#and then they'll need to do the appeal

[potsiefaerie]

Dear Universe in general and anyone friendly and listening and capable in specific:

I would really really like it if the office worker who handles prior auths at my neuro's office could get to mine on Monday or Tuesday at the latest.

Thanks,

A migraineur who is sick of this shit

[nycterisg]

using ai to get inspiration and creating what specifically appeases the general public are both byproducts of the whole "I consume fics/books/films/music/art" paradigma. Creators will create only to feed the insatiable hunger for more, and more, and will put little heart in what they do aiming only for their creations to be as much "consumed" as it can be. So maybe, as a whole we should re-think how we perceive the art we engage with—starting from dropping all this "consume" nonsense and using its rightful verbs (read, watch, listen etc.). It certainly cannot help dehumanizing something that's supposed to carry the heart of its creator.

[shhhh-dont-say-a-word]

Loving you like computers do

The loyalty of the machine is unmatched.

(2/3 Valentines Day Boards)

[theprinceandthewitch]

TBH If you were to go back in time and tell me TOH was going to be the show that completely turns me off from consuming and analyzing stories, I would have called you crazy.

[tearlessrain]

[emerges from my office covered in blood]

just used my insurance company's online messaging system

[chronurgy]

The thing is that in the US not only are cars and licenses easy to acquire, the infrastructure to support them exists pretty much everywhere. That makes using public transit a choice for most people. So if we ever want to see mass adoption, we have to contend with the fact that its use is very much optional. If it doesn't offer enough advantages (or offers too many disadvantages) people will not use it. If it is unreliable, unsafe, inconvenient, or even just unpleasant, people will not use it because most of them don't have to.

[prayerplanthoarder]

Look what I found in a local hardware store! 🥰✨ The Thai Beauty looks a little beat up, but for 1,99€ each you can't go wrong. I've been thinking about adding a Fusion White to my collection again, since humidity is pretty high in this apartment and almost no issues with pests for the last 1,5 years, but didn't even think it was possible to find such a tiny one, and I don't have the space for a big one (let alone 2). And now I not only found a tiny Fusion White but also a tiny Thai Beauty?! If that's not fate idk what is 😁✨

[kringelorde]

a’ight so far, early progress with the antipsychotics, we got:

- so so so so SO sleepy syndrome but I napped 2 hrs and it felt like 8 hrs so nice, tight, hell yeah. I cannot keep running on 4 hrs of piss-poor sleep this is NOT sustainable. these fuckers got hands. I wanted to do my usual “nooo I gotta do [x]” schtick but the second they hit, I got dragged kicking and screaming into beddy bye time. kinda dope. - I had the energy and drive to fucking make myself a proper meal for the first time in... oh jesus, like two weeks? I think I’ve been just grazing on bagels, plain rice, and whatever the fuck else I can find for two weeks now (shoveling $1 fries into my mouth between sprinting across campus aside). that’s grim. jesus. so marked improvement. - the anxiety has not gone away... :(

promising!

[bunni-v1]

HIHI! Before I make my request, I just wanna say that I absolutely ADORE the way you write the crk characters! The posts you have about Shadow Milk are scarily accurate. On another note, I really enjoyed the Burning Spice x reader hcs, and for my request, could you maybe do some Burning Spice NSFW hcs?🤧🙏 I haven't seen many people do requests for him, so I figured I'd step up and ask!

Burning Spice NSFW Headcannons

🍓Girl, I gotta clear out my askbox AGAIN. I clean it out and then y'all come back with a vengeance. Anyway, you were the first person to rq this, so congrats, you get the special answered ask! Yay! Anyway, Burning Spice is SUCH a challenge for me because we have virtually no content of the guy. This is 90% guesswork on my behalf, so please give me grace lol. Sorry if these are short and kinda bad, my motivation is low rn lol

Tw: NSFW; Rough Sex; Marking (like, bruising and biting); blood mention; predator/prey dynamic mentioned

Info: Burning Spice Cookie x Reader; NSFW

-Burning Spice Cookie is surprisingly lax about sex. It's not something that interests him too much, because once you've done it so many ways, you cannot do much more spicing it up.

-Pre-corruption he had sex semi-frequently with various different partners over a long period of time, but the closer he got to corruption the more... boring sex became. There wasn't much appeal other than dominating his partner, and even then, once he did that it was kind of nothing.

-He's experienced and he's very good at what he does, but he doesn't really care to initiate in most cases. Despite what most might think of him, he values the time he spends with you. Sex seems like it would be a waste of it, so he just doesn't bother with it.

-Unless, of course, you seem to be into the idea. Then his tune changes. Oh, his little warrior wants to try something different? Alright, sure, but he won't hold back on you. (He does, of course, because he can't have you crumbling on him.)

-Your first time with him is... interesting. He is, in all meanings of the word, considerate of you and your well-being the whole time. But, he's also doing everything in his power to see what makes you tick. How far can he push you this time before you need to tap out, how many orgasms can he get, how hard can he get your legs shaking?

-He likes to push you. A big part of his style of sexual intercourse is dominating. In most cases, he likes to go as hard as he can as fast as he can, but he has an inhuman tolerance when it comes to you. So he takes his time figuring out how to dominate you.

-He likes things that puzzle him, he likes having his mind challenged, he likes to have something for his mind to do. With sex, this is especially important. He gets off on the thrill of figuring you out, he wants to see the way you react to everything.

-He's big on predator/prey dynamics, like, really big on them. He likes to set you loose and give you a fixed amount of time to throw him off your trail. Run, hide, set traps, and he'll come after you like a wild animal starved for weeks. You always think you've got him, but he waits until you're comfortable to strike, and he takes you wherever he finds you - so hiding in public isn't a smart idea... or it is... depends on what you're into.

-Speaking of, he is a big proponent of public sex. Like I said in his initial headcannons, he loves to show you off. You both have a lot of pride in being the other's partner, so why not show it off in every way possible?

-Usually, this manifests as him having you bounce on him on his throne while loyal followers come and praise him. They'll be showering him with flowery words and begging for his acknowledgment, but his eyes are only on you. He soaks in your nervous expression, loving the way you shy away from the other cookie's eyes.

-It also can be more ritualistic. What I mean is that, he very well enjoys having people watch, so why not make a festival out of it. The two of you will be on a huge platform, surrounded by rich silk sheets and the eyes of his most loyal followers. They cheer the two of you on, shouting praises and exclamations of joy as you reach your climax.

-Do not think that this means he's in any way okay with sharing. He is not, it's a one-way ticket to get crumbled. If any cookie is foolish enough to even propose the idea they don't live to tell the tale. Look, enjoy, but don't touch.

-A lot of sex with him actually starts as sparring. You are very weak compared to him, so he rarely goes out of his way to spar with you, but he does. When he does, it always ends with you bent over and babbling his name like a mantra.

-He can't help it, the way you fight him with such a cute determined little expression really makes the cogs in his head turn. Flushed face, chest heaving, oh you look heavenly. Wouldn't you look nicer with him splitting you on his dick? Yes, he seems to think so.

-He likes it when you fight back against him, make him work for his own high. It's just what he wants. Kick and bite and punch and scratch as much as you can, he wants to see the marks you leave on him. He wears them with pride, just like you should his.

-And he does mark you up, very well. Your body is littered with bites from him, and you have several new bruises where he restrains you. The most prominent ones are on your thighs, the perfect outline of his fingers practically burned into your dough.

-You always bleed when he bites, his teeth are sharp, and he never cleans it up. He likes seeing the crimson jam dribble down your body. It's a beautiful sight, the very essence of you leaking out for him to see. When he's feeling particularly romantic, he'll smear it across his lips like makeup, and kiss along your body leaving a trail of blood-soaked kisses in his wake.

-Something else to mention, he very much likes to see the two of you connected. He enjoys watching himself sink into you, and he does it in silence. To him, it's beautiful to see your bodies meld together. Even more so, he likes to see evidence of himself in you.

-So, he always cums inside and he never uses protection. He likes to see his cum leak out of your abused little hole, he'll scoop it out of you after the fact with a scary reverence in his eyes. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, but he cleans you up well, so it's best to let it be.

-He also likes to feel himself while he's inside you. He'll press on your stomach so he can enjoy the way he fits more directly. If you squirm, it just makes it all the better for him. The pleasure is only heightened by your wiggling, so keep it up.

-Okay, we have to acknowledge his size. It's impossible not to do so with how big he is in the game - he is significantly larger than every cookie we've seen so far.

-His dick is large, like very large. It's more... normal... than Shadow Milk Cookie's, but it's not regular by any means. It's big, nearly eight inches long, and about five inches thick. It's the same color as his dough all the way up to the tip, which is a deep reddish-brown color.

