#hes SO gender its unbelievable

[introvertedwolf]

Alphonse Elric for the blorbo bingo?

alphonse elric is not an innocent man i will defend this to my death <3

[xxplastic-cubexx]

I saw the hairless cat part and I want to had a fun fact to it.

Hairless cat are really oily because they don’t have fur to collect it, so their oils get everywhere and STAIN a lot- Erik will fully loose his minds with all the oils stain the cat would made.

the cat is ABSOLUTELY to go NOWHERE NEAR his closet alright he can excuse it using the kitchen table as a scratching post but he draws the LINE at his silk robes

[cashmere-caveman]

My Country: The New Age, first and last episodes & Hanif Abdurraqib, For The Dogs Who Barked At Me On The Sidewalks in Connecticut (text/audio) image descriptions in alt

[apostate-in-an-alcove]

I think something that really irks me about the whole "feminine energy and masculine energy" garbage that gets peddled on TikTok and other platforms is the fact that there's this constant implication that a woman being masculine is a serious error in her that needs to be fixed. Masculine women aren't broken and in need of a supposed masculine man to push them back into their femininity; their masculinity (whatever that means and looks like to them) is a feature of them that doesn't need to be repaired because they were never in error to begin with.

[krogans-give-the-best-cuddles]

Reading Asunder and I think I hate this more than the first two. The first two were often poorly done in a technical sense, and often had a lot of sexism. But Asunder is the "video game developers idea of gray morality" problem fucking distilled. The sexism is still here, and most of the technical issues are fixed (though certainly not fucking all) but like

Every two damn minutes it's: the noble and pure and pretty Evangeline (ignore the fact that like a kid starved to death under her charge and she is actually a threat and jailer to everyone around her just bc they were born different) who is so noble bc she.... believes the beliefs of the organization doing all the bad stuff. But she believes it really genuinely, that she's helping, even when working w the bad organization. And she's pretty, we'll mention that again.

Versus Adrian who's described as pretty never and often described as mousy and irritating. And she wants all the mages to be free but she's like soooo angry and loud and mean. Did you hear how she's too angry? She's soooooo angry, the redheaded fire Mage. So angry. And she's super judgemental. No one's as judgemental as her, even Wynne (a character who's greatest and most consistent flaw is being judgemental) will call her out as being too judgemental. And of course like, maybe she has some points about Mage freedom if she just wasn't so angry about it and obsessed with it. And she's not pretty.

And of course. Both. Are in a love triangle with our main male POV character. In fact he at one point dated Adrian, although it's impossible to tell why, bc he only ever thinks of her in the worst ways possible, so like. What did he like about her? What does he even like about Evangeline other than that he thinks she's hot? No one knows.

Something about it being written slightly more competently makes me like it even less

[lesbiten]

so first no one told me alpharad was bisexual and THEN no one told me that he came out as aroace. what is the point of the internet if these things are not brought to my attention immediately

[tritoch]

the other thing I find very funny about trying to write a canon compliant wol is taking all the wolship hints extremely seriously.

I don't really wolship because I'm just fundamentally not that kind of fan. But I know for those who are, the sheer number of romance hints FFXIV throws at you can be overwhelming to parse in a context where you have a preferred/intended wolship, particularly if you're not attracted to the gender the hints are coming from in the first place (a particular tip of the hat to wlw fans navigating the g'raha of it all). I've seen plenty of people write around them or write them out or be like "no aymeric was for real inviting my wol to a nice platonic zero-subtext dinner," and God bless all of you.

But it's really funny to imagine them all as all-too-real but unreciprocated or perhaps unreciprocatable. The sheer scale of it is comedy. Spoilers for all of FFXIV follow.

Oh God, the Lord Speaker wants to have dinner, just the two of us, at his family estate and not a government building. I hope he doesn't bring up his crush on me. Thal's balls he's about to bring it up—oh thank God there's an emergency. Oh no someone got hurt! Oh no it's the teenage girl with a crush on me.

Your life is a cosmic joke. You watch the Sultana get poisoned and all your friends probably die to save your life and it's kind of all your fault in some ways, I mean at the very least you should've spoken up when they gave the teenager a private army, and then the teenage boy speaks up and is like, "hey, I guess we have at least one ally. What about if we go visit that guy who is really obviously down unbelievably bad for you and wants to lick the sweat off of you." and you have to be like, yeah, Alphinaud. Great idea. Let's do it. I'll call him.

(brief interlude: also haurchefant's DEATH hits so good if you don't reciprocate. It's okay. He gets it. You're going through a lot and even if you had time to sort through your feelings maybe you're just not into him. That would be okay! You can love someone, or the idea of someone, without needing it to be romantically reciprocated. That's chivalric, even. Knightly. So he won't ask you to lie to him and say you love him as he lies dying in your arms. He's not so low as all that. But could you smile for him as you used to? That true hero's smile of yours. And you do, and he dies. And you both know he died for a lie, in a way, or a flight of fancy. And he's okay with that. Are you? Should you be? Should he?)

Then you're into Stormblood and it's like wow, okay. That last part was all high fantasy, of course there were loyal knights and elegant princes. But this is war. Imperialism. Grim business, surely there's no way—oh no BOTH handsome young revolutionary leaders seem to have a special interest in you?! And so does the Crown Prince of the Empire? Come on, man. I should get to do the whole horrors of war thing without having to also deal with this. Gaius sucked and it was weird that he let his foster daughter run around being openly obsessed with him but at least he never made it my problem.

You can't even get away from it across dimensions. Shadowbringers is a horror story about going on a teambuilding camping trip with your work colleagues for some reason except they all suddenly got really hot and they keep touching you affectionately on the shoulder and being like "I care for you and your happiness. Truly." And also you're being stalked for the whole camping trip by two old men who are obsessed with you. The false climax of the story is that the one old man tries to betray you and give a dramatic monologue about how he loves you but the two of you are doomed by the narrative and then the other old man shoots him in the back like "no actually its MY turn to betray them and give a dramatic monologue about how our love is doomed by the narrative." Then the real climax is old man #1 backstabbing old man #2 in the middle of said monologue before old man #2 dies and gives ANOTHER wistful monologue about his doomed love. Then for the patches they're like okay so we have this even CRAZIER old man who's gonna strike when you're weak and give a dramatic monolo—

and that's without even getting into the literal soulmate ghost only you can see

my warrior of light never felt more betrayed than in that scene where Y'shtola is like "haha Alisaie and G'raha have crushes on the warrior of light." Like I thought we were COOL, Y'shtola! I work here! This situation is already in such a delicate balance! Right when I got here I met Alisaie's "friend from work" who was like oh haha so YOU'RE the one she can't stop talking about and we never followed up on that because the woman died horrifically like five minutes later right in front of us! Then when Vauthry got away and we had to do all that shit with the dwarves, G'raha kept pausing every ten minutes to be like oooooh I'm so old I'm gonna die soon...at least I got to spend some time with some people who are really important to me...in fact here's what I'd tell the person who's most important to me...actually u know them really well haha. And I just had to sit there and be like wow, dude, crazy.

even in the face of apocalypse you still gotta go back in time like 12,000 years and there's somewhere there who makes you sit and listen to his story which is that the purpose of his whole godlike immortal life was to be in a throuple with you and old man #2 from the camping trip. and you just gotta sit there the whole time knowing you/your past life is the one who broke up the throuple over politics. He's like come help me harangue the old man into streaking in public, he'll do it if you ask.

then you meet and fight and kill God and you gotta turn to the team and be like hey sorry guys can you give me a sec. I'm gonna call God by her real name because we met one time for like four days and after that the promise of meeting me again was one of the things that sustained her through her millennia of suffering. Not like that but like. Idk. Just gimme a sec!

It's a relief when you finally get to Lahabrea and he's like actually I still don't fuck with your vibe. Like thank GOD.

And my WoL is very obviously dad-shaped so Dawntrail had a very specific energy for me but I understand that for plenty of people your deepening rapport with Wuk Lamat had a romantic subtext (same for Koana depending on how you read a few of his lines). And personally I think it's the height of comedy to be like, noooo, babe, your highness, I know you and your brother the king are in love with me and want me to stick around and support you emotionally through this governmental transition haha. But it's just...the cursed wineglass, babe. I GOTTA go figure out what's up with this cursed wineglass.

It's a running gag in some of the more optional content that people are like "you have an unreasonable number of hobbies and side gigs" to the WoL from time to time. But if every time you tried picking up a new hobby some new elf started baring their soul to you, you too would be like Hey Jessie (or sometimes Krile or Tataru), my good friend who is one of the only people in my life who knows what professional ethics and work-life boundaries are, any chance you need muscle on a gig on the other side of the world? Ideally with only Cid and his ex so all libidinal energy in the room is directed towards machinery or someone who isn't me?

ironically one of the only places you get a break from psychosexual obsession is the nier content

[osamucide]

FLAVOR PROFILE—gn+afab!reader, references to pregnancy but nothing super intense+nothing gendered, oral sex (m!receiving), breeding, creampie, cum play, soft domestic Chuuya, Chuuya with baby fever, rough sex, dirty talk, teasing, nicknames (babydoll, baby, pretty, daddy in the sense of the breeding kink)

ABV—3.3k

tags, with love—@chuuminn @thewickedjazzy

He's holding his breath.

He doesn't realize it until you look to him, your eyes filled with laughter as the baby on the hip of the woman next to you reaches again for your hair.

I don't mind, you'd insisted with a smile when the mother apologized sheepishly over her shoulder for her handsy, outgoing child—you really don't, and the restaurant lobby is rather packed, after all. It isn't somewhere Chuuya would usually take you out (he'd rather bring you somewhere more upscale and less public) but this is one of your favorite places, and when you'd suggested it for date night this month, he couldn't help but agree after seeing how excited you got to show it to him.

