#so i'll probably have to do more of these

[hoe4hotchner]

can i req aaron with an s/o who's ovulating or has a high sex drive and is easily turned on by him (regardless of if he's trying to or not)

The Hotchner effect | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | WC: 2.0k | CW: MDNI, 18+, smut, Couch sex.

A/N: Well…… this was the smut I was excited about writing the night before I was hit by that car. So, here you guys go ;) To anyone interested: I've almost made a full recovery at this point. In a couple of days I'll probably be 100% fine again :D

You always thought you had decent control over yourself and your body—at least until you met Aaron Hotchner. Somehow, just being around him tested your limits, especially when he wasn’t even trying. Every. Single. Day. Whether it was his voice, as low and commanding as it was when you visited him in the middle of a case brief at the BAU, or the way his tie shifted as he rolled up his sleeves, everything he did made your heart race—and that was on a normal day.

But today? Today, your hormones were in overdrive. Ovulating didn’t just make you aware of him; it made everything he did feel like it was specifically designed to unravel you. All of your senses tuned onto his wavelengths.

His scent lingering in the sheets—hypnotizing.

The sound of his footsteps across the floor—ears perked.

Every little twitch and movement he made—you suddenly had 20/20 vision.

Like now, as he stood in the kitchen casually pouring himself a cup of coffee before retreating back to his office. The crisp white shirt he wore hugged his frame just right, the fabric stretched taut across his broad shoulders, his suit jacket long forgotten on the back of his chair after he had returned home.

He wasn’t even speaking, but the way he leaned against the counter, so composed and yet so authoritative, was enough to make your stomach flip and your thoughts veer wildly off course.

“Are you alright?” His voice cut through your haze, and you froze, realizing you’d been staring at him.

“Uh, yeah! Fine. Totally fine,” you said quickly, reaching for a cup as if that was why you’d been standing there in the first place.

His lips twitched in a faint smile, and you cursed internally because even that was hot. Damn him.

The problem was, Aaron knew. Maybe not the full extent of it, but he was far too observant not to notice the way your breath hitched when he looked at you or how your cheeks flushed whenever he got too close. And right now, you could see the flicker of amusement in his dark eyes as he stepped closer, seemingly to grab the sugar.

“Sure you’re fine?” he murmured, his voice dipping just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You gripped the counter, your body betraying you as heat flushed through your skin. “Y-yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

His gaze lingered, assessing, and for a moment, you thought he might press further. But instead, he leaned back, sipping his coffee, completely unbothered by the chaos he was causing inside you.

The rest of the day wasn’t any better. Whether it was the way he adjusted his tie, the faint scruff on his jaw after a long phone call, or how his hand brushed yours when he came out of the office for a moment, you were practically vibrating with tension.

By the time he finished his workload, you were ready to combust.

Aaron was undoing his cufflinks when you finally snapped. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” you blurted, crossing your arms as you stood in the middle of the living room.

He glanced up, eyebrows raised, but the smirk tugging at his lips told you everything. “I might have an idea,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, and damn him again because he was still so calm, so composed, while you were unraveling.

“You’re driving me insane, Aaron,” you confessed, and this time, his smirk softened into something deeper, more knowing.

“Come here,” he said, his tone shifting, and the weight of it alone made your knees weak.

You didn’t hesitate, crossing the space between you in an instant. His hands found your waist, pulling you close as his lips brushed your temple. “You know,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin, “I’ve been trying to keep my distance all day because I could tell you were… distracted.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. “Distracted is an understatement.”

His fingers tightened slightly on your hips, his lips grazing your ear now. “Well, sweetheart, I’m all yours now.”

And that was all it took for you to finally close the gap, pulling him into a kiss that was every bit as heated as the tension that had been simmering between you all day.

As soon as your lips met, it was like all the pent-up desire and arousal from the day came pouring out in a wave of pure, unbridled passion. Your kiss was hungry, almost feral, your hands roaming over Aaron's body as if trying to memorize every edge and angle.

Aaron groaned into your mouth, his own hands slipping under your shirt to explore the soft skin of your back. He tugged impatiently at the fabric, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head and toss it aside before his fingers quickly found the clasp of your bra and unhooked it.

His gaze raked over your exposed breasts as he freed them.

"Fuck, baby," he growled, palming your one, the callous on his fingers rough against your skin. "You're so gorgeous. I can't get enough of you."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, your nipples hardening almost painfully under his touch. You arched into his hand, a needy whimper escaping your lips. He took the opportunity to lower his head and capture one of your nipples between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to send a jolt of pleasurable pain straight to your core.

You cried out, tangling your fingers in his hair and holding him close. He lavished attention on your breasts, alternating between nipping and sucking until you were writhing against him, your body aching for more. Your hands scrabbled at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours.

Aaron seemed to understand, moving back just long enough to yank his shirt off before continuing his attack on you again. The feel of his bare chest against yours was electric, sending sparks of pleasure through your nerves. You ran your hands over his muscles, marveling at the way they flexed beneath your touch.

Your arousal was growing with each passing second, and your panties soaked. You could feel the heat building between your legs, your body crying out for release. Aaron seemed to sense it, his hands sliding down to the waistband of your pants.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark with lust. "Tell me what you need, baby," he murmured, his fingers toying with the button. "Tell me how you want me to make you feel."

His words were like a match thrown in a puddle of gasoline, igniting the fire in your veins. "I need you," you gasped, your hips bucking against his hand. "I need you inside me. Please, Aaron, fuck me."

A wicked grin spread across Aaron's face, his eyes glinting with promise. "With pleasure," he purred, popping the button of your pants and sliding them down your legs. You kicked them off eagerly, leaving you in nothing but a damp pair of panties.

Aaron drank in the sight of you, his gaze trailing over every inch of exposed skin. "God, you're perfect," he breathed, running a finger along the edge of your panties. "So perfect."

He hooked his fingers under the fabric, slowly pulling them down and baring you completely to his hungry gaze. You flushed under his scrutiny, but the heat of his stare only served to fuel your desire. He leaned you back, the weight os his body pressing against you as your back hit the cushion of the couch.

"I'm going to taste every inch of you," he promised as he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, his breath ghosting over your sensitive skin. "I'm going to make you come so hard you forget your own name."

And with that, he buried his face between your legs, his tongue delving into your already dripping folds. You cried out at the first touch, your back arching off the couch. He lapped at you greedily, his tongue exploring every crevice and fold, finding all the spots that made you gasp and moan. He knew you too well.

Your hands flew to his hair, holding him in place as he worked you over with skill. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head, your hips rocking against his mouth in a desperate search for more. He obliged happily, sliding two fingers inside you and curling them just right, hitting the spot that made stars blind your vision.

"Oh god, Aaron," you keened, your head thrashing from side to side. "Don't stop, please don't stop. I'm so close."

He doubled his efforts, sucking hard on your clit as his fingers pumped in and out of you. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, building and building until it finally washed over you in a tidal wave of ecstasy.

You screamed his name as you came, your body convulsing beneath him. He worked you through it, prolonging your orgasm until you were boneless and spent, collapsing back against the mattress. But Aaron was far from done with you.

He crawled up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that tasted of your own arousal. You could feel his stiffness pressing against you, hot and insistent. Breaking the kiss, he reached down to undo his pants, shoving them down just far enough to free his cock.

"I need to be inside you," he grunted, positioning himself at your entrance. "I need to feel you wrapped around me. Think you can take one more, for me?"

You nodded breathlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist. He surged forward, burying himself inside you with one smooth thrust. You both groaned at the sensation, your bodies fitting together like they were made for each other.

Aaron set a hard and fast pace, his hips snapping against yours with each powerful stroke. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your moans and cries of pleasure. He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle and allowing him to go even deeper.

"You feel amazing," he panted, his eyes locked on yours. "So tight and wet and perfect. I never want this to end."

His words sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, your walls clenching around him in response, your eyes watering from pure bliss. He groaned at the sensation, his thrusts becoming erratic and uncoordinated as he chased his own release.

You could feel another orgasm building low in your belly, your body coiling tighter and tighter with each pass of his cock. "Harder," you gasped, digging your nails into his back. "Fuck me harder, Aaron."

He obliged with a guttural moan, hammering into you with all his strength. The bed creaked beneath you, rocking with the force of his thrusts. You could feel him pulsing inside you, growing thicker and harder with each passing second.

"Cum for me, baby," he groaned, his voice strained with effort. "Come all over my cock. I want to feel you squeezing me."

His words were all it took to send you hurtling over the edge once more. You came with a near-silent scream, your body shuddering and convulsing beneath him as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. Aaron followed a second later, burying himself deep inside you and flooding your womb with his seed.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you gasping for breath as you rode out the aftershocks of your orgasms. He pressed soft kisses to your face and neck, murmuring words of love and devotion against your skin.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," you whispered back, tangling your fingers in his hair. "More than anything."

He smiled against your skin, rolling onto his side and pulling you close. You nestled into his arms, your body still tingling with pleasure. As you drifted off to sleep, safe and sated in his embrace, you knew that this was where you belonged.

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

(genuine question sorry if it comes across as spam or trolling) is porn addiction not actually a thing? and how is it connected to terf stuff (again genuinely want to know so I don’t repeat the retoric)

No worries anon, I do not get enough asks for things to come across as spam or trolling.

But yeah no, porn addiction is not a thing. Over two decades of research has not proven a goddamn thing; rather, it's proven that it doesn't exist. [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] *note, some of these are more accessible than others and some are more specific

While those who believe in it will present what seems to be a mountain of evidence for it, their evidence is often unscientific or unreliable or uses flawed measures or uses incredibly small sample sizes, including a sample of 1 in some cases.

The actual scientific consensus is that while excessive watching of porn can be a bad habit and can negatively impact your life, you can't become addicted to it the way that you can with things like alcohol. Things like alcohol addiction or tobacco addiction are related to a significant change in the neuronal transmission in your brain. Like certain drugs mimic certain neurotransmitters and impact the neuro-receptors on either side of a synapse.

Porn doesn't do that. Or moreso, porn is not unique in how it can change your brain chemistry. Someone who spends twelve hours a day seven days a week watching reality TV doesn't have a habit inherently different to someone who spends the same amount of time watching porn.

Often excessive watching of porn is a symptom of a larger issue such as depression. Many of those who self-report as porn addicts match the primary diagnosis of depression.

Also, within research, it is often found that those who self-report a porn addiction watch the same amount of or less of porn as someone who doesn't report it, mostly because a lot of it is related to shame and guilt and not addictive behaviour.

Porn addiction as an idea is most often rooted in religiosity and not science.

It can also be rooted in terfism. Because terfs hate porn.

Their arguments against porn boil down to the idea that women cannot and should not have sexual autonomy. They dress it up obviously, but if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it's a misogynist.

Almost any argument against porn they make can be easily countered by the fact that all their criticisms occur in every industry that exists currently, especially so in creative industries.

The porn industry is not uniquely exploitative. If people's labour is involved, it's probably being exploited or it has the potential to be exploited. Not knowing if the person on screen was treated well on set is not unique to porn, you know how many movies I can list that included actors being treated like shit? The porn industry does not have an issue with human trafficking that is unique to any other industry; it's a massive issue in industries with manual labour. etc.

Point is, it is not inherently evil. Terfs want you to think it is though because A) they hate women and B)

To them, porn equals predatory men (they include trans women in this) exploiting poor innocent women who cannot possibly consent.

The idea of women who actively partake in sex work and enjoy doing so is mind breaking for them; they often rationalise it as the women being mentally ill and being indoctrinated by porn. The idea of porn addiction suits them well because they believe porn is inherently evil like men are.

Terfs can't perceive any situation where women are not being actively victimised by men. They are always the victims and they always need protection from men who are inherently evil and inherently predatory.

They're misogynists and idiots (and very often very racist though that's not currently relevant).

I don't know how coherent this is. It is approaching the time I go to sleep so it might be very rambly. I hope it was helpful anyway. Feel free to ask for clarification that I'll reply to in the morning.

[impyssadobsessions]

I finally finished the concept for Danny's Devil Trigger form >w< I'll show all the sketches that lead me to this. This is the front and back.

I drew some action doodles to get a better feel on the concept/design. >w< And I just love action poses. I imagine his tail works similar to Nero's devil bringer, except less smashing and more slinging enemies around. OH I didn't draw the idea I have, maybe I should. Where his tail will wrap around his arms providing him with a bigger blaster for his blasts that he shoots from his fist. Or maybe he could hold it like a gun and shoot it that way, as if its a grenade launcher XD.

Here some sketches I did before I refined the body on the lunar moth design. I tried to replicate the wings there when it wasn't working out how I wanted. My bf gave me the idea about thinking it was fun the one that flies not having wings- so then I was like yeah that would be cool.. Thus the idea to give him a tail was born. Which works great to make him look like his canon phantom form. Also was playing around with the inverted idea for a bit, but just couldn't get it to work with my skills. Reason concept art can be really helpful. Because an idea might be cool but hard to execute >w<

Last one with more Dante's colors again. lol He would have looked sick regardless. If his color scheme wasn't green, I would so do the red. >w<

Here's link to other posts for my DMC x DP ! I put a lot of thought into this au XDDD I probably should write the story Idea I have >w<

[from-the-owls-nest]

mhm. what if you're too broken, in too tiny pieces, even the base too shattered to rebuild from. what if there's too little good left.