-The tip is flat and wide, and it's the same thickness along the entire shaft. The first push-in is always the hardest, but as soon as you adjust, it's easy to take the whole thing... well... what you can fit at least.

-Oh, one last thing, his dick is ribbed. Several bumps line the shaft in a nice pattern, and it rubs you inside like a dream. He knows the effect it has on you too, and he uses it to get you to melt against him like butter.

-He's rough, and he goes rather hard and fast, but he can slow it down sometimes. It's rare, and it isn't something he thinks to do in most cases, but occasionally... just sometimes, you'll get a sweeter side to him.

-That doesn't mean it isn't intense, though. It is intense, even more so than his other style of sex. But it's for different reasons this time.

-Instead of fucking he is making love to you, which seems to be out of character, but I promise you it's not. He loves to show you his devotion to you, and a great way of doing that is through sex.

-If you are, for any reason, feeling insecure he uses sex as a means of expressing just how much you mean to him. Words can only do so much, gifts and mortal possessions are meaningless in the grand scheme of things, but this? The physical connection between the two of you? It's something more, something deeper than anything else he could give you.

-He holds you close, usually facing him on his lap, and slowly ravishes you. There is to fighting or bruising or biting like this, just raw passion that he has for you. Not an inch of your skin is without his burning touch, the heat between the two of you fogging your mind until you can no longer think.

-The pace he sets is slow and deep, each thrust and movement a deliberate show of his admiration for you. It's only then that you'll hear him praise you, words of affirmation spilling from his lips like warm honey, encouraging you to keep going for him.

-What is the most intense, what gets you shaking, is the way he looks at you. His eyes are unblinking and affixed to your face with nothing but sheer devotion and love. He doesn't let you shy away either, you need to look at him, to see how much he adores you. Only once you are jelly against him will he be satisfied that he has done his part.

[taeyongdoyoung]

beg for you

summary: missing your ex, you stumble upon an interesting song that brings back memories you thought you could bottle up... pairing: vernon x reader genre: angst, smut, exes to online friends to lovers warnings: mentions of past break-up, reader felt neglected and lonely, insecurities, lowkey catfishing+lie by omission, swearing, song-writing themes, some serious talks, hand-holding, kissing, spitting, eating out, fingering, dom!vernon, orgasm denial, public unprotected sex (in a café bathroom), mainly lots of emotions, idk author's note: the fic was inspired by this iconic song, in particular vernon's verse and it has some occasional references to the lyrics in bold word count: 2.6k

It's been three months since you ended things with Vernon, blocked his number and all his socials and tried your best to forget about him. The reason for your break-up was mainly because you felt like he never had time for you, his music always came first and while that was appealing at the start of your relationship, it began to infuriate you and make you feel invisible towards its end. He would stand you up and forget about your dates more than once. He would make you feel like you were always his second choice. Not being around him hurts like hell, because you'd become so used to his presence that the lack of it brings so much emptiness. And also because a part of you still loves him.

One evening, you can't fall asleep so you're scrolling through some music apps. Suddenly you discover a new song. The artist hides their face behind a mask but their voice sounds somewhat familiar. Strangely enough, the lyrics just speak to you:

I don't think I'll ever feel this type of way again (This way again; Yеah, uh, yeah) I beg for you, please (Don't let go), don't let go of me, don't let go of me All the endless conversations about us been going on in our head In the night, we dream a future together and I feel bad in your bed I beg for you, please stay, I can't go a day without No, I can't go a day without you, hoo

So weird. It's like the artist knows exactly what's been on your mind for the past three months. You shut your phone off with a sigh and attempt to get some sleep. The next day, that same melody and those words haunt you. And the following day…It goes on for a while and you've become so obsessed with it that you try to do some research on the artist. Unfortunately, it's not of much help. Nobody knows the identity of the artist, how they look or their real name. It's frustrating but it is what it is. Maybe you should drop it. But then again…you really can't stop thinking about these fucking lyrics and how well they described how you've been feeling.

You decide to do something stupid and slide into the DMs of the anonymous artist. They'll probably never see this message as they have thousands of followers, but still, you need to get this off your chest somehow.

You: Hi, you probably get this a lot but your lyrics are really relatable, like they truly spoke to me and totally represent the way I've been feeling for the past three months. You're incredibly talented and I'd be happy to hear more of your music in the future.

It's a short message, nothing too crazy. You feel a sense of relief once you've sent it. You realize it doesn't matter if the artist ever sees it. You're just happy you were able to express your feelings.

To your immense shock, about 30 minutes later, you receive a notification. This is actually so insane you can't believe your eyes. The anonymous artist…texted you back?!

RevN98: Hi, this really means a lot to me. Actually, I don't get a lot of feedback, as I'm just starting out. I'll try my best to write more music. In what ways did you relate to the lyrics?

Is he seriously…initiating a discussion? It is wild enough he texted you back but the fact he wants to continue texting baffles you. But you are not one to look at a gift horse in the mouth. So, you respond rightaway.

You: I got out of a long-term relationship a couple of months ago and even though I should probably move on already, some part of me wishes my ex begged for me to stay. I know it's probably a selfish thought, considering I'm the one who broke up with the guy, but…I miss him sometimes and I keep thinking of a universe in which he'd fought for me.

After sending that message, you look at it in horror as you realize how personal it was. Why is it so easy to open up to a complete stranger? And not to people who actually know you…

You: Sorry, that was probably a whole bunch of TMI. Anyways, I really thought your lyrics were connected to how I was feeling if that makes sense.

You double text just in case. The response from the mysterious artist comes soon after.

RevN98: It makes sense, yeah. When I was writing them, I was also thinking about my past relationship. Honestly, I kind of wish I'd begged my ex to stay. I thought that by not doing so, I was respecting her wishes and giving her space. But now that it's been a while, I can't help but think I should have expressed myself better. I really miss her, though, so I guess that got reflected in the lyrics somehow.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts and figure out what to text.

You: Aw, man. Whoever your ex is, she's lucky to have such lyrics written about her. Even if it's over, maybe there's a way she finds your music and…I don't know, reconsiders things?

RevN98: Hah, that'd be a dream come true. I don't think she likes the kind of music I make.

You: Why not? Your music is great!

RevN98: Well, the truth is I was spending more time on my music than time with her. So, I guess that's one of the reasons for our break-up.

My God. This feels…too similar to your situation it gives you goosebumps. Despite that, it's like your fingers are possessed as they keep itching to text the anonymous artist back.

You: Time changes the way people feel. Maybe if you're honest with her and how you're feeling, there's a chance for a reconciliation. Or at least some closer. You should call her!

RevN98: I'd love that but she's blocked my number.

You: Use a friend's phone, duh!

RevN98: That'd be suspicious, considering I haven't told any of my friends about our break-up.

You: Dang…you're really not over this girl, huh?

RevN98: Not a chance.

You: So…what are you going to do?

RevN98: I don't know, for the time being texting you helps to ease the pain.

You: Likewise. But just to give you a heads-up, I'm not interested in any rebound relationship.

RevN98: Great. I'm not interested in that, either.

You: So…online buddies, then?

RevN98: Sounds good to me.

It is so strange how quickly the mysterious artist becomes part of your everyday life. You text each other quite often about anything. From what you've had for breakfast to what other music you've been listening to. From where you're planning to go with your friends to…how much you miss your exes. It is truly extraordinarily easy to talk to them. You still don't know much. How they look, what their real name is, where they live…But somehow it's enough knowing they're out there making awesome and relatable music.

Until one day it isn't.

You: We should meet up!

RevN98: I don't think that is a good idea…My schedule's crazy lately.

You: What do you mean? It's not like you have live performances.

You point out the obvious because from what you've gathered, maintaining this anonymity is key to RevN98.

RevN98: I just don't feel comfortable meeting in person…

You: Are you worried I'd expose your identity? You know I'm not that kind of person, right?

RevN98: I'm not worried about that. It's hard to explain. It would make sense if we met up, which is exactly why we can't meet up.

You: I'm super confused right now. But you know how important honesty is to me. So, it's now or never, I guess. If you don't want to meet up in the near future, I don't think I want to continue being friends…

You wait a couple of minutes, to give them a chance to make a decision. Finally, the response comes.

RevN98: Okay, let's meet up.

They text you a time and place. And then you ask the crucial question.

You: How will I know it's you?

RevN98: Trust me, you'll know.

This is…so cryptic. You guess you'll just have to rely on the fact that there are a bunch of photos of you on your profile, so the musician would be able to recognize you first.

