#like the idea is that... if i could figure out how to do this... i could make the boys' hair exactly as i imagine it in my head which

[britneyshakespeare]

obviously i can't enforce proper rules of what people "count" and i wouldn't wanna really gatekeep, but :D in my opinion! loosely i believe that if it is recognizably the same story, if it could keep the same title without it being problematic for the reader, i believe it does count. like i personally would allow for most comic/manga adaptations of shakespeare plays, even if they're abridged, to be "reading the plays" (even if not as plays).

perhaps maybe also with an asterisk on the amount of early-modern text honored versus original content infused by the new creator. like, i might say a novelization or prose retelling of the plays is different from comics, which as a form, all you really need to adapt is the dialogue and add your own visuals (which actors, directors, and stage crew already have to do for every production, even the most "faithful" ones). tales from shakespeare by charles and mary lamb, for example, might be a gray area, because they present the stories faithfully but in an entirely different medium, with necessary original narrativizing around it. but while not everyone may agree, i would consider the manga shakespeare series (which abridge but maintain the original language, and take liberties with their visual setting, as many directors do) to be essentially the same as reading the text or watching a stage adaptation—which are already two very different experiences with a theatrical work, and i chose to conflate them in this poll in order for maximum inclusivity.

and then there's the confounding factor of translation. some people talk down about the sparknotes no fear shakespeare series and other prose/modern "translations"—i never particularly enjoyed them myself, even as a beginner, because i think more general-reader-friendly series like barnes & noble shakespeare and the folger shakespeare series were better at helping me (emphasis on just me) appreciate the poetry of the plays and approach the difficulties of the language. perhaps i could've been a little bit snobbish about it; the sparknotes series does not aim to bastardize the verse, and it's still there on the adjoining page. yet, not everyone reads the verse to compare. but, if they're still reading the same story, in the same structure, but the text itself is totally altered, is that not still reading shakespeare? it's a philosophical question, but for the wider purposes and ideals of this poll, i would have to say yes, i think it is.

and obviously, obviously, translation into languages other than english must count. that's just common sense. not everyone can or should read or see the plays in the "original" language—but one can say that about that about 'modern translations' too, right? and philosophically, most artists and language lovers agree that in translation, something is always sacrificed; more is also added; all depending on the will and sensibilities of the particular translator. there will never be such a thing as a definitive translation of poetry. translations are arguably, in their own right, as much original works as any other adaptation or abridgement; they are changes to the text. still i think they count for this poll, unquestionably.

another interesting thing people have brought up is adaptations in children's literature, which i see most people discrediting if it's their own experience with the plays, but it probably depends on the book, imo. like i said, retelling something in prose narrative makes it fundamentally different to me, but i think it's wiggly where the line is, since there are a lot of children's works based on the plays that aim to preserve shakespeare's language, and many that purposefully do not. like sparknotes' no fear series versus folger editions, i think both should exist because they suit different purposes.

on the topic, though, i do wanna shout out shakespeare's first folio: a children's edition (2024) released by the shakespeare birthplace trust. i got a copy for both of my nieces for christmas this year. they're still a bit too young to read it with (both are under 2), but i just had to get it. the goal of the book isn't just to preserve the language, but they're actually formatted as playscripts! i find that to be such an interesting choice, and i can't wait to act them out with them and their toys someday. they are, however, suuuper abridged, like 10-15% of the original text at most, and certainly a lot of the magic of the full pieces is lost by boiling it down to its bare essentials, but its simplicity, obviously, is meant to benefit the young readers as much as possible.

would it count? would it count? i don't know! i'm certainly gonna say hell yeah it counts, when im playing cymbeline and the two gentlemen of verona with my little girls. but will it still count retroactively, when i hopefully get to view the plays more fully with them someday? i'm sure the first time i take them to shakespeare in the park, they're gonna feel like what they watched is substantially different from what's in their book, and in comparison, they might not feel like they've still experienced them in that medium that was perfectly sufficient before.

abridgements can certainly count, though, if you had a fulfilling engagement with it! there is always more to get out of these texts, and they are also often reduced to serve a particular audience or medium. there will never be an end of the ways to read shakespeare, so consider for yourself whatever is meaningful to you.