*swallow* that... that probably wasn't the most helpful answer. but I know what you mean. and I don't really have a fix or anything.

*drily, like, ironically* should probably clarify that the you in that first sentence meant me and just me. so. before you get any more ideas. because of course for Me that's Different! At least for my chaos brain tangles.

[ooc: Philosophy Below. idk brain ran away with thoughts call me if u find it /silly]

*silence, thinking over the words again* I don't know. All I can hope is that - that sentence from the movie Aria likes. When we can see no future, all we can do is the next right thing. the next little ray of sunlight. the next little moment of peace.

And if none of that is possible... Wait, and hold on, and look for them, and hope they come back soon. This is just my thoughts - my little agreement with myself. I gotta try the best I can, even if the best I can is a break from trying to recover. And then I'll know that Past Me did their best for me now and that I owe it to Future me to do my best for what they might become. Even if they weren't very successful. Like deciding that however I am right now is me too, and so I am all these things and parts, the good and the rough ones, and they all together make the full me. It's these nice little shortcut across the self blaming and infighting that take a long time to work out but help wherever they hold.

But like. I think I owe it my future self to hold on, and to get through the storms. Our past selves have come such a long way, and who knows where we'll go next, what our future selves and lives might be like. So like. I do think that new paths open up all the time, possibilities. Even if the ones now are all bad, who knows where we can still go. And the only way to find out is to try, and to do our best.

*they pull out their diary, and from the front a little calendar page* Look. I... It's one of these pages I'll keep forever and ever because I need the reminder, and give to others when they might need it. I don't know if it's right. I hope so. and I think the only way to find out is to try and hold on.

For me that's enough. That, little hopes, little good moments, even just the memory of warmth and hope and the knowledge that all that was once can come again - in different forms, maybe, but it can. *turning to lay it next to Will's sneaker*

*more silence* But. Well. That's really big thoughts, and hard to see when everything is so dark. Hm. okay just to throw some thoughts out. You don't have to tell me, you don't have to think about it, just... some ideas. Little windows into that maybe, whenever you're able to look.

what do the voices say? can they maybe be talked to, or be both a little right?

is there anything you wish wouldn't stop? or come back? any little thing. ignore realism and context all that. if you were playing make-believe, your own little world, what would it look like? if you want to we can take turns. I play that game regularly cause, well, bad memory, and i probably should start again.

and... does it have to be a *bad* hurt? like. yes. you're different. stuff happened, and it changed you, and that really really hurt. you might not be the same person as before. is that a bad thing? or, you said nasty. sure. right now it's raw and painful and doesnt fit yet. but... could all these little shards grow back together and become something scarred and mended, and different?

I hope they could. I'd really miss you - not you from before, you however you are right now and however you want to be. Idk doesn't make much sense but - people if they change are still that person, right? just... changed, by a situation or because they got to know themselves better or whatever. Like Butterflies. I'd like to see the next chapter, with you if you want or just knowing there was one for you.

Image Credit @thelatestkate and her website

Love love love characters that present themselves as emotionally open social butterflies but the more you see of them the more obvious it is that they’re the most closed off fuckers in the story. Sure, they want to help you with your personal problems and messy emotions, but if you turn that shit back on them, they’ll shut down or deflect every time. Why are you sticking your nose in their business anyway? It’s not like it matters. They’re not a person, they’re just a role being played. They’re the guy who fixes things and saves people. Please ignore the man behind the mask, he’s fine. Everything’s fine.

[inkedinshadows]

In the Arms of Dawn

Pairing: Cassian x f!reader

A/N: aaa I'm finally sharing these eheh! Thank you @anarchiii for this request, I loved writing it (and hopefully it's enough to be forgiven for my last fic?🥺) As usual, I yapped lol

Prompts: "Get up. This is not place to die." + "I don't know how to do this without you." + "Don't tempt me." + angst + smut

Warnings: blood, injuries, nightmares, oral (f receiving), p in v

Word count: 2.3k

Cassian lay on the ground, bleeding profusely from a gash in his stomach.

His hands pressed down on the wound, but blood seeped through his fingers and pooled beneath him, staining the dusty ground.

Your own hands were covered in red from trying to help him, but to no avail. You didn't have healing magic and you couldn't even winnow. The battle still raged not too far from where you had managed to drag him, and you had no idea where Rhys, Azriel, or even Mor were. No one was coming to help you save your mate.

“You can't die,” you pleaded, cradling his face between your hands, not caring that you were smearing his cheeks with blood.

His eyes fluttered open, but all that escaped his lips was a groan.

“You can't die,” you repeated. “Cass, please…”

The tears you had been trying to hold back finally spilled over and rolled down your cheeks, but you refused to let that stop you. You would find a way to save him. You had no idea how, but begging and pleading wouldn't get you anywhere.

“You have to leave,” Cassian rasped, his pained gaze meeting your desperate one. His breaths came in sharp pants, but he still forced the words out. “Get somewhere… somewhere safe.”

A flicker of anger sparked in your chest. “Don't start,” you snapped. “I'm not abandoning you.”

“Y/N…” he tried again, but you shook your head before he could say another word.

“No.”

A new determination took hold of you. Cassian wasn't going to die—not on your watch. But you had to be strong for both of you before the situation became even worse.

“Get up,” you ordered, your voice now steady and firm. You wiped away your tears, probably smearing some of his blood on your face, but you didn't care. “This is no place to die. Now get up.”

Cassian blinked once in confusion at your sudden change of approach before attempting to move, pushing himself up on one elbow. It was all he could manage with one hand still pressed tightly to his stomach.

“I… I can't,” he groaned. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if that small movement had drained what little strength he had left. “I'm sorry…”

Fine, then. If he couldn't get up on his own, you would carry him back to camp. He was too tall and heavy for you to make it on your own, and it would have been a struggle even without the broken wing dragging behind him, but you'd be damned if you gave up on him.

“Alright,” you breathed. “We'll find another way.”

You studied him—the larger wounds, the smaller ones, the right place to put your hands so you could lift him. In the end, you settled on placing one of his arms around your shoulders and wrapping one of yours around his waist.

“I need you to help me with this, okay?” you urged him. You waited for him to nod before continuing. “On three, we stand up. Can you do that?”

Cassian nodded again, though weakly. “I'll try.”

You counted slowly, giving him time to gather a little more strength, and then you both pushed up with your legs. Cassian let out an agonized scream and you stumbled under his weight, but you held on. Your arm tightened around his waist while your other hand gripped the arm he'd draped around your shoulders.

But you were shorter than him and carrying the full weight of a grown Illyrian warrior all the way back to camp seemed impossible.

“One step at a time,” you decided. “But we have to move fast. You just keep your hand on that wound, alright?”

You had no idea how you kept your voice so steady as you took charge of the situation. Maybe it was desperation pushing you to act—to use your brain instead of simply crying like you wanted to do.

To his credit, Cassian tried. He was struggling, you knew that. Each step drew a pained groan from his throat and his wings dragged through the dirt. Blood still spilled from his stomach like water from a leaking faucet. But you both pushed on.

You didn't make it far.

Cassian's steps faltered after only a few feet. “My love…” he croaked, and then he was slumping forward—so suddenly that you didn't have time to steady him.

He collapsed to the ground with a thud and a whimper. You dropped to your knees beside him, turning him onto his back so you could help him up again.

But his eyes were closed and he was panting. You placed your hands over his, pressing down on the gash. His warm, sticky blood coated your fingers once more.

“Cassian,” you called, somehow managing to not lose control—yet. “Cassian, c'mon, open your eyes.”

His lids fluttered, but they didn't open. He didn't say a word. And as the gravity of the situation sank in, so did the despair.

You couldn't get him back on his feet without his help. And even if you did, the camp was half a mile away. You wouldn't get there in time to make a difference. You probably wouldn't get there at all.

“Open your eyes, Cassian,” you tried again, your voice now carrying a hint of the desperation twisting your gut. “Just open your eyes…”

Nothing. No movement, no response. And then you realized—he had passed out from blood loss.

At least he was still breathing. At least you had that.

But what could you do now?

“Please don't die,” you whispered, tears spilling over once more. You rested your head on his chest to listen to the faint, unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Please, I… I don't know how to do this without you…”

Cassian's voice rang in your head like an echo. “Open your eyes.”

You shook your head, eyes still shut as you held him close. His voice sounded so far away, like he was already slipping away from your grasp. And why was he asking you to open your eyes when he was the one who wouldn't?

Then you heard it again, but this time it was all around you, as if he were whispering in your ear but also shouting from afar.

He was repeating your name. Over and over, like a plea.

And then, two more words.

“Y/N, wake up!”

With a jolt, your eyes snapped open. Cassian hovered over you in the faint morning light, his hands on your shoulders as he tried to shake you awake. A wave of relief washed over his concerned expression when he realized he had finally pulled you from your sleep.

“You're alright, sweetheart,” he reassured you. His thumbs brushed your cheeks and you realized only then that you were crying. “It was just a nightmare.”

You threw your arms around him, pulling him back down next to you. You curled up against his chest and buried your face in the crook of his neck while he wrapped you in his arms. His warmth and familiar scent seeped into your senses, soothing you just a little.

For the past ten days, you hadn't been able to shake the feeling that this was the dream: being here with him, both of you alive and well. It had taken him a whole week to heal and you'd spent the entire time next to his bed. But he had been barely conscious, and the nightmares had come to haunt your sleep. It was always the same memory, over and over again.

As soon as he was back on his feet, Cassian had taken you to the secluded cabin in the woods you'd bought together years ago. But even spending the last few nights snuggled up with him had done little to help—to the point that you didn't need to say a single word for him to know what the nightmare was about.

“I'm right here,” he murmured into your hair. “Az found us in time, remember? I didn't die.”

You could feel his pulse from where your head rested against his neck. You let the steady rhythm of his heartbeat envelop you like a reassuring reminder of the life still thrumming inside him, grounding you in the warmth of his embrace.

Cassian stroked your hair and your back, leaving gentle kisses on the crown of your head and whispering tender words in your ear. He gave you time to sort your thoughts out on your own, but he was still there for you, whatever you needed. Just like he always was.

“I guess I’m still scared sometimes,” you whispered after a few minutes. “That the nightmare is real and that this…” You gestured to your entangled bodies. “This is the dream.”

His hands cupped your cheek, lifting your head from the crook of his neck. His eyes were soft when they met yours.

“This isn’t a dream, sweetheart. It’s real.” He peppered your face with kisses, from your temple to your lips. “And I can prove it to you.”

Despite the small smile his onslaught of kisses brought to your face, you frowned. “How?”

Cassian just smirked, and you had to hold back a laugh as you shook your head. “Don’t tempt me, Cass.”

He looked surprised at your response. Pulling back slightly, he raised his brows. “Wait,” he said, “you would be up for it?”

He had been clearly joking then, if your reply had caught him off guard. But as you thought it over, you wouldn’t say no to some intimate time with him. Cuddling was nice, but maybe this was what you needed to stop the memories from haunting you. Cauldron knew how long it had been since the last time you had slept together.

“As you said,” you replied with a smile, “it’s a good way to prove that this is real. And I also miss it.”

Cassian’s eyes lit up and he pulled you closer. “Then let me prove just how real and alive I am,” he murmured against your lips before claiming them in a deep kiss.

He pushed off the sheets and rolled onto you, caging you between his body and the mattress. His mouth moved to your collarbone and you let it ground you in the present, in this very moment. Your mate was here, kissing you, touching you, slowly pushing your nightgown up.

You lifted your arms to help him take it off and his hands caressed your body as he leaned back to kneel between your legs. You watched him pull off his shirt, but your eyes immediately settled on the new scar on his stomach. You had seen it before, but something twisted in your gut anyway.

Cassian noticed the direction of your gaze and covered it with a broad hand. “Hey,” he said quietly, waiting for you to look up at him before he went on. “Don’t think about it, sweetheart. I promise I’m fine.”

He dipped his head between your parted legs, leaving a trail of kisses on your inner thigh, each one sending a shiver through you. “Just focus on me, okay?”

You nodded, trying to relax more. You knew he was right. He was fine now. Yet clearing your mind was easier said than done.

Until Cassian’s tongue flicked out.

He took his time, pleasuring you with slow, deliberate strokes. His hands caressed up and down your thighs before they settled on your hips, his touch firm yet reverent. The lingering tension in your body melted away with every lick, every brush of his fingers, until quiet moans filled the room and the only thing you could think of was his skilled mouth working you toward release.

But Cassian pulled away too soon.

He crawled back up your body, bracing himself on his elbows at the sides of your head, a satisfied grin plastered on his face. “Have I proven it yet?”

