watch.)

"Your mom sounds fun," Yukki commented, pulling your chair from your desk to the bed. He sat down on it as he watched you think about something. "We can't fit," he added, guessing your worries. "And you're not sleeping on the floor," you replied,

"We'll figure it out."

Your mom scolded you that night for planning to sleep on the couch, pulling you back to your room and practically pushing you toward Yukki. He was enjoying all of this as your mom told you to stay in your room and you being a huffing mess. Your mom left you both alone in your room, and you turned to punch his arm. "I can hear you laughing the whole time, asshole," you groaned. Yukki's laughter filled the room as he tried to catch your punches. "Hey, I just love seeing you in this situation."

"Whatever. I'll be by the wall."

You climbed on the bed, claiming your spot. He laid beside you. In the dark. It was awkward given this was the first time you were this close and vulnerable. 

"You okay?" 

"Yeah. You?"

"Yep. Don't roll on my spot in the morning and cuddle me."

You laughed, turning to give him one more punch.

"In your dreams, Ken."

"Yeah, in my dreams."

You'd like to think that it was a comedy skit, the way you two just started to play along with your aunties and uncles after getting tired of correcting them everytime they assume that you two are an actual couple. The aunties fell in love instantly when they laid eyes on Yukki, working his charm with every smile and response. They complimented you for choosing such a handsome and kind man, and you'd fake laugh and respond, "Yeah". Your uncles loved him the most because he'd engage in their conversation about soccer, easily getting into their good graces. It was too good to be true.

Now the kids love him too.

"In your dreams?" you asked him after the party had died. You led him to the garden where you sat on the coffee table. "Hmm?"

"What did you mean by that?" You asked again.

"Did you know you rolled on my spot?" Yukki asked instead with a smile on his face, "You look cute in your sleep," You scowled at him, a blush of embarrassment slowly appearing on your cheeks. "You're making things up, Kenyu,"

"I took a picture as proof," he said, fishing his phone from his pocket. "No! No, don't show me! God, Yukki!" You stood up from your seat to playfully pull on his sweater, which Yukki found so silly. "Careful! This is expensive!" He joked as he held your wrists to stop you from pulling him, "I will pay for it as long as you delete that photo!" 

The laughter died down and you finally let go of him, sitting back on your chair. There was a brief silence between the two of you, only the soft chatter of the ladies inside can be heard. Yukki sighed, looking up at the lavender skies. "I realized something," he said softly, "I realize I can no longer hide this from you. This might be the worst timing, given that we already had given up correcting everyone in your family, but I need you to know this."

"Eh? What are you talking about? Are sick from all the-"

"I like you."

Yukimiya kept staring at the sky as you looked at him in shock. Is your best friend of 3 years liking you back? He doesn't know but hearing that made you think that the gods and your ancestors actually answered your prayers for the longest time. "It started when we became such close friends. Your family mistakenly calling me your boyfriend kinda made me wanna come clean with how I feel for you. I wanna confront this feeling that I've been pushing back and ignoring for the sake of our friendship. We've played along with everyone here today and it made me believe we could be something, and I have a good feeling that you feel the same...

Do you?"

"Do I...?"

Yukimiya chuckled and brushed your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. "Like me?"

"... I love you."

"Really?" Yukki asked, his smile widening. Now, this was something so new to you. You have seen him smile, mostly grin and smirk, but never a full smile. This one was the first. His joy was contagious as you caught yourself smiling along with him. You shook your head, confirming that yes, you really love him. Yes, you knew for the longest time. Yes, you don't mind having him as your boyfriend.

Yes, the bed was a little warmer that night...

And yes, your mother was the happiest one when she found out months later that you and Yukki are officially a couple, reminding you again of how she and your father met and got together for the hundredth time in your lifetime, though she's more excited about the fact that you guys finally have an athlete in the family. 

[ao3-shenanigans]

I have a confession, and a question. I have rewritten my longest fic to-date a total of six times and have an entire extended universe planned. The problem is, I only make progress if I'm writing it out by hand. The slower pace of writing with a pen or pencil forces me to pause and think far more often than typing and makes it much easier to deal with grammar and spelling errors down the road. It also has the great side effect of helping to keep Writer's Block from taking hold. How do you deal with writer's block?

Ah man, writers block hits me so hard!