When you arrive at the small café, you look around nervously, waiting. Negative thoughts keep haunting your mind. What if they change their mind in the last minute and stand you up? What if they are disappointed upon meeting you and never want to text you again? What if you were too harsh by giving an ultimatum? What if-

So many scenarios and you failed to consider the one that truly matters.

What if…you run into your ex at said café? What are the fucking odds?!

"What are you doing here?" you ask Vernon, sounding a bit too rude. Better to be rude than to burst into tears or something more embarrassing.

"Waiting for you," Vernon replies simply.

"What are you talking about?" you blink in confusion. Until it clicks…No. Freaking. Way.

Vernon sighs and takes his phone out, showing you the texts between you and RevN98. And the only explanation is…fucking hell. He is RevN98.

"Please, tell me you're joking right now."

"I wish I was," Vernon looks down, feeling guilty.

"How could you do this to me?" you inquire, eyes welling up already. You feel so weak upon seeing him.

"What was I supposed to do? You had me blocked on everything."

"What, and writing me a song under a false name sounded like the greatest idea?" you snap at him.

"I just needed to talk to you again. Somehow."

"Why? What is there to say?"

"I miss you," Vernon murmurs.

"You lied to me," you insist stubbornly.

"Please come back to me," he keeps trying.

"It's too late…" you try to reject him gently.

"I'm begging you," Vernon really wants a second chance.

You shake your head, but your hands are already reaching for his. Desperate to hold them one more time, you lean closer.

"I'm not taking you back," you keep fighting it.

"Okay," he nods.

"We're just…gonna talk, yeah? Seems a waste of my great outfit to go back home."

"Okay," Vernon repeatss.

As the two of you sit down to have a chat, suddenly all of the unsaid words and undelivered messages bubble up to the surface.

"I should have fought for you. I mean it. Music is important to me but not as much as you. You are my muse, how could I go another day without you?"

"It seems you've been doing a great job writing music without me," you say bitterly.

"Oh, yeah?" Vernon raises his eyebrows cockily. "Well, I bet I can write even better if you're back in my life."

"I was too harsh," you admit. "I let my overthinking and insecurities get the worst of me. When I broke up with you, it seems I had forgotten how much I love music, too. I was so caught up in my own dark thoughts that I didn't matter to you that things escalated."

"You had a point," Vernon chuckles sadly. "I wasn't giving you the attention you needed. The attention you deserve. I was being selfish."

"I was selfish, too," you confess. "I shouldn't have made you feel like you needed to make a choice between me and music."

"I would pick you. For the record."

"Record is exactly what you'll be making," you tease him. "I'm serious. I need to hear more of what you've been working on."

"I'd love to show you. But there's something else I'd like to do first," Vernon smirks mischievously.

He grabs your hand and takes you to the café's bathroom. He pushes you inside a free booth and locks the door behind him. He kisses you under the bathroom lights eagerly, not wanting to let go ever again.

"Hey!" you chide him playfully. "I said I wasn't taking you back."

"Too bad. 'Cause I'm taking you," Vernon says assertively.

"You…you've changed," you blink in surprise.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Vernon smiles and his palms dig into your lower back deliciously, as he kisses you again. "God, I missed this taste."

"You're insane," you laugh but you can't find it in you to deny it any longer. You want him so bad.

"Don't let go of me," he repeats the song's lyrics in your ear.

"I won't. As long as you promise the same," you ask.

Vernon doesn't say a word as he kneels in front of you. He picks up one of your legs and swings it over his shoulder as pulls your panties to the side. Suddenly, you're so grateful for your genius decision to wear a dress. He spits on your pussy and attacks your folds with his skilled tongue. You're already losing your mind over how good it feels, when suddenly, he pulls back.

You gasp in disappointment as your pleasure was so abruptly interrupted.

"Beg me," Vernon commands you easily. "Beg me to make you come."

"You're fucking insane," you refuse. You've always had a little bit of a brat in you.

Vernon, however, doesn't seem perturbed by your refusal to cooperate and sticks one finger inside you, teasing you slow enough to frustrate you but not fast enough to get you there. It hurts so sweetly you both hate and love it.

"Beg me," he repeats.

It would be so easy to do that. Just to get that sweet release…But the stubborn part of you is still stronger than the part of you that wants to come.

''Try harder," you grin cruelly.

Vernon is not one to back down from a challenge and unleashes his final weapon. He takes off his jeans and slides his hard cock inside you. Fuck. You'd forgotten how girthy he is.

"I missed you so much," he whispers in your ear. And his genuine words affect you more than his actions. And oh, how terribly you've missed him, too.

You hold on to the back of his neck, needing him for support. He keeps tormenting you, not moving a lot, just making you feel so full but so dissatisfied at the same time. You truly can't take it anymore.

"P-please, let me c-come," you beg for him hopelessly.

"There's my good girl," Vernon smiles proudly and adjusts his movements, adding pressure with his fingers so that you come in mere seconds.

"T-thank you, thank you," you chant, not knowing what demon possessed you to act this way.

"So polite," he laughs adorably and holds you close as he reaches his own high.

You don't want to let go of him ever again. But you're gonna have to, because you hear angry people who want to use the bathroom. Uh-oh.

You quickly try to clean each other up and rush outside, cheeks red with embarrassment.

You get a few weird looks from random people, but honestly, it doesn't matter. This felt too good.

"Sooo…" Vernon says once you've arrived at his chill but cozy apartment. "Does this mean you'll take me back?"

"Hmm, I don't know. Beg me nicely?" you suggest teasingly.

"Oh, you know I will," Vernon promises.

Bonus:

"Veeern, it's been hours, didn't you finish the song already?" you complain, desperate for his attention.

"Just five-"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," you warn him, though you don't really mean it. You're just playing around. You know he cares about you deeply. Perhaps more deeply that he lets on.

"Won't you wait another hour or two?" Vernon teases you back.

"You know what? I'd wait as long as it takes," you smile and put your lips on his lips.

The End

[takaraphoenix]

I saw someone refer to Steter as a comedy relief duo earlier and it just completely sent me, because that's just... so far from what Steter is, in canon?

As I'm currently rewatching the show, it has shot up into being my favorite ship on the show because of the gravitas it has.

It's a ship that highlights Stiles' fearlessness in such intriguing ways, in canon. From the boy who yelled at a feral Alpha in the school, to their first face to face meeting at the hospital, when Peter recognizes him, knows him, acknowledges him ("You must be Stiles", as though Stiles' reputation as the one who figures things out proceeds him, as he is the first one to put together that Peter is the Alpha).

There's nothing comedic about the scene on the lacrosse field, when Stiles is kneelng beside Lydia's unconscious form and Peter... for reasons beyond comprehension... decides to curl his claws beneath Stiles' chin and guide him up. Not grab him by the arm and haul him up, not command him, not demand.

This is... sensual, filled with tension, and I don't even necessarily mean the sexual tension (even though the imagery of Stiles kneeling before Peter and Peter grasping his chin is something that I find hard to not see a sexual read on).

Peter kidnaps Stiles into the parking garage to force the boy to track down Derek and, sure, the "His username is Allison? His password is also Allison?" - "Still want him in your pack?" is absolutely iconic and is comedic... how do you boil that entire exchange down to "comedy relief"?

The way Peter offers Stiles the bite - Peter, who so far, only took whatever he wanted, never asked or offered - and doesn't force when Stiles says "No". Even the way Peter catches Stiles on the lie is a moment of tension and revelation on Stiles' part. The way Peter acknowledges Stiles as the clever one.

The season 1 finale? When Stiles sets the survivor of a horrific house fire on fire? Absolute riot, huh. It's vicious, it's cruel - it's everything.

And when Peter is resurrected? Sure, Stiles sarcastically asks if someone can kill him again and sure, Peter snarks about living in a cave system. But even in that episode, these brief comedic moments are absolutely overshadowed by the way Peter and Stiles work together, figure out what the vault is made of, then call Scott to warn him and Derek, by finishing each other's sentences. Two brilliant minds working together, on the same wavelength.

The next time they interact is when Peter tells Stiles about Paige, explains what the blue eyes mean. It's one of the more heavy and serious moments in the season, aside from all the death scenes. It's a big lore drop and character background on both Peter and Derek. And it's Stiles this information is shared with. It's a serious moment and even as Peter tells it all, Stiles doesn't trust, sees past the silver tongue and that too is part of the appeal.

When Peter and Stiles work together to save Cora's life in the hospital, while the Alpha Pack is hunting them down? Blind trust. Stiles asks Peter to help him and Peter doesn't even ask, much less quip, he just follows Stiles' lead and they work together.