You hummed, brows knitted together as you pretended to think about it. “No, not really,” you answered with a teasing smile. “I think I need more evidence before I make my decision.”

“Do you now?” he countered, his smirk only growing. He shifted slightly, and then you felt him—his cock, hard and ready, pressing against your core. With a shallow thrust, he pushed inside, drawing a little whimper from you. “Is this what you were thinking?”

“Exactly this,” you murmured. You pulled him down for a kiss and when your lips touched, Cassian began to move.

It was slow, as if you were both trying to reconnect with each other. His hands caressed your face, your hair, while yours roamed his back, pulling him close like you never wanted to let go. His wings cast deep shadows across the room, blocking out most of the shy rays of the rising sun, and an ethereal golden light danced across his beautiful features.

If it weren't for the pleasure rising inside you as you moved together, you would have sworn this was just another dream. But now you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was real.

“I love you,” you breathed in between kisses.

Cassian pulled back enough to look into your eyes. “I love you too, sweetheart,” he murmured, punctuating his words with a deep thrust.

You moaned, but the sound was swallowed by another kiss. And as Cassian made love to you, you knew the memories would finally remain where they belonged.

Not in the present, waking you in the middle of the night.

But in the past.

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @aaahhh127 @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon

1k taglist: @onebadassunicorn @thegoddessofnothingness

[reidsmanuscript]

Seven Seconds

Summary: when Katie Jacob's gets abducted in a Mall, setting the clock for the BAU, who needs a legal favor, and it's been a year since the A.D.A. has know anything about Spencer Reid. Pairing: Spencer Reid x lawyer!reader Genre: pinning, SLOW BURN, maybe right moment?, angst bc i love angst wc: 4.6k! (i know so small comparing to part 1 bear with me) TW: cm canon typical violence, set in 05x3 "Seven seconds" (obviously lol), sexual violence, implied reader's dark past, glimpses of female rage. A/N: my idea for the serie is be taylor jenkins reid and have you question if lawyer reader exists or not (delusional bitch), english is not my first language and let's pretend it's proofread part I - part II - part III - part IV

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Spencer sat on the park bench reading a book while playing chess with Ethan, brilliant kid for his age and good opponent, not good enough though because when he cheered “I see checkmate in 5, What do you see?” It took Spencer one glance to calculate all the movements necessary.

“I see it in 3” he answered looking at his book again, the kid turned around the board and moved the pieces

“We've missed you out here” he said, staring at the board amazed.

“Thanks. I, uh, I had to take a little break”

“How come?” His hands froze on the book for a second before closing it.

Spencer had been clean for over a year now, it was 14 months and 2 weeks ago that he had freaked out after noticing his stash of Dialud was gone along with his needle. Where could he find more? Who knew about his addiction? Where was his stash? Who the fuck is Dr. Fitzgerald? Did you report him?

His first instinct was confronting you, given that you were the only person who found out his drugs that he knew, the first days he was a complete paranoid, he jumped every time Hotch called his name, or that Gideon looked at him a little too long.

At the end of the week he was thinking where he could find more, and when that thought scared him, he called the number of the card you had left in the same pocket his drugs used to be.

“Hello this is Dr. Fitzgerald” said a calm voice, it was 10 p.m. so there was a higher chance of going to voicemail, but he got an answer and the tremor of his hands got a little worse. Was it the anxiety or the withdrawal?

“Umm hello.. this is.. Dr.. this is Spencer Reid and someon-""I've been waiting for your call Dr Reid” the other line interrupted, he froze for a second.

“I used to play with a co-worker friend of mine. He's probably the best mind I ever went up against. One day, he just decided that he didn't want to play anymore.”

Fast forward, she helped him get clean and stay clean after Gideon left, getting tested regularly, and gave him the contact of the help group of FBI addicts. He was better, he was alive.

“So you gave up, too?”

“Just the opposite. I attempted to play Through every permutation of moves on a chessboard.”

“That's an infinite number of games.”

“It's not infinite. It's just- it's exponentially large.”

“You couldn't have played through them all.”

“There's an average of 40 moves per chess game, And I'll tell you something– the more I played, The more I realized that every single match every single chess game, Is really just a simple variation on the exact same theme. You know? It's aggressive opening, Patient mid-game, inevitable checkmate, And I realized why my friend quit. He was tired of repeating the same patterns And expecting a different outcome.”

“That's because you haven't come up on Fridays or Mondays in a while” the way his eyebrows went up along his voice tone made him feel like he knew something that he didn't.

His eyebrows furrowed “What do you mean?”

“There's this great player who comes around those days, she even brings the best pastries, and her games is similar to yours, always two or three moves ahead, she always beats everyone here… i think her boyfriend called her Buzz or something like that, like the Toy Story character”

“Buzz?… i don't really remember anyone with that nickname”

“It’s probably not that one but you don't know her because she started coming like 8 months ago.. I'm sure you have a lifetime of chess strategy in your head that you're just sitting on, but when you meet her?” He made a dramatic pause “You'll have to play it.”

He glances at his watch to realize his 15 minute break is coming to an end. “I still use it. I just, uh... I apply it differently. I have to go. It's good seeing you.”

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That evening, the BAU was called in for a local case—a little girl, Katie, had been kidnapped from a busy mall. A week earlier, another girl had been taken from the same location and found dead hours later. Now, they were all racing against the clock.

Katie’s parents were desperate. As any parents would be in this situation, right? But when Hotch asked the father if either of them was having an affair—a routine question in abductions—the man took offense. Deep offense. So much so that he refused to let the FBI search their house.

Now, what kind of parent refuses to help the police find their missing child?

In a small surveillance room, Morgan and Reid sat with Garcia, who was visibly frustrated by the mall’s ancient security system. They were surrounded by screens displaying grainy footage from different angles—well, almost every angle. They had a single glimpse of Katie in one video, and then, seven seconds later, she was gone.

JJ and Prentiss were with the mother, aunt, and uncle, trying to get a read on the family dynamic. Meanwhile, Morgan and Reid had conducted a cognitive interview with Katie’s cousin. It had led nowhere.

“The family has refused permission to search the house,” Hotch announced as he stepped into the room.

“What do you mean they denied?” Morgan’s frustration was evident. “Your only child goes missing, and you refuse to collaborate?”

No one disagreed. They were all thinking the same thing.

“The cousin didn’t say much,” Reid added. “He was too distracted in the game room to notice anything.”

Hotch exhaled sharply. “I’ll speak to the detectives, see if we can get a warrant.” His tone was firm, but they all knew time wasn’t on their side.

Garcia adjusted her glasses. “Sir, I mean this in the best way possible, but it’s almost 8 p.m. I don’t think-”

“I’ll handle it,” Morgan interrupted.

All Reid and Garcia turned to him with identical looks. What do you mean you will handle it?

Hotch’s eyebrows furrowed, but after a moment, he gave a small nod and walked away. Morgan was already pulling out his phone.

“I have a contact,” he explained, dialing.

He put the phone on speaker. It rang once. Twice. On the third ring, a voice answered—sharp, direct, and all business.

“A.D.A. Woodvale.”

Reid went rigid.

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It was late in the office; most people had already gone home, including your assistant Molly. All but Austin, who was still there because he had a lead on one of your cases. You knew he was still hanging around because, over a year ago, when someone had snuck into your office to harm you, you’d become a little paranoid. You’d gotten better, but Austin insisted on keeping you company, especially since your car was in the mechanic’s.

You were reviewing a legal brief, pen in hand, skimming the margins to jot down notes when the desk phone rang. Without looking up, you hit the speaker button with the tip of the pen.

“A.D.A. Woodvale.”

There was a beat of silence before a familiar voice cut in—smooth, direct, urgent.

Morgan called your name “Hey. We need a warrant. Fast.” You blinked, setting the pen down.

Reid and Garcia exchanged glances as Morgan jumped in without hesitation.

“Katie Jacobs. Eight years old. Abducted from a mall earlier tonight,” Morgan started, all business. “Another girl was taken from the same place a week ago—she was found dead hours later. We’re working against the clock.”

You frowned, swirling the pen, going through the multiple scenarios. You had heard about last week’s case, and how slow the police had moved back then.

“We’ve got mall surveillance footage,” Morgan pressed. “At first, we thought she just vanished, but Garcia finally pulled something from one of the side corridors. Katie wasn’t taken by force—she was walking calmly with someone.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around her pen. “Someone she knows.”

“Exactly,” Morgan confirmed. “That narrows it down to family or close acquaintances.” They all shared a silent thought. Family.

We know they’re hiding something,” Morgan corrected. “We just don’t have the probable cause to kick the door down.”

Garcia watched as Morgan paced slightly, his tone firm but urgent.

“That’s thin, Morgan,” Your voice came through the speaker, steady and unyielding.

“We don’t have time for airtight,” Morgan countered.

Your jaw tightened. “You don’t have time for me to get laughed out of a judge’s office, either. Refusing a search isn’t a crime, and suspicion alone doesn’t cut it. I need more.” You understood where the suspicious came from, how are you supposed to help them if they had nothing?

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then, another voice—one you hadn’t heard in over a year.

“99% of abducted children who are killed due within the first 24 hours” He cleared his throat, willing his voice to stay even. Spencer Reid. “75% within the first 3 hours, and what only law enforcement knows is Jessica Davis joined the 44% of children who are abducted and killed within the first hour. We’re already past the three-hour mark. If we don’t act now, statistically speaking—”

“The likelihood of recovery drops exponentially,” You sighed, already standing up, ignoring how his voice sounded. So different. So… clean.

Your gaze flicked to the clock. 8:06 p.m. Damn it.

You grabbed a blank warrant form from her drawer and reached for a pen. “Send me the address and everything else you have. Give me 20 minutes.”

Click. You didn’t have time for goodbyes.

Austin raised an eyebrow from his seat. “Guess you’re not going home anytime soon.”

You didn’t look up as you started writing. “I never was.”

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The courthouse was mostly deserted at this hour. The fluorescent lights hummed quietly, and the stillness of the evening was only interrupted by the sharp click of your heels on the polished floors followed by Austin’s boots toward the judge’s chambers.

“You sure you don’t want me to take this one? Sweet-talk her maybe?” he teased.

You shot him a look. “You think Judge Holloway is the type to be charmed? Plus, you’re a private investigator, not a lawyer.”  

“She’s not gonna like you showing up this late.”  

You didn’t miss a beat. “If she’s still up, she’ll make time for this.”  

Taking a steadying breath as you stopped in front of the door, you quickly ran through your notes, making sure you had every detail in order. Then, without hesitation, you pushed through the heavy wooden doors of Judge Evelyn Holloway’s chambers.  

Inside, the judge barely glanced up from her paperwork. “You have two minutes, Woodvale.”

Stepping forward, you set the warrant request on the desk. “Your Honor, I apologize for the late hour, but we have a child abduction case we’re working against the clock. A young girl, Katie Jacobs, was taken from a mall over three hours ago. We’ve obtained surveillance footage showing her walking with an individual—someone she likely knows. We believe the family is withholding information, and they’ve refused to allow us to search the residence.”

The judge narrowed his eyes, folding her hands on the desk. “And what do you propose I do about it? What evidence do you have to warrant a search?”

Alex kept her voice steady. “We have footage of the girl with someone who wasn’t a stranger, Your Honor. The parents are refusing cooperation, and the father was evasive when asked about possible affairs, which raises red flags about his involvement.”

Holloway sighed, leaning back in her chair. “That’s thin.” You were ready for that.

“I have the full footage from the mall security, including a timestamp showing the precise time the girl went missing. She is last seen walking calmly with someone she knows, most likely family.”

There was a brief pause, and for a second, you thought you were about to lose her. So you pulled Reid’s words from memory, adjusting them just enough to make them your own.

“Time is working against us. Statistics show that 99% of abducted children who are murdered lose their lives within the first 24 hours 75% within just the first three. And only law enforcement-”

She cut you off with a raised hand, signaling you to stop.

The judge exhaled through her nose, it was late and you were rambling about statistics and you knew she wanted you out as soon as possible when you started citing numbers. So pushing himself out of her chair with a slight groan. “Fine. Get me the paperwork. I’ll sign it—but you better have your ducks in a row.”

You nodded, her demeanor unflinching. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

As you turned to leave, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the hours ahead of you. But you were used to this—fighting against the clock.

“Let’s move,” motioning to Austin. He gave you a small nod. “You got it.”

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Exactly 15 minutes after the call, 5 minutes earlier than promised, Morgan’s phone rang. He answered it without even looking. 

"You got your warrant. I'll meet you there," Alex’s voice came through, crisp and businesslike, just as expected.

Morgan exhaled, his relief barely hidden. "Thank you, Woody."

He paused for a moment before adding, "I owe you one," then hung up, turning to Reid.

“Tell Hotch we’re heading to the Jacobs’ house,” he instructed, already moving toward the door.

