#i have a fear that he's nearly too complex to the point where he's a confusing character and i personally dont think thats a good thing

[princekirijo]

Istg I actually need to sit down and write a proper bio for Riku because even I get confused af as to what his personality is sometimes.

[totheblood]

shiver | s.r.

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: spencer would do anything for you, but doesn't understand why you have pulled away from him.

warnings: angst, avoidant!reader

a/n: gonna be so honest i wanted this to be a series but i ended up hating it like 2k words in so that's why the end is so good... if people like it i will do a part two but oh my god its so bad and rushed towards the end... but this one is for my avoidantly attached girlies!! i see u and i love u and i am also sorry.. reblogs, asks, and replies are so appreciated and encouraged! thank u kisses.. PLEASE SEND SPENCER REQUESTSS!!!

wc: 3.1k

"So I look in your direction But you pay me no attention, do you?."

The hum of the air condition rang through the bullpen as Spencer studied you from his desk. With your hand in your hair, absentmindedly reading files with your body slumped forward, you looked unbelievably and unmistakably tired.

 It was another late night doing paperwork from last week's case, and nearly everyone was running on caffeine and pure luck. Spencer had finished his work an hour, thirty four minutes, and eight seconds ago but he still found himself glued to his chair and taking on JJ’s leftover work. All so he could silently watch over you from his desk. 

He didn't quite understand his fascination with you. It was almost embarrassing how he hung onto your every word you said, willing to do any and everything you wanted him to. But it was more embarrassing that you never paid him that same attention. Well, that wasn't completely true when he first met you, but as the months went on he could feel your attention from him drifting. 

When you first started at the BAU last year you were shy and timid, but Spencer noticed the small chuckles that escaped from your lips at his complex jokes and how your eyes watched him as he spewed some random fact that the rest of the team groaned at. You used to hang onto every word he said, asking him follow up questions with your pupils dilated. 

It was natural how you gravitated towards him. He was the only one on the team remotely close to your age, and like you, he was a bonafide genius. But you always wanted to know more and he always wanted to tell you more. It was innocent and pure, the way he thought about you, until you started to pull away. 

Spencer knew the chemical reaction that occurs in the brain when someone who used to give you attention pulls away. It creates a pattern similar to drug addiction, something he was all too familiar with, and it had started to get all too familiar for him to know how to properly deal with it. It had reached the point where he was counting each glance you gave him, the small way the corners of your mouth quirked up when you spoke to him, and even to the point where he was keeping track of how many words you uttered to him daily. 

He tracked it too. Your conversations with him had been on a steep decline since February, and now in late May he found himself wondering what he had done wrong. He had known the path he was leading himself down was one he shouldn't continue, but he couldn't care. His brain was operating for him, and he was succumbing to his worst fears. 

His brain made any attempts to rationalize your behavior, none of which calmed his anxiety. Maybe he was too clingy, always opting to sit next to you on the jet, or partner up with you in the field. Maybe he had said the wrong thing, something that made you immediately sick of him. Maybe you started seeing someone. The last one bothered Spencer the most, but he couldn't understand why. 

Spencer did everything he could to convince himself he didn't have a crush on you. As juvenile as it sounds was as juvenile as he felt every time his cheeks tinged pink when you spoke to him. He tried to convince himself that he didn't actually ‘like’ you, he just was preoccupied with you. It was your behavior that triggered his attachment style, it wasn't that he liked you. 

And as much as he wanted it to be true, he knew it wasn't. He was infatuated the moment he met you. Spencer knew he could never forget anything, but he knew for sure he would never forget your face. He traced in his mind over and over again, the way your whole face lit up when you ate something sugary, how your eyes blinked up at him when you spoke, and how you would drag your teeth in between your lips whenever you were focused. He'd find himself finding any excuse to be close to you. 

Spencer had once made a vow to himself that he would never pretend to be stupid. Not for anyone, and especially not for a girl. Which is why he almost physically smacked himself when he pretended to not have read a book by Jane Austen just so he could have something to talk to you about. He had read her entire collection when he was eight, yet he still found himself agreeing to read it and tell you how he liked it. He never forgot a word of the book “Emma,” but he still found himself rereading it for you. That was how much power you had over him. A power you seemed to be unaware of. 

6 months ago - November

“So, did you read it?” you questioned, arm pressing into the hardword of his desk, eyes wide and waiting. He didn't notice you at first, which was a first for him, making him jump as he turned to face you. 

“I did,” he answered, lips in a tight smile as he set his pen down, “I still have no idea why everyone seems to love Mr. Knightley. He strikes me as being a bully. I liked Frank Churchill far more.”

“Please,” you scoff rolling your eyes, “Churchill, seriously? All he had were his good looks. He was a total ass!” Your use of ‘ass’ earned a genuine smile from Spencer, whos eyes lit up as he spoke. 

“He wasn’t the most sincere,” he starts, shaking his head, “but he still had a far better personality than Knightley. I’d sooner date Frank Churchill over Mr Knightley. At least Frank had a sense of humor.”

“That's true, I guess,” you agreed looking down at his pristine desk. All he had on it were closed case files and a framed photograph of him and the team on it. You weren't in it but you studied it quickly, noticing how Spencer stared a brunette in the picture. Whoever it was, he was looking at her like she held the world in her hands. You would be lying if you said it didn't sting. As if he could sense you deflate he sat up straighter, following your vision to the picture on his desk. 

“We have to take a new one-” he rushed out quickly, causing your eyes to snap back to him, “You know, one with you… in it,” He pursed his lips nodding as he spoke again, almost as if he couldn’t stop himself, “You know cause now you're part of the team and this picture is old anyways. From when I first started here and as you can tell, I look completely different and it's time I updated it.”

“Who’s she?” you asked, finger pointing directly to Elle’s face. As you spoke you watched for any clues that would give you insight on how he felt about her. 

“Oh, Elle,” the way he said it made him sound defeated, like he forgot that she was in the picture, even though you knew that wasn't the case, “she used to work here, but, uh, she left.”

“You guys were close?” you questioned him, eyebrows raised as you watched him glance over at the picture before leaning back in his chair and putting all his focus on you. 

“Yeah,” he sighed, “we were, but…” his voice trailed off, as looked down at his feet, “we're not in contact anymore. She hasn't really spoken to any of us since she left,” 

“Oh,” you sighed out. You wanted to be upset that it was obvious he was enamored with her, but you just felt bad. The way his whole demeanor changed as he spoke made you feel more upset than anything, “I’m sorry,”

“It’s okay,” his eyes darted back up to you as his tight-lipped smile reappeared. He glanced back at his desk, before turning his body away from you, “I, uh, have some work I should get back to, though,”

“Yeah,” you smiled, standing up straight as you prepared yourself to turn around. You wanted to say something, anything, but you didn't. You just turned around and went back to your desk, something stinging brewing in your chest. 

Present Day

Spencer thought back to that day, wondering if his change in disposition is what made you change. It rang through his head as he tapped his foot, eyes trained on you. He was lost in thought when your eyes snapped up towards him, making him flinch. You offered him a small smile but it hadn't reached your eyes before looking back down at your work. 

The interaction made him decide that it was time to go home. That him sitting and staring was doing nothing for him or you. Standing up, he slung his messenger bag across his body, goodbyes prepared on the tip of his tongue. As he was about to speak Hotch exited his office, eyes meeting sympathetically with Spencer’s as he entered the bullpen. 

“We have a case,” Hotch announced, “I need everyone in the conference room in ten.” 

As the team flooded into the conference room, Spencer hung back, watching as you collected your things and trailed behind the rest of the team with a stack of files in your arms. 

“Need help with th-” Spencer began, arms outstretched towards you.

“No,” you replied abruptly, “I’m fine.”

It came out colder than you would have liked, causing Spencer to shiver, purse his lips and head into the conference room with his head hung low. 

“Our first victim was 35-year-old Leonardo Ruiz,” Garcia started, remote in hand clicking to display the picture of the mutilated man with his hands bound by rope and publicly displayed hanging from trees. Almost instinctively you flinch. You know it's the job but it never gets easy seeing the images. The man's face was distorted, slashed repeatedly with a knife until he became unrecognizable.

“He was reported missing after failing to report to his shift,” another click of the camera to show the abandoned patrol car, with the door open, it was obvious there had been a struggle, “His patrol car was found 2 miles from where his body was found in Arlington, where there appeared to be a struggle. Ruiz was missing for approximately two days before his body was discovered.”

“There was no dash cam footage from the patrol car?” Rossi asks from his chair, leaning forward as Garcia clicks the remote again.

“Exactly what I thought, but here's the creepy bit: There is no sign of another person on the dashcam footage. He doesn't even mention seeing another person, you can't hear the struggle, in fact there is no audio on the footage at all. Because three days before Ruiz went missing, his dashcam footage lost all audio. He reported it to the department and they were going to look into it but they were unable to fix it before Ruiz was taken,” Garcia answers, sending a chill down your spine. 

“So this was premeditated,” you speak up, causing everyone to look at you, including Spencer. You were still finding your footing in the group, trying to be useful to the group without saying the wrong thing, “The unsub is patient, willingly waiting for a perfect moment to strike. Could be revenge,”

“You're on the right track, pumpkin,” Garcia starts clicking another picture onto the screen, “That leads us to our next victim, Detective Luther Hodges from a different precinct was abducted from his home, reported missing for two days before he was found in the same way as our last victim in a public park,” Garcia herself winces as she looks at the pictures of the body strung up to a children's playground, “However this time our unsub left a witness, Hodge’s seven year old daughter, Lucy,” 

“If he left her as a witness, it could mean that he used her as a way to get him to leave willingly,” Spencer started, eyes squinting as he viewed the screen, “or he’s simply… devolving,”

“You’re absolutely right, boy genius,” Garcia starts, clicking the remote again to reveal a final body, causing the group to gasp. On the screen was Federal Agent Angela Barnett in the same position as the others. “One of our own, Angela Barnett was taken from a grocery store she frequented, and only kept one day before she was found in this state.”

“He’s devolving and rapidly,” Hotch says, closing his file and standing up, “Garcia contact MPD and let them know we're coming,” he commands, causing Garcia to nod a quick “yes, sir,” before rushing out the office, “I want to be out of here in ten,” he instructs the group, resulting in nods as everyone stands and begins collecting their things. 

“Hey,” Spencer calls from beside you gently, his voice close to being a whisper, “do you want to ride with me? I just got this new audiobook on the evolving traditions of the Amish and Mennonites on the East Coast,” he offers you a small smile that you can't help but mirror. 

“Oh, uh,” you look down, you know you’ve been pulling away but you can't help it, “Yeah, that sounds… interesting,”

Spencer can't help the grin that spreads across his face as he nods gently, cheeks tinged pink as he picks up his bag from the floor, “Great, I’ll see you then.”

The car ride was awkward to say the least, Spencer glancing over at you every five seconds as you started out the window, watching the passing trees. You drowned out the audiobook, too focused on wanting the car ride to be over that you didn't notice when Spencer had cut it off. 

“Is everything okay?” He spoke up, fingers tapping at the steering wheel as he kept his vision focused on the road. 

“Yeah,” you sat up, looking over at him and scratching the back of your neck, “I’m fine,”

“Are you sure?” he asked again, “You’ve just been… different with me. If I did anything, I’m sor-”

“You didn't do anything,” you cut him off, “I didn't realize I had been acting different,” you lied quickly, earning a scoff from him, “What?”

“The amount of conversations we have daily has been on the decline since February, decreasing by 4 percent daily in the last two weeks,” Spencer let slip casually, his own tone colder than intended, “Hard thing to not realize, especially for someone like you,”

“Someone like me?” You questioned, arms crossing defensively across your chest. 

“Someone smart,” Spencer looked over at you, “And I’m not stupid either, by the way. I would appreciate it if you just told me you didn't want to be friends outside of work instead of avoiding me like I’m the plague.”