I'm curious about people's levels of familiarity; I intend no judgment or elitism and it's absolutely fine not to be a completionist, btw. I didn't think I would've intended to have read them all at age 25; it just sort of happened that after I passed the halfway point in the middle of 2023, I came out of a reading slump and was motivated to finish. Fwiw I consider myself a hobbyist (I am not involved in academia or professional theater) but I realize that that label is usually attributed to people with less experience.

I also have always loved seeing other bloggers' Shakespeare polls where they put certain plays or characters up against each other, but I'm often left wondering if it's really a 'fair' fight all the time if you're putting up something like Hamlet or Twelfth Night against one of the more obscure works, like the Winter's Tale. It's not a grave affront to vote in those polls if you don't know every play, but I am curious about it.

Please reblog for exposure if you vote; I would appreciate it a lot. Also feel free to elaborate on your own Shakespeare journey in tags, comments, reblogs, because I love to hear about other people's personal relationships to literature.

[sbcdh]

I believe the English phrase is “odd duck.” Yes. Jan Kargad was an Odd Duck. He was born in 1922, right after Georgia joined the Soviet Union, in a commune outside of Batumi. But this was not a normal commune no. His parents were strange people. A small group of Dutch fuckers, very protestant people, started a winery in the countryside where they could read their bibles. You would think they did not get along with the Marxists, but you would be wrong. They loved work. The bible loved work. There was no problem.

Well, that is not entirely true. Jan was a bit of a problem. He was born with a “weak constitution.” We do not know what that meant exactly, but farmwork would give him seizures and very high fevers. He was not a good child for farm work. So, they taught him arithmetic. Young Jan was in charge of counting grapes and bottles of wine and so on. Maybe the Apparatchik did not mind a child doing all the counting, maybe he was bribed, maybe he did not give a shit. I do not know. But Jan was in charge of all the counting and, what is the fucking word- logistics. Yes. Logistics. And he was very good at logistics. 

There are theories as to his upbringing yes. Studying the bible alongside Marx and Lenin and so on. But I do not believe this. In Chechnya in those days many studied the bible and Marx like Jan Kargad, but we did not become like Jan Kargad. I think perhaps it was the fevers. One sees things with a fever when it is bad enough, yes. 

Kargad also studied the capitalists. He was very good at this. He read Adam Smith, but also Issac Newton, the South Seas bubble, and most famously the Tulip Panic. They say his journals were filled with pressed tulips. He was a bit of a, what is the fucking English word- pervert. A pervert for organizing things and numbers and so on. Jan Kargad loves logistics like a man loves his wife, and tulips are a symbol of this for him. They became a microcosm for him. You see how the bud unfolds into many petals, its is very similar to how capitalism unfurls into its many aspects in the world. But, I am getting ahead of myself. 

One day, after all of his schooling, Kargad has a terrible fever, more terrible than any fever he has ever had. This is in the early 1940s some time. After this fever he becomes strange. Well, stranger than he already was. He speaks of men with golden dog masks, their necks chained to the sun, tulips growing from their eyes, all of that shit. He never goes outside again. He becomes fearful of the sun. He does not let it touch his skin. 

He writes intensely for the next three years. I have seen his original notebooks and they are stained with sweat. This man is not well, but he writes. He does not get help, because he is very good at analyzing agricultural output. I believe it grounded him some how, to spend days without sleep, reading spreadsheets about grapes and wheat and so on. 