Spencer had been timing her. It wasn’t the first time he'd gotten caught up in the tense waiting game of law and order, but the pressure of it had a different weight today. The memory of your voice, clear and resolute, echoed in his mind, sharper than before.

For Reid, part of getting clean wasn't just the physical withdrawal—it was the emotional weight of confronting his mistakes. The memory of how he'd lashed out at you a year ago still haunted him. How could he have been so cruel? The hurt in your eyes, the way he dismissed you, the way it all spiraled… it wasn’t just the drugs that had made him say those things. And the fury he saw when you looked at him, Dialuid in hand, how you looked like a timing bomb when he was trying to see if he could talk to you, the tension in your shoulders, the lock in your jaw, the grip on the file. He’d been battling so much more since then, in his mind, you saved his life by doing what he couldn't do.

He’d rather die than relive that moment again, than say those things. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of another chaotic case, still carrying that guilt with him. He stayed behind Morgan for just a beat before pushing down his feelings and moving quickly. 

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The engine of Austin's bike rumbled to a stop as they pulled up in front of the house, where Morgan and Reid were standing in front of the black SUV. You slid off the back with practiced ease, taking off the helmet and letting your hair fall loose.

Austin followed your lead, taking his helmet off with a groan. “So, what exactly are we looking for?”

You shot him a quick, sidelong glance, handing him the helmet, keeping your expression flat knowing he’s about to be a drama queen. “You’re not coming inside. The warrant’s for FBI and police only. Not P.I.s included”

Austin paused, a mock pout crossing his face. “Excuse me? I just got you here, through all that traffic, risking myself to get a speeding ticket and now I don’t get to search? This is the second time in the night that you P.I. shaming me. Do you hate me?”

“If I hated you I wouldn’t have bailed your ass out of jail… twice” you remark the last part. He had a talent for sticking his foot where he shouldn’t be, maybe that’s what makes him good at his job.

“You act like you wouldn’t do it a third time” he was mocking, but he was right, something you would never admit to him. 

You start walking to the house “Mhm.” you hum rolling your eyes, heading towards where Morgan and Reid were. 

You didn't expect him to be there, or maybe you did, maybe you wanted to see him and know what had happened to him since the last time you saw him. They were looking at you, Morgan with a curious already-profiling-you stare, while Reid expression was more… cautious. He looked so different, his cheekbones were prominent in an attractive way and not sickly, he had put on some healthy weight and was not fidgety. You were not mad anymore, because of course at the moment the hurt had turned into rage like it always does for you, but it was more because of phantoms than anything else. 

“Got your golden ticket” you said, avoiding Reid’s gaze as you pulled the warrant from the inner pocket of your gray coat and swung it toward them.

Morgan nodded “You staying?” He gestured with his head to Austin who was leaving.

“I have to make sure you find something, otherwise the judge will have my head for this,” you said dryly, shrugging as though the threat didn’t bother you, but there was a flicker of seriousness behind your words. You were only talking to him, which felt rude because Reid’s stare was locked in your profile. 

Reid was thinking how pretty you looked, how the black vest suited you, and he couldn’t ignore the fact you had changed your brown bag to a black one that looked nothing like his. Your white shirt and gray coat gave you an older, wiser look, but as Reid analyzed your features, he realized he didn’t even know how old you were. You couldn’t be older than him. Serious, sharp, and young... How was it possible for someone that young to be the A.D.A.?

Reid’s mind couldn’t let go of the numbers. The average age of an Assistant District Attorney in the U.S. is 36. You couldn’t be older than 25, and yet you were already in that position.

You glanced at him for a moment before stepping inside the house, feeling the weight of his stare. The look made him snap out of his trance-like state, and of course, his eidetic memory hated him, because for that brief second, he remembered how you had looked at him a year ago.

Morgan nodded and thanked you again before he and Reid walked into the house. You left the warrant on the hall table with a deliberate touch, your fingers lingering for just a moment—as if to remind yourself that you weren’t entirely done with this.

“Somebody lit a fire last night,” you heard Reid say.

“Well, there are dirty dishes for three in the kitchen, so they eat together as a family.” Morgan’s voice carried from the other room as they moved through the house, taking in the details.

If Katie was in danger, the signs wouldn’t be in plain sight. You had to look where they hid—where children kept their secrets. Their bedrooms.

“Hey, my favorite movie from when I was a kid.” Reid held up a DVD, turning it in his hands before pulling it from the player just as you passed by him, tugging on latex gloves before heading upstairs, you did feel a little guilty for not even looking or talking to him, but it was something you did unconsciously. 

“So they watch movies together, too,” Morgan mused. They were starting to build a picture of the family’s dynamic.

“By a fireplace in a house that’s straight out of a catalog,” Reid added. “Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted this any cozier.”

“That’s what worries me.” There was weight in Morgan’s voice. A tension that sat between them.

Upstairs, you searched through the rooms with careful precision.

When you first became a lawyer, you made a promise—never ignore a sign. Since then, you have gone further. You didn’t just refuse to ignore them; you searched for them. Hollow eyes. Unexplained bruises. Small bloodstains. You looked for them in teenagers, in young adults, in the elderly. But nothing—nothing—was more painful than a child who couldn’t speak up.

Because they were small. Because someone older, someone stronger, was hurting them. There's nothing more hurtful than not being able to speak out, to say something and stand up for yourself. Except when someone did—someone saw the bruises, the fear, the signs—and they looked away deliberately. Because a child’s pain was inconvenient. Because it came with a mountain of paperwork no one wanted to touch.

You had spent your whole life making sure you never looked away.

That’s why you were hunched over the small desk in Katie’s bedroom, flipping through her drawings when Morgan and Reid entered the room. They started searching, their movements efficient and methodical.

“Katie’s been wetting her bed,” Reid said as he lifted the duvet, inspecting the mattress beneath it.

“A lot of six-year-olds do. Could be bad dreams,” Morgan replied, crouching beside you as he sifted through a pile of toys.

You considered that possibility—it was perfectly logical. In a perfect world.

“Some kids won’t get up at night because they’re afraid of the dark,” Reid added, his tone careful. Almost knowing.

“Or it could be a lot more complex than that.”

Morgan had found a doll. Not a Barbie missing a shoe or one that had simply been played with too much. No—this doll was different.

Its hair had been hacked off, jagged strands sticking out unevenly. Red marker smeared across its face like smeared blood. Its clothes were yanked askew, twisted, and wrong.

“Most girls covet their dolls like an extension of themselves.” He took the doll in his hands like it was made of fine glass. 

“Reid, I know these signs-— acting out on her toys, wetting the bed. She's obviously covering up something about that necklace.”

“And her cousin might be holding something back.”

“Well, this looks more like a man than a boy to me,” you said, holding up a drawing of a tall, shadowy figure towering over a small, crying child.

Morgan took it from your hands, his expression hardening as he analyzed the image.

“Psychology says drawing is a child’s way of channeling their inner world. Look at the strokes—how harsh they are,” you pointed to the dark, jagged lines forming the tall figure, then traced your finger over the smaller one. “And this looks like Katie to me. She forgot to draw the hands, which means she feels powerless… helpless.” 

Morgan took his phone out, dialing up “Hotch, we think Katie’s being molested,” Morgan said, his voice clipped. “And we both know the odds.”

A brief silence. Then Hotch’s response, firm and certain. “Most likely by someone under the same roof.”

He hung up, and both men started toward the door, their movements brisk with purpose. But you stayed behind for a moment, rooted in place, taking in the scene. Trying to quiet the distant sirens that echoed in your mind, the same ones always shouting when you were face to face with these situations. A loud pause—maybe out of respect for Katie and her pain, for everything she had been forced to endure.

From the doorway, Spencer glanced back. The dim light from the hallway cast your figure in stark contrast, outlining you in shadow—your form dark against the soft glow of the room. He couldn’t see your expression, couldn’t read your face. He focused on the way your hands curled into fists at your sides, the tight set of your shoulders.

And he wished—just for a second—that he could see more.

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You stood outside, leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly over your chest. By your side were Morgan, Jeremy, Katie’s cousin, and Reid.

Turns out, Katie’s uncle, Richard, was her abuser. A disgusting son of a bitch who deserved to rot in hell. And you were going to make sure he did. He had destroyed Katie’s childhood, probably more than just hers, shattering an entire family in the process. His own son, standing right next to you, was collateral damage he clearly hadn’t spared a thought for. And then there was his wife. The woman who had chosen to look away. Who had taken Katie and nearly gotten her killed, all for the pathetic, desperate hope that it would somehow stop her husband from creeping into little bedrooms at night. She deserved the same hell he did.

A stretcher rolled past, Katie’s small frame barely visible beneath the blankets as the paramedics guided her into the ambulance. Her mother clutched her tiny hand, whispering something—words meant to soothe, to promise safety.

A young voice cut through the air. “I heard her call my mom’s name. That’s what I remembered before.”

You closed your eyes, your mind already racing ahead. Your attorney brain was piecing it together, sketching out the battle that was coming. If the kid had heard it, that made him a witness to the abduction. His own mother had committed the crime against her niece. And God only knew what else he had seen—what else had been happening in that house—without fully understanding it.

“We get it, kid. That’s your mom,” Morgan said, his voice steady. But you knew the truth: if Jeremy could barely say those words to them, getting him to the stand in front of a jury would be another fight entirely.

The boy shifted on his feet, staring at the ambulance. “What’s gonna happen to me now?”

If God existed, He had already been too cruel. He had let all of this happen. And you knew how these things worked—knew there was a very real chance that Katie’s parents, burdened with their own grief, would resent Jeremy by association. That they wouldn’t take him in. That he would be swallowed by the foster system.

You wouldn’t let that happen.

The sirens blared outside the mall, cutting through the air with urgency, but it was the ones inside your mind that were louder—screaming in the same rhythm, as if they were one and the same. Distant and deafening, they filled every corner of your head, drowning out everything but the grim reality unfolding before you.

“I don’t know, Jeremy,” Reid answered, his voice gentle. “But we’re gonna make sure you’re alright, okay?”

Jeremy didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on the ambulance. “Is Katie gonna be all right?”

You wished—desperately, violently—that you could tell him yes. That you could say it with certainty and make it true. But how could you give him something you didn’t have?

“She will, eventually,” Morgan said, his voice firm.

You exhaled sharply. The words made your skin crawl.

“Is she?” The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it—low, bitter, nearly spat out under your breath. Just quiet enough that the kid wouldn’t hear. Just loud enough that Morgan did.

Before he could respond, you were already moving.

Your feet carried you toward the police car, toward the sick, selfish bastard they were shoving into the backseat. Your hand shot out, slamming the door closed—harder than necessary, just enough that it cracked against Richard’s face.

Morgan watched. So did Spencer.

And for the first time, he realized just how much of a puzzle you really were.

Partially because, throughout all of this, you hadn’t looked at him once. Not when he entered the room, not when he spoke, not even now, standing just a few feet away.

Partially because your eyes, when he finally caught a glimpse of them, were full of something he rarely saw outside of a case like this. Pure, undiluted rage.

Not just anger. Not just frustration. Something deeper. Something personal.

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[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

LIKE WHAT??

Weird black neglected!reader

The readers fears

The reader is honestly terrified of looking like Bruce; he is your biological father, but nothing scares you more than getting older and having some random reporter say you have Bruce's nose. You'd probably fall apart at the thought, like shellshock—scared it may not even be in facial features, just how you carry yourself. The confident, cocky stride is only found in Bruce Wayne, and somehow, you seem to have it. When asking Alfred to help tie your tie for a gala, and when he finished, he stepped back and chuckled, hiding his mouth behind his knuckles.

"Oh, young master, you're starting to look just like your father when he was younger."

This fact leaves you in shambles, and you decide not to wear a tie that night, fearing someone might say something. You'd rather look like your mother than him; your biggest fear is that you might lose all your mother's features as you get older, looking more and more like Bruce. At one point, your friends told you that you have Bruce Wayne's smirk, and you didn't smile for a week. You used to deny looking anything like your father—the tall stature? Hey, Jason's taller! The long nose? It's not that long! The cocky attitude? You're just confident, no biggie!

You remember when you were younger, way before going to Wayne Manor, you had asked your mother what your father looked like? It made her giggle.

"You little noisy wart! You wanna see what Daddy looks like? Fine, I'll show ya. Come here." She went to her bedroom, pulled out an old worn photo album, and sat back down on the couch. She picked you up and sat you on her lap. She flipped through the pages in the album. You saw pictures of you as a baby, photos of your momma in college. They looked really old, but then again, you were really young. Then she stopped on the page smack dab in the middle.

"There he is, your daddy," It was an old picture of your mom and Bruce. Your mom looked young, slimmer, and less wrinkled, and beside her was... the infamous Bruce Wayne: piercing blue eyes, killer jawline, and a genuinely soft smile. It made you frown; you didn't look anything like him. Your skin was darker, your hair wasn't straight but curly, and your eyes weren't blue. There were more photos of him and your mother; she looked so much happier, or maybe it was your imagination.