And now he's exhaling, subtly as he can, as you turn back to the baby, untangling its little grasp from your hair and offering up your fingers instead; a tiny hand wraps entirely around your index finger, and when your face lights up with a grin and you coo, the baby mirrors you, giggling in that way that babies do—all teeth, squinted eyes, and pink, chubby cheeks. The opposite tiny hand swats at you, which you laugh through but direct a quiet, hey, play nice to, and now that Chuuya relaxes his shoulders, he's able to feel his face go red not from lack of oxygen but from how unbelievably fucking adorable the scene playing out in front of him is.

He doesn't stop thinking about it, even after you and the baby have waved a regretful and playful goodbye as you made your way to your table—one in a more secluded corner, much to his relief. Or, maybe, much to his disadvantage. There are images playing through his mind like a movie—you with an infant on your hip, cradled in your arms; it sports a pop of bright ginger hair on its soft little head, and you kiss it with such care. You, spoon-feeding a baby, you dancing with its tiny feet on top of yours, you lighting up at its first intelligable words. Its auburn tuft gets longer. Maybe it's a boy. Chuuya's son. In a span of seconds, the boy child's early years flash before him—reading with him sleepy and cuddled between you, pitting him against one another in comical prank wars, opening his birthday presents, walking him to school, gently washing his locks that he got from his father.

Yes, he's fucked for tonight.

Once you're both seated—he pulls your chair out for you like the textbook gentleman he is, though his mind swims—you tilt your head on your hands and raise an eyebrow at him.

"You alright, honey?" you ask. "You're a little red."

"Yeah, yeah," he brushes you off. He can't get a thing past you. "Just warm in here, 's'all."

"It's not exactly our usual type of spot." You turn a little red yourself. "Sorry, Chuu."

"No," he half-snaps, thinking he'd come off as stuck up—fuck, he ought to assert himself softer right now, "no, I don't mean—it's not the place, it's just—"

When he pauses to swallow, you tilt your head even more. It's rare that your slick-tongued, spitfire of a boyfriend is ever lost for words, so something must be up. You find a splinter of anxiety run through you as you wait for him to say something like he has to leave, boss's orders—it wouldn't be the first or last time something like that had happened on date night, but his next words both quell your fear and spark your attention.

"—it was just really cute watching you with that baby."

Ah, you think, smirking. "Really? You think so?"

Chuuya nods, loosening his tie a bit, hoping you'll make maybe one more little quip and then let it go so he can focus on letting it go. It's absurd to him that something so small and innocent has him hot beneath the collar. You're at dinner, at your favorite place—he's not planning to ruin it over the fact that he can feel his dick twitching to life in his pants over thinking about you parenting his child. That can be for later. He's going to focus on letting it go and also the array of sandwiches the restaurant offers on the cute, laminated menu with curly designs framing the perimeter that he suddenly finds very intriguing.

He knows you're going to speak again. He just hopes it won't be the next words that are falling from your mouth as you bat your lashes at him coyly.

But it is.

Your gaze flicks down to the menu—there's a wrap from here you always get, you're eyeing it with familiarity—but you've been here a million times; you hardly need to zero in on that, not when you've reduced the man in front of you to short puffs of breath as he scans the menu with vacant eyes. He is much more interesting. Chuuya Nakahara, feared mafioso, most powerful ability user in Japan if not the world: flustered at the mere image of his partner bantering with a baby.

You right yourself, looking thoughtful. "You think we'd be good parents, Chuu?"

But that coyness doesn't leave your voice; he hesitates to look up at you, knowing you'll be sipping your complementary glass of water in a manner to match, avoiding his eyes so he has to chase them so he can answer you with a sharp glare instead of the words he's thinking that will come out cracked and desperate—a yeah, we would, or even don't be silly, because who is he kidding? He's a mafioso. He's got his hands full trying to protect you as it is. He's killed people. He's certainly not the worst of the worst—he likes to think of himself as a man of morals, despite his profession—but there are certainly circumstances for a child of the both of yours to possibly end up entangled in that make his stomach turn even now, before anything has happened, before anything can happen, but he's righted himself after the challenge of your question and the words are tumbling out, confident, bold, the way you're used to hearing them—a challenge right back to see if you'll bite—

"Maybe we should find out."

Your eyes lock onto his then; a waitress floats by to refill your water glasses and ask if you're ready to order.

"We're gonna order to go," you say cordially, closing your menu. "If it's not too much trouble. Something came up."

"Of course," she chirps, pen and notepad scribbling down whatever it is that comes out of his mouth next—it might what you got, it might not be, but Chuuya's hardly focused on that enough to know—to care. "We'll get those right out for ya. Sit tight for about fifteen minutes, yeah?"

—

You sit tight for about fifteen minutes in the dining room, and then about fifteen minutes more on the back of Chuuya's motorcycle—the ride to your apartment should normally take about thirty. You clutch the takeout bag, but you're more invested in the arm you have wrapped around his middle which drops down to stroke his thigh at red lights; it has his knuckles tight around the throttle.

It has his fingertip mashing madly against the elevator button up to your place; he's impatient, it's evident in the way his heels hardly meet the floor as he strides in, finds you, immediately hikes your leg up against him and kisses you hard before the doors slide shut. He doesn't care who sees. Pretty soon, he figures, everyone will be able to tell anyway; you'll be cradling his kid, the spitting image of him, on your hip everywhere you go and there'll be no doubt who you belong to. What's an innocent kiss in the elevator?

By the grace of some god—or maybe, to Chuuya's ilk—no one stops you on the way up. Well, less time to spend stumbling toward the door as you're grabbing the hem of his shirt, untucking it frantically from his pants; he's guiding you by the back of your neck through the door and slamming it shut as you toss your takeout on the counter and promptly forget about it entirely in favor of wrangling each other into your bedroom.

It's late, but not so late that a sliver of sunset doesn't fall like a invitation across the sheets of your bed, left messy and slept in and loved in from the night before. An orange beam strikes across Chuuya's face, already flushed on his own account and yours, as you crawl atop him, slot your hips together; his hat falls over the edge of the bed and you take it as an opportunity to card your fingers through his fiery bangs while he works your shirt up and off. Cup his jaw, allowing for hot puffs of breath against your lips. Linger down his throat and into the line of buttons that keeps you—not for long—from his gorgeous, sculpted chest and middle.

And the gasps you pull from him when your hands splay across his pecs, up his shoulders as you kiss and bite your way down—they're like song.

"Oh, babydoll..." Chuuya's sighing, flicking his head up to watch you, then back at the bliss you so easily administer to his worn body; he's all rough edges, so ready to go, it's almost like torture to have you teasing your way down his abdomen with you tongue, taking it slow compared to where he wants to take you—but then again, it's you, so fuck it, he'll take everything you give him. Your touch is enough to send him reeling in the sweetest way.

When you work his cock out of his dress pants, he's throbbing, sticky.

"God, I really got you riled up, huh, Chuu?" you tease, tracing a ring around the head of his cock that sends his head back again; he props himself up on his elbows to watch you, hungrily, still red, now redder at your words. "Something so simple, too."

"'S'it so strange to get hard thinkin' about knockin' you up?" he teases back, albeit more breathless than you.

You relish in the small moments like this where you have control—where you're allowed to giggle and circle your tongue over the path your thumb just traced, lapping up his precum and letting your fingers settle delicately around his length. Where you get him to explain himself in low groans and lashes fluttering over his freckled cheeks. You make it a little show for him, every time, like it's customary, never mind how disgustingly you're soaking through your pants right now. You grind on nothing, acutely aware of how empty you are but so enamored with the man you have at your mercy in front of you as you hollow your cheeks and dip your chin to fit a few inches of him in your warm mouth. Low groan. You throb, sticky, too.

"Fuck..." he breathes, still-gloved hand coming to push your hair out of your face; you, doe-eyed and drooling, is a sight he won't, can't miss. You look so pretty sinking your face down onto him, and it sends a shimmer of pleasure all the way to his toes when your tongue traces another circle, this time around the middle of his cock; he's going to lose it so fast, he knows it.

Chuuya loves to watch you worship his cock.

Which leaves him momentarily torn between letting you keep going, letting you keep wiggling your ass in the air so cutely as you suck him, turn him into putty with your lips and tongue, or pulling you off him and stuffing you full as quickly as he possibly can. He watches you, watches you; mouth falling open when you swirl, eyes rolling back when you play with his balls, frozen, in heaven until he comes back to what it was he dragged you home so quick to do: make a baby.

Your nose is just reaching the coarse, red tuft of hair at the base of his cock when he's working you up, off him by your hair, by your wrists, willing you up onto your knees so he can shove his hands between the wretched barrier called your pants and yank them down. You fall into him, kissing him, ever harder.

"Chuuya," you gasp when the waist of your pants and underwear are at your thighs and you feel two cool leather digits circling around your clit. "Ah—"

"Baby, 'need to fuck you, now," he mumbles with urgency against your lips; you're so fucking wet that you just tip onto your back to kick off your garments—he does the same with the rest of his— and spread yourself wide open for him, taking note of the wild look in his eyes next to all the lust, all the lovesickness. You hold yourself open, clenching around nothing, feeling every inch of him as he slinks up your body and slides into you so easily, like he's meant to be there, like he's meant to be pumping you full.

"Gonna fill me up, Chuu?" You're relentless. For now. "Gonna have it drippin' outta me?"

"Unh—agh, oh, fuck," he curses as you clench around him now. "Not gonna let any of it go to waste, babydoll." You rock your hips as he bottoms out and you're reaching for his wrists, his hands, tearing his gloves off his lithe fingers as they're the only thing that keeps you from feeling him so fully now and soon they're gone, too, with the rest of your clothing, and you have him, you have his fingers between yours, clasping hard like they did around the handles of his bike while you left a wet patch on the seat, turning whiter than they ever have, it seems, now that he has a mission beyond just filling you up. He's going to do that, of course, but it's more than just cum; it's him. He wants to put a fucking baby in you.