You were silent for a beat, looking down at your hands, fingers intertwined with each other. You never understood why you got this way, why romantic feelings caused you to turn in on yourself. All you wanted to do was run, jump out of the car, scream, so you did the next best thing, “I’d prefer if we kept our relationship strictly professional,” your voice came out quieter than you would have liked. 

Spencer felt his stomach drop as his breath caught in his throat. He ignored the stinging in his eyes as he cleared his throat, swallowing harshly before replying, “Okay.”

The rest of the ride was uneventful, Spencer turned back on the audiobook and you allowed the blood to rush to your ears, drowning out the rest of the noise. The night was much busier than anticipated, all law enforcement officers on edge with the rise of a serial killer that put targets on their back. 

You spent a majority of the case avoiding Spencer, opting to partner with Derek on interviewing witnesses while JJ and Spencer built a geographical profile. When it was time to deliver the profile, you stayed back, only offering minimal input. 

Then, you found him: Jacob Raines. Jacob Raines had been a former police officer who was let go due to his use of excessive force and brutality. His rage and anger in turn got geared towards law enforcement, blaming them for his pitfalls. 

Garcia found an abandoned warehouse registered in his name in the outskirts of the city, where he was most likely keeping his victims before murdering him. The team dispatched to the warehouse, with you, Spencer and Morgan, entering first. 

You wouldn't have entered without backup if it wasn't for the sounds of screams coming from inside, and Spencer rushing in first. As if on instinct you followed after him, gun raised as you cleared behind him towards the screams. In the middle of the warehouse was a police officer still in uniform, tied to a chair with a tear stained face. She was crying as she plead for Spencer to untie her. As he worked to undo the knots you heard footsteps, causing you and Spencer to stand up abruptly. In front of Spencer was a 6 foot man, weapon raised and aimed right at him with his finger on the trigger. Based on the profile, you knew he would shoot and you knew he wouldn't think twice. He planned this, he knew the BAU would come for him and he wanted to take out as many people as he could. 

As if on instinct you pushed Spencer out of the way, a bullet aimed for his kelvar vest had made impact with your shoulder, piercing through it as you hit the cold concrete. Spencer was stunned but got up in enough time to take three shots at the unsub who had his weapon aimed and ready to shoot again. The unsub fell with a loud thud, but Spencer turned back to lean down next to your body that was growing increasingly colder. A puddle of blood had began to form underneath you and while it was clear it didn't hit any major organs, you were still bleeding out rapidly. 

Through the ringing in your ears you could here Spencer’s pained and rush voice signal over the radio, “Officer down, need medical, gunshot wound to the shoulder.”

His voice and hands were shaking as he applied pressure to the wound with his palm, as he urged you, “keep your eyes open,” he pleaded with you, “just stay awake until they get here,” he begged. But you were so tired, and your eyes were getting heavier, so you let them close. 

And everything went black. 

[playstation-dreamcast]

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Couple: Albert Wesker x GN Reader

Synopsis: A soft look into a gentle moment between you and Wesker while you both try to navigate the complexities of your relationship

TW: Implied Yandere behavior, Bittersweet fluff, reader discretion is advised

Prefer AO3? I got you

Shout out to @nshtn for commissioning me again!

You had long since lost track of time. Curled up on the couch, watching your favorite movie and listening to the soft rain outside. Wesker was preoccupied in his office working on god only knows what- an atrocity most likely- leaving you with a rare moment of solitude. It was a perfectly peaceful Saturday afternoon, one you hadn’t had the chance to indulge much in these days. Not since his research on the plaga had progressed to the point of justifying a move. You were almost embarrassed to admit how long it had taken you to realize Albert had whisked you all the way to Africa, but in your defense it wasn’t like he told you where you were moving to. 

You were so lost in thought, you hadn’t felt the atmosphere of the room change. Or maybe he was just that quiet. Who knew how long he had been watching you before he decided to finally say something. “What are you watching?” he asked from his position behind the couch.

You nearly jumped out of your skin. “Jesus Albert!” You gasped, placing a hand over your heart to try and calm it down. You looked back at him. “A warning next time, yeah?” You all but demanded.

Wesker only smirked, maybe a little too entertained by your display of fear. He walked around to the front of the couch and took his place next to you. With this better look at the TV, he was able to piece together that your comfort movie was on. 

“Oh, this film again.” You didn't like the condescension eeking in at the edges of his voice, but also knew better than to try and call him on it at this point.  

You took a breath and resettled into your seat, deciding the best tactic here was to change the subject. “When did you leave your office?” You asked. 

“Not long ago.”

A rather vague answer, but you assumed that was intentional. “So you finished working for the day?”

“For the most part,” He sighed, letting his head drop back against the couch, “I’ve finished enough that I can reasonably call it a day.”

You hummed in response, looking over at him. “You’ve already done more than I would have done on my supposed “day off,” but that’s just me.” you muttered. Your relationship with Albert was…complicated, to put it lightly. You could never tell what was happening in his mind, but you knew what was going on in your own heart. It always stung a bit when he chose work over spending time with you. Even if he kept you glued to his side, it never really felt like quality time when he was stuck on whatever task was on hand, using you as more of a stress toy than much else.

He rolled his vermillion eyes, lazily turning his head to look at you. He wasn’t a fan of your tone. “None of that now Bunny,” He sighed, “You know everything I do, I do for you. To secure your future. To secure our future.” 

His words were curt, to the point, and left zero room for discussion. This wasn’t uncommon for him, especially not lately. You looked over at him, and you felt a little bit bad for your snide comment, no matter how toothless it really was. “I’m sorry.” You muttered. You felt like you were in trouble.

He hummed in approval, bringing up a hand to caress your jaw. “All is forgiven.” He smiled softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He seemed too tired for that. You’d like to say that things had changed a lot since your move to Africa. That that was when he started his whole hot and cold routine, jumping back and forth from dead tired to fully manic. That that was when his already secret nature seemed to intensify, and it seemed like he started to make plans for the end of the world.

You would have liked to say that. And it would have all been a lie if you had. Truth be told, Wesker had always been like this on some level, but it wasn’t the trip to Africa that brought all these traits out at their full intensity. No. That happened after he returned from the Spencer Mansion. You had given up trying to figure out what had taken place that night long ago, content with knowing that his secrets were his and his alone.

That didn’t stop you from wanting to help him though. Stop you from wanting to ease his pain in whatever ways you could. He sighed softly, and gently leaned against you on the oversized couch, watching the TV without truly watching it. 

You lifted up your arm, and he immediately re-adjusted to put his head in your lap. It was his favorite place to be. And honestly, you rather enjoyed having him there too. It was a powertrip of sorts, as dark as it might have been to admit it. You were by no means a fool. After you had discovered the true nature of Wesker’s work with the plaga, it wasn’t hard to figure out the rest. As if you had finally found the key to the puzzle, the rest of the pieces fell into place and you’d realized not only was he no doubt a bioterrorist, but that he was a prolific one. One with ambitions far beyond mere money or power. You knew what he was- a predator. And an Apex predator at that.

And yet here he was, docile as a lamb, and calm in your lap. A lion sleeping curled next to a gazelle. It was a mark of pride for you that in some small way you had managed to domesticate a feral wolf. You smiled softly, gently cupping his head in your hand and stroking his cheekbone with your thumb. He closed his eyes, almost subconsciously leaning into your touch. 

Your hands moved to gently massage his temples. You knew Wesker well enough to know he probably had a migraine stalking around the corners of his head, and were taking preemptive measures to help him with it. He made a content sound, happily letting you massage his face. No one else in the world, alive or dead, had ever had the privilege of caressing him in the same ways you did. Of being allowed that close to his neck, his eyes, his weak spots. 

And you knew that. You knew that if anyone else had dared to lay their hands where yours laid now, they would simply be forfeiting the right to that hand. And then some. There was a very real chance they would leave that interaction as nothing more than a red mist. here you were, gently taking off his iconic sunglasses and gently running your fingers over his eyebrows. They were soft, and just a little fluffy. He looked so serene in your lap.

You smiled sweetly at him. “You’re so pretty.” You cooed. You weren’t just playing with fire, you were playing with the Demon Core. His eyes cracked open, the vermillion almost glowing in the dim light of the living room. You gently massaged the high apples of his cheeks as he studied you. 

Finally, he spoke. “You’re quite captivating too, my Dear.” he praised you. And you smiled, because you knew Wesker’s praise didn’t come cheap, and was far from freely given. He reached a hand up to grab the back of your own, bringing your wrist to his lips for a kiss before letting you continue to explore the contours of his face.

It was hard to believe you were cradling the head of a prolific killer in your lap. Someone with a kill count that was, for all intents and purposes, uncountable. And maybe there was a part of you that didn’t believe it. That thought that maybe, just maybe, it was all a giant misunderstanding and that he was actually good at heart. That he didn’t do all of the vile things he was accused of.

Every other part of you knew that part was stupid. But you did wonder what made you different. Why you seemed to be exempt from his wrath while the rest of the world was as disposable as tissue to him. You’d hazard a guess that he didn’t know why either. That he had made a thousand and one hypotheses and overly analytical “rationalizations” that were olympic level stretches to justify his need for you.

And not a single one would truly explain any of it. Because no matter how hard Wesker tried, you simply could not scientifically explain love. At least, not in any way that understood the emotions and nuances behind it all. Not in any way that would do it any sort of justice. The best you could give are “brains are irrational sometimes” which, was a statement Wesker resented.

At some point your hands had moved to gently card through his hair. You might have mistaken him for being asleep, he was so still. You knew better though. Wesker almost never slept. To prove this point, you moved to boop his nose. A slight tap, a softly spoken “boop,” and his eyes had shot open. 

“Why do you insist on doing that?” He asked. There was no malice or anger in his voice (for once,) just a genuine and honest question. Wesker had been holding you captive living with you for the better part of a decade now, and was fairly confident that he understood you. For the most part. There were just some quirks and habits that he never really understood and probably never would. Your obsession with, to quote you, “booping him” was one of them.

He wanted to understand. He accepted he never would. It was a part of why he loved adored you. You simply shrugged. “You just have a very boopable nose” you said as if that made even a modicum of sense. As if those words, in that order, had even a hint of logic to them.

“What do you mean by that?” He asked, raising one of his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. You didn’t answer. You simply leaned down and pressed a kiss to his hairline, and suddenly any objections he had about being “booped” died in his throat. Wesker wanted to be a monster. To be unfeeling and capable of pure unadulterated cruelty on the same level his predecessors were. Wesker wanted to be made out of pure ice. And he was.

Until you showed up. Suddenly, there is a person that exists who can melt his entire persona with one, quick, forehead kiss. A soft graze and he was putty in your hands, weak to your every whim and desire. He was whipped to put it bluntly. It was quite pathetic, really. And a vulnerability that would have been utterly unacceptable when he was a younger man. Maybe that was why he kept you around. To keep you in a place where his enemies could never use you against him.

Yeah, that was the only reason, and not at all because he simply found comfort in your company and liked having you around. It wasn’t that at all, what are you? Crazy? No no. 

Even as he thought it to himself, to try and convince himself that was the reason- he knew it was a lie.

You placed another gentle kiss to his forehead, and tried to move away. His hand came up faster than you could move though, adjusting himself and pulling you into a proper kiss. He focused on the feeling of your soft lips, and the way your mouth moved against his. Etching every little movement into his memory as if it may be the last kiss he ever shared with you.

Finally, he let you go. You kept our face just a few inches away from his, smiling at him as if he hung the stars in the sky. It made his heart contort in a way he didn’t think was possible. “I love you Al.” You whispered to him.

He wanted to say it back, but the words caught in his throat. “You mean everything to me, Dearheart.” was all he could manage. He hoped you knew what he meant. Maybe in another life, a life where he was softer, he could have said it back. A life where Spencer hadn’t done everything in his power and then some to eradicate that part of him, he could have said it back. A life where he was allowed to love without shame.