"Are you sure? I don't think I look anything like him," you huffed in disappointment, just for your mother to smile and pull you closer.

"I don't think so; you have his cute little nose." She tapped your nose, making you cover it with a pout.

"And his strong chin," she tickled under your chin, which made you giggle.

"His lovely ears," she tickled behind your ears and neck.

"And those pretty, chubby cheeks!" She pinched your cheeks, and you fell into a fit of laughter, just before she hugged you and nuzzled your cheek with her rounded nose.

"Darling, you are just as handsome, if not more beautiful, than your father."

"I want to look like you more!" you shouted, making your mother giggle.

But those soft and sweet memories faded to black, and the more you thought about it and stared at a picture of your "father," the more you hated it. You didn't want to look like him; you didn't want to resemble a deadbeat lunatic who frightened people in the dead of night. You didn't want to have his voice or his brains; you didn't want to be compared to him at all. You were your own person with your own dreams and ambitions, your own thoughts and ideas. You aren't a Wayne, never were, never will be; you’re an [Last Name] for life. Even if you changed your surname after being in Bruce's custody, you still weren't a Wayne; you're not perfect; you're not an acrobat. You're not strong and buff; you're not that great with gadgets. You didn't drop out of high school to fight crime, and you weren't smart enough to do that. You weren't trained by killer assassins or raised to fight. Your dad wasn't a supervillain, and you sure as hell weren't some metahuman who could shoot lights from his hands. You were just a little weirdo who liked video games, anime, and comics, who would stay up late controlling your Sims, who spent their free time making stupid mods for fun, who had crude humor and was kind of an asshole. That was who you were; you were your mother's child. You had your mother's face, her smile, her laugh, and her soft brown eyes.

"[Name], you have such fabulous fashion! Where did you get it from?" a reporter said, pointing a camera and a mic right at your face; it almost gave you whiplash.

"Thank you, ma'am. I got it from my momma," you said with a small smile as you pushed the camera out of your face.

You'll never look like Bruce, no matter who said so. Sometimes, it irks your soul down to the core when you hear Damian now call you "Sister," "Brother," or "His older sibling." First off, you all were half-siblings, and second, you never considered that little gonk as your little brother. Maybe when you were younger, you thought so, but you're not that delusional anymore, and you barely see Bruce as a father. You're willing to have a whole argument about it, but it.

"We have Wayne blood running through our veins, [Name]," the little hellspawn would say every time you tried to blow him off.

"The only blood running through my veins is my mother's," you snarled. You are nothing like them or like him.

[witherby]

What would happen if Mouse got sick? Like super, probably at deaths door kind of sick? ok maybe that last part was exaggerating it a bit...But like almost 39 degrees fever, coughing to the point of gagging and vomiting, runny nose, fatigue, no appetite for anything, etc. Based off my own experiences when I get sick. I wanna know what they would do and who would panic the most. Who would lose the little sleep they already have even more. Who would think that the babeh is at deaths door. And who would be the most relieved when Mouse is better a few days later with the help of a paediatric approved medication

-🍨

I like this prompt a lot so I'm gonna do it. Hope u reaaaally like angst tho.

The Littlest Wayne: Sick Bed, part 1

Masterlist is Here!

⚠️ Spoiler/content warning: Young sick child, fever, depiction of seizure ⚠️

It starts with a cough.

"Hey, careful," Jason says, patting your back. The water you'd been sipping sprays across the table as you choke. Tim reaches over to right the glass and Alfred goes and collects a rag to mop up the mess. "You okay?"

"Mhmm," you mutter, wiping your mouth with a napkin. "Sorry...I can clean it, grandpa Alfie."

"It's quite alright, Flittermouse." Alfred gently runs a hand through your hair. "Oh, my, you're quite warm. Why don't you head up to your room and I'll have someone bring a tray to you with soup and crackers?"

"Okay." You push your chair away from the table and duck underneath it, allowing the shadow of the furniture to swallow you up. Bruce watches the dark blob you've become slide out of the dining room and towards the stairs with less energy than usual.

"I'll take it, Alfred," Dick says before anyone else can volunteer, rising from his seat. He sets his leftovers in front of Jason as he passes, helping the butler prepare a tray for you. "Do we have any Tylenol for little kids? If not, I can just crush up a half-pill for them."

"Child-friendly medications will be found in the young master's en-suite bathroom cabinet," Alfred says. "It will just be a few minutes for the soup, Master Dick. I'd recommend you head upstairs and measure out a small dose for your sibling before it's ready."

"Kay, sure," he nods, excusing himself.

Dick hops up the stairs two at a time and enters the family wing of the manor, trailing his hand along the walls and door frames until he finds yours. He knocks lightly and rapidly, a silly little sequence to let you know which brother it is, then opens the door to let himself in.

Your bedroom is almost pitch black. Since the development of your powers, your space has changed to reflect your needs overtime, which means the overhead lightbulbs have been removed and the sheer, pastel blinds over your window have been replaced with thick blackout curtains. For your family who require some form of illumination to see, you have several night lights you pick and choose from; you currently have a round projector plugged in that casts aurora borealis across the ceiling (a gift from Tim) and you've activated the touch sensors installed in the floor that briefly light up everywhere Dick walks, leaving his footprints behind for several seconds until they fade away.

The furniture you originally had, designed in warm, woody colors with bright accents, have also been replaced with black hardware and dark materials. Your bed frame is a dip-dyed wood with silver accents, your mattress and sheets are black, and your dressers, nightstand, and closet have all been painted to match.

At first glance, the large bedroom looks like every goth kid's biggest dream, but the light from the hallway spills briefly into your space when Dick walks inside, showing the bright, colorful books sitting on your black bookshelves, the even more colorful clothes in your wardrobe, your vast collection of toys, and a litany of pictures and photos on all the walls. There is a vibrant, beautiful life in the darkness, which encapsulates you perfectly in his opinion.

"Hi, Flitty," he greets, moving slowly as his eyes adjust to the light. "Alfred's working on your soup, so big bro Dicky's here to do medicine time. Holler at me so I don't accidentally step on you in here."

"Okay," you say from his left. Dick turns and squints, spotting a lump on your bed. He smiles.

"There you are. Lemme see if there's any of the gummies in your med cabinet. Those ones don't taste all gross."

He steps into your bathroom and turns the fairy lights on, bathing the area in a soft glow, and rifles through your cabinet for a minute. Then he makes his way to your bed, sitting on the edge of it with some chewables and a glass of water.

"C'mere," he says, and you comply, shuffling across the bed to give him a quick hug. "Alright. Can you show me you're a big kid and take this for me? Then you'll get a nice bowl of soup and maybe some juice."

You comply without fuss. Dick hears more than he sees you take the medication in the low light, and you go back to hugging him when you're done. Dick wraps his arms around you and lies down, propping you mostly on his chest.

"You okay?" He asks.

"Yeah. Just sleepy," you reply. "And my throat hurts kinda, from when I spit my water."

"Aw, I'm sorry. You only need to stay awake long enough to take a couple bites and then you can rest as long as you want."

"Okay...stay?"

Dick hums, running his fingers gently through your hair. He was supposed to go back to Blüdhaven this afternoon, but...

"Yeah, Flitty. I'll stay."

--

It turns into a fever.

"I'm sorry to turn you away when you've already come by, Delilah," Bruce says, meeting your private tutor in the vestibule. "Mouse came down with something yesterday, and I don't think they'll be up for lessons for the next few days. I forgot to tell you."

"Oh, that's absolutely no problem, mister Wayne," the tutor smiles, shaking her head. "I wish them a speedy recovery! Let me know if there's anything you need."

"I will, thank you. Take care!"

Bruce closes the door after seeing her out, the Charming Socialite mask slipping off his face as he heads for the stairs. He meets Alfred at the top with a nod, stepping past him and walking up to your bedroom door.

He gently knocks three times against the glossy wood, calling your name. "Can I come in?"

After a moment, he watches it click open, and you squint up at him in the doorway.

"Hi, daddy," you croak, voice dry and harsh from the progression of your flu. Bruce tuts and scoops your clammy body into his arms, carrying you back to your bed.

"Honey, you didn't have to come greet me," he says, "manners get thrown out the window when you're sick, remember? Let's get you tucked in."

You don't fuss or complain, which makes the worry flare up in Bruce's mind. He pushes it back, refusing to catastrophize a cold. All of his children get sick, it's not unheard of. A little fever is fine, and so is your lack of excitable energy. It's normal and expected.

"How do you feel?" He asks, pulling the blankets up to your chest. You squirm a bit, kicking them down.

"Hot," you say, "sleepy."

Bruce compromises by tucking the blanket around your tummy instead. You don't push it down any further. He pulls out a thermometer from his pocket and scans your forehead.

"Yeah, you are running a bit hot," he admits. An even one hundred degrees. Should be easy enough to control with careful attention. "Alfred says you refused breakfast this morning. Do you want to try eating something small for lunch? More soup?"

You shake your head. "Not hungry."

"I know you're not hungry, pumpkin," Bruce says, gently squeezing your hand. "But you don't wanna starve, either. Then you'll shrink up like a raisin! How am I supposed to snuggle a raisin?"

You smile a bit and give a wheezy huff of laughter. Bruce smiles back.

"So, will you try? You can have anything you want. I just need to see you take a few bites of something."

"Okay, daddy. Want...um... I want more soup please."

"You can have more soup," Bruce promises, running a hand through your sweatslick hair. He reminds himself to run you a bath in a couple hours. Maybe after a nap. "Do you want anything else?"

"Mmmyeah. Bedtime story?"

"Yeah," he says. "Any story you want, after we get some soup in you."

You smile again. It eases the knot of dread in Bruce's chest.

--

It gets worse.

Three days into it, your fever spikes in the middle of the night. You completely refuse any sort of food or drink all day, despite the angry growling of your stomach, and the family unanimously decides to bring you to the hospital in the morning to get looked at. Dinner without you is full of worry and tense glances toward the family wing, and it seems like not a lot of sleep is going to be had before they find out the total extent of your illness.

When tossing and turning in bed for a few hours doesn't lead him anywhere, Damian decides to give in to the nagging in the back of his head and pop in your room to check on you. He rushes to your bed when he sees you seizing and gasping for breath. Your temperature's shot up to a hundred and six and you don't react when he tries to shake you awake.

Fearful and, for once, feeling every bit the child he still is, he clutches your body to his chest and screams.

"BABAA!!"

The door slams open in seconds, though to him it feels like an eternity. Hal and Jason are coaxing Damian to let go of you and Bruce climbs on the bed to roll you onto your side, carefully wiping the foam and drool away from your mouth while he checks your vitals. Tim is in the hallway calling 9-1-1 and texting Dick to let him know what's happening.

"Dami, you gotta move," Jason says, placing his hands overtop his brother's. Damian's grip on your arm is so tight it's bruising. "Let go, they're okay. Let go."

"I'm tracking their pulse, you dumb bastard!" Damian snaps. "Release me!"

"You're hurting them, Dames," Hal says in his ear, wrapping his arms around Damian's waist. "Bruce has them, now. You have to let go and get out of the way for the paramedics."

Green eyes snap to your arm. He seems to finally take stock of what he's doing and eases off, letting Hal pick him up and pass him off to Jason, who carries him into the hallway.

"Stay out here," Jason says. "It's our job to keep out of the way for now."

"Who's going to let the paramedics in?" Damian asks, trying to pry himself out of Jason's grip. As much as he tries to crane his neck, Jason's standing too far away from your door to let him see how you're doing, and his iron grip is unyielding.

"Alfred's by the gate controls, he'll let them inside."

Tim gets off the phone with the emergency dispatcher and glances at your door with a frown. Every hitching gasp and choke you make can be heard from the hall, along with Bruce and Hal's barely-concealed, panicked murmuring, and he crosses his arms tightly and shuffles over to Jason now that his task is done.

"Can we wait downstairs?" He mutters. Jason keeps one arm wrapped around Damian and slings the other around Tim's shoulders, guiding them to the staircase.

"I want to stay!" Damian insists, pulling against Jason, who ends up needing to sling the little assassin over his shoulder to get him to move. "Todd!!"

"Robin," Jason snaps in his best Batman impersonation. It's a damn good one, because Damian quiets immediately, stiffening in his arms and ceasing his struggling without further protest. Tim freezes beside him, but Jason just pats his back and keeps guiding him down the stairs.

The trio is quiet as they file into the main living room. Jason and Tim sit on the couch and Damian gets propped up in his brother's lap. Try as he might, he can't wiggle out of Jason's arms.

"This is asinine," he hisses. "I should be up there."

"Doin' what?" Jason asks. "Bruce and Hal are both in there with Mousey. Alfred's about to guide the EMTs inside. Tim called 911 and then told Dick the situation. You were the one that first found 'em and got help."

Jason gives Damian a squeeze, propping his chin on top of his head.

"You saved their life, Damian. Ya don't need to do more than that right now. Let the grown-ups take the reins for a while."