He is no longer christian. He throws out all of the crosses in his home, and replaces them with grape-cutters. They are similar to a sickle, but with a long handle, for reaching up and cutting off high bunches of grapes. He becomes obsessed with this idea of the grape cutter, and he begins to paint. And this is where many first learn of him. He influences a group of artists who become famous in the southern soviet union, though they are occasionally derided as being “mystical.” I personally? I love the drawings. Many figures reaching up to pluck grapes from the sun. It becomes the central theme of his work.

Here people discover his strange writings. But first he is considered a strange mystic. His early writings are still very christian yes, and this influences how he is read in the west. Many think he is speaking of hyper-economics or whatever fetishistic bull shit the americans are calling it. But I do not think so. His work is very soviet. There are stories yes, of good soviet men drinking coffee and loving spreadsheets like a man loves his wife, and in this they become a little bit like Jan Kargad. They are –you do not have an English term for this– cutting grapes from the sun. But this is not a serious phrase you understand. These men are perverts.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Hey. Hi. Hello. Today I learned about the existence of 15th century Welsh poet Gwerful Mechain and that she apparently has a surviving work of erotic poems.

Please. For Christmas. For Yule. Please tell me more because I can't read Welsh.

Heh heh. Oh, Gwerful Mechain is the absolute best.

(Quick housekeeping to keep the post manageable - I previously wrote about things like cynghanedd and cywydds and englyns and such here, so check that if you need an explanation.)

What's fun is that we don't know a ton about her, because not a lot got written down about people in her time. Her surviving work covers a 40ish year span at the end of the 1400s to just into the 1500s, but we don't know when she was born or died or anything like that. We know her parents' names? And that she was from Mechain, hence the bardic name. And that she married a guy and had a daughter, something which actually does mark out her body of work as different from her contemporaries; being a wife and mother, she couldn't do the usual bardic role of travelling the country to spread news and play at courts. This means she doesn't have any of the praise poetry that a lot of male bards produced about the lords that hosted them.

But, there's stuff we can piece together about her. For one thing, she was not just literate (not a universal skill for anyone at that point, but especially for women), but she was astonishingly well-read and had what appears to be a classical education, given her poetic references and traditional Welsh meters. For another, her work often had recurring themes of religion, sex, and women's rights, sometimes all at the same time.

At the point Gwerful was active, Welsh bardic culture heavily featured ymrysonau. An ymryson is like... well, I hesitate to say "sort of like a rap battle" after the way everyone and their dog now thinks that's what the Mari Lwyd does, but they were like a cross between a rap battle and the publication war between two rival academics. A bard would write an englyn and publish it in the local parish newsletter. Another bard would see this, and write their own englyn about how stupid the first bard's englyn was, and publish it in the same newsletter. The first bard would see this and retaliate. The second bard would retaliate to that. And on and on it would go, like a printed tennis match for all the parishioners to enjoy, until someone wrote a conclusive verse OR until someone went "Lol, you got me good there" and bowed out with dignity. Sometimes, these things were fucking vicious; but other times, they were just banter between two bards who knew each other and were enjoying the chance to keep their poetic skills in tip top condition.

Now, Gwerful was an active and enthusiastic participant in ymrysonau. We have many examples of her work from these. There are two of particular note that I'll list here, each against a different bard:

Dafydd Llwyd o Fathafarn. Mathafarn and Mechain are not so distant from one another, so no real surprise that these two locked horns a lot, but the impression I always got from their ymrysonau is that they were good mates, actually. These fell into the 'banter' category more often than not. Dafydd was a Welsh Nationalist who was hoping for a Welshman to rise up and throw off the yoke of English oppression, and most of his work is about that, but he turned up the filthy erotic shit for any ymryson with Gwerful because BOY HOWDY was that her specialty. IIRC she did occasionally poke fun at his Welsh Nash leanings, especially his obsession with Mab Darogan (OLD Welsh idea that translates to the Son of Prophesy - the Arthur-style figure that will one day drive out the English overlords), but mostly their ymrysonau were incredibly beautifully-written odes that could be summed up as "Dafydd, my man, my good friend, I mean this sincerely: suck my entire clit".