That wasn’t this lifetime though. And that word had been erased from his vocabulary before he even truly understood what it meant. Even so, the way your soft smile grew told him you understood. And that was all he could ever really ask for. You gently patted his chest, sitting back up. “Come on,” you said softly, “It’s getting late. We should get to bed.”

He nodded, sitting up as well and gladly letting you lead him to your shared bedroom. The night time routine was the same as it had always been, but for whatever reason, tonight it felt different somehow. The domesticity of it settled in the back of Wesker’s mind. The micro intimacy of just, brushing your teeth with someone, or changing into your pajamas together. It was something Wesker never thought he’d have. Something he shouldn’t have had.

He held you a little closer that night. Tighter. As if some primal part of him was just waiting for someone to try and take you from him. His entire entire body was tense, ready to pounce on whoever would dare to try. He listened to your heart slow to a steady beat, felt as your body started to relax against his and as your breathing leveled out. He took a deep breath. And once he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you were asleep- he tried again. 

“I…I love you too, Dear.”

[erimeows]

TFA Characters' Toxic Traits

Me with another TFA headcanon set? Who would've guessed. Got the inspiration for this one after realizing I'd done it with MysMes but not with Transformers. Enjoy!

Optimus Prime: Shoulders every single burden all by himself. Will not ask for help and open up to others when needed, even though not doing so ends up negatively impacting everyone more in the end than asking for help would've.

Bumblebee: Toxic positivity- enough said. You vent to him and he's like "oh but you have so much to be happy about!".

Bulkhead: Will not take sides in any conflict of his own accord even if he knows that one side is "right" if he fears it will upset any of his friends. Passively steps out of conflicts even when he's needed, unless it's an absolute emergency.

Ratchet: Refuses to open up about trauma that he has even though it affects the way he acts and negatively impacts the people around him, who are very confused as to why he acts the way he does.

Prowl: Has an ungodly superiority complex, tends to think he's better or smarter than others (even when he's not), though he's trying to work on that.

Sentinel Prime: I think we saw in the show, but he's very prideful and will never admit that he's wrong in any situation. Also terrible at offering genuine apologies- more of a sarcastic "I'm sorry you feel that way" than a genuine "I'm sorry I did (x)" kind of guy.

Jazz: Gets uncomfortable when things get too serious to the point that if people try to open up to him about something deep, he will change the subject or deflect them 90% of the time.

Ultra Magnus: Too by the book. Will do things that he doesn't believe in or ignore wrong doings for the sake of legality.

Megatron: Very selfish and very charming, which is a bad combo. Similar to Starscream, he will be nice to your face if needed and then screw you over in the end as long as it benefits him.

Starscream: So many, but the worst one is lying to people's face and then talking shit behind their backs or doing them wrong for his own benefit.

Blitzwing: Depends on which of the three personalities you're dealing with because they all have some pretty over the top toxic traits, but the worst and most prevalent one is that all three of them tend to belittle others to feel better about themselves- especially if their life is going bad or if they're feeling insecure about something in particular.

Lugnut: The Megatron obsession, obviously. It gets to the point that anyone and anything else in his life that should be prioritized get(s) pushed to the side for Megatron's sake when Megatron doesn't value him nearly as much.

Blackarachnia: Very vengeful and obsessive about getting revenge to the point that it's unhealthy. Obviously this is seen in her TFA episodes where she wants revenge on Optimus/Sentinel for what happened when they were in school- but those emotions are over a huge tragedy that happened in her life and are almost understandable. This toxic trait also applies to, say, someone who accidentally shoulder checked her or took her lunch from the staff fridge. If you wrong her in the slightest, she will make sure she has revenge, even if it was a genuine mistake.

Lockdown: Can't handle commitment. He's not scared of it, just not emotionally mature enough. Whether it be a job, a friendship, a romantic relationship, or whatever else, he won't commit. He doesn't care whose feelings it hurts or if he's passing up on something genuinely good for himself either.

Swindle: Also can't handle commitment, but I'd argue that his worst toxic trait is actually his concern for money. He's terrified of being broke to the point that it consumes his every waking minute. Sure, he enjoys the swindling, but if he misses out on money he panics and he will go to ridiculous lengths to get a good deal or to rip someone off.

[strawbeerossi]

If You Leave Me

Pairing: Fem!reader x Spencer Reid

Description: After coming home, Spencer has nightmares of his wife leaving him after the weight of prison weighs on him after his release.

Content Warnings: Depression, mentions of problems with eating, nightmares, fear of abandonment, mention of parental abandonment, spoilers for the prison arc, mentions of blood and being beaten, anxiety, there’s a panic attack, general angst, light fluff towards the end

Word Count: 1.4K

Navigation || Masterlist || Join My Taglist || Request

'The Show' is so amazing, so I might make more based on each song on the album.

“Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future.” John F Kennedy.

Spencer had faced change for his whole life. Between his father leaving him with no explanation when he was a child to his mother’s schizophrenia spiralling, he was the poster child for adapting to the plethora of things that life can throw at you and making the best of things.

Child abandonment coupled with a mother whose illness was worsening, there was a lot of pressure on him at a young age. Spencer wanted to take care of his mother, make sure she was safe and sound. He enjoyed lying with her and reading, spending his time with the woman who he cared for. He struggled with making many friends.

Not a lot of high schoolers want to be friends with a twelve-year-old child prodigy. He was the target of relentless bullying, his safest place being home where he could read in the comfort of his own bedroom.

Most children who had any form of trauma as a child turned out to be psychopaths, incapable of empathy and most who exhibited those symptoms were serial killers, he was quite the opposite. Spencer would say that he turned out alright. 

Three PHDs, being a supervisory special agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit, as well as being a literal genius. He had a team of people who loved him dearly, a good amount of godchildren who he adored, as well as a beautiful wife who did so much for him.

When Spencer was imprisoned, his experience killed a piece of him. The once sweet, innocent Dr. Spencer Reid was now a man who was more prone to showing his complex emotions, his temperament changing. He wasn’t nearly as talkative, he was having a harder time processing things that used to take him mere seconds to understand. It was why they had placed him on a weird schedule; every one hundred days spent in the field would have thirty days off following behind. He thought it was the stupidest decision they made.

Despite all of his protests, nobody would hear him out. It brought on the thoughts of him being untrustworthy. After all, he did kill Nadie Ramos. He may have been under the influence of drugs but that didn’t excuse a damn thing. He killed her with his bare hands. 

That haunted him. The fact that he could be capable of madness, capable of murder. It didn’t help that soon after, he was producing a tampered batch of drugs that he was being forced to push within those four cement walls.

Everyone told him that it wasn’t his fault, that some people were pushed to dark acts in order to ensure their survival. After all, a federal agent in the general population sector was a huge target, someone who would have a lot of enemies. Too many enemies.

After his release, there came a plethora of emotions. Y/N was a saint, patient as could be and more loving than he ever could’ve hoped for. Even when he was dissociating into his mind to shield him from all too familiar territory, she was right there. It had gotten to a point where he severely depended on her, the attachment so strong that he would follow her around the house as if he were a kitten who needed constant attention. 

Dinner was hard, the man having to be reminded that he could take his time to eat and he had no risk of someone coming and taking it whether he allowed them to or not. There were nights where he wouldn’t take a packet of cookies from his wife, stressing over having to ‘pay her back’. It took a lot to break him out of that routine.

Don’t get him started on the nightmares. They were vivid, placing him back to the night when he was beaten in prison or to the day where Luis Delgado had his throat slit in front of him because of his own choices. It was like he could still feel the warmth of the crimson blood staining his hands in the failed attempt to stop the bleeding. 

In addition to nightmares that were filled with blood and violence, there was another recurring nightmare. One that killed him more than any sort of guilt of association ever could. It started out the same way every time, he would come in the house after a long winded case. There would be a lot of stress on his shoulders, a tightening in his chest because of the fact the case didn’t end the way the team had anticipated. He would then walk into the kitchen, where Y/N would be waiting for him. There was no sweet greeting, no kiss against his lips while she hugged him and cried about missing him. 

Instead there was a tense silence, the usually warm apartment freezing. She would turn to him, her eyes filled with exhaustion, no glimmer of love shining over them as they faced one another.

“I can’t do this anymore. You aren’t who you used to be, this time by myself has made me realize that I am much happier without you here. I don’t have to coddle you, treat you like a baby. I just can’t bring myself to love you anymore.” 

Spencer was waking up in a cold sweat, his body jolting upwards on the mattress while his other hand was quickly, yet cautiously reaching beside him to feel his wife’s shoulder. The touch had Y/N stirring awake, a gentle frown on her face. “Spencer?” Her voice was filled with drowsiness, her hands slowly pushing her to sit up on her knees while her free hand was leaning over to turn on the bedside lamp. 

Any form of annoyance from drowsiness was wiped away when she noticed her husband’s state. His face was drenched in sweat, his chest was heaving from the impending anxiety attack, he was unable to talk as his body trembled. “Shh, hey.” Y/N whispered as she was shuffling closer, pulling back the duvet so she could carefully pull her husband into her arms. 

Her fingers were threading through the messy curls, a weak sigh leaving her lips as she could feel his arms tightly wrap around her torso, practically squeezing the life out of her.

“I’m here. It’s okay, baby, I promise. Luis dream again?” She asked softly, her lips pressing a kiss to the crown of his skull.

“You left.” His voice was hoarse, the tears joining in soaking his face the same way that the sweat had done over the course of the night. “Baby..” Y/N whispered while her fingers were lightly scratching over his scalp, her cheek resting against his head as she was being hugged tightly, as if she would disappear if Spencer let her go. “I’m not going anywhere. You know that.” Her words were dipped in that sweet assurance, her eyes slowly fluttering shut. 

Spencer faced enough people who abandoned him in his life with little to no explanation, she could never be added to that list. He spent three long and gruelling months in a maximum security prison for a murder that he was pushed into doing under the influence of a drug that Cat Adams and Lindsey Vaughn got their hands on. 

This wasn’t like he was a man who snapped and murdered an innocent woman because of deterioration of his sanity. He was absolutely nothing like the men and women he hunted down for his job, she tried to push that every time that she could. “You’re a good man, you know that. I would be a fool to leave you.” She said softly. 

As her body was eventually laying down against the mattress, she couldn’t help but smile once Spencer quickly followed her movements. Her legs were spreading in order to invite him between them, the male laying on top of her as his head was against her chest. “There we go..” She cooed softly, her fingers continuing to comb through the tousled curls. 

With his cheek now smashed against his wife’s chest, he listened to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. 

The drumbeat mixed his wife’s sweet words of assurance and the warmth of her love radiating against him was enough to have Spencer starting to drift off to sleep. 

How did he manage to get so lucky to have a woman who wouldn’t give up on him?

[eff4freddie]

Touch | Epilogue

Joel makes good on his promise to date you, at least once.

Words: 4k

Warnings: Just a slutty lil farewell to our resident Jackson masseuse and her grumpy-arse maybe sorta boyfriend, smut, vaginal fingering, sexy times, stockings that are far too thin for early Spring. Minors DNI

A/N: Another thank you for your support of this little story that ended up being a bit bigger and more complex than I expected. I went there because of your encouragement. Thank you, always.

Part Eight | Series Masterlist

The season was turning, but there was still a chill of a nighttime. It had been six weeks since Joel returned to Jackson, the medical supplies he and the second expedition managing to find and defend ensuring a healthy and safe Jackson for at least another two winters. The whole energy of the place, the optimism, was back in the community, and you had thrived in it, started to bloom alongside the wildflowers dotting the pathways into town.

You’d spent the time working, teaching Ellie, occasionally hanging around Joel’s place while he convalesced, first in his bed, then on the new-ish couch Tommy had found and dragged in through the back door. It wasn’t leather like his old one, and the springs stuck out in the centre so that you had to be very careful where you sat, but it was better than the rocking chair, and it was enough for him to sit still in for at least a few weeks.

He kept promising that he was going to date you, at least once if you’d let him, and each time you’d fobbed him off, telling him he had to get better first, that he was no good to you limping, that you wanted him marginally less grumpy if he could manage it. You weren’t sure why you were stalling, other than that you felt you were toes to the edge of a precipice.