"But I —"

"You've done more than enough," Jason insists, not unkindly. His tone has been uncharacteristically soft the whole time, Damian realizes belatedly. "I'm sure they'll thank you when they come out the other side of this."

Damian didn't do it for your thanks. He did it because he loves you. Despite you quickly approaching the age where Bruce might offer you the Robin mantle soon, which has filled him with more anxiety and anger than he's had in a long time, he loves you dearly and doesn't want anything to befall you.

In spite of everything, he's your big brother and he loves you just as much as he can't stand you.

"They will be fine," he mutters firmly. "There's no alternative."

"Right," Tim speaks up. He sounds like he needs the reassurance just as much as Damian. "M is gonna be okay."

The three of them turn their heads when several pairs of footsteps enter the vestibule. Four paramedics rush in with a stretcher and duffel bags of medical equipment. Alfred orders them in the direction of your bedroom with simple, firm instructions, and they head off.

The butler then turns, spotting them out of his periphery, and he clears his throat and adjusts the belt around his robe. He's still in his sleepwear, having rushed out of bed to help prep for the emergency like everyone else.

"I've had my fair share of exciting nights," he comments, "but I must say, they never become more enjoyable. Why don't you all join me in the kitchen and I'll prepare some drinks? Hot chocolate should suffice on a chilly evening."

"Sounds fantastic," Jason says, hopping to his feet. He lifts Damian up with him, denying him the chance to refuse, and with a glance and jerk of his chin, coaxes Tim to get up and follow after.

"Put me down," Damian says, reaching up to tug on Jason's night shirt. "I won't run back upstairs. I swear."

"Yeah? You double-swear? Don't make me chase you, kid, I really do not have the patience."

"On Father's life," he insists.

Jason sets him on the floor. Damian follows them into the kitchen and takes a seat at the island, cupping his hands around a warm mug of hot cocoa when Alfred hands it to him a couple minutes later. He watches the wisps of steam curl up into the air and dissipate, unable to stop thinking about your writhing body in bed. Your eyes had rolled back and your limbs had locked up, jerking uncontrollably. And the noises you were making...

The mug gives a foreboding creak under his grip. Alfred gently places his hand on Damian's back and gives it several soft pats.

"Do not fret, master Damian," he says, "our little Flittermouse is very resilient. An illness turning poorly won't keep them down for long."

"I know," he says. Alfred nods, and with a final brush against his shoulder, tends to Tim next to ensure he's also doing okay. When Damian looks at Jason, he sees him calmly drinking from his mug without so much as a furrow in his brow. But there's an almost imperceptible ricketing noise that means he's bouncing his leg nervously. It makes his stomach twist almost painfully, to know he's just as scared as everybody else.

Damian takes a deep breath. He sips his coco. He thinks of the froth pouring out of your mouth when Bruce rolled you into the recovery position. He puts the mug down.

He knows you'll be okay. You have to, because he just can't live with the alternative.

[raytoebiter]

viv. kick me (written work)

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It's 4:37PM when the harsh beams of sunlight finally mellow down to a mere soft glow that blankets the whole interior in a delicate color. It's also 4:37PM when you finally reach the café and the bell chimes emit a pleasant noise you're accustomed to.

“Oh, dear [Name]!” A voice laced with so much delight greets you, and you can only return it with a grin of your own, “how was school today?”

You slipped the snoopy slippers on, already dragging yourself over to your grandma whose arms are prepared wide and open for the hug that you've always looked forward to.

It never fails to soothe the tension in your shoulders when she rubs a particular spot.

“School was fine,” you sighed absentmindedly.

“'Is that so? Speaking of school, where's your friend?”

Your gut squirms in annoyance, frowning at the way her eyes spark up so childishly despite being adorned with wrinkles.

Friend, my ass.

Irked, a groan left your lips, “he’s probably gonna be here soon.”

The word, ‘soon’ sounds so bitter in your mouth. You just fought with the guy earlier at morning classes because–who the fuck even throws a dildo at someone's face!?

Your face burns, unaware of your grandmother chuckling in satisfaction until she's already pulling you near to the counter, “I'll make you hot chocolate, and after this, you can turn the sign over.”

Okay, do not think about Scaramouche. Do not think.

You gulped, urging the damn Incident away from your weary mind, “swiss miss?”

She grinned with a blink, “of course! Now, hurry up and sit! you’re gonna have a long day today, missy.”

Save me, you clench your jaw, god, save me from this 6-Hour-Shitshow..

Sighing, you deliberately and slowly place the phone back to the counter, head tilting abnormally to peek at the entrance of the café—and there he is. All in his glory, the Almighty Twink-A-Fuck.

You gulp. Deep breaths. Step. Walk. Step.

“Hey,” you half-assedly smile, lightly knocking onto one of the square windows on the door.

His hair bounces when he perks up from his phone, imperceptible widened eyes catching onto yours before it shifts to those narrowed eyes you're more accustomed to.

“Why the fuck are your doors locked.” Not a question. You shrug, already reaching out to the lock.

“Cats often get in here because they know how to open doors,” a pseudo smile reaches your lips, sweetness lacing your voice, “and ‘sides, I forgot you were coming.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. A bell chime fills the silence, and you step over to the side as he enters.

A bright shine catches your peripheral as Scaramouche enters into the café without a care in the world, and holy–

Is that a fucking porsche!?

You abruptly whip your head to Scaramouche—who seems way too busy absorbing the interior of your café as if the asshole hasn't already been here a week ago—before whipping it back to the Shiny Glamorous Porsche. Because, what the fuck.

Okay, listen. You're not exactly an expert in The Damn Art of Cars but a Porsche had been on your wish list for years. God forbid the amount of times you've ratted off of your grandmother's ears as a child about how much you've salivated over damn metas and engines. At this point, you'd probably rather fuck a vehicle than a perso–

—A gasp. Then, horror. Absolute horror dawning in those indigo eyes. And.. and mirth? The fuck–

“You do realize you just said those outloud, right,” he deadpanned, voice tinted with indifference and amusement. Like what you said was the most appropriate thing. I mean, then again, you've said far worse things, but god–in the café? Where your dearest grandmother is quite literally just meters above your head? And could potentially hear you despite the thick hardwood floors?

That thought sends electricity to your body.

Pathetically, you sputtered, alternating between defending yourself, telling him to shut up because your grandmother is literally just upstairs and reasoning that, hey, can't you just let a girl nerd out? Only to end up giving him the Fuck-You finger when not even a coherent sentence ended up leaving your lips after a mere 3 minutes of full on panicking.

..Yeah, get that, motherfucker.

“Okay,” he drawls facetiously, after seconds of radio silence, “So, you want to fuck my car. Cool. My car's cool too.”

I swear I will haunt this asshole to death when I become a ghost.

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up. I don't want to hear it. Shut up.” resigned, your hand points to a double boiler, as he lets his gaze unceremoniously follow it.

Again, he snorts at the quaint sound of water boiling.

Then, he turns back to you with a sneer and a knowing lint in those fucking goddamn eyes, “well, whatever. I'll be in your care then, fruitcake.”

–

“Number 12 on the counter, please!”

Okay. So, even though you thought the Twink Fucker implied to be an absolute nuisance roughly three hours ago, he's actually surprisingly decent in the field. He knows how to do a few latte art, can brew an Americano correctly at least, and is mildly, overall experienced at it.

And admittedly, the way he moves around the area would what you call a fucking graceful dance shitshow. Listen, you're not one to exaggerate, but hell if you don't admit that the asshole frankly looks like he's dancing around while brewing damn espressos.

(You can feel bile gathering up in your esophagus when you ponder more over the damn poise he has.)

Presently, it's been three hours since the shift had started, and you've done nothing but scrutinising the Twink-Ass with keen eyes as your grandmother had given you the task to.

And embarrassingly enough, it seems you're not the only one, guessing with how much habitués has been ogling the mysterious new face at the counter. You're pretty sure that neither of them has the balls to ask, considering they linger quite a bit longer in favor of inspecting the asshole’s face instead of asking for his damn number.

However, as time ticked by, an old lady whom you recognize as that one lady who sells adult toys on a sidewalk manages the balls to ask. However, when she does ask, she doesn't ask the asshole. No, no, she comes to you. With the most expectant shine in her eyes and a girl’s name rolling off of her tongue.

And you, who have decided to be the kindest, offer the old lady 10 numbers with a note that you managed to write behind Scaramouche’s back, “tell your granddaughter to spam his phone; he likes those things in a woman,” followed by a wink. It's clear she's a bit perplexed, but she nods anyway.

That's revenge for the fucking dildo, asshole.

Four hours pass, and the café finally settles down as the end of the shift steadily approaches. And it's then that Scaramouche finally and unfortunately breaks the streak of not talking to you for four hours straight.

He approaches with the same pseudo smile he offers to the customers and with a patronising tone, he asks, “so? how’d I do?”

Absolute dogshit. I don't want you here.

“I’ll send my feedback to grandma later,” you sardonically smiled, avoiding the question as you tilt your head to the short stack of papers on the rickety table.

His attention flitted between you and the paper all the while having his lips pursed into that smile before dropping his facade and clicking his tongue.

“What? Don't tell me you were expecting flattery,” you snorted.

In return, he grimaced, “ew, god, no. I don't consider your flattery to be worthy enough to brood over.”

Your brows raised, “careful, now. your job is quite literally in my hands right now.”

The grimace only deepened before it twisted to a scowl, “I'll just find a new one if you ever do fire me from here.”

“As if anyone would ever accept your nasty ass.”

“Your nanny did.”

“That's ‘cause she doesn't know what you're like in school.”

Incredulity coursed through his features before chuckling, the sound itself bitter, “you sound like someone that I really fucking hate.”

“You do hate me,” you answered, simple and true. Not that you were ever bothered by it; you hated him too.

Then, in a fleeting moment, his gaze flickered to you, a confused glimmer in them as his brows raised the slightest bit as he reluctantly replied, “no, I fucking don't?”

The fuck?

Your stomach twisted, feeling the familiar sting in the back of your throat, “what?”

“Not as much as I hate that someone, anyway,” his voice silent yet so full of resentment before a newly complacent tone replaces it, “Also, I dislike you, asswipe.”

Oh, okay. You frowned. What's the difference? Did the word, ‘hate’ have a much deeper meaning? Weren't they just the same?

“..Well, I hate you,” you don't miss the way his face dropped to a deadpan, “that one's really obvious.”

“Yeah,” he rolled his eyes, leaning against the counter with an elbow propped on one of the sturdy machines, “really fucking obvious.”

This time, you respond with a glare.

In return, you get a disgusting tongue stuck out to you before he annoyingly decides to spare you the time and gazes off somewhere to the distance instead–blissfully ignoring your glares of daggers and muttered profanities.

Of course the peace doesn't last long.

"What's up with you and fucking Porsches anyway?"

A sigh, "please just shut up."

Then surprisingly, he does shut up. He did scoff though. Your gaze moved to the clock just right above the entrance.

9:47PM. Two hours left before your bedtime. You could wait it out and send the asshole home. But then again.. maybe you could overwork the asshole.

Under the guise of reluctance, you break the silence, “I’ll go clean up. We’ll switch from here, and then you can go home after.”

His head snapped to you, slightly tilted, “switch?”

“Yeah, switch. You go help grandma upstairs and I'll take care of the stuff from here. And, I'm pretty sure the pastries will be here at around..” you shot a glance at the clock again, noting the time, “twelve minutes from now, so off you go.”

As if contemplating, he narrowed his eyes before a smirk tugged at his lips and he tauntly drawls, “sure, whatever you say, fruitcake.”

A vein throbs in your temple. You could handle other names like dumbass, ass-kisser (???), fuckwipe, dickwad and other things you'd prefer not thinking about but this? It.. just sounds so..

“..Annoying. Fucking annoying.”

He rolls his eyes with a snort, already turning on his heels and heading to the staff room, “tell me something that's new, asswipe.”

"Back door's the exit for the staff here, by the way!"

The door clicked to a close, and you briefly wondered if he heard you or not.

..Well, nevertheless, you hope he wakes up with the most fucked up body ache known to mankind.