Which is what he mutters against your neck as he moves, pulls back, and thrusts forward roughly the way he always does on the first one—just to hear you yelp. Now it's his turn to chuckle. You've had your control, and even though he knows more about the control you exert even when you're under him than he'll ever tell you, he relishes in it, too. The way you squirm, the way your knees snap shut around his waist; he smiles into your skin as he picks up his pace, leaning up to watch your head nod against the pillow with the force underscoring his rhythm.

"Fuck, Chuuya," you whisper as the tip of his nose brushes yours. "Love you."

"Love you," he chants back without a second thought, ginger curls curtaining against your face. "Gonna give you my fucking kids. Know we'll be the best parents."

You would giggle again if he wasn't knocking the wind out of you with his next stroke; this time, as it flashes across the back of his eyelids, it does across yours, too. A little redheaded baby, with your eyes, your nose. It has Chuuya pistoning into your cunt, sends sounds of your lovemaking echoing off the walls. The sunbeam slips out of the room, painting you both in the evening; a perfect evening, orange and blue, so much like him, deep like your love and the moans he tears from your throat each time he bullies his way against the entrance to your womb.

Chuuya spends time working you and himself up—he always does. He knows how to angle himself in a way, knows how to fuck steadily in a way that not only drives you over the edge, but turns him into something more of an animal than a man just because it sends you arching, crying—he feeds off of you feeding off of him. A dance that, as those visions flash by him, he thinks, not for the first or last time, he only ever wants to dance with you.

"Chuuya," you cry again—it soon becomes the one of the only things you can get out coherently, other than, "Please, please—"

"W-want that? Wanna make me a daddy?" he presses between feral kisses; you bite each other's lips, you dig your heels into his back, you carve crescents with your fingernails into his knuckles as you nod—it's all you can do amidst his pace, amidst how steadily he's pounding into that spot that makes you scream.

A yes hurtles out of you, strained and broken; a string of more garbled yeses follow, intermixed with pleases and fucks, as your gradually more and more fucked-out brain latches onto to the word. "Wan' give you a fuckin' baby, Chuu, wan' make—unh, wan' make you a daddy, please, need y'tuh cum in me, Chuuya—" and his name trails off into a strangled groan as he releases one of your hands to reach down to your clit.

He rubs you with a quickness that sends lightning to the tips of each of your limbs. He feels your ribs press up, press into his; he watches your eyes roll back; he feels you claw at him with pure abandon as you ripple and heave against each other. He could fuck you forever. He will fuck you forever.

"'M so fuckin' close, pretty," Chuuya growls.

"Cum in me, Chuu," you whimper back, voice shaking as each rough thrust shatters it a little bit more. "P-please, please, please, don't fuh—don't fucking—unh—don't stop!"

Your teeth grind; a bead of sweat falls from Chuuya's forehead onto yours and you groan, almost twist from the pleasure that courses through you all the way to your fingers and toes, abruptly shortening his harsh thrusts as you trap him in the grip of your legs around his waist, his back, his ass, like a vise. You feel him pulse. He doesn't let up. Your orgasm crashes over you like thunder; twitching, creaming, milking him as you pull him down to your mouth to swallow the curses he sobs out as his own climax catapults through him, hot, heavy.

"Unh—ah, ah, baby, I'm—oh, fuck!"

"Fuck, yes—"

Your name, babbled and cracked; warmth spreading throughout you, tremors subsiding, and Chuuya, winded, letting his face fall into your shoulder as he weakly lets his hips come to a stop. You squeeze him closer, looking for air, rolling against him until you're both totally spent. Totally glowing.

"Fuck," he says again, lifting his auburn head like he's in a trance. "Fuck, lift those hips up, babydoll."

Without pulling out of you, he grabs an extra pillow and folds it, wedging it beneath your trembling hips; you look to him, hazy, as he leans down to press one kiss to each of your shoulders.

"Gotta make sure it stays in there, yeah?"

You let out a breathless laugh. "Oh, god, Chuuya."

"Yeah?" he asks again, pulling back to grin down at you, his two-toned eyes still swimming with all that lust, all that love. He circles his hips. "Give me a second before we go again."

"Again?" you repeat, smirking back at him; he sits up and peers down to your messy hole, still stuffed with him. He scoops up an escaping droplet of his cum and tucks it back between your folds, which still spasm softly. Your mouth falls into an o at the intrusion of his finger next to his cock.

"Gotta make sure you gimme a baby," he rasps slyly, and you giggle once more, mirroring the glimmer in his conspiratory eyes. Conspiring to love you for a long time.

"Alright, daddy."

[ozzgin]

Can I have yandere Aka Manto x Reader? I see you write Japanese myths, cuz why not?

Yandere! Urban Legend x Reader [Aka Manto]

You never know when you're going to meet your soulmate. It could be on a beach at sunset, on the last bus home, in the elevator of an office building...Or in a public bathroom after you just finished your business. Nevertheless, this urban legend monster has its eyes on you now.

Content: gender neutral reader, urban legend, part horror part comedy, gore!, monster romance

"Are you deaf? It's occupied!" you shout one final time, giving the door a swift kick to emphasize your presence. That's what you get for using a public restroom. Your coworkers had convinced you to try out another bar after the company dinner, and you might've had one too many cocktails. Thankfully most of the drinks were watered down, although it is exactly because of this detail that you're now hovering above a toilet seat with a full bladder. On a Friday night, in the partying neighborhood of the city, so it could explain the persistent stranger - possibly even drunker than you - who keeps rattling the lock of your stall.

To your horror, the handle begins to turn, and you hear a click. You scramble to get up and secure the door, but it's too late. With your pants halfway down, you gawk at the bizarre individual squeezing his way in: a tall figure wearing a red cloak and a mask. "What the Hell?" is all you can mumble to yourself, awkwardly gathering your garments in order to preserve your remaining ounce of dignity. Out of all the things to happen tonight...Alright, calm down. It's most likely a crackhead. You cast your eyes down and focus on the floor tiles, with patterns strategically chosen to hide as much grime as possible.

Pretty. Almost too pretty to kill. He might just take his time with you and savor the moment. Of course, you'll have to answer his question first. With bureaucratic efficiency, he pulls out two rolls of toilet paper and extends them to you. "The red one, or the blue one?" he asks with theatric gravity. What in the Avon samples Hell is this, you think, fidgeting nervously and avoiding any eye contact still. If you ignore him, he should lose interest.

A minute passes in heavy silence. His ghastly arms begin to tire, so he lowers them with a disappointed creak of the joints. "Y-you have to pick one", he insists. Damn it! Perhaps you've been told what to do if approached by mischievous spirits like him? Ignorance means you keep your head, though he was hoping for a gory night of entertainment. You can almost feel the intense stare coming from behind the eerie mask. The tension becomes unbearable, so you finally decide to push your luck. You will not spend the night stuck with a deranged pervert looming over you in a public bathroom.

Without further delay, you shove him aside and open the door. He lets out a surprised hum, observing your daring gesture and almost expecting you to run for your life. To his even greater shock, however, you stop to wash your hands with a relaxed whistle, completely unbothered by his presence. What happened to the fear, the terror, the dread? You peek at his reflection in the mirror, and your lips curl in a mocking grin. Maybe it's the alcohol finally hitting your nervous system, but all you see right now is a pathetic charlatan who tried to intimidate you with literal toilet paper. A good-for-nothing scoundrel interrupting the innocent from their much-needed bathroom break.

In fact, the more you consider your situation, the more your chest puffs with outrage and bravery. You pay your taxes, you help the needy, and this is how your civic deeds are rewarded? By having your stream cut midway? Unbelievable. Unacceptable. No other soul shall suffer your fate tonight. "Wretch!" you cry out, turning towards the aggressor and continuing your demands: "Evacuate the premises at once!"

You might not understand it yet, but your act of defiance has sealed your fate. The hooded monster smiles, relishing the words that have closed the gap between your fragile body and his blasphemous claws. You have spoken to him; thus, he can do with you as he desires. And yet, his murderous fingers hesitate. Your entrails should be splattered across the rarely polished porcelain by now. What's holding him back? He tilts his head in contemplation, but any intention to ponder his feelings is quickly discarded once a loud shriek pierces his ears.

As it turns out, someone else had been using the neighboring stall and was alerted by your little argument. Their finger is pointed at the cloaked creature, features twisted in disgust and fear. "Can't you tell we're busy?" The mysterious man inquires sarcastically. On second thought, this should be enough to satisfy his cravings.

With a snap of the fingers, the frightened bystander is torn apart by invisible hands right before your very eyes. Their limbs detach with surreal ease, and blood splatters everywhere in hot, sticky bursts. In your petrified daze, you are reminded of nature documentaries: blurry snippets of sharks trashing their victim around, fleshy chunks coming undone from the violent handling. Within seconds, the bathroom is quiet again. The walls and ceiling are drenched in fresh blood, and occasionally, fat droplets collapse into a puddle with resounding echo.

It all falls into place. The hooded creature claps its hands, startling you back into awareness. "That's what it was!", he says with enthusiasm. He approaches you with quiet steps, cushioned by the meaty remains coating the floor. He places one hand over the mask, removes it, and gives it a shake as if to clean off the crimson fluid. You involuntarily gaze at his face, taken aback by the handsome traits. Is this the appearance of a ruthless ghoul who butchers mortals for amusement? You wouldn't believe it if it wasn't for the hot trickle of foreign blood trailing your skin.

"I think I've fallen in love with you", he confesses with a wide, saw-toothed smile. You feel a clawed finger tracing your cheek affectionately. "Well? What're you so silent for? You were quite cheeky a moment ago!" he continues tauntingly, gripping your chin and forcing you to look up. "Or have you seen what happens when you misbehave? No, no, darling, I'd never! There are other ways in which I can ruin you."

You're suddenly very cold. With dry lips, you eventually open your mouth to speak: "I'm not leaving here, am I?"

"You could, but that would make me very upset."