She often won.

Ieuan Dyfi. God, what a fucking asshole. This one was not banter. Gwerful played for blood with this prick.

We actually would know nothing about Ieuan Dyfi if not for Gwerful Mechain, because it was her poetic response to him that meant his only surviving poems made it to the modern day; that, and the record of him being brought before a church court where he admitted adultery with Anni Goch, a married woman. Oh, and the record of him being brought before the law courts at Liverpool, accused of domestic abuse and gambling? If I remember right?

Two things to know that set the scene for what came next:

One of Gwerful Mechain's surviving poems is an englyn considered to be possibly the oldest extant poem about domestic violence written by a woman: I’w gŵr am ei churo (To the husband who beats her)

Dager drwy goler dy galon - ar osgo I asgwrn dy ddwyfron; Dy lin a dyr, dy law’n don, A’th gleddau i’th goluddion.

There are a lot of translations for this one to try to keep its poeticness, but this one is pretty good:

Through your heart’s lining let there be pressed, slanting down, A dagger to the bone in your chest. Your knee smashed, your hand crushed, may the rest Be gutted by the sword you possessed.

She has others, too, that deal with sexual assault, and something scholars often note about Gwerful is her remarkable knowledge of the law as it pertained to women's issues. So she was not, you see, a woman with a high view of a man accused of domestic violence anyway.

But then Ieuan Dyfi wrote five poems about Anni Goch, the married woman he'd fucked, each more "Wow dude, she said no" than the last, culminating in I Anni Goch; a full cywydd of misogynistic Medieval-incel bullshit about how false and evil women are, which listed all the false and evil women of history including classical and mythological figures.

And. Well. Gwerful had some views.

Her responding cywydd - I ateb Ieuan Dyfi am gywydd Anni Goch - basically blasted the guy back into his own impact crater and disintegrated him. What she did with it, essentially, was to mirror his cywydd. Where he'd gone "Isn't it so true how great men throughout history have always been brought low by women, amirite lads? Here's examples", Gwerful went "Isn't it so true how 'great men' throughout history have behaved appallingly and fucked up through their own actions and then somehow managed to blame women, amirite lads? Here's examples." Where his examples had been historical figures, so were hers. Where his had been classical, so were hers. Where he went Biblical, so did she.

And what's so interesting about that last one is how pointed she was with it - for some reason, in his big list of evil women, Ieuan Dyfi did not go for the most obvious and low-hanging of fruit (no pun intended) - he doesn't cite Eve. In response, Gwerful also sidesteps the most obvious and low hanging of fruit - she doesn't cite Mary. In so doing, she makes it clear that she doesn't even need to.

There is no record of him responding to her. IIRC, there is a record of him doing three years in prison.

But! Outside of all of that, the big thing Gwerful was known for was her erotic poetry. You'll be unsurprised to hear that it wasn't written for shits and giggles - much like today, women of the time were told that most of their value was in their looks, and they had plentiful insecurities about their bodies. Gwerful wrote her erotic stuff to confront those insecurities and shine a light on the issue. There are so many examples of this, but far and away the most famous is definitely Cywydd y Cedor - roughly translated, 'Ode to the Vulva'. Though I have also seen it titled Cywydd y Gont - Ode to the Cunt. It's such a shame that the English language is literally, physically not capable of cynghanedd, because it means unless you learn Welsh you will never understand the beauty and the lyricism of the piece, and how it elevates and undercuts the content at the same time; but it's a joyful, masterful, irreverent work that uses the fancy language male poets were forever dedicating to the rest of a woman's body and applies it squarely to the vulva. In fact it basically opens with "Men are cowards, describe more cunts or gtfo" before launching into its main subject matter. The last line is pro-pubic hair, too, like I really must stress how much Gwerful Mechain would have to offer Tumblr if you could speak Welsh. This is probably her most widely translated piece, though, you can definitely find English versions. Although you can tell how blushing and reticent the translator is - and therefore how sanitised their translation is - by whether they've called it Ode to the Vulva/Cunt, or Ode to the Pubic Hair.