Now, I'll admit, I haven't seen seasons 3B through 6 in six years and hey, maybe they'll be a real Abbott and Costello in season 4 and I'm just not remembering it, but damn it all to hell if the first half of the show doesn't present them as two clever minds challenging each other, with a growth from terror and pain to respect and teamwork.

I understand and respect not liking a ship, but I am genuinely baffled when people deliberately misinterpret a canon to suit their needs. Always makes me wonder what alternate reality's version of the show they were watching, surely not the same as me.

[bubblegumgothglados]

This is a RACK focused best practice guide to doing a drowning scene, more specifically a scene where you're repeatedly forcing your victims head under the water. These are my suggestions based on extensive research but they are only theoretical i haven't got to do this to anyone yet. If you have actual experience id love to hear from you please.

Pre-scene setup

Learn CPR. This is the single thing that I'm going to say is mandatory, everything else is just a suggestion this isn't. If worst comes to worst and your victim is drowning you need to be able to save their life.

Learn your victim. How do they react in pain, when they're scared or panicking, where are there mental breaking points. Especially helpful to have done breath play with them before, how long can they hold their breath, how hard will they fight, what are their non verbal cues. Are they the type of person who will push their limits past the danger point, are you comfortable shutting the scene down when they're begging you to continue.

Figure out your nonverbal communication. A safeword is important but not nearly enough for a scene like this. Their head is going to be underwater most if the time and they'll probably be struggling and fighting. What signs can they make to tell you to stop or slow down under these conditions. I would suggest giving them something to hold that can make noise, a squeaky toy or a clicker or something similar, with which to signal you.

During the scene

Use warm water. Cold water adds a whole plethora of new problems significantly increasing the risk. I'm not sure of the exact temperature but I think it should be either room temperature so your victim doesn't feel a temperature difference between the air and the water, or body temperature so the water doesn't change their core temperature. (If you'd like to use cold water or even ice water, if that's part of the appeal, ill happily figure out the additional risks in exchange for a video of you drowning your victim ^.^)

Watch their face. Like any other form of breath play hypoxia is a major risk. This post isn't about breath play, I'm assuming you know all those risks and how to manage them before you do something like this.

Start slow. Put your hand on their head but let them submerge themselves and then come back up when they're ready. This will get them used to the sensation and you used to the rhythm. Slowly increase pressure and intensity until you're forcing their head under and pulling it up against their will.

Have the person fill their lungs to capacity before submerging them. The reason being they will have to breath out before they breath water back in so as soon as you see the first sign of bubbles you can pull them out.

After care

This scene will be intense so the aftercare needs to be too. Again this post isn't about proper aftercare I'm assuming you know how to do that if you're doing something like this. But in addition to the usual.

Have a plan for monitoring your victim for the next 72 hours. There are two major complications that can occur after a drowning incident and both can take days to present themselves. The first is when a persons throat spasms and closes, this is supposed to happen when they initially inhale water but can happen much later. The signs to look out for include persistent coughing, irregular breathing, dizziness, confusion, and foam around the mouth and nose. The second is when water gets deep into the lunges it can cause fluid to build up which inhibits gas exchange causing the person to slowly suffocate. The signs to look out for can include coughing up blood, excessive sweating, anxiety, pale skin, and a crackling sound when breathing deeply. If your victim shows any of these signs get them to a medical professional asap, don't risk it these will both cause very painful death.

Enjoy ^.^

[impish-baby]

Ur monster drabbles got my brain churning....Yandere caregiver werewolf who after turning you into a werewolf, treats you like one of it’s pups! Bonus points if they DO already have pups that try to play with you and treat you like their real sibling! ^w^ your content is awesome btw!!

Double bonus points if freshly turned werewolves also have instincts more similar to a pup than a fully grown wolf...

Your sibling playfully nipping at you, at first just snapping at them because you're already so distressed and they aren't helping! Realizing that playing is actually fun, having one tiny moment of respite as you wrestle with them.. until your caregiver comes back with a horribly smug look, knowing they have something new to goad you with.

Perhaps... sibling that was once in the position you were in? Pleading, trying to appeal to the fact you were both once human, only for them to run off and snitch on you! Sorry, but they can't lose their baby sibling. They'll make it up to you though! They'll hunt you the tastiest things and will even try to get caregiver to let you visit town so you can pick out a toy! (Caregiver threatening to put one of those kid leash and harnesses on you if you don't behave and hold their hand nicely in the store..)

Having to deal with them both trying to smother you in their scents... pups need to smell like their pack, little one! Caregiver giving you their shirts to lounge in and sibling constantly draping their favorite blankie over you. Feeling so disgusted and angry when it starts to smell like home and comfort... when you start to want your "family's" scent

(Thank you, Anon!! ^^)

[neon-zipperooni]

in light of the new costume implying some things.. boy howdy, here comes a hot take, the crk fandom needs to understand the prospect of shadow milk being redeemed is not the end of the world

cookie run rarely even does redemption stories, the only big example of villainous characters being redeemed is in ovenbreak with lotus dragon cookie's growth and lychee dragon cookie building up to a redemption, which while i think on lotus's end it was kinda rushed they've been handling lychee very well, so its not like redemption stories in cookie run are "overdone" (also im sick of the "nooo im tired of redemptions" argument when 1. not everyone is, i personally love a good redemption story and 2. there are plenty of villains out there who are plain evil with no redemption, it's not a dying genre)

also it would be way more interesting than the more obvious resolution to the beast storyline of just sealing them away again, i think finding a way to appeal to the shreds of.. humanity? cookiemanity? still within them is a much more interesting narrative and lends itself to more stories to potentially tell with these five very interesting characters. and there are implications that the cookies they used to be are still in there somewhere, especially with burning spice, given how he full on bluescreens for a moment when reminiscing on the first kingdom he [....] (my money's on watched over, but we dont know what he was gonna say) when talking w/ nutmeg tiger in the kingdom

i've seen a lot of people say they'll lose interest in shadow milk if he gets redeemed which baffles me because for me at least, while a decent chunk of the appeal of the beasts is how interesting and entertaining they are as villains, one of my favorite parts of them is the heroes they once were, what they could've been like during those days, and the tragedies that led to them falling so deep into villainy: witnessing the worst in cookiekind and becoming disillusioned and deciding nothing should exist, witnessing their denizens live grow and die over and over and to the point they get sick of it and end up embracing destruction to take control of the cycle, and.. whatever we end up learning about the other three and what corrupted them.

for me, i see it like this lmao

and like, don't get me wrong, i know all the beasts really aren't good people but a redemption story doesn't necessarily mean a slap on the wrist, a redemption story can be about atonement just as much as it is about changing for the better, it can be messy, a sobering moment realizing everything you've done and everything you need to do to make up for it, there is sooo much story potential in delving into their pasts and delving into a redemption story of the beasts atoning for their deeds and growing as people it's crazy.. and besides, they were heroes once before, who's to say the potential to be that again isn't still within them?

i personally really wanna see a beast redemption and i'll never fathom why so many people are so against it when it's so much better of a way to conclude their story as the current main threat than just sealing them away again, i just hope that if this really is the route the devs go they'll handle it well because it can just as easily be done wrong, i have faith though

also i've seen a lot of people say the shadow milk costume looks ugly and they're WRONG it looks amazing i love blue and gold as a color combo

[reiderwriter]

Hello!I hope you are having a great day!I love LOVE your writing and I would like to request a fanfiction where the reader is Hotch's daughter who works at the bau and is in a secret relationship with spencer without her dad knowing.Spencer wants to tell the team but she is scared about how they'll react so they fight but during a case she gets kidnapped and the feelings are high,so spencer accidentally reveals the relationship.I would love if it ended in smut (possibly dom!spencer who is angry at her for being so reckless and risking her life like that) and maybe a lot of angst??Hotch could potentially be fuming but when they get her back he decides that he will let them be??I would like my emoji to be 🌼!Thank you in advance and if you write this I would absolutely LOVE to read it!🤍🤍

A/N: I love writing for a Hotchner Reader because the Hotch/Spencer parallels are so 😙👌 This was so fun to write!

Warnings: Smut/ Angst with a happy ending, Semi-public sex, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, case details, kidnapping, abuse, strangulation, mentions of child death/ allusions towards pedophilia etc, Hotch is a somewhat shitty/overprotective dad/boss.

Masterlist!

Falling back into a hotel bed that wasn't yours, you wrapped your legs around Spencer Reid as he furiously worked open the buttons of your shirt, his lips locked with yours in a furious exchange. 

“Spencer, Spencer, we can't-” You moaned as his lips fell down to your ear, a small tap to your thigh signalling that he wanted tour legs spread for him. Despite your vocal protests, you complied.