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|| previous episode - next episode. ||

───〃★tunes of your heartbeat masterlist

synopsis: in which your fate somehow gets entangled into a messy jumble between punk music in cozy cafés, intense rivalry, cherished yakults, parallelograms and quantum physics, competitions in contests and rainy days. or in other words; the universe seems to fucking hate your guts for whatever reason and decided to curse your love life with your awful crass emo twink-a-fuck rival. the question is; did the curse work?

taglist (50/50): @toekissers , @raineyun @localscarasimp , @potteraep , @shutingstar , @feiherp , @scaraenthusiast1 @dazqa , @wraithisd3adinside , @x-hihihi-x , @court-jester-stuff , @automaticpatroltragedy , @lalalaloveallmydays , @trulyylee , @jayzioxx , @featuredtofu @kazemiya @help-whatdoimakemyusername , @skyoverkill1 @phoenix-eclipses , @anqelkoz , @miyakomari @saechiro @franaby , @swivi , @vixialuvs , @heusalettle @kunikissr @yomishen @mywillt0live , @baldrapunzel @jiminscarmex @sushitushi, @liuaneee , @shynsgore , @mechanicalbeat1 , @marivaudages , @okukura , @azzumei @lucid1tty @iloveescara @usagiarchive @kyouzki @theunhingedmf @kangyeonie @mi2ukiss @bubblebellaz @eternallykira-143 @lumiicch

• featured song - nothing's gonna change my love for you by george benson

authors' notes - i tried my best in writing scara as VAGUE as fucking possible while also keeping the brandname of him being a fake idgafer💜 also you know those people who tries so hard to wink but just can't? i imagined that with [name]'s grandma and i just fucking cackled at the image lmfao

p.s - if u don't know the meaning of the song scara had on the last pic then i suggest u do a google search😋😋😋 gonna be a big ass foreshadowing

(ask to be added or removed)

[aninipanin1]

Hello!!! I have a little suggestion for the manager!reader series.... What if manager!reader made tiktoks/little skits around each stratum for blue lock tv promotional content? I can imagine a lot of people fighting for the spot next to the reader when they do silly tiktok trends hehe ( ＾ω＾ )

Anyways, that's all from me!!! Take care of yourself, and thank you! (*^▽^)/★*☆♪

SUSPECT!

Notes: I don't have TikTok so I don't know much about it. But this turned out to be more player focused lmao enjoy!

"We have to do a what?"

"Some tiktok challenges. Our media manager has already made you guys an account and um, they want you to film some videos so the show can get even more popular!"

You can hear most of them groaning in complaint. Its not that they do not use the app, but most of them could not care less about the cameras or how popular the show could get. As long as they got to continue playing and being in Blue Lock, then everything is all good.

"Can I not join in, Y/n-chan?" Niko asked and most of them soon followed, asking the same question.

"Eh? Oh okay...um, I'll try convincing the JFU but...they said you need to be in it." You said, a sad look in your eyes, knowing that the JFU would probably scold you again when they found out you let the boys do whatever they wanted again.

Isagi, being one of the most sensitive ones in the group, noticed the look in your face. Now, if it was just him, he would also rather say no to whatever the JFU wanted. But knowing that you will probably struggle in convincing the higher ups, and the possibility of you being scolded again, he straightened his posture before clearing his throat.

"Actually, Y/n-chan. We'll do the filming! Right guys?" He said, a fake smile on his face as the rest were just confused.

"What? You do it alone-" Otoya was about to say when Isagi elbowed his side discreetly, before giving a chilling smile.

"Right, Otoya! We'll all do it, Y/n-chan! What do we do?"

Most of them did not like the sound of that, but seeing your face light up in happiness made them get what Isagi wanted. So they just shut their mouths up and let you tell them what to do.

"It's been a while since we even used our phones for fun, didn't know so many trends already came and go." Karasu said as he listened to the trend they were supposed to be doing.

"How do you do this 'suspect' trend, Y/n-chan?" Bachira asked, peeking his head through your shoulder to look at the tablet in your hand where a video of the said trend played.

"So basically, one person will be filming another. The one shown in the camera will be running while the one holding the camera would call them 'suspect' before saying something about themselves that is embarrassing or funny. That's the gist of it, but you all can say what you want, as long as it doesn't cross too many lines."

Oh.

Oh.

A shiver ran through your spine at the smirk on everybody's face. Of course, they all knew each other's deepest habits and secrets, perks of living with each other in this large facility. And exposing and dissing each other? Oh, this was just the thing they have been waiting for.

And that was when you wondered if you picked the wrong trend for the boys to do.

"Um okay, I'll be doing something else in the meantime. I'll leave you with this phone so you guys can film. Um, you can go in whatever order you want. Please try to keep the language to a minimum as possible."

You said nervously, handing a phone provided by the facility to Rin, who just accepted it without a thought. You personally did not know how to feel about this. You trusted them, but definitely not enough to say the weirdest and most out of context things, especially when it comes to their fellow Blue Lock players.

'Oh god, I hope they dont end up fighting...'

The moment you left, they immediately went up to Rin to set up everything and started to point on who will be the scapegoat and be the first one.

"I vote for Barou to go first." Nagi said with a yawn, which only angered the said striker.

"What did you say, you lazyass? How about YOU go first?"

"Hey, hey no fighting!" Bachira cheered.

"Yeah. Hmm, how about rock paper scissors, and whoever loses gets to be the sacrifice." Hiori commented, to which most of them agreed.

It took a while to play the said games due to their number, but as the minutes passed and more and more people won and got eliminated. It was all left to Otoya and Chigiri.

"It's missy versus ninjass!" Karasu laughed.

"Shut the hell up, Karasu!" Chigiri muttered, taking the game very seriously.

But, lady luck wasn't on his side today as he pulled out paper and Otoya pulled out scissors.

"YES! GOODLUCK MISSY!" Otoya cheered. Chigiri fell to his knees at the lost before being pushed up by Isagi, who was laughing at his misery.

Being the one who currently held the phone, Reo snickered at a thought that appeared on his mind as he pressed the video button and started recording the running Chigiri.

"Suspect can't outrun us for too long in this video, or else he'll be in crutches the next day." Like bowling pins, most of the boys fell to the ground laughing at the words. Reo, was busy snickering and making sure that Chigiri's reaction was caught on camera.

"You absolute crud! COME HERE, YOU ASSHOLE!" Chigiri said, fuming, chasing after the chameleon-like striker who just ran away and continued laughing at his offended face.

"Suspect got brotherzoned by Y/n-chan because he started to say slurs on the field!"

"BITCH?! COME HERE CHIGIRI!" Isagi said, feeling offended and a bit heartbroken when he remembered that certain time.

"Suspect thinks his bad taste in fashion brings the girls closer, but actually just shoos them away from him."

"WHAT?! Excuse me, my fashion is good." Otoya tried to defend himself from Karasu's words. But the rest of the boys just shook their heads.

"Your beanies are hideous."

"Nah, its just because they're on him."

"HELLO?! WHY IS EVERYONE SO RUDE TO ME?!"

"Suspect is a closet gay for Hiori." Rin said, filming Karasu who stopped in his steps with wide eyes at what he said.

"What the hell? I'm not gay." But the rest of the boys just laughed at the straight tone Rin said what he said and the expression Karasu currently had.

"Shut the hell up, you crow. You ain't ever gonna beat the allegations!"

"You aren't any better, Shitdough! You are so gonna get it from me!"

"Hey, you're the one who keeps commenting about how erotic Hiori is." Kunigami rolled his eyes.

"I second that. I still can't forget how you called my left leg erotic." Hiori pitched.

"THAT WAS A COMPLIMENT?!"

"How gay can a compliment be, chat?" Otoya joked while slapping Karasu's back, who only yelped.

"Suspect would either get hepatitis from his dreams of Itoshi Sae or his 3 weeks unwashed pillow case!" This time, it was Oliver who filmed Shidou.

"And I don't have anything to hide about that."

"Jesus Christ, you both are disgusting." Rin commented in disgust at both Oliver for what he said, and to Shidou's whole humanity, or what was left in that guy's said humanity.

"Ya'll are getting more unhinged as this challenge pass by." Yukimiya added as he shook his head, not even knowing what you, Ego or Anri would say when they start to view the footage.

"Suspect can't run too fast or else he'll trip because he can't see what's in front of him."

"HAHAHAHA Bachira did not pull any punches." The rest laughed, meanwhile Yukimiya's glasses fogged, his smile clearly fake as he was legit pissed at what the striker said.

"We're here to offend not to ammend, baby."

"Suspect watches anime more for the agenda than the plot."

"So what?" Niko sassed towards Kiyora, who just shrugged while the rest just snickered.

"Nah bro, don't tell me you're one of those in the agenda piece community." Kurona said, only for Niko to shrug.

"Maybe or maybe not. You never know."

"Suspect is a closet mean girl."

"Pfft Isagi!"

"Nagi being a closet mean girl is so true, though."

"All the victims of Nagi Seishiro arise!" Otoya said as Isagi, Barou and even Reo raised their hands while laughing. Nagi, on the other hand just plopped on the ground, not wanting to even continue moving.

Needless to say, the video was a whopping success in social media. Everyone had a good laugh at found out the chill and funny side of the Blue Lock players. But, the JFU was less than pleased of what was in the video.

They expected the boys to behave and say respectable things about each other, not ruin their damn reputation just for jokes and laughs. But, nerdless to say, nobody cared much about their anger because the video did blow up in popularity, and numbers never lie, especially when it brings over money and revenue.

ADDITIONAL TIME!

BLUE LOCK TV TIKTOK COMMENT SECTION:

User1: TO SAY I SNORTED WHAT I WAS DRINKING WHILE WATCHING THIS?!

User2: I swear I always forget these guys are the same age as me, meaning we share the same humour☠️

User3: THE KARASU ONE?! THE GAYNESS IS REAL

-> User4: Idk who to ship anymore Y/n-chan w him or Hiori

User5: I did not expect Rin to actually be funny, good to know he doesn't have his brother's dry sense of humor.

User6: I LOVE THIS! Like I didnt know Nagi and Niko were filled with sass nor did I know Rin can be funny. I NEED MORE OF THESE

User7: Okay, but the brotherzone thing w Isagi proves to me that maybe the crazy harem shippers are right LMAO

-> User8: RIGHT?! Now I'm wondering like theres no way you would use the word brotherzoned if there is no feelings there.

I know this strayed away from the request but I really wanted to incorporate the Bllk boys' friendship so I hope yall enjoy this. I may make a pt 2 that fits more of the request huhu

Blue Lock is WRITTEN by Kaneshiro Muneyuki and ILLUSTRATED by Nomura Yusuke. All credits to the both of them.

[moodymisty]

I would love to give the primarchs a massage, just the idea of these massive men who are constantly at war turning into puddles under the hands of their lover. And maybe offering to return the favor 😏

Author's note: I feel like sanguinius' wings would ache after long battles <3 Relationships: Sanguinius/Gn!Reader Warnings: None really

"Sigh..."

At first, Sanguinius would reject attention such as this; Insist he didn't need it, and that the gesture was wasted. He didn't want to seem weak or didn't want to be the center of your affection, you couldn't quite tell. Or perhaps it was both. Now so much deeper into your relationship he's much more allowing of such attention, stomach curling as he hunches in relaxation.

Now he allows it, because he knows you enjoy it just as much as he does.

His wings twitch happily as you press against the sore muscles at their base, flying and holding them tense for so long has cause them to become tight and strained. Your gentle hands do wonders in loosening them, along with the warm water of the bath. He's the closest he's yet gotten to euphoria- just peace and happiness. Even if for only a little while.

"They're always so sore..."

You mumble to yourself, feeling the sections where his armor dug into the skin. Sanguinius has plates that wrap around the base of his wings to keep them safe; One cut of a tendon could render him flightless for a period of time.

"I use them quite a bit, love."

He feels you smack his shoulder, the water adding a wet plap to his skin. Your hands slide along his wet skin, droplets sliding downward. His feathers repel most of the water, but he still holds them somewhat out of the water to keep from having to preen them all over again.

"You know what I mean."

Sanguinius chuckles at you, feeling your lips press against the dip between his shoulderblades.

"I do, but it is quite fun to tease you. Perhaps I would stop if you didn't always have such a reaction."

He still can't see your face, but he can hear your disgruntled sigh and chuckles again. He's smiling as well; A real one, one that actually reaches his eyes and makes their lovely color brighter and warmer.

Pushing against his shoulders harder trying to soothe his deeper muscles you feel his body relax more, leaning forward a bit more harshly as he looses tension. His wings twitch a bit more, before he stretches them and feels how much less sore and aching he is already.

"I'm well enough, come back where I can see you."

You shake your head despite him being unable to see it, though he can probably hear the shifting of your body in the water.

"I'll be done in a bit," You say, feeling the brush of his feathers against your arm as you push towards the base of his wing. He lets it droop a bit, the tips of some feathers dipping into the warm water.

"I should do your hair after this..." You mumble to yourself, an action which has Sanguinius turning around to snatch you off the step you're on, pulling you to sit on his lip.

"I wasn't done!"

You quickly complain, grumbling discontent as Sanguinius leans down and nuzzles his face into your neck. He hums happily, and you can feel him relax as he breathes in your scent and feels the thrum of your heart in your artery.

"Shush, you. I can wash my hair later. Let me just enjoy you for awhile."

[darqx]

Another BP/HH/Gen answer dump as usual starting with BP and then moving into the other two \o/

All demons age about the same rate as humans (although with earlier milestones as babies) UNTIL they hit their 30s-40s after which aging slows down drastically 🙂‍↕️

Izm chasing you down to get .D back like

🤔 You guys sometimes really make me think about things I don't often have to think about LOL. I'm just gonna do the gang this time so off the top of my head:

Izm and .D are often eating sushi in my drawings and since I'm pretty sure Izm is mainly the one buying, sushi is his fave. He'll eat any type but he prefers the raw fish ones.