Needless to say, the original is not sanitised.

(Actually, I should also say - this one is also a response piece, probably, but in this case to a bard who lived a century earlier - Dafydd ap Gwilym, the absolutely legendary and uncontested king of Welsh romance poetry. He wrote a poem called Cywydd y Gal - Ode to the Penis. I have only just put two and two together on that.)

As a final note, I should say that my personal favourite Gwerful Mechain poem on this subject, mind, is actually I'w morwyn wrth gachu - to the maiden who is shitting. It's an englyn written in Gwerful's customary high poetic form, but it is what it says - it describes a woman taking a shit, and farting as she does. Beautiful and magical and disgusting and banal, all in one go:

Crwciodd lle dihangodd ei dŵr - ’n grychiast O grochan ei llawdwr; Ei deudwll oedd yn dadwr’, Baw a ddaeth, a bwa o ddŵr

Funnily enough, it's hard to find a good translation for this one lol.

My attempt:

She crouched where her water escaped - creased From the cauldron of her heat; Her two holes were arguing, Shit came, and a bow of water

Eh. It's so bland in English. Honestly, if you could read Welsh...

Anyway, if anyone reading this can read Welsh and wants to read some of Gwerful Mechain's stuff - including some of the pieces she was responding to in the ymrysonau - you can find a load here. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed!

[ssa-dado]

I could totally see Aaron being jealous. Maybe a oneshot of her meeting Sean Hotchner for the first time.

Covering Up - SOS

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff Summary: You’re late, and while Gideon’s passive-aggressive remarks are expected, it’s Hotch who really has you on edge. But it’s not just his authority; it’s the way you inadvertently caught the attention of Hotch’s brother, Sean. Warnings: None, just wanted to clarify the story is set around late 1998 or early 1999, before Hotch became Unit Chief (Gideon was in charge instead). Word Count: 3k Dado's Corner: You didn't see this coming, did you? Something cute to celebrate the end of the year. Sorry it took so much to respond, I totally forgot about this ask... hope you like itttttt. Again, HOTCH IN LOOOOOOOVE but doesn't want to admit hahaha what a fool.

masterlist

You were late today. Remarkably late.

For the first time ever in your life.

And while the idea of Gideon giving you one of his passive-aggressive “I’m not mad, just disappointed” speeches wasn’t exactly fun, there was one person who truly terrified you in this situation.

Hotch.

How ironic: it wasn’t your boss you were afraid of - it was your fussy coworker. The same coworker whose desk, unfortunately, happened to sit right in front of yours.

Perfect.

You were still trying to salvage your dignity in the elevator, jabbing at the elevator button, fumbling with your hair as the doors closed. Maybe an updo would make you look less… late. But by the time you reached your floor, the mess you’d made felt more “distressed damsel” than “competent federal agent.”

So, naturally, you made the split-second decision to undo the whole thing, pulling your hair loose halfway to your desk.

You winced.

Not because anyone was watching - everyone seemed too absorbed in their own work - but because if someone had been looking, you’d have perfectly executed that clichéd, overly dramatic hair flip straight out of a low-budget action movie.

The kind made by men, for men.

The ones where the femme fatale struts into the room, stiletto heels clicking, hair whipping in slow motion, cleavage doing all the talking, her entire existence engineered for the male gaze.

And here you were. No stilettos. No slow motion. Just… the hair flip.

Fantastic.

You shook it off, hoping to slink to your desk unnoticed, now more focused to brace yourself for the silent judgement of-

A man.

Not the man you expected - Hotch.

An actual man, a somehow handsome man.

Oh God. He’d definitely seen you do the dramatic hair flip.

His smirk confirmed it - no need for a profiler to figure that one out.

A man, sitting comfortably in Hotch’s chair. And, notably, no Hotch in sight.