When you were little your little family of four had driven out to the Grand Canyon, and you’d stood on the edge of the red dirt and been totally overwhelmed by the size of it, of all the negative space, the absence. You’d found yourself, aged eight and a half, ready to cry and even now, thirty years later, you remembered the howling wind, the echo of it.

You thought about the beauty of it, now. Now that you had seen so much worse, so much more, you reminded yourself that people used to travel entire countries to see the Grand Canyon. In your mind’s eye you entered your memories and stood beside yourself, your child self, and took her hand. You pointed to the sky, drew her eyes up and away from the ground beneath. Felt her pulse race under your touch as you showed her that the magnitude of it was the beauty in it, was the point of it all.

You accepted Joel’s invitation for the next Friday night. Then you ran to Maria’s to find something to wear.

--

You were supposed to meet at 8, a respectable time after dinner so as not to feel like you needed to have a meal; a more casual time, a more intimate time, when you could drink and chat and only stay an hour if you found it wasn’t working. It was both an in and an out.

Except that you were late, your last client having not only stored muscle tension in his fascia but emotional tension as well, and as soon as you had pushed into the glute he had unleashed years of mourning, of loss, of fears. You had stopped, wrapped him in a towel and pulled him upright, stood back and let him shake with the force of it. It wasn’t new, that people would come with muscle aches and discover trauma aches instead, but you lost track of time trying to put him back together again, trying to assure him of his safety. Tommy was right; sometimes it doesn’t come out until you feel safe enough to let it.

But it meant by the time you were pulling your door open you were about forty minutes late. Your cheeks burned with the shame of it, your timekeeping one of your strengths in the before-times, in the times when you had no other responsibilities other than the hell of being 15.

Joel was coming up your path and you stopped, nearly dropping the jacket you were still trying to pull over your shoulders. You couldn’t read his expression in the dark but his eyes were on you, and he was coming up, fast.

‘Joel, I’m so sorry,’ you started, as he strode towards you and up your porch. ‘I got caught up with a client, I couldn’t leave until they were…’ his hands were on you then, gripping you to him, your jaw resting in his warm palm.

‘You OK?’ he asked you, his eyes searching yours.

‘I’m fine, of course I am,’ you said, flustered, under the intensity of his inspection. ‘I just couldn’t…he was so sad, Joel. I had to stay.’

He nods at this, his jaw ticking. You resisted the urge to reach up and sink your fingertips into the masseter. ‘Were you worried about me, Joel?’ you asked, and he narrowed his eyes at you, then, suddenly freezing up.

‘Thought you weren’t coming, or that you were…thought maybe something had happened,’ he said, and you felt yourself soften.

‘I’m fine. And I would never stand you up,’ you said, moving to hold him around his waist, to circle him in your arms, only able to reach halfway around him, broad as he was. He avoided your eyes, the worry etched deep into his brow.

You still hadn’t kissed him. All of the things he had done to you, the way he had pulled you apart under his hands, his mouth, spread around his cock, nothing so intimate as a kiss.

‘I’m sorry,’ you said again, low and velvet in your throat. ‘I really like you, Joel,’ you went on, and he finally met your gaze, again. The naked vulnerability in it making you pause. You wondered how many people had ever seen this side of him. You suspected he could count them on one paw.

‘It’s late,’ he said, and started to pull away from you. ‘Maybe we should try again some other time.’ To your dismay he had nearly turned his back to you, and without thinking you grabbed him around the middle and tried to turn him back.

‘Wait,’ you said, and he hissed then, his muscles seizing. You let go of him, horrified.

‘M’ok,’ he muttered, raising his hand to stop you from rushing toward him. ‘Just…still gettin’ there, is all.’

‘Come in, please,’ you said, not touching him, not moving towards him, hoping your voice would be enough to get him to stay. ‘It’s cold, I have a bottle of whiskey Tommy slipped me when you were in the hospital, I can…’

‘You needed whiskey, baby?’ he said, and he had that lopsided grin on his face again, and you wanted to lick it off him. ‘Were you worried about little ole me?’

Never mind, you wanted to slap it off.

‘Oh for fucks sake,’ you said, rolling your eyes and turning back to your door. ‘Don’t get all cute just because I got scared when you nearly died,’ you said, and you heard him chuckle. You entered your house and turned to him, one hand on the door. ‘In or out?’ you asked, and you knew that you were talking to the both of you, knew that he wasn’t the only one facing the indecision, knew that you palming the responsibility off onto him, that you would accept his decision even if it meant never talking to him again. He hesitated, but only for a moment.

--

He was back in your kitchen, on the same chair from a more recent before-time, from before he’d found a place for himself somewhere under your skin. You were both sipping your whiskey, listening to the crackling fire in the other room, letting the silence seep out and blanket you. He was still enormous, still took up nearly half the space, and you ceded all of it to him.

‘Ellie speaks the world of you,’ he said, after a while, and you knew that this was important to him, that first and foremost he was her dad, her keeper and her protector.

‘She’s a lovely kid,’ you said, and then corrected yourself. ‘Not a kid. She’d fucking kill me if she knew I said that.’

He chucked into his glass. ‘Won’t tell her,’ he promised.

‘How’s that healing?’ you asked, gesturing to his wrist. It wasn’t in a splint anymore but it was still tightly bandaged.

‘S’just weak, aches in the cold,’ he said, and you nodded. You reached out and pulled it towards you, lay it on the kitchen table between you. You slipped the bandage away, watched the blood rush back in and pink up the flesh underneath it.

‘You need to stretch it, keep it strong,’ you said. ‘Bones probably healed but now the muscles’ll be lazy.’

‘Yes, doctor,’ he said, and you glanced up at him, at the crinkles in his skin and the warmth in his eyes as he teased you.

‘I mean it,’ you said, pretending to be offended, using it as an excuse to slip your hands around his wrist, his forearm. You felt the chords of the muscles there, the sinew and the veins. You rubbed your thumbs in firm circles, like you had shown him to do on your knee, all those weeks ago. You blushed at the thought of it, at the echo of the pleasure he had wrung from you not ten paces away.

He grunted a little, shifted in his seat, and you pulled his arm up at a right angle, so that his elbow was resting on the table. ‘Here, do this,’ you said, and you slipped your fingers between his, rested your forearm against his, leant in a little to ease your combined weight onto the joint.

‘I’m going to try and push your hand backwards, you push back,’ you said.

‘We arm wrestlin’?’ he asked, smiling again.

‘We will if you don’t behave yourself,’ you shot back, and he grinned.

‘Tell me when,’ he said, and you nodded your head. He grimaced at the strain through the joint, but you felt it stretch, felt it working under the force you were applying to it.

‘That’s good,’ you said, without thinking, ‘doing real well.’ He sucked a shy little breath in through his teeth. You stopped pushing, looking up into his pink cheeks. You continued to hold his hand, your eyes fixed to his.

‘Say it again,’ he said, and your mouth went dry.

‘Doing real well, Joel,’ you said, and watched as he blinked slowly, drinking it in. ‘Doing so good.’

He pulled you then, by the arm, out of your chair and into his lap, his mouth finding your neck and suckling, hard, as you struggled for purchase on his thighs. You could feel how hard he was through his jeans, the pulse of it pushing into your cunt as you settled yourself down on him, your thin little stockings under Maria’s borrowed dress doing absolutely nothing to provide a barrier against his throbbing for you.

He gasped, looked up at you as you perched above him. His pupils, blown wide with want, mirroring the ache you felt between your legs and in your heart for him. He tasted like peppermint toothpaste and you wondered idly if he’d brushed his teeth before heading to the Bison, if he’d hoped this would be the end result of the night or if it was just habit. You smelt the leather of his worn jacket. You reached up and let his salt and pepper beard scratch at the skin on your fingertips.

‘So good to us, Joel,’ you said, and you heard the gentlest whimper catch in his throat. ‘Looking after the town. Keeping us safe.’

‘Want to keep you, baby,’ he whispered, his eyes dropping to examine your lips. ‘Keep you tucked up all warm and safe, keep you under my roof where I know you’re protected.’ You shivered, at the heat of it, at the sincerity in it. ‘Be the one to shield you. All sweet and soft in your little kitchen. Wanting me, waiting f’me.’ He finished, biting his bottom lip.

‘I want you,’ you said, simply, feeling his cock jump underneath you.

‘Yeah?’ he asked, and you nodded.

‘Been waiting,’ you bit out, realising for the first time that it was true.

‘M’sorry baby,’ he said, playfully goading you. ‘Where did ya want me?’ he whispered, tucking his head under your chin and licking a stripe up your neck, chewing idly on your earlobe. You shivered again, a shuddering little thing that also came with a whimper. You took his hand from your waist and dropped it to your pussy, pushed his fingers to cup you there, gasping when he ran a fingertip along your seam.

‘Everywhere,’ you whispered, and he grunted, shifting his weight. With one warm hand splayed across your shoulder blades he leant you back, his eyes running up and down your body, devouring you. He kept his hand on your cunt, idly running a finger up and down where you ached the most for him, and you worried for a moment that he would feel how wet he’d made you just with his gaze.  

His breath was warm across your cheeks when he exhaled. He took the hand from between your legs and cupped your breast, rolled the nipple through your dress, made you whimper.

‘Joel,’ you whispered, and you watched as his eyes lit up, as the sparks caught on kindling and turned into a forest fire, as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing from the strain. You wanted to run your tongue over his bottom lip, nip at it.

‘Sssh, baby, I know,’ he said, pulling you up off his lap to stand in front of him, your knees shaking. His arms bracketed your hips, gripping the table behind you, so you were surrounded by him. He remained seated, watching you from under heavy eyelids.

‘Take it off,’ he said, and you felt your pulse in your neck, thunderous.

‘Which?’ you asked.

‘Maria’s dress you don’t think I recognise, those silly little stockings that ain’t doing nothin’ to keep out the cold.’

He leant back on the chair again, kicked his legs out so that you were standing between his ankles now, leant his arm on the back of the chair and scratched at his beard. ‘Well, go on,’ he said, and you felt so exposed to him then, vulnerable in the heat of his stare.

‘Help me,’ you said, feigning not being able to get to the zipper, just for the excuse of turning away from him, from his eyes that were taking you apart atom by atom, from his hands resting on his thigh, from his thick fingers you wanted to slip into your mouth, let him push down on your tongue and suckle at him.

You felt his hands on your back, the zip coming down, the way he slipped the dress from you like he was unwrapping a present on Christmas morning. You leant over a little, trying to slip your stockings off and you heard him moan, felt his hands on you again, his warm paw on your lower back pushing you into a deeper bend, the other pulling on your hips to bring you closer to him, his hands gripping you, positioning you. You heard his sharp inhale when you slipped the stockings over your bottom, felt your cheeks blaze when he reached up and slipped your panties off along with them, bent over and completely exposed to him, wet and glistening in the light of the kitchen, the sound of your gasped little whimpers mixing with the ever-present whir of your forty-year-old fridge.

‘Oh, my girl,’ he said, and you wanted to launch yourself at him, seat yourself back on his lap and bury your head in his neck but he was running his hands up and down the back of your thighs, edging himself closer on the chair, pushing you forward so that your breasts rested on the kitchen table, your cheek flush to the cold wood.

He bent his head and placed a single kiss at the base of your spine and you worried your knees would buckle, worried you would collapse onto the kitchen tile. As you gasped he brought his hands up to cup your bottom, spreading your cheeks enough to slip a thumb into your cunt, probe the warmth and feel the wet collecting on his fingertip. You startled, trying to buck away, trying to buck towards him, circling your hips to capture him inside you, and you heard him chuckle, felt his lips dip lower to your tailbone as he twisted his hands, his thumb still inside as his fingers came around to cup and rub at your slit, your poor little aching clit caught between his fingertips.

‘Jesus,’ you cried, finding religion despite never having set foot in a church.