Whilst .D also likes sushi, it's not his fave dish. His fave dish is pasta in a red sauce (like Sugo or Arrabiata) for some reason. Nostalgia maybe?

Zeke is a meat and potatoes kind of guy, so, a nice juicy sirloin with mushroom sauce and a side of roast potatoes and veggies. (BP!Zeke is similar but he really likes pork/bacon particularly, so a pork roast for him probably).

Wei Ren's comfort foods are chicken congee, and seafood steamboat/hot pot.

Marcus' fave is his mom's chicken casserole.

Oh I'm glad (and thank you very much)! I hope you get lots of inspiration and can create a lot of things :D

Hm, that's a good question! I think, for doodling purposes, my fave is Rire mainly because Rire always looks more or less completed in black and white. My other two faves are .D and Izm - .D is a good exercise in subtle expressions whereas Izm is the complete opposite (esp with BP!Izm with that mouth).

Yes. I mean, I'd prefer you be at least 15 for those two things only cos if i had to age rate them they could be considered M or MA15+.

Hullo! The short answer is that there are also "not normal" skin tones, it depends on the demon species :)

The rest of society is pretty standard so yes there are charlatans in the world of BP lol. HOWEVER, no one would pretend to be a BP for three distinct reasons:

You need to be sanctioned to be a BP (ie they have abilities that normal people do not, like being able to perform exorcisms.)

There is no profit to be had as BPs generally don't get paid (all their living expenses are generally covered by their religion's HQ).

It's dangerous work. You'd have better luck being a bank robber.

Desmond is def a club music kind of guy XD EDMs, techno, trance, hardstyle, house, whatever - the kind of stuff you jump energetically up and down to at a club/concert/rave, he'll listen to it.

Not yet for BP (soon...🙏🏻). HH wasn't really a comic series so much as a bunch of somewhat random one shots I did for fun lol.

^ you guys :d

I don't put my pronouns anywhere partly because it is lowkey amusing for me to see how people perceive me online. It doesn't really matter to me, so go with your best guess lol.

You would be surprised at how much time those two hobbies can take up outside of work |D; I also like doing puzzle games (like Quordle etc), coding, going for walks/bike riding, making slightly odd food combos in normal recipes and freaking out my friends on Discord with them, and watching horror/disaster films and playthroughs of horror games.

Maybe one day I would, but not at this particular time, sorry!

Thanks for asking as this is a bit of a grey type area! Personally, I think that as long as this is purely for your own use and you aren't going to on-sell it in any way...then it should be ok. I'm going to categorise something like this as somewhat similar to say...people printing out my art to stick to their wall type thing. Of course, if you ended up buying a bunch and then thought oh i have so many extra I'll sell them to whoever wants them - that would be a no no.

In what capacity lol if there's something I've learned from real life it's never agree or disagree to anything without knowing specifics. Eg if you would like to use my art as a PFP on tumblr then you can if you credit it, but if you want to use my art as a face claim for your own charac then i would have to say no, etc.

That makes two of us as i am not familiar with the twisted wonderland universe :P

.D: Diasomnia

Izm: Pomefiore

Wei Ren: Ignihyde

Zeke: Savanaclaw

Marcus: Diasomnia

I never really specified one so my friends and I have been calling it the fictional city of Hedone lol.

I haven't given up on HH, i just dont draw it nearly as much since i'm focussing on developing BP :) Anyway HH wasn't seriously planned to be a comic or anything (though technically...it does have a very loose storyline that I've alluded to in some drawings |D ) so it's something I can just jump back into and doodle whenever i feel like.

This was from a while back

It's pretty straightforward HH is a slice of life 'verse where my main characs are in an all boy's boarding school and Rire is the headmaster. It focuses on the boys shenanigans though so if you specifically like Rire you will be disappointed as he's barely in it.

I cut off this post cos I dont think the stuff in it should be shared with other random people even though anon is on anon. If this is you anon i hope you are doing well and i would genuinely encourage you to talk to someone about certain things (like a therapist maybe).

[shoresoftheshadowlands]

Option three: I would not go crazy by the end of the week from not talking or interacting with people, this is something I do on my own from time to time. I would however become debilitation depressed, because while I am a chronic introvert, and I am almost nonverbal ASD unless I have to speak, it is uncomfortable to me, but it doesn't mean I don't care about other people. Being an introvert means I get mentally drained by outside activities rapidly, it has nothing to do with not wanting to be with or near others.

If everyone else on earth except for me vanished, I could probably survive for a little while, really depends on how long the lights and internet stays active without maintenance and how quickly I could download and print survival guides. Probably find a car and live in the walmart, use the garden section to utilize the food most likely to rot first. non perishable foods will last a while, will be stale and may not be the most tasty after some years but unlikely to kill. Lots of farming out here so existing land could help with growing essentials like potatos, there's tons of chickens out here so I'd probably make it for a while. But the crippling lonliness would weigh on me. There's no one to draw for. No one to write for. Loved ones I'll never see again, my partner who I love more than life itself, the imaginative worlds we make being no more would be more than I could bear. Would the world want me to exist without them? Would it be cowardly to follow them into the dark and leave the earth to whatever comes after us?

Third option: You don't go crazy when no one is left, you become depressed and do your best to survive for what its worth.

New introvert extrovert test just dropped!

My brain woke me up today with a premise it wouldn't let go of: imagine you are the last human being on Earth. Not zombies, no dead bodies, just, every human being gone except you.

Don't worry about whether you'll get the meds or assistance you need - imagine all of that taken care of somehow. This is just a thought experiment, after all. You find yourself alone, and you *will* survive this physically.

Also, don't worry about why or how it happened. Again, thought experiment. Doesn't matter if it was alien abduction or the rapture or whatever, that won't have any further impact on your life here and now. Just, there are no other people around anymore. None.

No nuance, pick one. Yes, yes, we all have people we would miss, and yes you can have a anthropomorphic volleyball or whatever. But you gotta pick one.

[haemey]

@lickthecowhappy made me realise that I haven't drawn a kiss since my teens. So, in about a decade and a half, back when I drew like... well, like a teenager who's just starting to draw. Unfortunately, the evidence has since been lost to a flood (my mom's basement got a bit wet after her neighbour's pipes broke), so I have no way of comparing it, but... I think I've improved.

Just a little.

No, seriosuly. This is probably the best thing I've drawn so far. I'm so incredibly happy with it. Just... look at the hands! Those are some really good hands! And Aziraphale's fluffy hair! How did I do that? And yes, I will toot my own horn about it, sue me (please don't)!

Closeups and a bonus version under the cut.

And a slightly less high effort, slightly more cursed, second version >:)

I'll get the Holy Water spray bottle.

[entanglingbriars]

Cultural Christianity: Some Thoughts

The question of whether someone can be both an atheist and a Christian is relevant only in some very specific contexts. In theocratically Christian countries (which has been the normative way to Do Government in Christendom for most of its history), apostasy is literally a crime; if you're an atheist in one of those places you're probably going to keep your mouth shut about it and if you do open it you can expect to be repudiated by your former community.

In countries that aren't theocratically Christian, Christianity frequently functions at least in part as an ethnic indicator. In Northern Ireland it makes sense to ask an atheist whether she's a Catholic or a Protestant atheist. In places where Christians are a minority, they are frequently an ethnic minority, and that will be bound up in their culture.

The only places where the question is relevant are some culturally Christian countries that are not theocratic and where for the most part Christian membership is not ethnically marked. In the United States (which is what I'll be focusing on), that means white American Protestants. (And not even all of them. A born-in Jehovah's Witness may be a white American Protestant, but her culture is definitely not the dominant Christian culture in this country.)

One of the weirder things about this debate, to me, is that on tumblr this debate seems to be largely between gentile atheists and Jews. It's not something I see coming from Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, or Sikhs. It's definitely not something that Christians care about.

As far as I can tell, no one is arguing that the United States is not dominated by (white American Protestant) Christian culture or that everyone who lives here is not to some degree affected by that. The debate seems very much to be about whether a specific person can (or should) be called a cultural Christian.

There are, obviously, some atheists who accept the label. Richard Dawkins is the obvious example (and I'd argue that Dawkins' embrace of the label should give people pause in applying it to others). Those atheists are not part of the debate. They have already been convinced that the term can (and should) be applied to them.

Notably missing from the debate is whether members of other religious minorities can (or should) be called cultural Christians. If I'm raised a Reform Jew in a Christian-majority area and go to a public school, I will be almost as exposed to Christian culture as someone raised a Methodist. But no one is arguing that assimilated or partially-assimilated Jews (and I'd argue that almost all non-Haredim are to some extent partially assimilated) should be called cultural Christians.

The atheists have noticed that. And they really don't like it. The implication it carries is that anyone raised (white American Protestant) Christian will remain so, unless they convert to a different religion and atheism doesn't count.

But the fact that it rankles doesn't mean it's not true. However, it does mean that a lot of atheists see the application of the term to themselves as a denial of their atheism and of the significant work it took to leave Christianity. Because in the United States, even now, leaving Christianity is hard. In some cases it's dangerous, but more commonly it "just" means risking the loss of your entire network of friends and family. This is less so today than it was, say, forty years ago, but it's still a thing.

Further, atheists in the US are a minority religious group. One that experiences oppression and suppression by the dominant religious group. Calling an atheist a cultural Christian identifies her with the group that is actively oppressing her. Which is bound to raise some hackles.

I don't really have a conclusion here. My sense is that applying the term "cultural Christian" to people who don't like it is, at best, counterproductive and, at worst, a microaggression. It doesn't seem to be helping anybody to use it in those cases and may be counterproductive to a discussion of the hegemony white American Protestantism has over US culture. Which is a conversation that is more important now than it has been in decades.

[grvait]

old art again!! this time a rough animation of sawyer and yarnaby 😎 (looks better if u click to view 😭)

im working on a short ppt animation rn. im thinking i should post it to my youtube channel, though im not sure if people here would see it. i think i can link videos on here?? idk

okay I'm gonna talk abt more chapter 4 stuff.. this time about prototype's previous identity.. ch4 spoilers and also a theory below..

hiding the solo yarnaby under here LOL

people theorized 1006 was elliot, which was recently disproven in the chapter 4 tape where poppy refers to elliot as her dad and wishes he were there. in the same tape she addresses prototype as a completely different person. also recall that elliot died in the 90s, meanwhile prototype met theo in 1989. so yeah, they aren't the same person

I've also seen people say rich is prototype, which cannot be true either. in a ch4 tape he speaks to one of the boys who eventually got turned into doey. the kid mentions his coworkers joking about him going missing. before the bbi, it would not make sense for this to be a common rumor at the company, which means this tape had to happen after harley was hired in 1990; at a time when the company would have a reason to silence people

prototype existed in 1989 at the minimum, but considering he says "it's always been about you and me" to poppy, he's likely the prototype of HER. she's elliots daughter, she died in the 60s, meaning prototype was probably created around that time as well.

this means that rich can't be the prototype because he was human long after prototype was made

if you want my take on who prototype truly is, i'd say his identity doesn't necessarily matter. i don't mean to say his origins aren't important, just that his name and specific role in the past probably doesn't mean anything in the long run. i've never believed he was elliot or rich, and maybe in the future i'll be proven wrong but for now i'll tell you the theory i've had since june of last year

elliot's daughter dies in the 60s. he divorced his wife in 1930, so his daughter is probably in her 30s when she dies. she gets sick or injured, maybe she's actively dying or already dead by the time elliot begins his research. he looks for ways to bring her back, but it doesn't work on the rats (as he mentioned a note in the 2nd chapter)

so what does he do? he tries it on something bigger as he said he would: a human. of course he's not going to try this experimental method on his own daughter, even if she's already dead, so he finds someone else to use it on. we know that elliot wasn't evil or anything, so it's unlikely he killed anybody to use for the experiment. considering the orphanage isn't open yet (it opened in the 70s, not the 60s), prototype probably wasn't an orphan child either. if i run with my simple version of the theory, elliot may have dug up a body in a graveyard and used that. maybe a fresh one, who knows. he tried it, it worked, then he revived his daughter with the same method.

this is likely what harley wanted to know about in the chapter 3 tape (the "i learn something new about you every day" one), and also what prototype is asking harley to figure out in the ch4 tape they're both in. in that case, sawyer never actually figured out how to revive people with the poppy substance. sure, he can transfer people into the toys, but he can't bring anybody back to life

more reason to believe prototype and poppy are of the same "batch" is because it seems they are the only two who don't need food. it's outright stated about him in the ch1 trailer, and insinuated with her saying the "toys will starve otherwise" when she's talking about how nasty them eating humans is. she refers to them, not herself. her and prototype are probably the only 2 who were ever brought back from the dead, which circles back around to his monologue and gives meaning to the "it's always been about you and me, poppy. what we are". when i heard him say that i felt like my theory was lowk confirmed 😭😭

no guarantee this is right, but it's been my guess for a long time