Some tips and tricks I’ve heard that help:

1. Make a short-term outline

- maybe not the whole plot but rather a short scene or set of scenes. Ex:

(1) Character A picks a fight -> (2) Character A looses fight -> (3) Character B finds them and takes care of them

2. Make a list of things you would want to read in a fic

- be self indulgent! This is your fic after all!

- listing moments you’d like to have can sometimes get the creative flow excited again

Ex: Jon and Martin kiss, someone calls Elias a Saucy Minx and he has to put up with it, Sasha gets to stab Peter, Tim gets to have a sick day where people take care of him

3. Write scenes out of order!

- write that sappy epilogue first if you want!

- stab that sad little man! Figure out why it happened later!

4. Write a few sentences or scenes from a different perspective

- can be that of a different character, an animal watching, a passerby or even an inanimate object! 

5. Write with a friend! Co-authoring a fic or even parallel writing can help with motivation

6. Write a one shot while taking a break from Your main project!

- sometimes something short and sweet can get the dopamine flowing again

7. Write by hand!

- the old notebook trick!

- or even changing the font sometimes helps!

8. Don’t allow yourself to edit or fix typos!

- let yourself ramble on to the page for a bit! You can’t edit what’s not there!

9. Read someone else’s work!

- fanfic or traditionally published work! Mix it up!

10. Re-engage with the source material!

- remember your roots!

11. Change the weather!

- maybe the fight isn’t working in the rain, but how about sleet or snow? Searing desert heat?

12. Change the format of the fic

- try writing it in second person or as a screen play

13. Leave bits out

- start with only the dialogue or only the setting descriptions

14. Talk it through with a friend or fandom buddy!

- explain the story and ask them questions, brainstorm answers together

15. Remember that it doesn’t need to be perfect!

- getting fixated on plot holes or mischaracterization can be detrimental to enjoying the act of creation that writing is

- as fanfic readers, we genuinely don’t mind that much; its the whole “Holy shit two cakes!!” situation, the fact that you’re willing to share this thing you’ve written and labored over with us for free is a gift in and of itself

- have fun! Be silly! Don’t fret about it!

[princessofgotham777]

Dating Jason Todd (Part Nine)

fanfic type: angst, fluff, comfort (ongoing)

If you liked the Titans show but wish they handled Jason’s story line differently you might like this fic!

Hey so this is in fact my first time writing fanfiction (idk what my life has come to). Sorry if it’s cringy but also I would eat this up cause I LOVE some good angsty comfort fanfiction. I won’t write smut. I don’t think I’m gonna do requests but if you have any ideas feel free to let me know. Also of course I don’t own any DC characters this is purely fanfiction. Thank you and I hope you enjoy. (I hope you like run-on sentences💀) (if you don’t like it don’t be rude just move on dude😃🧍‍♀️)

So story line, this doesn’t really take place in any specific universe but I’m gonna be pulling concepts from Titans, Arkham Knight, The Batman, Under the Red Hood, and whatever lore I remember from the CW shows cause I grew up watching those, then just my imagination of course. Reader is referred to as she/her btw.

Warnings: talking about death, suicide, depression, torture (it’s not graphic I hate gore it’s just sad), talking about intimacy (not graphic), struggling with eating, topics of grief, violence, panic attacks, PTSD, talking about religion

Part Nine: The Funeral of Jason Todd

It’s been five days since Jason was killed by the Joker. Kori, Gar and Rachel drove up from San Francisco four days ago. Bruce got back to Gotham three days ago. Roy and Thea would get to Wayne manor later today. You sat in Jason’s bed wearing his Silversun Pickups t-shirt. His bracelets you’d taken off his corpse were on the nightstand beside you. You looked to them and all the good memories they held. You then looked down to the air mattress Dick had slept on a week ago and all the complicated memories it held. You didn’t want to look at it anymore, it felt disrespectful and bothersome. You drained all the air from it and began folding it up when someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” you say. The door opens, it’s Dick.

“Breathing in the five year old air?” He says attempting to be normal in such an abnormal situation. You don’t say anything in return. “I’ll finish doing that, Bruce has a question for you.”

“Fine,” you say as you get up and walk past him. You head down the stairs and find Bruce sitting in the living room. You sit in an armchair across from him.

“Y/N,” he says.

“Bruce,” you say with a sigh.

“I just had a quick question for you,” he says.