‘Want to keep you full of me,’ he muttered, sitting back down on the chair again and pulling you with him, spreading your legs over his so you were open wide, obscene and dripping in his lap, pulling your legs apart with his and whispering filth in your ear, cupping your breast with one hand and the other sliding into your heat.

‘Want to keep you here, my pretty girl all safe and warm in my arms, full of my cock and my fingers, crying out for me when I’m not there.’ You were gasping, your vision narrowing, barely able to concentrate on anything except for his words, for his fingers stretching you, his legs pulling you impossibly wide. ‘Won’t let nothin’ hurt ya, baby girl,’ he grit out, and you felt a sob rip through your throat, the pleasure he was drawing out of you mixing with the comfort, with the intoxicating allure of him protecting you, of him standing between you and so many terrors.

In your right mind you wouldn’t have believed him. Would have known there were things out there even the great Joel Miller couldn’t topple, that there were threats known and unknown, seen and unseen, things out there wanting to spill your blood, the blood of the people you cared the most for. But Joel was inside you, in your cunt and in your ear, and his words were chipping away at your resistance, sliding under the door long ago locked tight. You were far from your right mind. You surrendered to the seduction of it, of the intoxication of it, of the myth this man was peddling that you would buy again and again and again.

‘There she is,’ he said, as you came on his fingers, your cunt gripping him and your hips rolling, his face pressed hard into your neck as you twisted into the agony of it, your mouth open and gasping, your face turned to the Gods.

You felt his fingers underneath you, one hand wrapped tight around your torso to hold you steady as he released himself from his jeans, and you felt him then, pressed against the back of your thigh, the velvet heat of his length, the thundering throb of it. You had barely caught your breath, had yet to fully come back to yourself, before he was pushing himself into you, pulling you onto him, your neck caught in his teeth as he bit down on the nape, tried to stifle the groan blooming in his chest.

He felt bigger this way, the stretch even sharper despite his best attempts to prepare you, and your walls fluttered, fought to accept him. You shuddered, the sudden sting slamming you back into your body, and you gripped his hands to stop him, to pause. He stilled immediately, his breath hot and gasping.

‘Give me a minute,’ you gritted out, leaning back onto his shoulder and burying your nose in his jaw, panting, placing a placid little kiss to the salt and pepper patches there.

You felt him reach around you, his finger finding your clit and gently circling it, collecting your slick and pushing it over the nub to rid you of any friction. You groaned, arching your back against him, your hands digging into the meat of his thighs underneath you.

‘So beautiful like this,’ he whispered into your ear as you felt the pleasure overtake you, the throb in your cunt synchronised to your thundering pulse. ‘Can feel you gripping me,’ he went on. ‘Stuffed fulla me, baby.’

‘Stop,’ you gasped, the moment suddenly too intense, a fear gripping you then that if he kept talking you would give him anything; the shirt off your back, the blood in your veins. He chuckled, watching you struggle to take the pleasure he was pushing into you, through you.

It was wrong but you couldn’t figure out why, because it still felt so fucking good, and you wanted more but couldn’t figure out how it was possible, not sated by him seated fully inside you, not close enough to him as you pressed your body entirely against yours. You huffed, frustrated, standing before he could stop you and pivoting to face him, straddling him again in the chair and sinking yourself down on him in one swift motion, so that he gasped and then groaned when the heat of you enveloped him, joined you in a harsh cry when your clit met his hipbone and you settled there, shifted your hips to press into the nub.

‘S’better,’ you said, and you watched his lopsided grin emerge.

‘My girl miss seeing me?’ he asked, and you rolled your hips to shut him up, watched any semblance of cogent thought leave him when you gripped him there.

‘Say it again, Joel,’ you said, sliding your hips forward and back in a way that you knew wasn’t enough for him, but was making your clit throb when it grazed over his skin. He grunted, suddenly finding it hard to think clearly, and his brows saddled.

‘Keep you safe?’ he said, uncertain but meaning it anyway, and you shook your head.

‘Keep who safe?’ he asked.

‘You,’ he answered, still not following, and you planted your feet on the floor, raised yourself up just to bounce back down again.

‘Who am I, Joel?’ you asked, nearly breathless, and finally, finally he understood, his little huffed out laugh sending a thrill through you as he reached down between your bodies, felt where you were joined.

‘My girl,’ he said, finding your clit and edging his fingertips across it, sending fireworks up your spine. ‘My beautiful girl, so tight and wet, so needy for me, cryin’ out for me in her kitchen.’

You groaned, feeling him grip you around the middle with one arm, lifting you up and down on his cock, rocking into you and always, always, always watching your face, nibbling at your chin when you leant back to gasp for air.

You were going to come. It was too fast. You still had so many other things you wanted to say to him, wanted him with every atom of you, with every fibre, the neurons in your brain lighting up just for him. Wanting to live in the torrent of pleasure he brought out in you, wanted to twist and writhe in it. You felt, again, on the edge of tears, but not for wanting, this time. Not for the losses.

For the having. Of Jackson, of the wildflowers on the paths pushing past the cold. Of the little family you had eked out at the end of the world, of Ellie, of Tommy and Maria and Robin. Of this man under your body and on your kitchen chair, calling you his and promising to keep you safe. Of this man, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion and clinging to him, willingly readying yourself to cascade over it.

‘Want you right here, always,’ he grunted, and you keened, felt it then, that you were wanted, that you belonged.

You didn’t have the words for it, vowed in that moment that you would spend the rest of your life trying to find them. For right now you did the only thing you could think of, leaning over and gripping his jaw, angling his face to you as you landed your lips on him, kissed him as you felt a tear streak across your cheek and onto his skin, as you shuddered and felt your cunt milking him, as he spilled into you and you joined him, the ecstasy and the pleasure and the warmth of it. In your little house in Jackson, behind enormous walls, to hold you.

Taglist:

@orcasoul

@archofimagine

@hiroikegawa

@ilovejoel-andjavi

@giggly-otter

@harrysrosetatto

@Hjzghi-blog

@daddy-dins-girl

@kathaaaaaaa

@anoverwhelmingdin

@pedropascalsbbg

[juneknight]

Hand Covers Mouth

Kink: sex pollen/aphrodisiac

About this: Takes place during canon events, Steven/fem!reader, Marc/fem!reader.

*

Let’s split up, Layla had said. She tacked on a hurried, ‘You with Steven? Be careful!’ before nearly sprinting off down a tunnel, leaving you (her scowling friend) and Steven (a mesmerized puppy) alone in a sandy tomb.

Look, you understood it was complex. Steven shared a body with her (soon to be? Possibly?) ex-husband, after all; but in your mind, that gave her even more of a reason to be the one responsible for him. Absently, your hand reaches down to lay your palm on the holster where your gun rests. You have no doubt that Harrow’s minions would kill without qualm. While you would not find it so easy to digest, you would do whatever you had to, to keep yourself safe.

To keep Steven safe. No matter what—

“What are you doing?” you ask at a frantic whisper. Steven is barely visible in the darkness where he is brushing sand and dust, centuries of time away from the hieroglyphics on the wall.

He glances back over his shoulder at you, giving you his typical expression of an adorable animal who fears they are about to be on the receiving end of a harsh kick in the rump, but who is so thrilled by their own discovery that they hardly care. He points to the wall.

“Reading these hieroglyphics,” says Steven. “Think they might be important.”

You glance toward the wall. You are not like Steven or Layla, able to read the symbols. You did not have the same practical and personal education which they had so tediously earned for themselves over the years. At the base of the wall sits a gilded table, the bottom of each leg morphing into the paw of some great cat. Some of the items around it are unrecognizable, turned to rubble, after so many years. But resting on top of it, there are a set of neat little figurines inlaid with moldavite, glittering black in the darkness.

“You don’t think—the ushabti?”

“Not likely,” Steven admits with a frown. “But some of the wall has crumbled here, can’t make out the rest, can I? It does say that this is powerful. Maybe we should take these to Layla and have her look at them.”

You fight the urge to scowl again. Layla. Steven was always trailing after Layla…

Alright, perhaps you had another reason for being so sour at Steven’s mention of your closest friend. How could you help being enamored with him, with his big brown eyes, with his undying enthusiasm, with his gentle heart and scathing wit? But Steven didn’t look at you like that. He was always too busy looking at Layla.

When you look at him, the expression of hope on his face is painful. You do your best to bite back any sarcastic or caustic replies. He truly doesn’t deserve them. It isn’t his fault he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings.

“We don’t have time to hunt down Layla with every artifact we find,” you remind him gently. “And we don’t have time to search every little artifact for significance, either.”

He leans against the wall, like some suave Don Juan from a movie.

“Life’s about stopping to smell the roses, love, or stopping to find the roses if no roses immediately present—oh—oh bugger.” Steven slips, more of the wall crumbling away beneath the weight of his elbow. He stumbles into the little golden table—and off go all three of the little figurines, smashing into brittle pieces on the stone floor, the sound deafening in the silence around you.

“Oh my gods,” Steven says, both hands coming up to clutch at his curls. “Oh no, I deserve prison. Oh look what I’ve done—these were thousands of years old and I just destroyed them—”

“Steven—” Your words die in your throat. Your heart begins to race, breathing becoming fast and shallow. He looks up at you from where he has knelt on the floor in anxious guilt over the figurines, and you see something in his eyes which you can’t identify. Something sharp. Something hungry.

Then he blinks.

In the distance, you hear the sound of voices calling, none of them the familiar timber of Layla. He reaches out with the reflexes of a snake and grabs you around the waist, dragging you down to his position. One hand—warm, tasting faintly of sweat and sand—clamps over your mouth as he drags you back against his body, making both of your positions smaller as you hide behind a pillar.

Against your back, he is hard.

“Quit it,” he hisses lowly in your ear, and that’s when you realize that it isn’t Steven at all. That posh British accent has dissolved into something relaxed and loose, a Chicagoan accent that you’ve never heard before but would recognize anywhere. Marc. His words register secondarily, and you realize that you are writhing against him, literally arching your back to try to rub your aching cunt against the hard line of his cock.

A whine slips past his hand, and he lets out an angry, shaking breath against the crook of your neck. His free hand reaches around and slips right down the front of your pants. By the time he is cupping your sex with his broad palm, you are soaking wet, aching, already working towards that blissful crest even with the only stimulation being in your own mind.

“It must have been an aphrodisiac,” Marc whispers, barely audible over the raging pulse in your ears. “If I give you some fingers, can you be quiet until they’re gone?”

You nod, exaggeratedly. Truthfully, you aren’t sure. You just know that you would say anything, agree to anything to have any one of his fingers inside you.

He gives you two. You cum straight away, eyes rolling back, pussy clenching around his digits tightly. Marc gives a choked breath at the sensation of your walls squeezing and squeezing his fingers. His hips work once, twice, three times against the curve of your ass and then he stiffens himself, a breathless, nearly inaudible sound of pleasure passing through his lips.

The sweetest fucking sound you’ve ever heard.

The voices in the distance begin to fade away—the sweetest silence.

Then you have a mouthful of sand, Marc’s hand between your shoulder blades pinning you into the ground. You hear the clinking of his belt as he frantically tries to loosen it, and you wiggle your hands beneath you looking for the fasten of your own pants.

“Didn’t want it to go like this,” he says through clenched teeth. You can’t even imagine his expression: something hard and desperate. You wonder if he took over for Steven forcefully or if Steven retreated, anxious at the potent desire that the aphrodisiac evoked in him. “Didn’t want our first time to be like this—”

“Is he okay?” you whisper, working your pants and underwear down at once, arching your back for him. He still has on his boxers, but he’s grown desperate: hands gripping your hips, thighs snapping against the back of your own as he simulates sex with you. Marc makes a perplexed sound. Fuck, his cock feels good, even covered by soft cotton that you’re drenching with your own slick. You struggle for a moment to remember your question. “Steven—is he okay?”