[crescenthistory]

could i get f.4 "you woke me up for this?" with barty? tysm xoxo 💗💗

every single time someone makes a barty request, an angel is born, or whatever that saying is. had to jump on this immediately, thank you for the request love<33

Prompt: F.4 "You woke me up for this?"

Words: 3.6k

Warnings: not proofread, unbelievably soft, a lot of banter and back-and-forth (slight sunshine x grumpy dynamic where reader is grumpy), barty sneaking into your dorm is a typical occurrence, no gender mentioned/gender neutral reader (as far as i can recall), implied insomnia, implied mental health struggles on barty's end, slight mention of scars at the end, close physical proximity/cuddling

Note: this got way softer than i expected, but i really just love him you guys

The velvet black of the night pressed against the windows of the Slytherin dorms, thick and unyielding. The soft glow of the enchanted ceiling in the common room had dimmed hours ago, and the castle itself was silent, save for the occasional creaks of ancient stone settling in the night.

Peace. Blissful, undisturbed peace.

You were nestled under layers of blankets, sunk deep into the comfort of your bed. The dormitory was cool, a chill hanging in the air, but you had cocooned yourself snugly. The last remnants of sleep tugged at your consciousness, heavy and sweet, drawing you back into the oblivion of dreams.

Until—

“Treasure…”

A voice, teasing, playful, cut through the silence.

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, ignoring it.

“Treasure.”

This time, the voice was closer, almost a whisper, right by your ear. A hand—warm and familiar—poked at your shoulder.

You groaned, curling deeper into your blankets, hoping to disappear completely.

“Go away, Junior.”

“Come on, wake up.”

It wasn’t just the voice now. Fingers were tugging at the corner of your blanket, trying to pull it away from your face.

Another groan escaped your lips, and you finally cracked open an eye, squinting against the dim light that seeped in from the common room. Standing beside your bed was your personal idiot with his familiar grin plastered across his face, eyes gleaming with the excitement of someone about to cause trouble.

“Barty, no,” you muttered, voice thick with sleep. “I’m asleep.”

He let out a dramatic sigh, tossing himself down onto your bed, stretching out beside you as if he belonged there. You shushed him as the bed squeaked, not wanting to wake your roommates, who you now were grateful were deep sleepers. His limbs splayed chaotically across your bed, one leg in each corner, arm draped across your stomach as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

“Hellooo,” he murmured again, a soft lilt in his voice that always seemed to stir something in you, even in the dead of night. “I need you.”

“No, you don’t,” you grumbled, trying to shove him off, but he was persistent, curling against you with all the determination of a cat who had found its spot. “Whatever it is can wait until I’ve had my beauty sleep.”

“You’re already beautiful,” Barty said without hesitation, his grin only growing wider. “I’m bored. And you’re fun.”

“I was asleep.”

“I know, but I’m awake, and that’s more important, don’t you think?”

Your only response was to groan again and attempt to roll away from him. Barty’s quick reactions saved him, as he clutched onto you so that he rolled along with you, ending up on the other side of your bed. His arms tightened around you, effectively trapping you against him. 

You finally open your eyes properly, seeing him grinning at you, face inches from yours. Part of you almost hoped this was about to be an emotional breakdown of some sorts, so that it might actually warrant breaking into your room to disturb your slumber.

Unfortunately, Barty was in a great mood.

“Now that you’re up – what’cha wanna do?”

“You woke me up for this? To quench your thirst for entertainment?”

“Precisely.” 

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, but there was no real heat in your words. You were used to this by now. Barty had a way of worming his way into your space, uninvited and unapologetic, until you gave in – which you always did.

“That’s why you love me,” he teased, voice warm against your skin as he nuzzled closer.

“I tolerate you,” you corrected, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you with the slightest twitch of a smile.

Barty noticed, of course. He always did. “Aha!” He said a bit too loudly, earning him a swat on the arm. “You’re smiling, Treasure. Evidently, you can’t resist me, either.”

“I’m frowning.”

“You’re smiling.”

“Frowning.”

“Definitely smiling.”

“Either?” Your sleep-ridden brain eventually processed his sentence.

“You heard me.” Cheshire cat grin remained plastered on his face. Stupid face.

Before you could protest further, Barty shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. His dark curls were a mess, green strands sticking out from random places, tumbling into his eyes, and he looked far too pleased with himself for your liking.

“Okay then.” You hooked a finger into the collar of his t-shirt and looked at him expectantly. “What do you want, Barty?” Your voice was softer now, mostly to incite him to keep the general volume down – and perhaps partly out of fondness for your peculiar best friend. Perhaps you liked the way he clung to you, even at inconvenient times, the way he needed you.

Barty’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker you couldn’t place passing over his face, though his grin didn’t falter. “I wanted to see you,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “Do I need to want anything more? I couldn’t sleep.”

“And you decided that meant I shouldn’t either?”

“Exactly.” He beamed, clearly proud of his logic.

You stared at him for a moment, half-expecting him to break into another fit of laughter or say something ridiculous, but he didn’t. Instead, he just looked at you, his gaze soft and affectionate in a way that still took you by surprise sometimes. For all his chaos and insanity, Barty had a way of making you feel like you were the only thing in the world that mattered to him when he looked at you like that.

It was disarming, and, despite your best efforts, you found yourself softening, your irritation fading like mist in the morning sun.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, but your voice was gentle now, resigned.

“That much we know.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, you let out a long, exasperated sigh and reached up to push the stray curls out of his face with your hand not currently tucked into his collar. Both for no particular reason – you just enjoyed the closeness. His hair was soft under your fingers, and you could feel the warmth of his skin where your hand brushed against his forehead.

“Tell me then, rascal,” you said after a moment. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

Barty’s grin faltered slightly, the usual mask of chaotic energy slipping just a little. He shifted, lying back down beside you and resting his head on your pillow, his face inches from yours. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, and you could see the gears turning in his mind, like he was trying to decide how much to tell you.

“It’s just…everything,” he said finally, his voice unusually soft. “You know how it is. My dad, school, all of it. It gets to me sometimes. And then I start thinking, and when I start thinking, I can’t stop, and…well, here I am.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the honesty in his tone. Barty wasn’t usually one to talk about his feelings – at least, not in any serious way. He was more likely to brush everything off with a joke or a snarky comment, hiding behind his manic energy and that sharp, clever mind of his. But now, in the dim light of your dorm, he seemed more vulnerable than usual, the edges of his bravado softened.

You sighed again, but this time it was a softer sound, more understanding than annoyed. “You should’ve just said that instead of waking me up with your usual nonsense.”

Barty chuckled, though there was a faint edge to it. “What, and miss the chance to annoy you? Never.”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time you didn’t push him away. Instead, you reached out and brushed your fingers against his cheek, a small gesture of comfort that he seemed to appreciate. He closed his eyes at the touch, leaning into it slightly, like a cat seeking warmth.

“I don’t know how you do it,” you said quietly after a moment.

“Do what?”

“Deal with everything. Your dad, all the expectations. It’s a lot, Barty.”

He opened his eyes again, and for a moment, you saw something raw and unguarded in them. “I have to,” he said simply. “What else can I do? Run away? Disappear? I’ve thought about it, you know. Just leaving everything behind. But then…I think about you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” He reached out, his fingers brushing against your hand, tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “You keep me grounded, Treasure. Without you, I’d probably go completely mad.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips at his words, even though you tried to suppress it. “You’re already mad, Barty.”

He grinned, a spark of mischief returning to his eyes. “True. But you keep me from going completely off the deep end.”

You huffed out a soft laugh. “Well, I’m glad I can be of service.”

Barty shifted closer to you, his arm slipping around your waist. “You’re more than that, though. You know that, right?”

Your heart did a strange little flip in your chest at his words, and you felt your cheeks warm. You did know though – he always made sure you did, in one way or another.

“I’m not good at this,” he murmured, his voice low. “I’m not good at…feelings. But I’m good at knowing what I want. And I want you. Always have.”

You swallowed hard, unsure of what to say to that. Barty was the one presence in your life you could count on, no matter what gave. Somehow, you realised you hadn’t fully grasped just how much he meant to you – feelings weren’t exactly your forte, either. When he lies beside you in your bed, all soft and serene, it’s easier to understand.

“I know,” was all you whispered, voice barely audible.

Barty’s gaze flickered, tenderness flashing on and off across his face, as if he couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to stick with it. He reached up, brushing his fingers against your cheek, and for a moment, the world outside your little bubble of blankets and whispered words seemed to fall away

His fingers lingered on your cheek, feather-light, as if he was afraid you might disappear. His eyes were uncharacteristically calm. It was unsettling and comforting all at once, and you weren’t sure how to process it.

“You’re not supposed to be this serious, you know,” you teased, trying to break the tension that had settled between you. It wasn’t unwelcome, but it was unfamiliar territory, and you preferred the safety of routine. You both pushed each other to confront your fears in that sense.

He chuckled softly, his lips curling into a soft smile, and your heart ached a little as you realised it was best described as intimate. “Don’t worry, Treasure. I’m still a menace. But even menaces need their moments.”

“You take all the moments you need.” You shifted slightly closer to him at that, knees brushing his through the blanket – he never bothered slipping beneath it.

“Nah,” he teased. “Then we’d be here all night. And day.”

“I wouldn’t mind spending all night with you here.”

“Oi!” he whisper-yelled at you, eyes jokingly widened. “Are you flirting with me, Treasure? You can’t turn the tables on me like that when I’m all vulnerable and shit.”

“I can do whatever I want, Junior.” You stuck your tongue out at him before laughing quietly at his facial expressions. 

“That you can.”

“I deserve it after you woke me up.”

“Oh, come on,” Barty said, his voice dropping to that low, affectionate tone he used when he wanted to get under your skin. “You love it when I wake you up. Admit it. Love spending time with me.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“You literally just said you do.”

“And where’s your evidence?” You quirked your brow at him and he squinted his eyes at you. Pulling “the evidence card”, as he called it, was your favourite way to get out of being held accountable for saying something sweet to him – he hated it, or so he said.