“Okay…let’s hear it,” you say.

“I was wondering your opinion on if we should do open or closed casket?” He says. His question takes you aback slightly. “I know the funeral home did the best they could, I’m just not sure everyone seeing him like that is the best idea,” he says.

“Closed casket, you, me and Dick can say goodbye and he’d want Roy, Alfred and Gar to be able to as well. But he wouldn’t want anyone else to see him, not like that,” you say.

“Right, thank you” Bruce says.

“No problem,” you say as you get up from the couch. You are about to go back upstairs when the doorbell rings. You look through the window to see Thea and Roy. You open the door and are immediately greeted by Thea hugging you.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hi,” you say. You always found comfort in Thea and your friendship. You grew up in Central City. After Oliver disappeared Thea began hanging out with the wrong crowd and got kicked out of her private school and then Star High School, so she went to Central High. You became close and you both ended up going to the same college in Star City. You’d helped Thea through losing her brother, her brother coming back, and finding out Malcom Merlin was her father. You guys had been through a lot and so you were glad she was here.

Roy had decided he wanted to be alone to say goodbye to Jason. Thea and you sat in Jason’s room on the bed. It reminded you of sleepovers you two had in high school and how you’d run around the Queen mansion having fashion shows and blasting club music.

“Can I get your opinion on something?” You ask her.

“Course,” she says.

“I took Jason’s bracelets when I found him, I didn’t want them to get locked up in evidence. I’m gonna put them back on him but I was wondering if I should put these too?” You say as you grab a stack of Polaroids. Thea begins looking through them. One is of you, Jason, Roy and Thea. Another is you, Gar, Jason, and Rachel from one of the many times you guys made pancakes. Another is you and Jason at a concert you went to. The last was one Jason took of you, it’s a portrait from your waist up of you in a lacy bright pink bra with a soft genuine smile; in it you’re wearing your pink diamond necklace.

“You totally don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to but we just always used to talk about boys and stuff…” Thea begins to say.

“Oh you’re fine, it’s you Thea you could ask me anything,” you say.

“Jason took this photo?” She asks as she holds up the polaroid of you in your bra. You nod yes. “Did you two ever?”

“No,” you say softly. “We made out all the time, we feel, felt, safe with each other and love each other but you know I’ve always been a bit scared of physical intimacy because of how I’ve been treated before,” you say. “He never pressured me, he was never weird or creepy about my body…he was perfect,” you say as you start crying. Thea pulls you into a hug.

“I think he’d want the Polaroids with him,” she says. Thea left and you got ready for the funeral. You wore a long sleeve black dress that went to just above your knee, you of course wore your pink diamond necklace and then simple black heels. You were putting on perfume when you heard a knock on the door.

“Come in,” you say. The door opens, it’s Dick dressed in a black suit.

“Bruce wanted me to tell you me, him, Alfred, Gar and Roy have said goodbye so you can head down when you’re ready and then we’ll close the casket,” he says.

“Okay, thank you” you say trying to keep it together. You follow Dick down the stairs. He points to the parlor where Jason is. You go inside and close the door behind you.

Sunlight pours in from the windows. Of course the one day Gotham has nice weather was the day you were putting the love of your life in the ground. You take a deep breath and then walk over to the casket. Jason wore a black suit with a white flower tucked into it. You couldn’t stop your eyes from looking at the “J” Joker had carved into the side of his face. A few tears escaped your eyes as you remembered the pain he endured during his final moments. You tucked the Polaroids into his jacket pocket. You held the bracelets in your hand as you realized putting them on him would mean you’d have to touch his corpse. You were disgusted at the idea of his cold skin. You debated for a moment asking Roy or Dick to do it for you but you reminded yourself it was still Jason and he would want you to do it. Carefully you pulled each bracelet onto his wrist. You didn’t want to kiss him on the lips; you wanted to remember your last kiss as warm and loving. Instead you pushed back his curls and kissed his forehead. As you were moving away from his face you once again noticed the “J”. You kissed the “J” carving lightly as one final act of love and comfort.

“I’ll see you again one day Jason, remember to save me a seat next to you in heaven. I will always love you,” you say softly to him. You think about saying goodbye but can’t bear to. Instead you smile gently at him. You pray the Hail Mary over him; knowing neither you or Jason agree with everything the Catholic Church has to say but you both were raised Catholic.