“Need to feel you,” he groaned, nipping and sucking his way down your chest as his big hands began pushing your skirt up and your panties down. 

“Spencer, someone will hear.” 

“I don't care who hears,” he whispered, finally ridding you of the last piece of material covering your wet sex. “I just want to make you feel good.”

His lips fell to your cunt, falling on your cunt as he began his ministrations. You loved this, the feeling of him near, his lips on you, his tongue teasing out whimper, then moan, then a scream of his name as you came undone on his lips. But that wasn't a chance you could take today. 

“He's in the next room, Spencer. Fuck, he's going to hear us.” 

You wouldn't push him off, enjoying too much the feeling of your building pleasure, so appealing to your boyfriend to do the right thing was your last resort as your hips bucked into his face, chasing your orgasm. 

He didn't stop, but held your hips down, thrusting his tongue in and out of you as his fingers came up to tease your clit. 

“Spencer, fuck-” you slapped a hand over your mouth as you shuddered below him, finally reaching your climax. 

Your hands fell limp as he worked you through the end of your orgasm before rising up to lay beside you on the bed. 

“I wish you wouldn't push it, Spencer. You're a dead man if he catches us like this.” 

“Hotch won't kill me just because I'm dating his daughter. I don't understand why you don't want to tell people.” 

You ran your hands through your hair in frustration. It was a conversation you'd been back and forward on a lot in the past six months. 

Dating a coworker was tricky, doubly so when your coworker’s boss - and your boss - was your overprotective father. Things only became more complicated when you factored in a ten year age gap and the fact that your father refused to view you as an adult, even when you were a fully qualified member of his own team. 

You'd had to fight for acceptance into the FBI and go above him to get the job on his team, a decision that he still berated you for to this day. But you'd had enough of him shielding you from reality, and it was a step you needed to take. 

Falling in love with Spencer Reid, though, that was just pure bad luck. 

You weren't sure how it had taken you until joining the team to meet the man, but you sure were glad he hadn't been introduced earlier. You'd joined the team at 24, having been in grad school until your FBI Academy application was approved, and somehow in the 10 years before that Spencer had worked under your father, you'd never crossed paths.

Of course, you knew who he was before that from context and conversations with your father, and of course, he figured out who you were quickly based on the many arguments you'd had in Hotch’s office. But that hadn't stopped you from repeatedly falling into his bed month after month, and then falling in love with him. 

Your relationship was more than the sex, but it was also a lot of sex. From the stories you'd heard, and from the look of him, you'd assumed that Spencer was a delicate little flower, an innocent in the bedroom as much as any 34 year old man could be. 

And then you'd both been offered spiked drinks at a holiday party courtesy of Penelope Garcia, and he'd proved you deliriously wrong. He'd been hooked from then on, and after waking up awkwardly in his bed the next morning to two cups of coffee and a spread of breakfast pastries he'd gone out to specifically pick up for you, you'd been hooked on him as well. 

The only problem was Hotch. 

You certainly weren't winning any daughter of the year awards already with the stunt you pulled to get on the BAU, but you didn't want to be completely and totally disowned just yet. 

“Hotch won't kill you for dating his daughter, you're right,” you mumbled back to Spencer rolling yourself back on top of him and pinning his arms down so his fingers couldn't tease you any further. 

“Thank you, now if you trust me, I've ran like four different scenarios in my head so-” 

“He'd definitely fire us both, though. And that's worse than death.”

“Y/N….” 

“Tell me I'm wrong, please. Back up your findings with empirical evidence. He doesn't want me on the team, Spencer. He doesn't even want me in the FBI. I think he'd be happy enough to ship me out of the country, too, if that helped.”

Spencer sighed and tugged your hair behind your ear as he gestured for you to sit up. 

“I know it's scary. But I love you. I don't care about the consequences because I'll still love you before and after telling him.”

“And during?” 

“I might freak out a bit, but deep down, the love will be there still.”

You hit him with a pillow and climbed off the bed. 

“Okay, get out now. I'll think about it but you really can't stay here tonight.” He nodded, grabbing his things and pulling his clothes back into place. 

“So, like we're totally done for tonight? Nothing else.”

“Spencer! Out!” You whisper-shouted the words and watched him turn your door handle as slowly as possible before he waved his goodbye and left your room. 

12 hours later, you were once again getting frustrated with Spencer Reid. And Aaron Hotchner. They may soon be enemies, but goddamn they were perfect for each other in some ways. 

“Hotch, you can't just give me nothing to do. Send me to the morgue with Rossi, or let me interview family members with Tara. I'm a member of this team, too, so let me do my job.” 

“You'll do well to remember that I'm your boss, Y/N.”

“You're acting more like my dad right now. A boss would utilize his team members.” 

You'd been stuck in this stale mate since the morning, and Reid hadn't helped at all. When giving out assignments that morning, you'd not been notably left out of crime scene investigation, suspect interrogation, and anything helpful. Reid usually asked for your assistance at times like these, but he was finally putting his money where his mouth was and keeping distance from you in the office.

So far, you'd ran coffees back and forth between the kitchen and work room and had been communicating back and forth with JJ and Derek in the field and Garcia back at Quantico. 

You'd been, for lack of better comparison, relegated to receptionist. 

“At least let me work on the geographical profile with Reid-” 

“Absolutely not.” 

You stiffened at the reaction, wondering just exactly why he would react so strongly. Spencer had snuck in a few secret kisses here and there this morning, though you'd been sure that you'd had no witnesses. 

“Why not?” 

“I don't want you to distract him.”

Bile settled in the back of your throat as you tried your best to bite your tongue and keep the bitter words in. 

“You know, sometimes, Dad, it feels like you love everyone on this team more than you love me.” 

He locked eyes with you quickly, but he glance was dismissive and stern, almost as if he was asking you ‘seriously.’ 

You turned on your heels and began to walk out before he called out from behind you again. 

“Y/N,” you stopped despite yourself. 

“Leave the gun and badge on the desk. We'll discuss this after the case is closed.”

You almost laughed. You almost blurted out your relationship with Spencer just to spite him. You followed his order and took yourself out of the office for some fresh air, finally giving him what he wanted. 

An hour of aimlessly wandering down the street, and you turned into a run-down park. 16 missed calls from Spencer and other members of the team, who'd no doubt watched you turn in your badge. 

Garcia had even called a few times, and you felt guilty for not forwarding her calls somewhere else, knowing she'd probably have key case information for someone. 

But you just couldn't handle it anymore, so you switched it off, pushed it back into your pocket, and kept walking. 

It was two more blocks before the man following you pushed a soaked rag over your mouth and nose and pushed your unconscious body into the back of a waiting van. 

×××××

Two hours of near constant complaining to Hotch had gotten Spencer nowhere in his demands to know just where you went. 

He'd called you 36 times since Hotch had told him you'd left, and he hadn't stopped freaking out since. 

“But where did she go?” 

“I sent her back to the motel.” 

“All of our cars, bar the one JJ and Morgan took to the crime scene, are outside and accounted for. The motel is a 34-minute drive away. It'll take her 5 hours on foot through our unsubs hunting grounds, and I'm not sure if you've noticed, but she matches the victim profile we just gave. Where is she?” 

A muscle in Hotch's jaw twitched, but neither of them moved, eyes locked in battle to see who would back down first.

A call from Penelope ended whatever disaster was storming between them. 

“Hotch hey, I can't get in contact with mini-Hotch, so here I am. Morgan called earlier from the crime scene. From the way they're posed, he said they could be possible stand-ins for a lost child  a daughter or a sister, so I cross checked the ownership of the vehicles that run with the tires we found prints of at the scene, and I got a name. Like one.”

“Great work, Penelope, send it over.” 

Hotch dropped the call and looked back up at Spencer, readying himself to give orders and push the issue. 

Again, their standoff was interrupted. 

“Hotch,” JJ rushed in, carrying a radio dispatcher, face white, and filled with worry. “You need to hear this.”

“Witness reported an abduction on East and 7th, patrol surveyed the scene and found a cellphone. Identifying information suggests it belongs to a Y/N Hotchner. We're bringing it into the stat-” 

Hotch stood so fast his chair almost crashed to the floor. He stood so fast that he barely had time to dodge the lunge Spencer took in his direction, fist pulled back. It would connect, given the chance  he knew it would. He'd been the one to teach Spencer to throw a punch in the first place. 

Morgan insinuated himself between the two men before, and blood could be shed, quickly pulling Spencer back as Rossi, too, rushed into the room to diffuse the situation. 

“One hour. I've been asking you for one hour where she went, and you wouldn't answer me. You made her leave her gun behind.” 