“First of all, rude.” He lifted a finger to shake in your head, fake gasping as you pretended you were about to bite it. “Second of all, you do love me. Say it.”

“Maybe just a little bit.” You gave in, small part of you wondering if maybe he needed to hear it.

“Methinks a lot of bit.”

“No way.” You couldn’t give it to him entirely either, though.

He clearly didn’t mind your bickering too much as he laughed, the sound quiet and warm, and you felt his arm tighten around your waist, pulling you closer. His forehead leaned down to rest against yours, breaths mingling in the small space between you. Instinctively, you took a deep breath, as if suddenly relaxed.

“Liar,” he whispered, his nose brushing against yours in the softest of touches.

No words of protest or argument came to mind, as you let your eyes drift shut, sleepy smile spreading across your lips. “Yeah, I am.”

Nights with Barty coming barging in, although a pain in the morning, were rewarding in a way you couldn’t quite describe. You wouldn’t trade them for anything.

“There we go. Admitting you have a problem is the first step in making progress.”

“You would know.” You peaked an eye open just to confirm that he stuck his tongue out at that comment. Because of course he did.

Silence settled comfortably between you for a minute, Barty’s thumb drawing soothing circles on your waist in the blip of skin showing between your sleep shirt and shorts. His hands on your skin was not a new sensation, you were aware you were touchier than most best friends – Regulus and Evan seemingly never stopped reminding you – but it just felt right. Being near Barty felt right, even when he constantly tossed and turned, limbs all over the place as it was apparently humanly impossible for the boy to sit still. Whether it is an arm around your shoulder, your head on his chest or fingers tracing one another, physical contact with him soothed your soul.

You felt safe.

“Do you feel better?” you suddenly asked, opening your eyes to find him already looking at you with a soft, surveying gaze.

“What?”

You almost snorted at his dazed confusion. “You came here because you were bored, couldn’t sleep, needed entertainment. Because I’m fun, remember?”

He laughed in the way he usually does at his own jokes. “Oh yeah, right.”

“So, do you feel better? Or should we take a run around the dungeons to get your adrenaline going?”

You could almost see his ears peak up, like when you say the word treat around a dog – but that almost lazy smile around his lips never left. “Don’t tease me with a good time, Treasure – or do, I’d never say no to a good time with you.” You rolled your eyes at that. “But no, I’m good. I’ve got all I need right here.”

“Which is?” you asked quizzically, expecting banter.

The earnest look in his eyes suggested otherwise. “You.”

Your heart clenched, your lip almost quivering with emotion before you decided to get it together. “Cheesy.”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “But true.”

“You’re entertained by me mocking you a little bit and then kind of half-sleeping in your arms?”

“Yeah.” He repeated. He looked at you with a look that said are you stupid, what is there not to get. You couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“Okay, then. Whatever makes you happy.”

“Glad to have your approval, ma’am.”

You raised a brow at him. “Ma’am? You should start calling me that more often.”

“Instead of Treasure?”

“You can mix and match.”

“Noted, ma’am.” His gaze was teasing, as was his squeeze to your hips.

You stared at him as you tried to figure him out, figure the two of you out. How come he settles this peace in your body, even when he represents everything but? How come you understand him so well and seemingly not at all, all at the same time? Why does he seek you out when he doesn’t feel good, why did he even seek you out when you first met? Why–

Barty takes your bottom lip in between his two fingers and drag it out from between your teeth.

“Stop biting yourself; it’s not nice.” His tone was teasing, but his eyes were trained on you as if studying. “What’s going on in your head?”

You hummed in confusion, looking at him to explain himself, but he just get staring at you, expecting an answer. You sighed.

“Just wondering,” you said, half-trailing off. “I don’t know. Why do you always come to me, Barty?”

“As opposed to what? Cuddling up to Black? He’d kill me without a second thought.”

You laughed a little at the imagery, knowing all too well that Regulus keeps his wand under his pillow and has no qualms about hexing intruders with it. You’d been on the receiving end once by accident, when Barty dragged you all the way to his dorm with him when he forgot his books before heading to the library with you on the one day a week Regulus “sleeps in”, meaning gets up at 9 instead of 7.

“Yeah, no, please don’t do that. I’d like you to keep all your limbs.” He gave you a look that screamed exactly. “I mean, why am I a source of comfort for you? I don’t exactly give you an easy time.”

“I think you need to reevaluate how hard you are on me – because you aren’t, you’re barely any bark and definitely no bite,” Barty started and you rolled your eyes playfully at him, to which he chuckled a bit. 

“I can bite.”

“Is that a promise?” He winked at you, earning him yet another swat of the night. “And to answer your question, I don’t know. You’re just you. You see the parts of me everyone run away from, and you have fun with them. That’s all I need really. You’re all I need. I can’t really put it into words in any way that makes sense; it just intrinsically is. I mean, why do you find comfort in me? I feel like that’s more outrageous.” 

“I… I don’t know. I guess you’re right. You’re just Barty.” 

You met his gaze, admiring every colour that speckled his irises, unconscious smile spreading across your lips. Your fingers go up to trace along the edges of his face, as if taking him in. Just Barty.

“Then we feel the same.” Barty confirmed, seemingly pleased by this.

“We feel the same.”

It seemed the closest the two of you would come to an outright confession of love for now. It still settled in your heart as one.

His hand came up to hold yours, pressing it more firmly into his cheek. He turned his head to the side, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to the inside of your palm. Your chest was working overtime to process the emotions and you were desperate to move on, to calm the storm in your heart named Junior.

“You’ll keep me sane, and I’ll be the death of you. Feels like a fair bargain, no?” Barty teased, as if he knew you needed to lighten the atmosphere. 

Your throat still felt tight from emotion, but you laughed nonetheless. 

“A bit unbalanced maybe, but I’ll take it.” You let your hand slip from under his to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Though, I think sanity might be reaching a bit too high. Stable is more like it. Able to partake in society.”

“Ugh, society.” Barty’s reaction to your last sentence was automatic. For the rest, he simply poked you in the side. “But yeah, seems like a good deal. Stable. That’s more than anyone else could manage.” 

You shook your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

At that, you shuffled closer to him, burying your head into the crook of his neck. “And I always will be.”

His hand came up to thread his fingers through your hair, and you could feel his smile as he leaned down to press a soft kiss to the top of your hair. It was so low you couldn’t be sure he actually said it, but you thought you caught a weak thank you.

“Say, Barty,” you whispered into his neck. “Are you entertained by me when I’m asleep as well, or should I be a good friend and stay awake?”

He breathed a laugh into your hair. “I’m surprised you’re actually still awake and talking to me. Go to sleep, darling.”

“You’ll be good?”

“In what capacity of the term?”

From this position, you could barely give him a light swat on the shoulder. He buried his face closer in your head as he sighed.

“No, I’ll be fine. I really just… I just needed to be with you. And now I am. So you can go to sleep with a good conscience.”

You squeezed him a bit tighter at that, one hand slipping up under his shirt to trace patterns along his back, fingertips dragging over scars and moles alike. He sighed into you at your touch.

“Goodnight, Barty. Wake me up if that head of yours gets too loud.” You pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone through his shirt.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered into the night.

When your roommates woke up in the morning, none of them were surprised to see a Barty-shaped shadow through the curtains of your bed.

[frogchiro]

🐙 here!

👀 me making my own plot in my head for a/b/o cod.

imagine being the only omega on the team, except no one knows. and honestly? it wasn’t that hard to hide it in the first place.

always wear scent blockers. mild pills help, but having a lotion to rub on scent glands? makes you practically scentless.

act competitive when necessary, and back down when you know your losses are going to be big.

be caring. make Simon tea in the morning and a small breakfast for those who don’t consume just caffeine in the morning. soap likes to deny his liking for sweets, but make him waffles or cinnamon rolls and he’s on his knees immediately.

smile and be sweet. have happy little conversations with gaz about his latest interests. about the latest conspiracy about the Illuminati or his favorite game he played as a kid.

but not docile. docile is earned through respect. alphas have to earn the right to see you so submissive and pliant.

give Simon small smiles and chuff and play wrestle with soap and Gaz. late nights with price and paperwork. cooking warm meals after long missions.

the only reason anyone began to suspect something wrong was when you got sick.

headcanon that any omega and alpha will begin to give off pheromones when they get sick. it’s a little call out to the pack that you’re sick and you need to be babied and taken care of.

not even the suppressants and the salve can mask the smell of sick omega. It starts with a small twinge. a faintly sour scent that makes soaps nose twitch.

they can barely smell it. but they can see something is wrong from the way you look. bags under your eyes, a slightly ghastly appearance.

the way you move is a big give away. slow and sluggish.

finally it gets to a point where everyone can smell there’s a sick omega somewhere… but where?

in which case price has to wake you up because you were late to training. he was annoyed. a little peeved that you had the audacity to kiss when he had warned you last time not to be late.

last time you were late because you overslept. so this time the captain was going to give you something to startle your day into.

A soured scent fills his nose. telling him that there’s a sick omega and…

sick mate sick mate sick mate protect protect protect

provide provide provide pro-

gosh. price can’t get the sight out of his head. of you tucked so cutely into a small nest of military grade blankets and two pillows. your body radiating heat as you’d nuzzle closer into the pillow you’re holding against your face.

his inner alpha chuffs at such a sweet and docile omega.

maybe having a sick day would be alright… especially with your pack to take care of you.

hello octopus! welcome back! and aww, the boys taking care of their poor sick omega :(( they'd be quite distressed I imagine!

They are the alphas, the providers and protectors and yet it completely slipped under their nose that not only you're sick but also a whole omega too?? Unbelievable >:(

The second they realize your secondary gender and that you're not healthy it sends them into quite a frenzy; they're suddenly overcome with bubbling hormones and instincts they most probably never felt before.