During the funeral you sit between Rachel and Thea; Gar was beside Rachel and Roy beside Thea. Donna turned up last minute and sat with Dick and Kori. You hadn’t figured out if she showed up for Dick, out of guilt for what happened at the tower, or to be there for you. Bruce sat with Alfred of course. Dawn and Hank were unsurprisingly no where to be found. You never understood why Hank disliked Jason so much; in your eyes they were very similar. Jason’s parents and Uncle Ray were all dead. You guys were his family. Alfred did the eulogy, apparently during Jason’s days of being Robin in Gotham he once asked Alfred to do it if he ever died. After mass you all headed back to Wayne manor where he’d be buried. One by one each person threw a rose into his grave; you were the last to throw a rose in.

Everyone sat in the parlor talking and sharing stories but you were too zoned out to actually listen to anything being said. You slipped away and headed outside to the grave.

“Everyone’s talking about you,” you said to his headstone. You sat down beside his grave. “I’ll never say this to anyone else but you going after Joker alone was really fucking stupid Jason. It was a dumb move…don’t worry if anyone else ever says that I’ll slap them. You should’ve taken me with you though…then at least maybe I could be buried beside you.” You lay down in the grass next to his grave. “Maybe in another life you never boosted that fucking car and we met some other way and fell in love and got married and got to gaslight our children into thinking Santa is real,” you say as you laugh slightly. Your playful laughing quickly turns into tears. You cry and cry. Then crying turns into sobbing and then suddenly the ground beneath you is literally wet with tears. You cry so hard you fall asleep there in the grass next to Jason’s grave.

Hey, sorry this chapter was so sad and dramatic but it is angst soooo yeah. I hope you enjoyed reading it and if you did remember to like. I appreciate any and all positive feedback, it encourages me to keep writing and posting parts. I have a lot of ideas to develop the red hood plot (I disliked titans plot line with scarecrow so I’m basically gonna lean more into under the red hood and then obviously my imagination). I also plan on writing backstory on how the reader met Dick and Jason and her time as a titan so if you’d be interested in that please follow me. If you haven’t read the other parts and want to remember to check out my Masterlist. Thank you for reading this series it’s super fun to write!

Here’s a link to my Masterlist btw if you wanted to check it out.

Masterlist

[iamreadytobecomefrog]

You and Your Two Heaters~

A/n: Wrote while on my period and wanted some comfort, then I remembered that I can write and made this. Not proofread, might edit later, might not, who knows ♪⁠～⁠(⁠´⁠ε⁠｀⁠ ⁠). Anyways, enjoy⁠♡

You lay on your side within the warm safety of your nest on your bed, accompanied by your too big of a dog cuddled into your stomach called Lillie. She had joined you after hearing you whimpering from your cramps and after ensuring her you were in fact not injured, she cuddled right up against your lower stomach where it hurt the most. Because of this though, she ended up taking your heater of a boyfriend's side of the bed like she owned the spot. With a hand combing through her fur and the other holding up your phone, everything was peaceful even with your uterus deciding to curse you.

“Oh I see how it is,” that familiar gruff voice makes you smile as you turn your head to find your loveable boyfriend standing at the doorway looking playfully offended. “I leave for only an hour and I come back to have my spot stolen,” he huffs out as he sets a grocery bag down and strides to our bed.

“You snooze, you lose?” You slightly giggle out as you feel the thump of Lillie's tail wagging on the sheets. Lillie only nuzzles further into you as you laugh lightly at the cute sight. Your boyfriend mutters something along the lines of “you're lucky you're cute” before he gives you a small peck to your cheek and forces his way into your little nest.

“Did you generate more blankets while I was away? Cause there's definitely more in here than when I left,” he teases as he embraces you and adjusts you all. Lillie moved to lay more on top of you as you lay on your back, her head still on your stomach and providing warmth for your aching muscles.

“Not my fault if Lillie added some more,” you coo as you give your pup some head scratches while all three of you get comfortable again. You wince as a cramp hits harder than before and you're tempted to curl into yourself if it weren't for Lillie and your boyfriend helping you.