It wasn't exactly a shout, but there was something broken in his voice, as of his mouth had filled with blood and he could only spit hate at a man who'd been a mentor to him until seconds before. 

“If she's hurt- fuck, if even a hair on her head is out of place, I'll-” 

“What, Spencer? What will you do? She's my daughter. What could you do that-”

“She's my girlfriend! She's my girlfriend, she's the love of my life. God, I want to marry her, I have the ring, I have the proposal planned, all that was left was telling you and then asking her, but you've been such a dick to her about this job, and about cases, and God knows what else, that she doesn't want to say anything to you, and now you've driven her away and she's fucking gone. And she could be hurt or in danger or d-de…” 

He crumpled to the floor, Morgan still holding him as his legs gave way beneath him. 

Nobody moved for what felt like hours, still in their grief, shock, some just nervous to see what would happen next. 

“You've been in this situation before, Hotch. So have I. It's …. It hasn't ended well for us before.” 

The words were so final, so defeated that they sucked the air out of the room.

“Morgan,” Hotch started quietly, eyes still locked with Reid's, still staring down the reflection of his own despair.

“Get Garcia back on the line, I want confirmation that the vehicle that picked Y/N up is the same one that our unsub has been using to set up crime scenes. See if she can lift a name and an address. Rossi, if he's skilled enough to pick up an FBI Agent unaware, we need a SWAT team, get one on standby.”

Slowly growing in volume, he continued, as the room started moving at his signal. 

“JJ, Tara, take over where Reid left off with the geographical profile. Look at Y/N's last known location and how far a car could've gotten in the last 24 minutes.” 

He paused again, staring Reid down. 

“Reid, you're with me.” 

xxxxx

It took you a few seconds to gain a sense of your surroundings when you came to. Partially because of the drug induced migraine splitting your head, and partially because of the mess of ribbons and stuffed toys you'd woken up in. 

A change of clothes, and hands tied to what seemed to be a children's bed and you felt so grossly vulnerable your body shook with a few harsh sobs before you regained your composure and remembered your training. 

The knots on the rope holding your hands were tight. There wasn't much room to move with them pinned above your head, but you recognised them as naval knots. Your unsub had experience at sea, recreational or professional you'd yet to determine. 

Looking around again, you looked for entries and exits, wanting to know how the unsub would come in again and how you could get out. 

There were no windows, but a set of stairs leading up towards a solid door told you that you'd been locked inside a basement. A basement decorated similarly to a child's bedroom. 

Dimly lit by a mass of fairy lights, the room seemed covered head to toe in teddy bears, dolls, and children's books, a sturdy handmade doll’s house standing in the corner of the room. 

Faintly, you heard the creaking of floorboards above you before the handle of the basement door rattled and more light poured in. 

“I bought you breakfast, cupcake.” 

There was no time to feign unconsciousness again as your captor finally came into view. 

He was older than middle-aged, slightly wider around the midsection than you assumed he'd been in his youth. His hair was closely cropped and laid neatly, leading you to suspect he was former military. 

“Oh, good, you're awake. What do you want to do today, cupcake? Daddy has some time off now, I can play with you all you want.” 

You moved slowly, pushing yourself up to a seated position so you could bend your arms a bit. But you didn't look away, needing to keep him in your line of sight the entire time.

“Where am I?” You asked slowly, trying to keep your voice steady. 

“Wow, you must've had a deep sleep cupcake. You're in your bedroom, silly!”

The man's sprightly tone was disconcerting, and you could see a muscle in his forehead twitch slightly as you spoke. 

“O-of course. My mistake. Maybe I'm just still tired.”

He laid the tray on the bedside table and sat on the bed next to you. You tried your best not to shy from his touch as he stroked your hair, but every muscle in your body tensed and pulled from him reflexively. 

A quick glance to the tray and you saw the food he'd brought you was a small cup of pills and a glass of water to rinse them down with. 

If he noticed your flinch, he said nothing, grabbing a hairbrush from the nightstand and beginning to comb through your hair slowly and deliberately, taking care like one would a daughter. 

“Daddy,” you took a chance, recalling the name he'd given himself earlier. “Can we play outside today? I want to go to the park.” 

He stopped moving, and you held your breath as his smile dropped. 

“No, sweetie. You know we don't go to parks.” 

“Why not? I really want to play there, Daddy, please!”

In seconds, his hands wrapped around your throat as he pushed you back down into the bed, holding you there with his tight, suffocating grip. 

“Shut the fuck up you little slut. I said we don't go to parks, you listen. I am your father, you are not being taken by one of those sick freaks again.” 

He released you as quick as he grabbed you and stood up, pacing as he attempted to regain composure. 

“You can draw or we can have a tea party but you know we can't go out. You know that cupcake, I've told you so many times.” 

He grabbed at his hair, pulling it from its carefully styled arrangement into a mess, his fingers leaving red marks against his white skin as he pushed and pulled his head. 

He breathed deeply, and you sat up, trying to regain your composure as you watched him lose his. 

“What was her name?” You whispered, half hoping he would hear you, half praying that he'd ignore you for the sake of his fantasy. 

“W-What?” 

“Your daughter. What was her name?” 

He focused on you again, but his hands - hands that you knew could and would choke the life out of you if you did something wrong again - his hands were shaking. 

You heard the floorboards creaking upstairs and decided to push your questioning, hoping it meant what you thought it did. 

“Why are you saying it like that, ‘was?’ Is. Her name is, your name is Laura, and you're my little cupcake.” 

“What happened to her?” You filled your voice with as much sympathy and understanding as you could muster, one eye on the basement door that was being slowly pushed open. One look at Morgan at the top of the stairs had your heart rate slowing to a calmer speed. You locked eyes with him for a second, halting him, and he nodded, waiting for your signal. 

“You, you're my cupcake, you look just like… She should look just like you.” 

The man sat on the bed again, stroking a hair out of your eye as his filled with tears. 

“Fifteen years. I looked for her for fifteen years, you know. If I hadn't taken her to that park-” 

“That must have been hard.” 

He nodded as he broke down in silent sobs. 

“They said… they said she probably died a day or two after we lost her. When they found her, she was…” he rested his head on your shoulder, let him cling to you as he mourned his daughter. 

“We couldn't identify her, but she had that teddy with her. The teddy with the cupcake in its hands. She never went anywhere without it. So we…we knew.

You looked at Morgan as he slowly made his descent into the room, closely followed by JJ. 

The man looked up into your eyes again, wiping the tears from his face. 

“She was only 8.” He looked defeated, and your heart broke for him, even as you wished to get as far away from him as you could physically muster. 

Morgan pulled him up and away from you as he secured the man with handcuffs, but his eyes remained locked on you. 

JJ untied you and guided you out, but you felt his gaze bite into you ever after you'd left the basement. 

As soon as you were above ground, you let your body divest itself of adrenaline, your legs buckling as JJ tried to catch you. Another set of arms was quicker, though, and you didn't even register Spencer's arrival before burying your head in his chest and letting your sobs escape you. 

He guided you to your feet and walked you out to the ambulance, his arms protectively wrapped around you, his lips peppering kisses along your hairline and forehead, anywhere he could reach. In moments, you were bundled into the ambulance, and three gentle voices were trying to calm you, to pry you away from your comfort doll.

You wondered if you'd die like the unsubs daughter had, if they'd find you clinging to Spencer the way she had to her teddy bear.

“Y/N,” your father's deep voice was clear and smooth, the only thing that was cutting through the wretched moment of pain you were enduring. 

You remembered yourself again, relinquishing your grip on Spencer and wiping the tears from your face as you finally looked towards Aaron Hotchner. 

The paramedics took their chance and began checking your vitals, working around you in a hurry. 

“Dad, I'm sorry, I was walking and didn't notice that he was behind me, I should've been more careful-”

“Y/N, it’s okay. You're okay now.” 

You nodded as he came closer. You ignored the tears in his eyes, trying not to break down again. It had been an age since you'd last witnessed him cry, at another crime scene with another family member and another unsub. You couldn't think about how close you'd come to making him relive his worst nightmare. 

Spencer's hand was still firm in yours, and you held it like a lifeline, though you were sure your nails had to be cutting him by now. It took another moment to register that he was holding onto you just as hard, that he was unmoving, still where he was usually a series of compulsive moments, tapping, hand wringing, fists clenching and releasing. 

You glanced between the men, who had now become quiet as they surveyed you, and noticed the tension. Before you could say anything, though, the paramedics took over. 

“We're going to get you to the hospital now, Agent, one coworker can accompany you in the vehicle, preferably one with knowledge of your medical history.”

Both men immediately moved forward again, as if ready to jump into the van, before turning again to each other. 