“Are you here for a consultation with Agent Hotchner?” you asked, doing your best to sound at least professional as you set your bag down.

He chuckled – like you were the punchline of some inside joke you weren’t in on. “Actually, yes.”

Though you couldn’t help but study him... it was in your nature afterall.

He was about Hotch’s height, blond, blue-eyed, and generically good-looking in a way that probably gave him the nerve to sit at an agent’s desk without any kind of second thought.

But what really stood out? He looked about your age.

Very early twenties - which, mathematically speaking, made him way too young to be here asking for a consultation.

Not that you were one to talk. You were constantly reminded you were “too young” to be working for the FBI. So, at least you had that in common.

“Agent Y/L/N,” he read from your badge, dragging out the syllables for some of his twisted reasons you chose to ignore. Then he smirked. “You’re young.”

“She is.” Hotch’s voice cut through the air before you could form a response, making you startle slightly. He was suddenly there, right behind you, like he’d materialized out of thin air.

“Sean,” he said, his tone clipped in that uniquely Hotch way that made you feel guilty even if you’d done nothing wrong, “I told you to wait for me outside.”

“And why are you so late?” Hotch added, his focus snapping to you with laser precision, his brows drawing together in that way that made your stomach twist in both irritation and… something else.

Classic Aaron Hotchner.

Two seconds on the scene, already cataloging what annoyed him. Efficiency at its finest.

“Damn, Aaron, relax. It’s barely been a minute,” Sean said, standing up finally, though not without flinching slightly under the weight of Hotch’s glare.

He stepped closer to you, extending a hand like he wasn’t about to be vaporized by the man’s disapproval. “I’m Sean, by the way. I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

Before you could decide whether to shake his hand or politely tell him to run for cover, Hotch’s voice sliced through the air, as sharp and unyielding as ever. “No, you haven’t. Y/N, this is Sean, my brother. Sean, this is Agent Y/L/N, my partner.”

It took approximately two seconds after those words left his mouth for Hotch to realize he’d made not one but two rookie mistakes.

The first? The fact that, for some reason, you got to be “Y/N” while Sean - his brother - was firmly stuck with Agent Y/L/N.

A seemingly innocuous choice, but an interesting one.

Almost as if Hotch didn’t want Sean to forget who you were. Or worse, as if he wanted to keep that small, intimate privilege - using your first name - exclusively for himself.

And why?

Perhaps because, whether he admitted it or not, you’d managed to take up residence in his overworked brain. You weren’t just his colleague - you were his very own walking, talking paradox.

Equal parts intellect and quick wit, you could quote anything from your beloved dead philosophers as easily as you could dismantle someone’s argument with a single sarcastic comment.

You lingered, persistently, in his thoughts - too vividly, too often - so much so that you’d even started showing up in his dreams.

That might explain why his tongue betrayed him now - a slip you would undoubtedly label as ‘textbook Freudian.’

Somehow, through the cracks in the armor of the man who prided himself on control and precision, a truth he had no business acknowledging had leaked out.

Because, inexplicably and irreversibly, he’d just let his younger brother - of all people - catch the faintest glimpse of something he refused to admit even to himself: that he wasn’t entirely indifferent to you.

Not that Sean picked up on it - yet.

No, Sean’s focus was already drifting toward his second mistake, the one Hotch really hoped would keep Sean too distracted to notice the first. And, to Hotch’s silent horror, it worked like a charm.

“Partner?” Sean repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Are the two of you…?” He let the insinuation hang, his expression a mix of confusion and amusement.

Because here’s the thing - thanks to the way Hotch had worded it, Sean wasn’t just thinking that his big brother was casually sleeping with you. Oh no, this was way bigger.

This was Sean, standing here wide-eyed and completely convinced that his older, emotionally constipated, miserably single brother - who’d spent years brooding after his breakup Haley - had somehow not only managed to get a girlfriend but had kept it a secret.

And worse? That this whole scenario meant Hotch was maybe, just maybe, a little happy these days.