“I got ya princess, ‘m right here,” he purrs into your ear as he massages your pelvic region and places little butterfly kisses all along your face. You feel a small lick to your hand from Lillie and you smile softly at the boundless love surrounding you like a heavy blanket. You sink further into your little nest and lay happily with your dog and boyfriend as they comfort you through the pain. You get so comfortable that you doze off after a while, listening to the gentle sound of your boyfriend's heartbeat and your pup’s soft snoring while a movie plays in the background. Nothing could be better than this…except minus the period pain.

[marginofthought]

Rearrange ~ Wincest smut

It's still Christmas were I'm from so here is another present - aka I can't draw but I like to write for this post

___

“Dean?” Sam asked with a frown, looking up from the newspaper he was reading. “What are you doing?” Dean only made a non-committal noise while he left the highway, taking the exit ramp and merging onto the next street.

Sam dismissed his brother and focused back on the research he was doing. Maybe Dean noticed something with the car he wanted to check out or maybe Dean needed to take a leak, this wasn’t the first time Dean had randomly pulled off their current route for any number of reasons. 

When Sam looked up again a moment later they weren’t headed into town like Sam had expected but were rather turning onto an even more remote road. Sam didn’t even want to call it a street, it was in such poor condition. 

“Dean, there was a sign for a gas station and a McDonald’s if you needed a piss.” Sam said and looked over to the driver’s side. 

“Not what I need,” Dean grumbled and Sam was surprised by the mixture of concentration and distraction on Dean’s face.

Sam folded the newspaper in his lap and laid it onto the dashboard before turning towards his brother. “Everything alright, Dean?” 

Dean shot Sam a quick look at the concern in the younger brother’s tone but turned away just as fast, grunting once again.

A few seconds later Dean pulled the car onto the basically non-existent shoulder near a copse of trees. He turned the car off and turned to Sam just as he was opening his mouth again. “Out!” Dean ordered, though not unkindly. 

“What?” Sam asked, confusion and annoyance warring in his tone. 

“Out, Sammy!”

Sam shook his head in disbelief but followed his brother’s orders, getting out of the creaking door and stepping into the warm sunshine. The main road was still visible and Sam could hear cars whooshing by. 

The driver’s side door opened with another creak and Dean’s heavy boots hit the dirty ground before the door fell closed again. 

“Come here,” Dean gruffly said and patted the hood of the car. 

Sam wanted to argue but knew that it wouldn’t do much good and sighed, rolling his eyes and walking towards where Dean was standing. “Okay, what’s going on?” Sam asked once again when he was standing just in front of Dean. 

“Do you even know what you’re doing to me? All nerdy and hot in my car.” Dean asked back gruffly, pulling Sam into a quick kiss before turning him around and using Sam’s temporary confusion to pin him to the hood. 

Sam grunted in surprise, barely able to support himself with his arms, landing on his elbows as he was bent over the warm metal. 

Dean stepped up behind him, interrupting Sam’s “What?” when he ground his hips against Sam’s ass, making his intentions clear. 

“You know, Dean, there was a sign for a motel too.” Sam chuckled, his laugh quickly turning into a moan. 

“Yeah but I want you right here, wanna fuck my baby on my baby.” Dean breathed against Sam’s ear, nipping at the sensitive flesh afterwards. 

It wasn’t the first time Dean had used some variation of that phrase but it always managed to make Sam flush like a teenage girl, the blush spreading down to his chest. 

“Dean,” Sam whined as he remembered where they were and where they had been on their way to. “Two hours and we can do this on a bed with some pre-”

“No!” Dean growled into his ear. “Now. On my baby.” 

Greedy hands wormed under Sam’s body, struggling to open his belt only by feel. Sam lifted his hips a bit until Dean finally managed to open the belt and loosen it, he popped the button open before he forced Sam’s jeans over his hips without even pulling the fly down. 

Sam grunted a little when he was tucked backwards before the material slid down the rest of his legs, his boxer shorts immediately following. 

Dean was obviously in a mood and Sam had learned early on in their relationship that it was best to let his brother get it out of his system with minimal complaints. 

His brother’s hands roamed across his naked skin before he started kneading Sam’s ass, pulling the cheeks apart and exposing Sam’s most intimate parts to the summer sun. 

A dry finger rubbed over the furled skin with purpose and Sam was barely able to choke out a warning before Dean pushed it inside him. 

“You’re not fucking me dry!” Sam growled out, trying to push his hips forward and out of Dean’s grip. 