“Shit,” you mumbled to yourself just as the buzzing in your head from the migraine grew louder. 

“Y/N, it's your choice. Who do you want to come?” Spencer said gently, his body still stiff with worry. 

“I'm her father. This isn't a question of who she likes better.”

“I have her medical records memorized, and I have more knowledge about the drugs the unsub gave her, but Y/N can choose for herself because she is a grown woman.”

You sighed and dropped the man's hand as the medics ushered you into the van fully, but the men were fully absorbed in their fight for dominance that they barely registered it. 

“JJ. JJ is coming with me,” You could see both of them turn back to you to argue, but you continued before they could. “Because I am a grown adult who knows her own medical history, and I don't need my father and my… coworker having territory wars over my wellbeing.” 

And possibly because she'd be the least awkward option to answer the questions about sexual activity and possibility of pregnancy around, but you really did not need to vocalize that. 

“Right now, I'm just a victim you've saved. Go and do your jobs and meet me at the hospital later because I am not doing overtime completing paperwork while on suspension.” 

JJ climbed up into the ambulance and the doors shut, letting you finally get a few moments peace as it began slowly making its way to whatever hospital was closest. 

“He knows, right?” You asked, covering your eyes with your hands as you braved for the answer. 

“Hotch? You could say that he figured it out.” 

“That bad?” 

“Spencer threw a punch at him. He tried to at least.” 

“What?!” Your body shot up, but the paramedic gently forced you back into a laid position, giving you a warning look to stay put as she checked your blood pressure. 

“Don't be too hard on him, Y/N. He thought he was going to lose you. They both did. I don't think either of them would survive it happening again.” 

The guilt hit you right in the chest as you nodded and dropped the conversation. 

“Maybe I should've let Spencer come with me.” 

“Why?” JJ asked, not offended bit curious. 

“Because I'm not entirely sure my father won't throw that punch back at him now he knows I'm okay. It's hard being in a relationship if one of you is dead.” 

The older woman chuckled slightly, and you settled back down, letting the car movements rock you into sleep. 

xxxxx

A few hours later and some quietly bickering voices pulled you from the rest you'd so sorely needed. Without even opening your eyes, you knew they'd both subtly scrambled to your bed to make sure you were comfortable. 

“What are you talking about?” You asked, wiping your eyes carefully as you tried to sit up, arms still aching from being tied up. 

“Oh shit-” you exclaimed after seeing your boyfriends freshly split lip. 

“Dad, what the fuck?” 

“Y/N, it's fine. It doesn't hurt.” 

“Aaron Hotchner, do you have nothing to say for yourself?” You tried to put all of tour anger into the words as you said them, bit he looked at you again with his straight face, and you crumpled under the pressure. 

“I won't…I'm not going to object. I just ask you to keep your private life separate from your work.” 

“And you're going to punch my boyfriend while I'm unconscious, so I can't defend him.” 

“I'm still your father, and he deserved it.” 

You looked back over to Spencer, who was quite notably not meeting your eyes. 

“Do I want to know?” 

“I'm leaving now. Jack will be here soon. He wants to check on you now that school is over. We told him you were hurt trying to save a sick man.” 

“Thank you, dad.” 

He nodded at you and left you alone in your hospital room with Spencer. 

“Why did you deserve it?” You whisper shouted the moment you assumed he was out of earshot. 

“The doctor came in and asked about some old bruises on your upper thighs. And ass. And chest. I had to admit they weren't sustained during the kidnapping, and Hotch wasn't pleased.” 

You huffed out a sound halfway between incredulous and a strangled moan of shame as you curcled yourself up into a ball and tried your best to die. 

“Great. Wonderful.”

“If it makes you feel any better, he thought it was signs of domestic violence and not just rough...sex.” 

“Yes, Spencer, that makes me feel entirely more comfortable with the situation.” 

Registering the sarcasm in your voice, he quieted down again, settling into the chair by your bedside and grabbing your hand. 

You sat silently together for a few minutes before either of you said anything. 

“I'm sorry. I know you didn't want him to find out.” 

“Spencer, you don't have to apologise. All things considered, this is possibly the best way he could've found out.”

“My busted lip suggests otherwise, I think.” 

“And a whole lot more would've been busted if he caught us any other time. Besides, I already lost my job, so there's not much else at stake anymore.” 

The words stung you as you said them, but you did still feel the weight of your dismissal in your chest, spreading miserably through your bones. 

“Does your head still hurt?”

“Not really, why?”

“You're not as perceptive as you usually are.”

You shot him a confused look as he smiled softly down at you, offering a nod towards the small coffee table under the window of your hospital room. 

There on your table sat your creds and your gun. The silent acknowledgement you'd been waiting for from your father. 

Spencer sat by you as you did your best to hold off the tears. He let you pretend there was something in your eye, let you wonder if your eyes had become watery because of dust from the basement. He quietly held your hand as you grinned and grinned until you pulled him in for a kiss and held him close to you. 

His lips were soft as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down on top of you even as he tried to hold himself up and off you so he didn't hurt you. 

“You know,” you said, punctuating each word with another sweet kiss. “This means- that- you're- stuck- with- me.” 

He laughed into your final kiss, finally pulling back for more air, studying your face as if he were trying to memorize it. 

“That was never the issue.” 

“Oh really, and what was?”

He kissed your again, slow and deep this time, taking his time working his hands down from your hair to your neck to cup your face so you were opened up to him, letting his lips and tongue explore everything he wanted to. He pulled away eventually and instinctively your lips tried to chase his, even as he pulled out of reach. 

“Making sure you stayed by my side.” 

[yeyinde]

ghoapxreader in the baby trapping series IM BEGGING 🧎‍♀️

i think i've exhausted the whole "tampering with contraceptives" thing to death by now so i would probably do something different with them. like a surrogate situation or something, but awful lmao

maybe down on her luck reader is in desperate need of cash, and these two men swoop in to save you from this horrible pit you've fallen into.

you need money. they need a baby.

simple, right?

except the simplicity falls apart when they blatantly tell you they want a natural insemination—as in, a threesome.

multiple, the pretty Scot tells you. after all, it has tae take, hen.

(and this is the part where you should have run. the moment when you'd be screaming at the television at the hapless protagonist as they walk mindlessly into danger despite the warning signs hanging overhead. but like the oblivious hero, you're too blinded by pretty, gleaming white to realise that the thing you're marveling over is a maw. cracked open wide and full of jagged, deadly teeth rearing up to sink inside of you.

but the problem with making shady deals when you're desperate is that no one really bothers to read the fine print, do they? and by the time you see past their crooked charm, you're waving your child off as they skip up the stairs to school, standing like a prisoner between them as they lean down and ask if you're ready for another—)

but that comes later.

what comes first is message on Craiglist.

one that you spend less time considering it than you should have. desperation, you find, clouds your judgement. blots out common sense. makes you susceptible to manipulation. and oh, how susceptible you are. despite priding yourself on your common sense and keen self-awareness, the overarching issues hanging over your head like an idling guillotine seem to erase that instructive need for self-preservation.

so, when the message itself pops up, you're already primed for making bad choices. ones out of malformed desperation. the barrage of texts from your landlord demanding rent, the ones sent to your family in moments of dire need asking for fruitless aid that will never come in time if the read receipts mean anything at all. the package from HR apologising for the inconvenience, but this was, regrettably, the only feasible option for the company at present, and too bad you didn't sign up for that union, huh? student loans. credit cards.

the measureable calamity of your life manifests itself in the shape of a black cloud hanging onto your aching shoulder, wrapping long, inkstained fingers around your jugular as it hisses the insurmountable figure needed to climb out of this pit in your ear.

sleepless, of course, hasn't helped.

and in that bog you can't swim through, their offer sounds far more appealing than it should.

let's meet up somewhere, comes the next message at half past three in the morning as you talk yourself in (and out) of this mess. talk about things more.

what else are you supposed to do?

job hunting sites mock you with their generic emails, thanking you for applying, and saying they'll reach out within a few business days for an interview if you're a good fit. ones sent off weeks ago. hundreds of them to no avail. it's almost like you're being plagued. blacklisted from the city.

even the fast food chain down the street refused your application when you sent it in, and the help wanted sign has been taped on the drive-thru window since you were sixteen.

it all pushes you closer and closer to making stupid choices, like replying with a simple (nervous, shaky, bile-tinged) sure to the message they sent. i'm down—

(—and drowning)

but you're smart enough to know better, so you act like it, too.

ping your location to your friends. tell them where you're going. clutch your keys so tightly in your fist that your knuckles just out through thin skin. layers upon layers of safety measures glimpsed through the various articles about how to stay alive.

but all the tremulous air is siphoned from your lungs when you see them for the first time.