That alone was enough to blow Sean’s mind.

But before his imagination could run too far, you stepped in, your voice sharp and immediate. “God, no,” you blurted, practically recoiling from the suggestion.

“No,” Hotch said at the same time, though in stark contrast to your reaction, his was flat and unbothered.

Sean chuckled at your synchronized denial, which only prompted Hotch to fix you with one of his looks - the kind that felt like it could peel layers off your soul. Judgy, silent, but impossibly loud at the same time.

The kind of look that made you curious.

“Was he like this as a kid,” you asked Sean, “or was he ever actually a normal person?”

Sean’s smirk widened. “The only difference between then and now is that now they pay him to act like this.”

You laughed, loud and genuine, and Sean joined in - a perfect snapshot of solidarity between two survivors of Hotch’s relentless Hotch-ness. “Though I have to wonder… maybe he misunderstood the government’s contributions as a green light to act this way. It’s kind of like when you teach a dog to stand on two legs for a treat, and then he just keeps doing it.” You commented.

You and Sean burst into laughter, your voices echoing through the bullpen, while Hotch just stood there.

Watching. Seething.

But not entirely for the reasons he’d expect.

Sure, he was irritated that you had the audacity to make fun of him within perfect earshot - a clear, deliberate payback for all the grief and micromanagement he’d put you through.

But there was something deeper beneath his discomfort, something far more unsettling.

It wasn’t just that you were laughing at him - it was that you were laughing with Sean.

That easy, effortless kind of laughter, the kind he so rarely managed to coax out of you. Sean, his little brother, was already pulling it out of you like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like he’d cracked some code Hotch didn’t even know existed.

And that stung. More than it should’ve.

Because as much as he told himself it was ridiculous - childish, even - he couldn’t shake the flicker of jealousy curling in his chest.

A low, unwelcome burn.

It wasn’t just about the laughter. It was the way you looked at Sean. The way you seemed curious, intrigued by him in a way that made Hotch feel like an outsider in his own space. Like he was standing just outside the circle, close enough to see but not close enough to touch.

And he hated that.

He hated how much it bothered him.

Hated that he cared at all.

Hated the fact that, for all his discipline and carefully crafted walls, you always managed to slip through the cracks.

Unnoticed until it was too late.

Though you weren’t quite as unnoticed by everyone else.

Standing on the mezzanine, there was Gideon, watching you with that unshakeable calm of his. His eyes locked onto yours, and before you could even catch your breath, he called you over to his office.

It was probably for showing up two full hours late, but who could say?

Panic was all over you, though you were certain you kept it well-hidden - at least, you hoped so.

But before you could second-guess yourself, Hotch, who had been silently observing everything, grabbed a file from his desk and walked toward you at a precise angle that turned his back to Gideon.

Then, in a blur of words, he started speaking faster than you thought possible.

“I covered for you,” he said, voice low and hurried. “Tell him you went to see your mom yesterday. You took the 5:07 a.m. train. It broke down in Baltimore - stuck for an hour and forty-two minutes. That’s why you’re late. It’s all fact checked. If he asks - and he probably won’t - you don’t have the ticket because after a 90-minute delay, the company offers a full reimbursement if you send in the original.”

Before you could process what he was saying, he thrust the file into your hands.

“I filled out all the interrogatory statements for the Arlington case. If he asks why I had them, say I’m an idiot and that you cracked the unsub before I did, so the paperwork fell to me.” His dark eyes bore into yours, and for the first time since you’d met him, he sounded almost…desperate. “Don’t panic.”

Your brain short-circuited. The only thing you managed was a breathless, “Thanks.”

He watched you go, tracking every step you took until you disappeared into Gideon’s office. His jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his side like he was bracing himself to pull you out of trouble if it came to that.

Though Sean, ever the opportunist, broke the silence. “Since when do you cover for people?” he asked.