“Steven is—fucking great,” Marc says, laughing a little derisively. “Trust me. Steven’s been wanting to fuck you since the moment he saw you. There’s a little place in my head where’s he’s beating off furiously, I’m sure—”

“You’re such a dick,” you gasp.

“I’ll show you dick, gonna give you mine,” he mutters through his teeth, finally working down his boxers. “Gonna fuck that girlish expression you give Steven all the time right off your face, gonna make it so every time you look at him, you’re thinking about how good my cock fills you.”

“His cock,” you breathe, arching your back more, fingers curling in the sand and scratching the stone beneath. “His cock too.”

“Yeah yeah,” says Marc testily, finally resting the head of his cock at your entrance. He slips in with one devastating, life-changing thrust. “We’ll test that theory when I let him out for his turn.”

[tjlnn22]

Does anyone else ever think about how the main villains of each HxH arc prior to CAA represent a twisted/evil version of each of the four main protagonists? (CAA also has this but in a much more complex way that I’ll save for a later post)

Gon-Hisoka: I think this is fairly obvious with Hisoka being obsessed with fighting and getting stronger/being the best with no real regard for anything else. We see many hints of Gon having obsessive tendencies that could lead in this direction, also his love of fighting that could very well have turned sinister eventually had Gon been a less moral person than he is/went down a different path. Even then though we still get glimpses of that in the early arcs.

Killua-Illumi: again, pretty obvious. Illumi represents what Killua could have been had he followed his parent’s wishes of becoming a full time assassin and leader of the family, or potentially if he had never met Gon in the first place. Illumi is everything Killua fears becoming. (Also I think it’s worth noting how Hisoka and Illumi also have a “will they, won’t they, what are they to each other” vibe going on with the romantic subtext of their relationship. Not nearly as blatant or prominent as it is with Killua and Gon, but it is there.)

Kurapika-Chrollo: This one’s a bit more subtle, but I think the connection can be made between the two of them. First of all both of their backstories involve horrible deaths befalling those they loved when they were a child, which motivated them to go down their respective paths of revenge. Both are incredibly intelligent and competent nen users as well, and take the leader role in their respective groups, a position that neither of them take lightly and feel an intense sense of responsibility for when it comes to their people. Both are willing to sacrifice everything for their cause (Kurapika’s being Justice and Chrollo’s being the PT as a group) and their personalities are also very similar as well.

Leorio-Genthru: Up until this point the parallels have very clearly come from the rival of each character, however I think this comparison also applies regardless. Genthru and Leorio both share a driving goal of doing what they do for money, although in Leorio’s case it’s so that he can help others while for Genthru it’s entirely selfish. Both of them are smarter then they let on at first, and capable of being very dangerous/powerful when they want to be. However, they also share a deep care and camaraderie with their friends despite their outward personalities. We all know that Leorio would do anything for his friends but Genthru as well is shown to deeply care for his two friends even to the point of his own detriment. There is also the fact that they do share many physical traits as well. Tall, lanky, glasses, etc. (also they’re both a bit underutilized in the story IMHO lol) but yeah, I think it’s clear where the similarities are.

Anyway, I may go more in depth into this at some point, or I may not. It’s just something I think about from time to time and was wondering if anyone else does too.

[sv3t1ana]

⇜ previous chapter ⋮ ➤ a multi-chapter fic in which Satoru and Suguru are your childhood best friends. Reuniting as adults, you realize you're in love with them both. Will they make you choose? S. Gojo x fem reader x S. Geto

WARNINGS ᯓ THREESOME, suggestiveness, unprotected piv sex, face-fucking, cervix kissing, ambiguous ending?

WORD COUNT ᯓ 649

Chapter 10. Eclipse

The choice was inevitable.

You knew it all along, buried somewhere deep beneath denial and hesitation. You spent so long teetering on the edge of something intoxicating, something you were too scared to name. But, there was no more room for pretenses now.

Satoru and Suguru stood before you, waiting, watching, wanting. Two halves of the same, pulling you and nearly ripping you in two.

“I want both of you.”

Moments passed, too much time passed. You were begging to get visibly nervous, toying with the hem of your sweater, eyes flickering around the room, beads of sweat beginning to form at your forehead.

Satoru’s eyebrows lifted, mouth curling into a smirk as he stood with his arms folded to his chest. Shrugging, he turned to Suguru who stood beside him.

“We’ve always shared everything, right, Suguru?”

And just like that, the line between want and ruin shattered. Before long, you were being spit roasted, Satoru fucking from behind as you sucked on Suguru’s thick cock. Tears brimming your eyes when Suguru gripped the back of your skull to fully face-fuck you, “this is what you wanted, pretty girl.” He’d grit his teeth, abs clenching as he fully came in your mouth, his seed shooting your uvula, down your throat, and spilling out.

It was a boy’s fantasy, for them both to have you simultaneously.

Suguru grabbed you so you lay between his legs, his still hard cock at your back. He inserted two fingers from both hands in you, spreading you wide for Satoru to slide in easier, deeper.

You were disheveled, completely spent as you submitted to the two men before you, using you as their personal toy. Body glistening, mouth agape, eyes glazed over as Satoru repeatedly pounded you, bruising your cervix. It got to the point where he was so fervid, so passionate about breaking you that your expression contorted, bringing a hand to rest on his lower abdomen in attempt to slow his relentless attack.

Satoru leaned in close, voice nipping your ear, “you should’ve known we wouldn’t go easy on you, sweetheart.”

You should’ve known better, should’ve known that Satoru and Suguru wouldn’t let you know a second of peace the moment you said you wanted both, because now that meant a constant fight of dominance to have you, to take you in and claim you forever.

It was only at night that it really hit you, knees weak, bruised, body battered, covered in hickeys and bite marks as you struggled to walk to the bathroom, and barely recognizing the person staring back at you.

The thing about change is that it’s never gentle, never asks for permission, coming quietly and weaving itself into moments you swore you’d keep untouched. You spent so long in fear, fear that nothing would ever be the same again. And yet, here you were, where past and present blurred into something new. Different, but not unfamiliar.

You used to think love had to be chosen, that to hold something meant you had to let another slip. Standing at the very crossroads that left you awake at night, you realized the answer was there all along.

In the end, you didn’t have to choose.

The past was just that, an echo, a ghost of what led you here. You weren’t losing it, at least not entirely, but you weren’t taking any steps backward either.

Perhaps that was the nature of love, not to stay frozen in time or remain in the shape you first found it, but to expand, reshape itself around what you were willing to hold.

Maybe love wasn’t the answer to the questions you had, maybe it was the questions themselves. The contradictions, the complexities, how it pulled you in, held you close in guilt and fear but never let you go. It was in that you realized how fragile yet endless love could be.

tags: @fortunatelyfurrygiver

[walkawaytall]

No, but I continue to be salty about the fact that someone decided it was canon for Poe to not meet Leia until he was an adult.

I just feel like him being the kid of two people she and Han knew, him losing his mother so young…it’s like solid plot points, motivations, and drama were just laid out on a silver platter and everyone was like, “Nah, we’ll make this make less sense and also worse.”

Like, we never even got specific motivation from Ben about why he’s so bitter about Han in particular (okay, at least not that I remember. I admittedly haven’t seen any of the sequel trilogy in nearly four years, but what I recall was some one-off vague comment about Han not being around that sounded about like the reason every kid in every ‘90s movie with a Busy Business Dad would give for why their father wasn’t at a soccer game or whatever).

You know what would be more interesting? Han and Leia — both orphans themselves, and Leia twice over — doing their best to help Kes out after Shara dies, taking Poe on a weekend every-so-often, whatever, so he and Ben are basically cousins. And, like, Poe’s interested in ships, right, because his mother was a pilot and that’s what he wants to be, and Han’s more than happy to talk shop with the kid for as long as his attention span lasts. And when Ben’s, like, five he could not possibly care less about this, but as he gets older, he misinterprets common interest as abject favoritism of Poe or even a sort of rejection of himself because, while Han absolutely tries, he’s never going to fully understand the Jedi stuff and talking about flying is simple for him.

And Leia and Poe bond over old Rebellion stuff. He wants to hear about Shara and wants more stories to ask his dad about once he goes home and Ben’s kind of over it, so it’s just another area where he feels like his parents are better-bonded with someone who isn’t him. It’s not negligence or actual favoritism or rejection; it’s a complicated situation where Han and Leia are trying to do right by both boys and misunderstandings and hurt feelings ensue because kids don’t always see the big picture or whatever. And also I’m sure Han and Leia make mistakes, but they also want to be there for an old friend and this child who they have known his entire life who lost his mother — their friend and colleague — way, way too young.

And it would continue to add to the complex feelings Ben has about his mother when she starts another rebellion, which is already complicated for him, but then he finds out that Dameron kid, who’s basically family but also who he has a lot of bitterness toward, is not only involved in this rebellion; he’s kind of Leia’s go-to guy. So, Ben’s become the monster his mother always feared resided in her own blood while Poe’s a shiny, good-guy pilot just like Shara…just like Han.

Wouldn’t that have been more interesting than “My dad was never there for vague reasons, Rey, plz feel bad for me”?

Anyway, I said it when I talked about my Ewok makeover montage idea and I’ll say it again: I should be in charge of more things.

[sunray-sunray]

I'm not in the loop with the whole IWTV thing, but with the posts I've been seeing since yesterday I'm intrigued. Could you explain?

First of all, I'm glad you liked the posts @bookwormsontherun (although right now I don't know what posts you're referring to exactly), I normally try to not post too much of one topic but rather a good mixture of my interests :>

So, what is IwtV in general: Originally the movie IwtV from 1994 and the series that started in 2022 are the TV-adaptations from the book series "The Vampire Chronicles" by Anne Rice. IwtV is the title of book 1 and the plot of season 1, but they decided to stick to the title on further seasons too. Although they changed a few things in the series (the biggest fear of every reader), like the time frame, skin colour of a few characters and some locations, it turned out really good.

What is it about: Generally there isn't only one plot, because nearly every book has one of its own. The element or in this case the person who is connecting everything is the vampire Lestat (the blonde guy you probably saw in a post). In book 1 and season 1 + 2 Lestat's love Louis tells us how he experienced meeting him, getting turned into a vampire and then living with Lestat. A huge turning point is when there comes the tragically young vampire girl "Claudia" into the picture - she is in different ways very important to both of them and also a eternal memory of the author's daughter who died very young. Louis tells all of that to the reporter Daniel, who is recording it. Later on everything gets turned into a published book called (guess what) "Interview with the Vampire". 😄

Naturally the vampire community isn't very fond of people who are running around, telling the whole world about their existence. So this will be a upcoming problem to solve in the future season(s).

A person I have to mention too, is the vampire Armand, the former leader of the Parisian coven and a former lover of Lestat. I think in the series his part seems a bit changed, because now his relationship with Louis is much more visible. We see scheming, lying, gas lighting, anger and fear of loss issues, but also a sad backstory and a deep need to be loved.

In the upcoming season 3 the focus will be on book 2 "The Vampire Lestat" and maybe book 3 ("The Queen of the Damned"), where the point of view changes into Lestat's perspective. He gets his chance as a widely known rock star, publishes a book of his own (can you guess the title? 😂), meets very old and important people, and puts a few things right, which Louis said in his book.

Why would I recommend the books and the series: First of all because the writing itself is beautiful - the chosen language and the detailed descriptions of places and thoughts paint you a picture of the world the characters live in. Also don't expect a plot full of fast action, detailed sex scenes or joke after joke. It's not that. You come across questions about life, love, death, loss or your place in this world, and sometimes you need to look closely and think about things twice, before you can fully grasp the intention of a scene or chapter. But I like that - nowadays we are living in a time, where everything has to be fast and beautiful cinematic shots or descriptive things are not as important as before. Also with all the streaming platforms we are faced with a huge amount of series and movies, where everything needs to be evermore bigger, sexier or more brutal to survive. But in the case of the Vampire chronicles the fandom base is already there and pretty big, so they don't have to fight for every breath and are able to show us scenes, which are beautifully made, but with less action.