Dean grumbled before a fat glob of spit landed on Sam’s exposed hole, running down the crack before Dean scoped it up and shoved it inside along a second finger. 

“Fuck,” Sam gasped out, the friction rough and he could feel his body heating up. It wasn’t quite painful yet but Sam knew that that could still change.

Dean was big, not just proportional for a 6’1” guy but actually big, call it Winchester genes or a blessing or whatever but Dean was huge. His soft cock alone was probably what guys would dream of having when hard and then add on that his brother, much like himself, was a grower, meant that Dean was much larger than average. 

It had taken them a few tries to even stretch Sam wide enough for Dean the first time and he was still struggling sometimes, especially in the oral department. 

That wasn’t to say that Sam disliked it, oh no, quite the opposite. Sam loved the feeling of being stuffed to the brim, stretched out by Dean’s cock, filling him up like it was made for him. 

Sam just usually preferred it with a healthy amount of lube and stretching beforehand. Once they had done it with just spit and Sam had been uncomfortable for days afterwards, and not in the fun - i can still feel you - kind of way.

Dean’s two thick fingers were pushing deeper into Sam and soon another wad of spit was added, slicking the way but not nearly enough. Sam tried his best to relax into it and move with Dean instead of against him but it didn’t seem to help all that much.

“Dean,” Sam groaned again. “Get the lube from the glove box.” 

Sam had started to keep a bottle there after the previous incident, not willing to risk it again. Dean however ignored his request, continuing to pump his fingers in and out of Sam’s tight hole, instead even pushing a third finger against it. 

A hand shot out and grasped Dean’s wrist, stopping him. “Get the lube, I mean it, Dean.”

“Sammy, c’mon.” Dean tried to plead.

“No, it’s like five feet and you know what happened last time.”

“That I do,” Dean said smugly but he finally pulled his fingers free. Whenever the incident was mentioned Dean had that stupid smug grin on his face, self satisfied with his dick and the ability to make Sam go wild from it, which Sam couldn’t even really deny. 

Dean’s weight lifted off of him and Sam could hear the creak of the door before Dean came back. A second later the fingers were back too, this time coated in cold slick lube and Sam breathed out a sigh of relief.

The third finger was quickly added and while Sam usually petitioned for a fourth, Dean apparently really was impatient after Sam had made him stop once already. 

There was the quiet sound of a zipper and fabric before Dean pulled his fingers back out and the blunt head of Dean’s dick was pressed against the wrinkled hole.

Sam braced himself, taking a deep breath and tried to relax when Dean pushed inside. The head of his dick squeezed past the first muscle and Sam’s breath was punched out of him when Dean continued to push forward.

“Fuck,” Sam groaned again, the pressure overwhelming and he couldn’t keep his noises in. He knew he was whimpering and whining, groaning and moaning while Dean buried himself balls deep in his little brother’s ass. 

“Feel so good, Sammy. So goddamn fucking tight, squeezing me so tight.” Dean told him. 

Dean gripped Sam’s hips, pinning him to the Impala before pulling back out and pushing back inside. He quickly established a rhythm, hips pumping forward and backward.

The pressure was perfect, Sam feeling so incredibly full but the friction was still quite uncomfortable where he wasn’t quite stretched enough. “More lube,” Sam grumbled after Dean pulled out once again. 

There was some shuffling and shaking from the side and a slick noise before another glob of lube landed on Sam along with a small noise from Dean.

“What?” Sam asked and tried to turn around to look at his brother.

“Erhm, the lube is empty.” Dean said and Sam could imagine the look on his face but before he could reply or react in any way, Dean shoved back inside.

The slide was slicker that was for sure but Sam would surely feel it tomorrow, especially after Dean established a rhythm again. 

Dean’s hips were continuously moving, his dick pushing deep into Sam, filling him up and Sam swore he should be able to see a bulge in his stomach. (Once when they had fucked in the morning and Sam’s stomach was at it flattest, it had actually happened and Sam could swear that Dean had never been more pleased or cum harder than that morning) 

Every thrust made a pass by Sam’s prostate and his own dick was bouncing and twitching under him, almost ready to burst just from Dean fucking him like this. Pushing all the way inside again, Dean stilled for a moment before he rocked his hips just a little, making Sam mewl just a little. 

“Love your little noises,” Dean said breathlessly, continuing to rock into Sam. 