It also means much to them than you could imagine. You being a omega, a sick omega, letting yourself be all vulnerable and open with a pack of alphas? It means you feel comfortable and safe with them, enough to show them your soft and docile side :((

Be ready to be fussed over like crazy, especially by Gaz and Soap, together with you they're the youngest pack members and when they first saw you curled up in your small makeshift nest, stinking up the space with sick unhappy hormones and burning to the touch these poor babies genuinely thought you were dying :<

Luckily Price and Ghost were there to correct them before they could barrel into your nest and nudge you awake; you were sick not dead and the last thing you needed were two hot headed young alphas on you.

When you woke up you were sluggish and slow; the cold did its job and made everything fuzzy when you woke up until you started to regain your senses and noticed that you were no longer cooped up in your tiny room with a few military-issued blankets and hard pillows but in a real big bed filled with blankets, pillows, sweaters and other things that smelled of certain familiar alphas; safe and warm. Judging by the overwhelming smell of the room alone you guessed you were in Price's room, a nice musky and woody smell, undeniably masculine and alpha.

You were still alone so you decided to just go back to sleep and try to sleep of the cold. With a rumbling purr you slowly fell asleep once again, maybe sick days and being the pack's omega wasn't such a bad thing?

[paymechildsupport]

JJK men x ftm!reader // how they help with gender dysphoria

-!! CW: dysphoria (obviously) , depression , slight body worship, body horror

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

s. gojo

(the entire care package)

ᯓ★ really does not care about your body or whether or not it aligns with the traditional 'male' or 'female'

ᯓ★ as for dysphoria, he's pretty quick to pick up on a shift in your mood. gojo is far from stupid, and being around you so much has made it easy for him to recognize changes in behavior

ᯓ★ ESPECIALLY after geto, gojo absolutely despises watching you spiral. the way you avoid reflective surfaces, the way you seem to fold in on yourself, how you begin to become adamant about bathing, the way you continue to keep layering clothing, hoodie after hoodie, even in the summer heat.

ᯓ★ after geto, gojo is determined to never stand aside and witness the mental decay of someone he cares about. he can't do this again. maybe if he had been more insistent with geto he would have stayed, maybe if he was more insistent with your health things would be different

ᯓ★ and he was, -- he'd notice and immediately check in with you if he saw things going south. you will not be able to get this man off of you, he will be attached 24/7.

ᯓ★he would NOT let you neglect your physical health: he'd make sure you ate, that you were sleeping properly. if he'd notice you'd been in the bathroom for a while, or were stuck looking at your reflection, he'd check on you, hold you, snap you out of whatever mental spiral was occurring

ᯓ★ he'd be on top of binder breaks: gojo would make sure you give your ribs time to breathe. he hates watching you destroy yourself just to feel like you belong in your own body :(( he'd also be more than happy to give you some of his clothes, -- access to his whole wardrobe in fact. he looooves seeing you all cozy and swallowed up in his big baggy clothing and he's so freakishly large that all his clothing would instantly obscure your figure in the folds. the fact that its his clothing that brings you a sense of comfort makes him so unbelievably happy

ᯓ★ man's is rich rich, like pay rate through the roof. you'd have full access to any medical gender-affirming care and gojo would be more than happy to pay for it. he'd throw money at you anyway, he loves spending on you <3

ᯓ★ periods: he finally has an excuse to buy extra sweets. sugar makes everything better, right?? he'd go out and buy an unholy amount of candy and other sweet thing. chocolates, pastries, everything. they're all for you, and if you won't eat them then he certainly will

----------------------------------------------------------------------

s. geto

(body worship)

𐙚˖° he'd deify you in his cult, his darling lover

𐙚˖° he loves you and nothing changes that, -- at least you're not a jujutsu-less monkey (right?)

𐙚˖° geto would eternalize you forever in his worshippers, you were their god, -- and a god transcended the planes of gender and sex. your body is his temple

𐙚˖° he'd make you, and everyone else, see the beauty of your body, -- regardless of how horrible your skin made you felt. there was beauty in this suffering. he'd commission paintings and statues and tapestries and a bunch of other stuff, all depicting you for what you truly were-- heavenly.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

f. toji

(non-sexual showering)

‧₊ ᵎᵎ ✮ toji loves to take showers with you.

‧₊ ᵎᵎ ✮ he loves how physically intimate it is, how vulnerable both parties are

‧₊ ᵎᵎ ✮ early in the morning before work, late at night when he comes back. especially after a particularily hard assignment, -- he'd trudge back home at the stroke of midnight, shivering, and coated in blood,-- a majority of it not his. he can't wait to just strip off those wet, tight clothes and hop into the nice warm shower. he loves the rhythmic fall of the water, how it feels hitting his back, flowing over his countless scars. loves the way you softly trace his muscles, drawing intricate shapes into his skin as you massage his scalp with shampoo.

‧₊ ᵎᵎ ✮ helps momentously if you struggle with personal hygiene. never once does he let you feel anything short of handsome :3

‧₊ ᵎᵎ ✮ he especially loves it when you let him scrub you with soap. he's so gentle, running his large, warm hands over every inch of your body, cooing how beautiful, -- how perfect you are:

"My beautiful baby"

"There's my boy, my gorgeous boy"

"Look at you, so handsome..."

"My babyboy..."

(+ there's a 90% chance he has bigger boobs than you--)

----------------------------------------------------------------------

mahito

(he tried)

𝗓 𐰁˚𖦹 he'd meld your flesh into a nice big meatball and birth a curse -- don't gotta worry about dysphoria then :3

----------------------------------------------------------------------

r. sukuna

(the surgeon)

౨ৎ ⋆ ˚ he'd re-arrange your guts <3 (literally)

౨ৎ ⋆ ˚ like he'll actually lay you on a table and just start tearing into your flesh, splash around in your blood and other bodily fluids, and give you a nice live bisection

౨ৎ ⋆ ˚ he'll dig around in there for a while, maybe move some things around, just to mess with you, -- reversing your intestines, turning your living inside out, overall having the time of his life, -- like a lil' kid playing in the dirt and digging up rocks and worms. except, - the dirt is your flesh and the rocks are your organs

౨ৎ ⋆ ˚ most importantly, he'd rip your uterus out (romantically)

౨ৎ ⋆ ˚ that's right, he'll eliminate the source of all your problems, no more period cramps for you! (because he's just a nice guy like that)

౨ৎ ⋆ ˚ then, after he digs it out from the layers of meat and skin, pulling it out and feeling it around in his hand, -- he'll eat it :3

౨ৎ ⋆ ˚ nom nom

+ diy free bottom surgery

++ free top surgery if he uses cleave / dismantle

----------------------------------------------------------------------

[yuellii]

aurora borealis green

feat. miko, kazuha, ningguang, thoma, lisa ( separate )

𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 they are so obviously in love with you

( or, in which i tie them to a taylor song i’ve been crazing over, but you don’t have to listen or know the songs to read / understand )

note. reader’s gender unspecified, implication of sexual intimacy ( for miko, the others do not have this )

> part one ( more characters ) / part two

YAE MIKO. false god

Her affections stemmed from a sort of sightless faith.

When she leans back downwards, pink strands all messily cascading down her shoulders, she plants the lightest of kisses on the bare stomach of your laying form. But you could tell such a small act was still the most holy of worships, almost as if she was kissing the ground of a path to an alter.

“You were so divine,” she whispers, lips plump against your skin. And it feels like sin, almost, to have the Yae Guuji speak to you as if communion was melting on her tongue. “I wonder what God I pleased to ever deserve you…” It a mumble that’s so casually said, one that is only spoken between divinity and its loyal follower.

And said loyalty was etched into her name, truly, coursing through the way her fingers traced along your hips. They were gentle, almost akin to worship.

You were no God. And yet, there was a blind faith in her eyes that swore to the Heavens about the things she would do for you—to wait centuries, to topple down Celestia, to defy the Gods themselves, all for you. But was faith really blind, when the taste of religion danced upon the lines of her lips?

You may be no God, but you were her only diety. Oh, how the real Gods of this world were probably glaring down on you now—to see the Grand Narukami shrine maiden laying atop your body in a manner of worship that was only meant for sanctity. A manner so sacred, one that she should only show to the reigning Celestia and never to you.

But when she loves you more than the Gods, you might just get away with it.

⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

KAEDEHARA KAZUHA. cornelia street

He met you at sea, a Liyuen shipmate on the carefree Crux.

Carefree: He’d say that word was a great way to describe you. You were like the ocean, so unbelievably unpredictable and characteristically carefree. He swore he saw the serenity of the sea in your spirits—and when he introduced himself with a mere ‘Hello, I’m Kazuha,’ your smile in return may have haunted him for an eternity that the God of Electro could not even dare to recreate.

Kazuha grows to love the sea at the same time he grows to love you. Wishing waters practically spell out your name, and he thinks of you in a way that harmonizes to the nature of this world.

Such harmony proved to be naive, however, on one trip where Beidou sadly proclaimed you were not on this journey, and he felt sick to his stomach. It was the first time he got seasick. It was the first time ever since he step foot out of Inazuma that he felt so drearily dizzy, and it was when you were not there.

The ocean felt lonesome, he felt incomplete. And being surrounded by its ferocious vastness felt so scarily suffocating that even the sounds of waves would haunt him in his sleep.

Then it was quite telling, truly, when the moment he docked onshore, the light of your eyes greeting him with the crinkling scent of the sea came to cure his feverish feelings. He was well again, suddenly the waves felt so kind—and perhaps that was when he realized that harmony was a silly ideal; you are the ocean itself to him. Love so powerful, so beautiful, and yet so calming: his love for both was a bind he could never break.

And if he ever lost you, he’d never set sail again.

⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

NINGGUANG. paper rings

Kiss her once and take her to an high-end dinner, kiss her twice with a diamond ring, three times if you book the most expensive wedding in Teyvat.