Secondly- the longer you read, the more you understand the characters and their decisions, which can be very complex or chaotic. Also it gets more and more apparent, that you can't trust just one perspective - you never know what the absolute truth is (if there is any, because everything is told from a wholly subjective view).

Thirdly: Anne Rice is an early example of writing about other sexual orientations than heterosexuality in a way that reached many people in quite a short time span (the 1st book was published 1976). This gets clearer and clearer in the later books and it's very interesting to see how the author is able to show you things without going into detail.

Fourthly: The cast and the producers are huge fans themselves, so they want to put as much of the books into the series as we do, which is great. For example they sometimes used the lines from the books word for word and if you know them it's beautiful to recognize them while watching :3

I hope this helps, thanks for your question! 🤗

[beevean]

I'm here to vent to someone because I can't find nfcv-saltmine, but yeah why do some people have to be like this. They completely shit on the source material of the adaptation they watch.

Richter in Castlevania has plenty of depth, he literally had an identity crisis in SotN and acknowledged that he can't be trusted with the vampire killer anymore so he entrusted it to someone else. He showed massive amounts of maturity and humility but wasn't a push over

They deleted their blog. I know them, and they said they just didn't like being too negative and how people used their askbox as a way to bitch about fans. I understand, the fans should be left outside of the discussion.

Now, I have no intention of simply pointing at OP in the screenshot and going "lol look at this idiot". So, if you expect me to do so, I ask you to not share screenshots. But I understand your frustration, not just because "show great games poopoo" which is the bread and butter of r/castlevania, but because the dissonance at work here is fascinating. "I hate when people insult show Richter! They don't understand Richter as a character at all! They clearly didn't play the games! Which were so badly written and thankfully fixed by the show! Stupid purists!"

N!Richter is not Richter. The two have different themes. Richter struggled with the knowledge that, after killing Dracula at 18, his life became essentially meaningless, and because of this, Shaft was able to turn him into a puppet to resurrect Dracula, which filled him with so much shame that the Vampire Killer was passed onto another family for centuries. N!Richter is currently battling both with the grief for his mother and the fear that the Belmonts as a whole aren't needed anymore - and the Belmonts have no legacy in the show, let alone a Dracula-killing one, so there's no way they could properly recreate his corruption arc... which, in fact, is going to N!Maria, apparently. I am still baffled that game fans are still waiting for the show to suddenly snap back into game canon and give us a proper SoTN adaptation, or god forbid an AoS one. it reminds me so much of those poor saps who were sure that N!Hector would have become a gigachad in S4 so that they could finally get the long-awaited CoD adaptation. yeah, about that. I know it would be better if the two factions weren't so neatly separated and at war with each other, but as far as I'm concerned, the show itself decided to drift further and further away from the games to the point where now they just can't be the same story.

I have come to accept that many game fans, especially the older ones, simply don't care about their story. They enjoy the gameplay and think the Belmonts are cool, but reduce every game to "jumping on platforms and whipping candles and killing Dracula over and over". Only on Tumblr I've seen this intense dedication for nearly every character, even the most neglected ones: here people do like analyzing the writing and spreading the word that it's more complex than it lets on! But on the other side, as I keep saying, discussion about Nocturne in particular has been uniquely poisoned due to genuinely bigoted dudebros who don't even bother to hide that they hate N!Annette because she's black or N!Richter because "he's a pussy" (same with N!Hector, after all, who to this day is victim blamed for being stupid). So when this person snarks about the triggered purists, I know which type they're talking about.

Criticizing the shows is one thing, but when it comes to the fandoms, I admit I'm rather burned out. I see the same thing with Sonic, people endlessly shitting on the games because they like the comics or movies more for their "improvements", and it becomes a litany of "this adaptation i like is good because the source sucks lolololololol". What else can I say about it? There's no point in sharing screenshots to point at someone and laugh, unless there's a bigger argument to be made like I tried to make here. So I want to be clear on this. Don't use me as a megaphone just to bitch about specific people, please.

[love-beyond-space-war]

hi requesting a washxreader short sorry where they're trying to keep their relationship a secret but fail miserably, could be set during freelancer or with the reds and blues. thank you!!

I felt it would be cute to write for new and young Washington for this. So have this short where you and Wash try to have a secret relationship (you're bad at it). Sorry if this wasn't what you wanted, I wasn't sure what to do, as a result I didn't really like how it came out? :(

Professionalism

Agent Washington x Reader (Project Freelancer Era)

Synopsis: It's not uncommon for those in Project Freelancer to be close friends or even see each other as siblings. However, when it comes to you and Agent Washington, you care for each other much more than that. You may both think no one knows... but in reality, nearly everyone does.

Content Warnings: Romantic Pairing, Gender-Neutral Reader/Male Character, Secret relationship, Poor attempts at secret affection, Kissing, Slight clingy behavior, You're just two cute love birds, Carolina x York mention.

Complex relationships were a common sight in Project Freelancer. Many agents had their own circle of friends, they have their own enemies, typical behavior expected of a private community.

Many saw others as friends. Many saw others as siblings. Many saw others as rivals. Although, very few saw each other romantically for the sake of professionalism or the fear of being attached.

That was the case between you and Wash.

How could you not fall for him? He may not be the best agent out there... but he's kind and compassionate. Naive, too.

You were drawn to him... he even felt the same towards you. The issue was keeping things secret. For the sake of professionalism you tried your best.

You often only showed more intimate affection in private. Even then it was just kissing or heartfelt conversation. You two even tried to sneak in affectionate gestures when no one was looking. It was your little guilty pleasure.

One you thought was quite secret... in reality, it was easy to tell.

Many close to either you or Wash could tell you had a close relationship towards each other. Constant meetings in private, hand holding, and the tendency to lean on one another was a dead give away. That and the fact the both of you looked so melancholy away from one another.

It was clear you were love birds.

Nearly everyone knew it.

It was actually nearly comedic to see you try to hide it. Wash, being the naive and innocent agent, often couldn't help going on and on about you when asked. Meanwhile you often went shy when Wash was brought up.

You were both capable of being serious soldiers in Project Freelancer. You knew when to cut things out if you had to. Just when you had down time... no one was blind to you two being gone.

Yet many knew York cared for Carolina in a similar way. It just so happens you and Wash are the other close pair in Project Freelancer. Usually it's no one's business.

Although there tends to be teasing.

York tends to tease Washington about his feelings towards you. Washington often tries to tell him to knock it off but York reassures him he's just teasing. Your friend group of agents tends to do the same thing.

At some point in your relationship you both know it's no longer secret. You still never dared to announce it or make affection more open. You still preferred to hide away and be with each other that way.

You liked it this way. Wash tended to be a more secretive person anyways. There was just something about being alone with one another in private that felt exhilarating.

Maybe it was because you were the only one able to see his face....

Being unable to see him in private at times ate at you. Even during training you found yourself drifting a hand across his back or around his thigh. That or you just find yourself drifting closer to him during training.

Truth is as much as you preferred to be secretive... it ate at you sometimes.

Washington did the same at times. Often drifting a hand to your waist or pulling you aside. In the beginning, no one really knew.

Then attempts to hide your feelings got sloppy. Many could assume if the observed the gentle touches and words you gave each other that you weren't friends. A fact that often got you reprimanded by your superiors and other agents.

In a way this was your form of young love, right?

In the end, maybe you didn't care. Secret or not you still adored each other. Even if it meant hiding away to show that. As long as The Director either doesn't know or tolerates it... you can keep things going.

"Love you, Wash...." You say softly, pressing your lips to his. You two decided a corner in the dorms was good enough privacy. Wash strokes your cheek before pulling away.

"This isn't very professional, is it?" Wash comments playfully. "We shouldn't be doing this."

"But I hate staying away from you and pretending I don't want to cling to you." You pout. "Sometimes I wish we didn't have to be so secretive... doesn't everyone know now?"

"Not their business." Washington sighs, kissing your cheek. "York teases me about it but he has his own feelings to tend to."

"Is it even a secret anymore?"

"We have to be professional." Washington warns, playfully pecking your neck to tease you. "Alright?"

"Fine. Only because I love you so much." You smile, kissing your boyfriends nose before allowing him to put his helmet back on along with yours. You then take time to just stand against each other before you had to meet the rest of the agents.

"Thought I'd find you here." A voice calls, making both of you freeze. North comes into view before crossing his arms at the scene. "York told me he suspected you'd both be here."

"North...." your voice appears mortified.

"Come on, guys. Nearly everyone suspects something. You're lucky it was I who found you like this." North teases. "You're needed for training. I won't say anything."

North then looks at Washington as you pull away from one another. You've already regained your composure and go to leave the room. Washington is about to follow you but North stops him.

"Wash." North calls.

"What?"

"I'm definitely telling York what I saw." North chuckles before quickly leaving the room.

"Don't you dare!" Washington yells after his friend before leaving the room to join the rest of you.

Secret or not... it's clear you mean a lot to one another.

[rawliverandgoronspice]

I absolutely love your analysis of the gerudo and Ganondorf because they put into words what bothers me about how TOTK portrays Ganondorf. That being they remove his agency as a character in favor of having some great evil against the good guys.

[Major story spoilers ahead for the end of the game]

At the end of the game, when you’ve defeated Ganondorf, he swallows the secret stone and becomes a dragon, like Zelda, fully knowing the consequences of what happens when that happens. And it’s just kinda left me with a bitter taste in my mouth? In the context of the story it makes sense, he’s portrayed as a egomaniac who just wants to destroy Hyrule. But compared to other versions of him, this one just feels more openly biased against him and the gerudo, with no reason or justification other than “he’s evil, hate him.” As far as I can tell… They never really show us that he’s done anything horrible or deserving of being feared before the show of fealty cutscene, other than not submit to Hyrule, attack them once, and generally have bad vibes. It feels forced how much they want us to hate him and the people who follow him. I’m not saying character in video games always have to be nuanced or complex but comparing like, Wind Waker Ganondorf next to TOTK Ganondorf…. 🙃 Waste of an excellent design imo.

Heyyy sorry for being a billion years late with this ask!! I was busy finishing the game!!! among other things!!! Thank you so much for your kind words, I'm super happy it resonated with you in that way!

I mean, the whole draconification plot beat doesn't really work for me. Like yeah, sure it's sad that Zelda is now a giant dragon and it's cool to have her soaring above your head while you have no idea where she actually is (a situation that isn't nearly tapped into enough in the narrative imo, like it gets obvious way too fast if you happen upon the wrong memory, etc), and I actually think the whole sequence of you removing the Master Sword from her head was the best scene in the entire game in terms of mood and emotions --even THOUGH it would have been so much better with a stronger story and stronger stakes-- BUT. How does that build up thematically?

I think what doesn't work for the Zelda side of this plot point (I'll get to Ganon next) is that... she doesn't make that choice. It's not like she's being tempted by an easy way out and decides to sacrifice herself for the sake of Hyrule or Link or whoever: she has no choice in the matter. Her powers activate (?? somehow? once and never again also, talk about dropped plot threads), she finds herself in the past, is the passive witness to a bunch of shit that only tangientially relates to her --it's like she's visiting estranged family in a foreign country and watch their drama awkwardly before being dragged into it against her will even though she was just trying to renew her passport and get back home (if there had been any callback to her relationship with her father it would have landed better, but it's just completely ignored so vOv). Then her relatives all die or corrupt or something, and she still can't get back home. What is she meant to do besides draconify? Grow old and die in the past? What would that accomplish?? Her adventures in the past are just basically about solving a shrine puzzle with a particularly weird solution --but the game treats it like a huge sacrifice when it's basically her only way out, and she lost absolutely nothing making that sacrifice (and then she... cries about the weird family drama? sure. Honestly I think it would have worked better if the tears were Rauru's, it's his bullshit everyone is dealing with right? He's the one who feels broken and aggrieved by the whole thing.)