Sam couldn’t concentrate, split open and flared wide by his big brother and he absentmindedly worried that Dean would leave a gape when he was done. “Nngh,” he managed intelligently. 

His brother chuckled behind him again. “See, that’s what I mean.”

Sam tried to make his mouth work but was interrupted once again by Dean pulling out before roughly thrusting back in. It made Sam moan loudly, a hint of discomfort in the sound as Sam was split open again and again on Dean’s thick cock and the little lube they had was almost dried up.

Dean’s hands shifted, pulling Sam up against his chest. In the back of his mind Sam marveled at the easy strength with which his brother could manhandle all of Sam. His brain however was still in shambles and it was difficult for Sam to make more than unintelligible noises.

The angle change brought tears to Sam’s eyes as Dean was able to fill him even better, his rim pulled wide with every thrust. Sam tried to brace himself on Dean’s arms but his hand slipped on the sweat slick skin. 

“Fuck!” Sam cried out as his orgasm bowled him over. His body seized up, hips rocking back into Dean as he came without a hand on his dick. Every one of Dean’s thrust made another spurt of cum erupt from his cock, white streaks tarnishing the black metal of Baby’s hood. Sam keened loudly and his vision went fuzzy, when Dean doubled down, his brother’s name falling from his lips. 

“Take it, baby, c’mon.” Dean’s voice was rough, his breath fanning hot across Sam’s neck. A few thrusts later and Dean pulled him even tighter while his hips stuttered and he filled his little brother up inside. 

Sam collapsed back onto the hood once Dean released his grip, pulling out too quickly at the motion and making Sam hiss at the sore feeling. 

“You okay?” Dean asked with a pat to Sam’s side. 

Sam grunted before extricating a hand from under him and putting up a thumb. “Yeah,” he slurred.

..

It had taken Sam a few minutes to peel himself off the hood, pulling up his pants with shaking legs and trapping Dean’s cum in his boxers.

Sam looked like a mess when he saw himself in the window reflection. His hair was tousled even though he couldn’t remember either of them getting a hand in it, he was flushed and sweaty both from the activity and the summer sun. Sam’s cheeks burned even brighter when he noticed the visible stains of cum on his shirt and he quickly whipped it off, reaching into the back for another t-shirt. 

Sitting down was equally as uncomfortable as his wet boxers met his sore ass. Sam was a little tempted to both change his boxers and also reach inside his current ones to feel if Dean finally succeeded in leaving him gaping.

Dean whistled nonchalantly as he got into the car after wiping down the hood and sank into the driver’s seat with a pleased expression. 

Sam was still struggling with a decision and words when Dean turned the car back on, reversing up to the main street before turning onto it. 

“Dean?” Sam asked when Dean had ignored the highway and drove into town this time. 

Dean ignored him again until he pulled into the town's diner and Sam’s stomach churned at just the smell of grease that hit him when Dean’s door opened. “C’mon, I’m hungry now.” Dean grinned cheekily and got out, striding towards the front door. 

Sam shook his head bemusedly, his brother ever the hedonist. Sam stiffly got out of the car, hoping no one nearby was looking at him before opening the trunk and pulling out his duffel bag. 

Dean was already sitting at a booth when Sam walked past him and gestured at the restroom near the back, waiting for Dean to nod before he left for it. 

A few minutes later Sam came back out in a fresh pair of boxers, though he kept the jeans the same so as not to attract too much attention. 

He slid into the booth opposite from Dean and carefully sat down, his mouth twisting slightly at the sore feeling.

“You’re replacing the lube at the next store,” Sam hissed at his brother, trying to look stern.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t act like you don’t love it.” Dean grinned back and knew he was right when Sam’s face turned even more sour but didn’t say anything else. 

..

Dean had chatted shortly with the elderly waitress and was now biting heartily into his greasy mess of a double cheeseburger, of course with extra onions. The sight and smell were enough for Sam’s stomach to turn and he tried to focus on his own plate. 

The chicken wrap he had ordered was a little dry but he preferred it to the grease dripping down Dean’s fingers. Sam bit into one of his fries and even though it was kind of gross, found his eyes wandering back to his brother. 

There was such a happy and satisfied smile on Dean’s face that Sam temporarily forgot his disgust. It was rare to see Dean this carefree and Sam would do most things to ensure Dean could look like that more often. 