That’s what she expected from the thoughtless men and cheap women of this world. Because she liked shiny things, and diamonds were a girl’s best friend. Only price tags for a woman so bejeweled—only luxury for the leading lady of a nation. But when it was you… Oh, when it was you…

In plastic gifts, in picture frames, in paper rings, you were still the one she wanted. Several times, she’s been offered the most dazzling a of rings by businessmen and high class women for a life of luxury. And yet, the one time you jokingly folded her a little paper origami ring that was too big for her finger, she felt her heart flutter in ways that could only be described in poetry written by hopeless romantics.

She wore it for the day, even taping it down to be tighter on her wedding finger. She was even sad when the paper eventually ripped, as if this ring held more value than any other ring she was ever offered. Rings that cost millions, rings that were dug up from the deepest and most dangerous mining sites of Teyvat—still beat by a ring made from thin paper.

The entirety of riches and the entirety of the elite, all forever beat by her simple lover who gave simple gifts.

But she didn’t mind. If you got down on one knee now and proposed to her with another paper ring and the most modest of smiles on your face, she would say yes even quicker than a heartbeat. Her heart would flutter, her mind would blank, her body would break down into the happiest of sobs until she’s sinking into your arms.

If another person proposed to her now with promises much more expensive than yours—promises that would fulfill the dreams of wealth from her childhood—she knows she would say no, it was more than obvious to her now.

She wants all of you. All your companionship, your complications, your confessions; Because in her values, they were all priceless.

⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

THOMA. gold rush

What must it be like to grow up consciously carefree?

What must it be like to grow up so beautiful, that you could have all of Inazuma trailing your footsteps for just a glance? To have both Kamisatos eyeing you, to be so carelessly happy even under the scrutinizing eyes of the elites—as if not even threats of losing your nobility could stop you from being such a fun-loving person. And even if you had pressure like that, you were still rolling as life went on, still with a smile that he so adored—

Thoma just slapped himself back into the real world.

Adoration? For someone so beautiful and so out of his reach? Really? He grumbled some scoldings to himself as he held the broomstick in one hand and his stinging cheek in the other.

He had such a stupid mind for daydreaming of such things; in fact, these thoughts weren’t even the worse of his colorful collection. Sometimes he’d think about what it would be like to actually be in love with you.

But they were such nice thoughts, really. Just the idea that he would get to see someone so gorgeous every day. He could imagine himself cooking up meals with all his love, taking care of your things just for you to return to him after your busy meetings to his adoring arms. And he’d do it all, really, anything to allow you to continue being so happy and so healthy while still remaining an Inazuman noble.

He just slapped himself again.

Who was he kidding? He didn’t have even the slightest of chances, not when everyone loved you, not when everyone wanted to be with you, and certainly not when everyone who admired you was at a better standing of nobility than he was.

You’re so easy to love… But he’s so easy to forget.

⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

LISA MINCI. tolerate it

If your life was one of the books in this Favonius library, then perhaps she would only be a footnote on some random page in the middle.

Perhaps she should be glad at how aware she is, but the sense of awareness only made her more frustrated than before. Because awareness meant that she knew her place in your life ( or, the lack thereof ), and knowing her place meant that she willingly ignored all the signs that pointed her to turn away.

Your friendly smiles, your distracted looks, your mild toleration: they should have been enough to tell her you weren’t interested. You only smile at her as a friend, you look distracted when she speaks to you, and your toleration was probably the worse of all.

Toleration meant you’d continue to overlook her; Toleration meant that all these advances she made were fruitless. It would mean that every favor she did for you like a little library servant was just a waste of her time.

And yet, she still did them. She still delivered all the books you requested right to your study table in the library, plus even more books related to your topic. She still told you all the information she knew on details you requested, even if they took hours to explain. Worse, she still adored you enough to pipe up every time you called her name, just happy to hear it.

But maybe you were like Jean, and maybe you were like the rest of them—you just thought she was lazy. Maybe all these acts of services were just seen to you as a part of her job instead of sleeping during her hours all day. Perhaps it isn’t as big of a deal to you like it is to her.

Because when all you give her is a little friendly smile after she exerts her love and time to you, she feels defeated even more.

[sturniolo04]

Gender Reveal M.S.

Husband!Matt x Wife!Fem!Reader

Summary; Wren and Matt have a gender reveal party.

A/N: If you don't like the preadded name in my stories, you can either add your own name or not read it; it's up to you :)

Wren and Matt have been married for little over a year and with being married a year meant trying for the greatest joy you could ask for, a baby. You and Matt desperately wanted to become parents but obviously gave yourself a few months or so to get use to the marriage life you guys had just entered into just getting married in March of last year. So eventually you all began trying for a baby, which was a lot easier than you expected since you and Matt's sex was mind-blowing from the amount of rounds and loads he contributes. He still continues to amaze you.

So here it is you being in your second trimester preparing to find out the gender of you and matt's unborn child.

"hows mama doing"

matt asks coming up to you placing a kiss on you temple.

"im excited honestly"

you state placing a kiss on his lips as he gazes down at you seeing there has always been a height difference between you two.

"i hope its a girl honestly"

nick chimes in appearing from inside the outside

"i want it to be a boy"

chris huffs out plopping down next to Wren.

"what do you want matt"

nick asks his brother

"i dont care as long a she or he is happy and healthy"

he states kissing your tummy.

"oh vomit"

chris gags rolling his eyes.

Everyone eventually joined the party outside and we had finally gotten to the point of the afternoon where we find out the answer to the question everyone was answering for themselves. You and Matt decided that it was best that Madison Beer was the best person to trust with the gender and to plan out all of the revealing accommodations with it.

"are you ready you two"

madison giggles out swiftly making her way to Wren and Matt standing at the huge cream and white decorations she had set up in your guys backyard in her cute baby pink dress repping team baby girl.

"as ready i will ever be"

you sighs out as she links arms with you after she hands you and matt your own individual confetti poppers.

You guys start counting down from three.

"3-"

Everyone in unison screams out

"2-"

you sigh out of complete nervousness

"1!!"

everyone finally screams as Wren and Matt pop their popper launching two colors one of baby blue and baby pink, as everyone screams in shock.

"OH MY GOD"

you scream in tears turning and looking at matt as her grabs the sides of your face bringing you into his lips.

"we are having twins holy shit"

matt shouts in complete disbelief breaking away from the kiss he initiated you rest your head on his shoulder.

"ahh im so happy for you guys"

madison squeals hugging you two

"madison how the hell did you keep this a secret for so long"

chris gasps out

"it was really hard im not going to lie"

she huffs out.

"but we knew you could do it"

matt chuckles out still wrapped in Wren's embrace still savoring the exhilarating moment.

"unbelieveable are yall ready for mini yous to be running around your house'

"oh goodness two of matt you guys are going to have towatch out for I already know he is going to be a player and be sneaking girls in the house"

madison giggles

"oh of course he is i mean-"

matt trails off as wren shift her head to look at matt with a seriously expression expressed on her face.

"matthew no"

you huff out

"no you're right he will not being doing that"

he corrects himself clearing his throat afterwards causing madison to giggle.

Taglist

@mintsturniolo @dirtylittleheart333 @wh0resstuff @spicymuffins03 @stayingstromboli @aaliyahsturn

[f1fnatic]

SCRUTINY ⤿ f1 grid

→ ( in which. . . ) you are a woman on the f1 grid. you face criticism and digs almost every day from toxic fans, specifically the men. but, you shut them up after a rewarding race.

→ ( fanfic genre. . . ) written

→ ( pairing. . . ) 2023 f1 grid x female!reader

→ ( content warnings/disclaimers. . . ) cyberbullying, misogyny, sexism/sexist comments, overall a shitty environment. not based on this year's monaco grand prix or the season so far just has the drivers of this year's grid at this moment except alonso he is a reserve for aston martin, jumps around a little, not a completely solid plot, other pilots make subtle mentions, but mainly reader focused.

→ ( author's note. . . ) i enjoyed writing this one a lot. with being a woman myself and seeing how we are perceived in sports, especially a male-dominated field like motorsport, it was not very difficult to keep writing. anyways, i hope you enjoy! see end for more.

→ ( masterlist )

sunday, pre-race interview ↴

scrutiny. a word that you are familiar with. a word that has so much meaning but so little at the same time. you had recently joined your dream team, aston martin. after a challenging run in f3 and f2, you finally got recognized for your talent. you knew the comments would only get worse as you moved up the ranks, but you didn't expect them to be this bad.

it was the monaco grand prix. your least favorite track to race. the tight corners haunted you. without fail, you always almost crashed and cost your team everything. but it mainly cost you your dignity.

you were sat along a crisp white sofa that sat your teammate lance stroll, along with charles leclerc, lewis hamilton, lando norris, daniel ricciardo, and lastly max verstappen. you had all become acquainted when you first got to f1. lance and you got along swell and were close to inseparable. the rest were like brothers to you. these types of conferences were your personal least favorite. you enjoyed being with your friends, but the questions that were asked were downright embarrassing.

"y/n, coming over to you." the interviewer voiced, all attention was shifted onto you. "monaco in the past years has not treated you well, do you think you will have another devastating grand prix? and do you think your difference has to do with your performance?" you felt the scoff bubble in your throat. was he serious? you knew what he was playing at. your difference being your gender.

"well, first of all, i do not think my quote en quote 'difference' has anything to do with my performance." you start, putting finger quotes to emphasize the word difference. "if anything, it would be a difference in the car. in past monaco grand prix's the aston martin car has struggled. there are no real straights for the car to get its usual speed from. the differences in the care have nothing to do with me as a driver." this was unbelievable. were they really questioning whether you could hold your own as a woman in motorsport?

"you are starting p7 in today's race. do you think you performed well enough in qualifying? what could you have done differently?" finally. a normal question. you were excited to answer.

"uh, yeah. i think considering the conditions in qualifying and the nature of the track i did well. i am happy with how i performed but there is always room for improvement. and i am open to that." you answered, smiling. you looked over to lewis and saw him smiling at you. he knew how the media worked. he himself was getting pushed under the bus with racist remarks and 'concern' around his piercings. he was always supportive of you, and you were supportive of him. there were often times when you would text or call him ranting about how unfair it was that you were being treated the way you were. he would join in with his own stories and you would listen.