So, if we ignore the draconification precedent builds up to zero thing thematically beyond cheap drama that reveals nothing about neither the characters nor the world, I think Ganondorf's case is a little more compelling because he does make a choice here: dying as he tries to achieve his weird lofty goals (and fail), or postpone his victory eternally by sacrificing his objectives but reject death and defeat --while also barring himself from victory. In a better crafted story, this could be utterly excellent and it feels very Ganondorf to me. BUT, my beef with that plot beat isn't that he chooses the second option, making him kinda active for the first time in the entire game (and makes an appropriate hideous smile: *loved* this second one, the first one didn't land for me but this one really captures the ecstatic insanity and transcendance and desperate madness of the act --I have nothing against Ganondorf offputting smiles and cackles when they feel earned, and the Sonia one just... doesn't to me, it just feels like weird rigging and mesh deformation choices getting out of control).

My problem is that his existence as a dragon contradicts everything we knew about dragons before --both for him and for Zelda. I thought the big issue with draconification was that you'd lose yourself to the act entirely, and would become this sort of organic landmark of infinite power and eternal life but without will to act on your precedent goals and understanding of yourself. But the second the big man becomes an evil dragon, suddenly Zelda zips in to the rescue (apparently remembering who you are? understanding she's meant to fight Ganondorf? I mean, this kind of works emotionally as a climactic ending and the power of love or whatever, again it would have worked better in a better story), and Ganondorf is still very much into destroying the world as well as you and Zelda.

Also, he's very definitively mortal (and he has the stone on his head again? And so if you destroy it you destroy his immortality? why???)

So... What I dislike here is the suggestion that he was somehow so evil and rotten and bad that all of these rare moments of interesting worldbuilding and ambivalence gets completely swallowed in the bossfight logic, making his choice (and Zelda's) completely meaningless in retrospect.

also: let Zelda remain a dragon you cowards, that way Hyrule gets any sort of chance to escape and reimagine its horrying eternal monarchy instead of re-establishing it even harder than before!!!

[allovesthings]

god, why do i keep getting fanon-based dc posts in on my page, WHY

The post was trying to defend bruce against allegations of never loving Jason and only taking him in a replacement to dick. Which is fair and completely valid. BUT their reasoning of it was based on almost no canon except pre-crisis. Which would also be fine if they were using that continuity’s characterisation and relationships for other characters too, which they weren’t. the post basically said that jason was the only one who made bruce laugh????? and they used that one panel of dick telling tim that you can't force someone to be happy (referring to bruce) as proof that dick could never make bruce smile?????? the post said something along the lines of “Jason immediately did what dick often failed to do” referring to making bruce happy (the incident being bruce laughing at Jason stealing his tires, which is obviously a good moment for Jason and bruce but how does that mean that it was the first time bruce ever laughed with a kid ever???). I don’t want to copy paste direct quotes from the post because I don’t want anyone to flock to that post and send that person hate but god, the urge is strong because the whole post just felt like intentional cheery-picked reading and almost conscious misrepresentation of every other character.

The post claimed that bruce felt obligated to take in dick because he “feared what dick would become” [the whole angry murderous robin dick reasoning which I hate because its fanon that sucks the complexity out of both, dick and bruce and also demonizes a literal 8 year old] and that Jason was the “first and only family member that bruce chose ever since his parents died”. The post was so insistent on calling Jason his only proper family, using the reason of his fast adoption as proof that bruce cared more about jason than anyone else. literally outright said that the other robins are “good robins”  but jason was a “good son” and the tone heavily implying that jason was the “only good son”. The post didn't seem to acknowledge that jason's adoption doesn't actually occur pre-crisis (despite the legal battle with nocturna and is actually stated to have happened post-crisis in the argument dick and bruce have after jason's death) and that bruce has also gone to court to keep dick in early pre-crisis.

I am not saying they need to read all the comics ever written to have an opinion but maybe just...i don't know, research the comics for at least the points you wish to address?????

The post also mentioned that while dick was bruce’s pride, Jason was his joy???? So I guess according to the poster, bruce didn’t feel joy in his nearly 10 years of raising dick-‘the creator of robin i.e. the light to the darkness i.e. “he gives me hope just by existing”’-grayson. And what is their source for Jason being 'every last bit' of  bruce’s joy? Only pre-crisis panels where jason’s backstory and (mainly) personality is directly a repetition of dick’s and Jason is a different person on a genetic level because his parents are circus acrobats Joe and Trina Todd, not catherine and willis todd.

The post was so insistent on Jason not being a replacement for dick but then also directly said that Tim was a “replacement son” for jason. It claimed that dick felt replaced because of personal insecurities but used the pre-crisis version of him becoming nightwing and leaving willingly????? Why would pre-crisis dick feel replaced if he willingly became nightwing and gave Jason Robin himself and even wanted to adopt jason himself????????? Also pre-crisis dick and bruce had a mostly happy relationship. If you are so opposed to bruce viewing a kid as a replacement for another why are you putting that on a different kid then????????? Also, Tim literally has both his parents when he started as Robin, why would he immediately be a “replacement son” to bruce who knows that he does have parents who do love him????????? Bruce would feel attached to Tim, sure, but to go and say he is a replacement son is just so weird.

I understand wanting to defend bruce against claims of never loving one of his kids because I do believe that he did love all of them but trying to prove that by insisting that he only loved that one kid or loved that one kid so much more than any of his other kids isn’t exactly a very good defence of bruce. It is not even a strong defence if you need to cherry pick dialogue from comics AFTER Jason’s death already worsened bruce’s mental state to smitereens and panels from when Jason's personality was dick Grayson 2.0 to prove that. 

Why do people needs to put down other characters to prop up Jason ? like... Why is that a thing ?? You can talk about your favorite without putting down others.

The post claimed that bruce felt obligated to take in dick because he “feared what dick would become” [the whole angry murderous robin dick reasoning which I hate because its fanon that sucks the complexity out of both, dick and bruce and also demonizes a literal 8 year old]

He didn't feel obligated. That's complete misunderstanding of Dick and Bruce ? Bruce made the choice to be what he couldn't have for another child when he was 8 ? He saw someone else with a very similar tragedy and said: "'ll take him in and give him the tools I didn't have" (did he succeed ? the Titans might say no). if Dick didn't have Bruce, he wouldn't be murderous , he would just be closer to Batman as a superhero.

Also, it is kinda funny people are trying to argue that Dick was an 8 year old "murderous and Bruce feared what he would become" using pre-crisis as his origin story though. Because... Dick's first reaction after his parents' death pre-crisis is this:

yeah, I can see the murderous intent and vengeance here.

Also Sidenote: he is so cute there

and that Jason was the “first and only family member that bruce chose ever since his parents died”

That's Dick, though ? that's just taking Dick's story and giving it to Jason ?

literally outright said that the other robins are “good robins” but jason was a “good son”

Okay. That's... just...I'm gonna go touch some grass now.

the post basically said that jason was the only one who made bruce laugh?????

What ??? That kid is not making bruce laugh ?

That goofy dork ?

okay...I like it when the ood around Dick as a n adult is a little bit more serious and grounded. But Dick ? Dick himself ? he is funny. Like, that has been part of his character that he is quippy and funny since forever.

Also,the entire point of Robin is to be a contrast to batman. The wilson to his sherlock, the colorful the light to Batman's dark knight. Dick as Robin is joyful by nature of being the first Robin.

Also pre-crisis dick and bruce had a mostly happy relationship

Pre-crisis Dick and bruce were mostly happy...though by the end/the beginning of New Teen Titans,they kinda were fighting a bit (mostly about college, it wasn't about Jason at all). also as you said, Dick wanted to adopt Jason pre-crisis.This is really the wrong version of Dick to take if you are going to add insecurities to Jason and Dick's relationship.

The post was so insistent on Jason not being a replacement for dick but then also directly said that Tim was a “replacement son” for jason.

Again, Tim had alive parents at the time. He was Dick's brother before he was Bruce's son (and actually the debate on whether Bruce should take in Tim after his dad's death was around the time of Jason's return which is funny to me). I'm not saying he didn't see Bruce as a father figure but Bruce didn't actually take a replacement son when Tim came into his life.

They really said: I'm going to defend Bruce as a good parent by somehow making him a bad parent in a different way than what he sometimes is in canon.

Thank you for the ask and sorry If I answered a bit late <3

[im-a-silly-goose]

Albert Rosenfield As Your Caregiver! ^_^

In the beginning, when he first found out about your regression, he didn't support it. In fact, he was vehemently against any such ideas. Albert truly believe it was some illness or ailment that needed fixing, not understanding that it was a coping mechanism.

You didn't push it. You didn't want to 'poke the bear'. Yet, you still regressed on your own time, that was until-

One day, you got hurt during an investigation. Albert rushed to your side, as he almost always did in these situations. The wound was severe. You weren't taking it well at all. So, as you experienced something so scary; you regressed, completely.

He couldn't be mad, not at you. The situation was already wretched, and more importantly, you urgently needed medical attention. So he scooped you up in his arms and rushed you to the side, sending Cooper to get backup.

At first, he didn't even realize you were regressed. He was utterly clueless, attempting to focus more on your physical needs than your overwhelming sobs. That was until, he asked a question and you referred to him using a parental term.

He froze. It immediately dawned on him what was happening. He tried to brush it off, to scoff and move on, but you just-

"I'm fixing you up as best as I can," He spoke, wrapping another bandage around you, "It's alright,"

And with those simple words, your gaze shifted. Albert tried to ignore it, but you looked up with eyes that begged for soothing comfort, for safety and solace. He couldn't ignore it.

So, when he finished patching you up, he pulled you into a hug. He'd never seen this part of regression, only having witnessed you playing with toys when he last walked in. It seemed much more complex than he first imagined.

He allowed you to latch onto him, to sob into the crook of his neck until the ambulance came. When it finally showed up, he let go of you. You didn't let go of him, of course. The doctors nearly had to pry you off. Albert suspected it was as unpleasant for him as it was you.

He kept his eyes firmly focused on you, quickly explaining regression and chewing them out for not rushing an air-lift. As the doors shut, he gave you a reassuring nod.

Cooper, having finally returned, asked what was going on. He kept the secret, of course. "I believe they were having some level of a fear response, but I'm not certain of it's nature, Coop," Was all he left the agent with. Cooper was worried, seeing how stressed the man had become. Albert tried to ignore the issue, though.

He came to visit you in the hospital; where you gave a much more thorough explanation of regression. The one you were too ashamed to give when he'd first found out. He mostly understood.

"I remember you were alone the last time I caught you in that headspace,"

...

"I'm going to keep this to the point, I've looked into this, probably far further than I should've. And I'd like to offer to be your caregiver. Yes or no,"

With an air of hesitance, you accepted.

He never makes you feel ashamed of your regression. Not a single aspect of it is strange in his eyes. He accepts every part of it, every part of you. Albert finally understands how helpful it is for you, and if its your preferred method of coping with what you see on duty (or anything else) he supports it.

He's very strict. He makes sure you get to bed on time, you take your medication, and that you don't run amok in his house. He implements punishments, sure, but only if they're agreed upon. Five minutes of time out or a short conversation is beyond enough when dealing with behaviors. Though, if you decide that having rules would do more damage than good, he will drop the ideas completely.

Albert doesn't mind bottle-feeding you, playing with you, changing any sort of incontinence underwear, or rocking you to sleep. None of it bothers him. In fact, he enjoys it. Even if some things aren't the most 'enjoyable' in essence, they're for you. So they're worth it.

After a while of Albert being your caregiver, you realize that a section of his room has been allotted to you. Whether its toys, bottles, or blankets, they're all neatly kept in certain areas of his home. It means so much to you.

In a similar vein, caregiving means a damn lot to Albert. He labels it as a casual affair, but taking care of you really does make him smile. He loves tucking you in, soothing you, but most of all; he loves you.

He doesn't prefer playing stuffies, but he'll do it for you. In fact, he's not to keen on playing at all. Yet, when he's with you, he doesn't seem to mind. He's admittedly beginning to enjoy it.

:3 I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!!!