That was until he shifted in his seat and was reminded of just how sore his ass was and then he had to wonder how Dean could eat so nonchalantly, talk with strangers and jam out to music when he had just rearranged Sam’s guts a few minutes ago. 

Sam shook his head, feeling like every person in sight could read exactly what they had done not too long ago but well, he would do it again, wouldn’t he…

[sanza-17]

it’s 3am rn in the uk but I just had the biggest epiphany whilst pacing back and forth in my uni accom room as I listen to sexxy red

so I played Morrowind for like 3-5 mins before I got lost tryna get to the first city before I gave up and stopped playing but I wanted to come up with a design and maybe even a small idea/backstory for my nereverine and SO I decided that my eso oc Elynisi was going to be my nereverine 🥴 the idea was going to be that Azura for some reason decides to snatch up Elys spirit some time after she dies from old age for some reason (still figuring that out)

and then she’s reborn as the again during the 3rd era and she just shows up as some abandoned baby or something but the twist is that this time in this life she has white hair instead of her usual reddish colour (I’m acc so smart) and Yh that’s about it so far. She’ll do the usual stuff, get caught doing something bad and get sent to the imperial city prison before she ends up getting shipped from Morrowind and whatever happens next idk but at some point Ely and Irene end up meeting somehow and Irene is low-key tweaking cuz this lady looks very familiar, maybe even having a similar hairstyle but a diff colour so she tries to calm down and keep it to herself but at some point maybe Azura or something confirms it to her or both of them that she’s actually one of her old best friends from the second era she randomly decided to snatch up.

skip over a few things and Irene is probably the most happiest she’s ever been since the 2nd era as she gets to be reunited with someone she loved and cared about ages though she’s a little different now but she’s not gonna complain she’s been waiting around 800 years to see someone familiar again. After the whole nereverine and tribunal stuff is over I like to think that the two go to Daggerfall so she could show her around for nostalgia reasons and reminisce about the old days. And maybe they BOTH end up going on a little trip to akavir together idk 🤷🏽‍♀️ gives me an idea of what my vestige could potentially be doing during the events of the 4th era cuz I haven’t thought that far in terms of irenes future

but idk I just wanted a reason to use elys design again cuz I love it so much lmao

[front-facing-pokemon]

[piromina]

huge props to marinette for spinning up that lie so fast and on the spot, too. I thought I was good but damn. of course she must have had a general idea of what she was going to say to adrien beforehand going off of gabriel's "make me look good" and her own love telling her that the truth would hurt adrien even more, but that's just a very vague idea. she could not have possibly spun up that entire story of a lie in her head beforehand with all that was going on - dealing with all the truths coming in one after the other, the crying, the emotional trauma, getting the kwamis back -

and of course, there's adrien. he is one of the highest things on her list of priorities, his safety being the first thing she needs to take care of. the problem is, she doesn't know how. the only thing she can do in that situation is lie. a small lie. just one to make it better for now and then she can make it a long-term lie later. make sure no one else finds out.

and once she started telling the lie, once the first words were out of the mouth, it was all improvisation. her next words showed up in her head as she was going, spinning up a believable story, just good enough to be taken as the truth. she rambled - a rookie mistake for liars - but you couldn't blame her. she's a professional liar, almost, with her superhero identity, but this one is different. just one hour after learning the truth she had to cover up all this with no warning beforehand.

she couldn't tell adrien the truth. but she couldn't do much to comfort him either. ladybug couldn't tell him something only marinette knows.

she had to lie. she had to come up with something on the spot. those words would haunt her for the rest of her life - that lie was all she could think about for the next couple of months because she had to make it work. she had to keep the truth and make everything work out. it wasn't a big deal. she just had to tell adrien something, anything that would comfort him! what would comfort him about his father? what would convince him that he was a good guy this whole time? that he was a, a, a hero! yes, she would tell him that. it was a white lie! she wasn't a bad person! she just had to tell adrien that his father was a hero so that he would never have to know the truth and suffer like she did. he was a hero.

was.

once that word came out of her mouth, there was no going back.

[liquidstar]

a friend who'd wait :)

[medicinemane]

Should make a pain killer that actually kills (or even touches) pain

[shuicheese]

I'm thinking about my dreams again bc I might actually try to finally map things out (this post made me do it) and I'm realizing a trend;

there's too much water

[carcarrot]

dream time