something magnetic thrums through your chest. copper sutures running lines from their skin to yours until touching just seems like the most natural thing in the world. and you suppose it is when the pretty Scot folds you into a tight hug, cinching you close to his chest as if he's known you his whole life instead of just several seconds.

he's a thing of beauty. chiselled from marble, almost; David made human when he runs his tanned hand through the tumble of uneven hair along his crown. eyes the same varicoloured palette of a boscage in autumn framed in the setting sun's golden halo.

there's a distinct ruggedness about his beauty, too. one that reminds of you a lion's mane. the sleek fur of a stallion. pretty in a wild way. and as his eyes list towards you again and again, like he can't quite manage his fill of staring at you, taking you in, you think about that wildness again. the hunger in his eyes so similiar to the desperation of a predator fattening up for the encroaching chill of winter. it makes you shiver, but you can't look away

(because you know what's waiting for you when you do)

and when you finally pluck up the courage to glance at the shape devouring the light with his intimidating bulk, you come to quick realisation that if Johnny is the personification of an autumn evening, then the man standing next to him is the tried and true testament that bad things happen after dark.

he's a strange figure, one who veers almost comically into the uncanny valley with his hood pulled over the plain, black ballcap hanging low over his brow. a balaclava covering every inch of his face with the exception of a small, ovaled hole for his eyes. remnants of something ashy smear into the corners, running up the crooked bend of his nose.

he doesn't look like a real man—not with those liquid, haunting eyes—but at the same time, there's something preternaturally human about him. a stereotypical sense of masculinity—just one warped around the edges.

with his worn jeans pulled tight over thick, bulging thighs, and the silver zipper of his hoodie resting at the base of his throat, you could easily think he was just another man in the crowd, but it's off. a glitch. a skip.

like mistaking a coat rack for a man in the dead of night.

eerie.

dangerous.

if the man beside him is playfully carnivorous, a basking lion rolling onto his belly at the zoo, separated by thick glass, then he (Simon, Johnny supplies readily when the silence lingers; Simon Riley), Simon, is what it feels like to be followed home at night.

but—

there's something about fear and desire that are almost inseparable when broken down into a physiological response.

and when he steps up behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body soaking into the drying sweat on your back, you liken the way your heart climbs up your throat to same as it would seeing a dorsal fin cutting above the waves in open water.

desire, you think, and then catching the white-hot burn of the stare, you add, in a thin whisper: fear.

when they sit you down, and begin to spin a story about how they just want a baby—no strings attached—you stay seated in the chair even as an itch in the back of your head starts, nails scraping at your skull.

their reluctance toward traditional methods makes sense when they explain that with their lifestyle, it's impossible—or the Scottish man does; the other one with a marbled skin of thick, ugly scars on his hands just stares, pinning you down with the weight of his gaze—and this arrangement is the only way they'll get the baby they've been hoping for.

and even though the scratching in your head sounds suspiciously like why you and run, you eat the food they bought for you in the fancy restaurant where appetisers start at $30, and a glass of water is priced at $6. volcanic spring water, the waiter explains as he pours it from a marbled glass pitcher.

you haven't eaten a real meal that wasn't microwavable or cup noodles in weeks.

maybe that's why you find yourself thinking why not instead of no.

they're attractive men. it's not the worst situation you could have found yourself in, even if the idea of parenthood—however brief it's supposed to be—has bile clawing up the back of your throat, and the bones housing your trembling heart feeling laden, heavy like iron, and starts to cinch your chest shut each day, squeezing tighter, and tighter, and—

they drop off the first the installment to you the moment your doctor starts to talk about boerhaave syndrome, as if they know the doubts that plague your head when they leave your apartment and the silence starts to mock you.

and that leads you here.

guilt for their situation. desperation over your own. an overarching need to please. it's all a dangerous cocktail that douses over rationality until you're nodding along, accepting their words as gospel until sleeping with them—multiple times—doesn't seem like such a bad thing.

until it happens. until you have Johnny and Simon actively working to knock you up. a marathon of intense sex with the single-minded goal of putting their baby in you.

Johnny drooling all over you as he ruts between your thighs, mindlessly driving himself into a frenzy as he slurres out his desires in an incomprehensible mess of English and Gaelic and animalistic grunts. barely pulling out in time before Simon is pressing your knee down to the mattress, cooing mockingly at the mess his boy made of you. cruelly taking bets as he slides into your sore, aching cunt about who will take first. his or Johnny's? and who do you want, birdie? who's baby do you want first?

fingers always shoving inside to cap the overflow when they exhaust themselves in a liquid-limbed stupor, barely conscious as you tapped out some three, four rounds ago. unable to keep your eyes open any longer as they both came to the same conclusion that cumming inside of you at the same time was the quickest way to knock you up together. ain't he a romantic, birdie?

and it's probably for the best that you passed out before it happened, drooling on Simon's scarred shoulder as he gripped the cheeks of your ass, pulling you wide open as Johnny shuffled forward between his spread legs, eyes riveted to the spot where Simon's cock split you open. the ache you felt the next morning, coming to on a broad chest with fingers stuffed inside of you—shush, shush, just keeping you nice an' plugged, sweetheart—was almost unbearable.

you expected them to clear out after getting what they want, but they stay. tend to you carefully like you're made of fine china.

or—Johnny does. bundles you up in his arms before setting off towards the bath, finally letting you wash the sticky, flaking grime from your skin, some awful mixture of drying cum, spit, and sweat, groaning in your ear as he pulls you to his damp, hairy chest about how sweet you are for them. how they're going to take care of you.

Simon caters to other things. packs your bags as Johnny scrubs thick fingers over your shoulders, pausing to grasp a sore, tender breast in his palm, hefting the weight up as he feverishly mutters about how hot it'll be to watch you feed their baby. an' maybe you'll let him have a little taste, too—

and when you finally emerge from the bath, sorer between the thighs than you were when you woke up, another mess pooling in the gusset of the panties he pulled up your legs, Simon's waiting, eyes riveted to your belly. staring at it with so much hunger, a cold sweat breaks out along the nape of your neck.

in the grand scheme of things, the threesome is the easy part. the hard part comes when they turn the arrangement into a prison, locking the shackles around your wrists when the pregnancy test comes back positive a few weeks later.

they're only doing what's best for their baby, they say, when they move you out of your apartment and into theirs. the cut lease was the only way to do it, Johnny says, shrugging. why make you pay for something you aren't using anymore?

and maybe if your head was thickened with a fog, you'd have questioned the phrasing, but as it stands, pregnancy, even as early as this one, adles you. leaves you a syrupy mess of emotions that they take turns exploiting. aren't you so lonely all by yourself, hen? don' ye want a family?

aren't they good enough for you?

it's less subliminal messaging and more overt coersion. what are you going to do after this? where will you go with your lease cut? and when the funds run dry? what then?

gonna find another couple to knock you up? Simon hisses, mangled hands mauling your belly, pinching and squeezing the flesh as if he could feel the fragile box their happiness is housed inside. should jus' stay with us if that's the case, birdie.

but it's all so sweet, in its own way—

(—sweet like a parasite nesting inside of it's host.

but at least you'll never be lonely.)

they stand by the fact that they're looking out for you. that they care. that they can't do much else but idle and watch your body evolve into something new (an' magnificent, Johnny breathes, kissing this unfamiliar shape you call home) and it grates at them because they're not used to feeling so useless, so can't you just let them do this for you? take care of you in all the ways they see fit? like cutting your lease and giving you a better place to stay. handing in your resignation from that shitty nine to five that wore you down to the bone. culling out the annoyances in your life—the friends and family—who kick up needless fits over your wellbeing, and just stress you out more than you need to be.

they're not good enough for you, is what Simon says when you ask why he blocked them from your phone, Johnny hovering by the doorway with his arms folded over his chest. barring the exits, you'll realise later. but what comes first is fear, is anger, is—

happiness. maybe. or some broken, fragile facsimile of it. a subpar humuliculus masquerading around as if it was realised flesh and bone.

"oh," you say, and think you should be touched by his care, his concern, and so you are. shape this emotion from the sludge that pools at the bottom of your chest, running fingers through the muck to find pieces of gold. and then: "thank you, Simon."

it's sweet. or it could have been if it didn't spiral out of your control when they systematically dismantle your entire life until all you're left with is loose sediment slipping through your fingers. the foundation itself soften clay they shape into the image they've been after with the whole time: you.

(or more specifically, a momma for their baby.)

and when they ask you, at the end of this thin, fraying tether, if you want to be with them—an equal, a mother—and be a mother again for them, there's nothing else you could say except yes.

nothing because they made it so.