"y/n, i am sure you have seen the scrutiny online about being a woman competing in the pinnacle of motorsport. do you believe you should be here competing with men?" another reporter asks.

you are stunned. you couldn't believe what you were hearing.

"are you serious?" lance scoffs beside you. "what is with these questions?"

"why do we get questions about normal things like our literal jobs and y/n's questions are always about her gender?" daniel adds. the couch breaks out in murmurs. the reporters visibly get uncomfortable with what has happened and end the interview.

standing up you walk out of the office and to your drivers room, ignorning the voices calling after you. these interviews were always bullshit. daniel was right, why were you always getting questioned about your gender and how that effects your performance? what does gender have to do with racing?

this was only the beginning.

sunday, day of monaco grand prix ↴

you were exhausted. exhausted by the comments, the bullshit interviews, and the stupid prick men that felt the need to voice their opinion about a woman in f1.

you could this year's grand prix was going to be a tough one. mentally and physically. you wanted to be done. done with the bullying, the sexism, the misogyny, everything. you knew you worked hard to get where you are, and you will continue to. you dreaded the after-race interviews. no matter your result, you would always get at least 4 sexist remarks.

you didn't know what else you needed to do to be able to prove yourself worthy of your seat. you shouldn't have to prove yourself anymore than you have. you are in f1, and all of these assholes are not.

your pr manager, bless his soul, had to listen to your rants after interviews. lewis always got brunt end of it as well. he had experience with degradating comments. he always knew what to say and when to say it. fernando has been a huge help as well. he was like a father to you, always there when you needed someone. he would defend you when you needed defending. he always knew what to say and when to say it.

race start, p7 ↴

p7 was not a bad place to start, at all. but the internet and crowd thought differently. you were sat in your car, ready for the formation lap when someone yelled at you, "c'mon pretty lady! get back to cleaning! this is a man's sport!" you resisted the urge to quip back at him, instead you raised your left hand and flipped him off. your pr manager would have your head later but you couldn't care less. you needed to do something to voice your annoyance.

concentration is what you needed, but you couldn't seem to gain it with more comments being shouted your way. "hot momma!" followed by a cat call whistle, "sweetheart take off that suit! let's see what's underneath!", "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THIS JOB!" were only some of the handfuls thrown at you. they also seemed to be the ones that bothered you the most. your grip on your steering wheel tightened, anger bubbling in your gut. these people knew nothing. they don't know how hard you work. they don't know how much blood, sweat, and tears you poured into achieving your dream. and they never would.

before you knew it, the formation lap started. it went quickly. you got back into your respective starting positions and stared down the lights. you took a deep breath to attempt to ground yourself. it is just a race, you have done this before y/n.

the lights lit up red, until they didn't. you flew forward in your aston martin, pushing it for a decent start. you ended up gaining two positions, going from p7 to p5. the rest of the race was uneventful, until it wasn't.

"y/n, caution on the chicane. hamilton, perez, and leclerc crashed. yellow flag, safety car." your race engineer voiced over the radio. "that moves you into a fortunate p2."

"okay, copy." you were ecstatic. this was your chance to prove yourself to everyone. to those men who scrutinized you before the formation lap, to the trolls online, and to those misogynistic pricks known as reporters. this was your moment.

"gap to verstappen 1.6 seconds, push." you did as you were told. you pushed, and you pushed hard. this was for all of the girls that wanted to be you. "oh my days y/n! p1! p1! you just won the monaco grand prix!"

"yes! oh my god! fuck me! we did it!" you had done it.

you did your victory lap and parked behind the p1 tower. when you got out of your seat tears stung at your eyes. you ran over to where the aston martin team was and hugged them over the barrier. team members were banging on your helmet. lance had managed p2 and came up behind you and hugged you, along with the team.

the podium was a blur. you could not describe the emotions you were feeling. pride, excitement, and most of all, happiness were swirling within you. you stood tall as aston martin's anthem played and even taller when yours sounded shortly after. the champagne spray was the best part. carelessly spraying lance as giggles sounded on the podium. you also sprayed your team below, this would not have been possible without them. you would never forget this moment. it is forever engraved into your mind.

this was it, this was what you needed to prove them all wrong.

not feeling super happy w this one. i like the beginning but i feel it gets away from me in the middle and end. feedback and requests are welcome! make sure to leave a comment and kudos as well, only if u want to tho! lmk if you like it :)

[augiewrites]

"secret admirer" - dead poets society (part 3)

summary: y/n joins meeks and pitts for a study session

pairing: anonymous!dead poet x gender neutral reader

word count: 977

previous | next

Y/N approached the bespectacled boy before they could lose their nerve.

“Hey—Meeks, right?”

“Yeah,” he stumbled a bit, surprised to be approached by his usually reserved classmate, “you’re Y/N.”

Y/N chuckled, “that I am.”

He signaled to the taller boy waiting for him by the door—Pitts, Y/N remembered—before he gave them an easy smile, "what can I do for you?"

“You tutor Latin, right? I could use a study partner that actually knows what they're doing,” a laugh, "if you have the time, of course.”

"Oh, sure," he glanced at his watch, “Pitts and I are going to the library during common hour if you want to meet us there.”

Y/N touched Meek’s arm briefly, “thanks, Steven. You're a lifesaver.” 

The boy turned a shade of red that rivaled his hair and excused himself.

Relief bloomed in Y/N’s chest as they released a breath they didn’t realize they were holding. Their half-cocked plan was in motion.

_________________________________________

“So much for ‘we’re just going to have to wait and find out’ huh?” Quinn mocked Y/N from their seat at the lunch table.

“Well I can’t just let him be the only player in this whole thing,” Y/N shook the latest letter around, “if he wants to play a game, I want to be the one winning.”

“Y/N, the man is infatuated with you. I wouldn’t exactly call it a game.”

Y/N huffed as they shoved the letter back into their bag, “these things are starting to get annoying.”

“Oh, yeah,” Quinn rolled their eyes, “it must be such a burden to have Whitman reincarnate writing you love letters.”

“Whatever.”

“So, what is your plan, exactly?” Quinn asked around a mouthful of pasta.

Y/N was suddenly bashful, “I honestly didn’t think I would get this far.”

Quinn stared blankly back at Y/N.

“This is the part where you tell me what to do, Quinnie.”

“Torture. Medieval style. Get your answers.”

“You’re truly unbelievable,” Y/N ran a hand through their hair and stood from the table, “I’m going to be nice, and I’m going to study latin. Roll with the punches.”

_________________________________________

Meeks was mildly surprised when Y/N actually showed up at the library. He was well aware that Y/N wasn’t struggling with the subject matter—Welton made sure that its students knew who was at the top of the academic food chain. He was one of the rare lucky ones to be among them. He was curious why Y/N sought him out, but he knew better than to push the subject.

It took nearly all of common hour before Y/N started to feel at ease around the two boys. It seemed the feeling was mutual.

“So, Y/N,” Pitts started, looking bored by his trig homework, “have any hobbies?”

“A few,” Y/N muttered as they finished their last verb conjugation, “I like to read and write. I used to draw, but I barely have time to breathe outside of schoolwork.”

The boys shared a glance that Y/N couldn’t quite decode.

“Welton isn’t exactly a breeding ground for creativity,” Meeks sighed.

“That’s an understatement,” Y/N scoffed, “Welton is where creativity comes to die.”

Another look between the boys.

“Touché,” Meeks drawled, “so…you’re roommates with Quinn, right?”

Pitts grinned as a blush tinted Meeks’ cheeks.

Y/N raised their eyebrows, breaking into a cheeky smile, “yeah, I am.”

Meeks was suddenly very interested in the wall, the bookshelves, his textbook—anything other than Y/N, really.

“Are they…seeing anybody?”

Pitts laughed, earning a scolding hush from the librarian.

“No, they’re not,” Y/N smiled, “I’ll put in a good word for you, Meeks.”

Relief flooded the boy’s features and he was finally able to look at Y/N again, “thanks. I—”

“Like you could pin down someone like Quinn.”

Charlie Dalton had a habit of showing up at the worst times.

“Very nice, Dalton,” Y/N closed their book and slid it into their bag, “that’s my cue to leave.”

“Oh, please. I—”

“Don’t let him get in your head, Meeks,” Y/N looked between their study partners, “see you two around.”

Before Y/N could leave, Pitts called out, “we’re usually here during common hour,” he laughed and nudged Meeks with his elbow, “maybe you could bring Quinn next time.”

Meek’s head turned to Y/N so fast they thought his neck would snap, “could you?”

They grinned, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Y/N could hear the three boy’s rushed whispers as the door closed behind them.

_________________________________________

“So you don’t think it’s either of them? Why?”

Y/N turned onto their side in bed, facing Quinn, who was doing the same.

“I don’t know,” Y/N looked at their nails, “I could just tell they weren’t interested like that.”

Quinn scoffed, “well, we’ve established that you aren’t exactly aware when people are interested like that.”

“Well, they gave me a pretty open invitation to join them again,” Y/N smirked, “maybe you could come and run interference.”

“You’re not taking this seriously enough, Y/N.”

“Whatever,” Y/N flipped to face the wall, “goodnight.”

Y/N couldn’t fall asleep, though.

The issue with infatuation is that it’s nearly impossible to not let it consume you at all times. It burrows deep into the fibers of your very being and suddenly you’re fully engulfed by the idea of that person.

And that’s all this was, really—an idea of a person. Y/N didn’t know what their admirer looked like, how they acted, or even if their proclamations were truthful. Could reality meet the expectations being set by the letters? Y/N didn’t want to admit it to themselves, but they were afraid to find out.

Y/N dreamed of a faceless poet that night. 

Their heart ached in the morning.

~~~

part four