Hotch didn’t bother looking at him, his focus firmly fixed on the files in his hands, though his grip had tightened ever so slightly. “Since her boss called her in for something unfair. She’s the first - well, second - person to arrive every day and the last to leave. She works harder than anyone here, including me, and she never complains about it. It’s not fair to punish her for being late once when she’s the one who picks up everyone else’s slack. This is a one-time thing, and frankly, it’s probably for the best - at least she got some sleep for once.”

Was that an over-articulated answer to what was likely more of an exclamation than an actual question? Yes. But better to be thorough than shallow - or at least, that’s what Hotch told himself.

Sean, on the other hand, had no qualms about being a bit shallow.

“You’re sure that’s the reason she was late?” Sean asked, his tone dripping with faux innocence. “Not because she, you know…” He trailed off, tilting his head, the mischievous grin practically begging Hotch to take the bait.

No. Of course not.

Not that there would’ve been anything wrong with it. Not because he wanted to come off as paternalistic or prudish about it.

Hell, if you really did, he hoped it was… fine.

Great, even.

But then, there was that annoying, traitorous part of him whispering - shouting, really - that he hoped it wasn’t too good.

Or serious.

Or anything worth bringing up more than once.

Damn it, Hotchner, could he not just be a normal, well-adjusted adult and be happy for someone else’s happiness without making it weird? Apparently not.

Still, he needed to give an actual response. Out of the 600,000 words available in the English language, what did he choose? The most original, expressive, and earth-shattering one of all: “No.”

Of course, it probably came out sounding way too sharp, betraying every tightly-coiled emotion he was trying to keep hidden.

Luckily - or unluckily - Sean was too busy zeroing in on something else to even notice.

“So,” Sean began, dragging out the word, “she’s single.”

…it wasn’t even a question.

Hotch exhaled through his nose, his patience already wearing thin. “Yes.” He admitted. “But don’t think about it.” He stopped him, already knowing where this conversation would eventually go.

“Why not?” Sean asked, his smirk practically carved into his face now. “You like her?” The teasing lilt in his voice was impossible to miss, but beneath it, there was a flicker of genuine curiosity.

Yes. Absolutely.

More than liked.

Liked in a way that he thought about you far too often, in places he shouldn’t, and at times he didn’t have the luxury of indulging.

Liked in a way that made him occasionally catch himself smiling in the middle of a meeting because some stray thought of you had slipped past his defenses.

Liked in a way that he imagined you during his early-morning runs, wondering if you’d find the sunrise as breathtaking as he did - or if you’d roll your eyes at his choice of music.

You probably would, because it was either the original cast recording of whatever Broadway musical he’d recently become obsessed with, or something from The Beatles.

Not just their classics, but the deeper cuts - the kind his mom had played on repeat during her own Beatlemania phase back in the ’60s, which was, admittedly, a phenomenon he’d inherited in his own way.

He liked you in a way that felt ridiculous, really.

Like the time he caught himself wondering if you’d like the tie he was wearing, not that he’d ever admit he chose it with you in mind.

Or when he stayed up too late re-reading one of your old case reports, pretending it was for work when it was really just to admire how sharp and thoughtful your insights were.

But admitting that? Out loud?

To Sean, of all people?

He’d rather reorganize the mountain of case files sitting on your desk alphabetically and chronologically - twice.

“No,” Hotch said instead, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “I work with her, Sean.”

Sean wasn’t one to let things go easily - especially when he sensed he was onto something. “Okay, so you work with her,” he said, dragging out the words like they were some kind of weak excuse. “But that doesn’t explain why I can’t take a shot. What’s stopping me?”

Hotch’s jaw clenched as he shifted his attention back to the windows of Gideon’s office. He didn’t want to say it, but he also didn’t trust his brother to let the subject drop without some kind of deflection. “You’re not her type,” he said flatly.

Sean blinked, caught off guard for a moment before recovering with an incredulous laugh. “Not her type? How do you know what her type is?”

Hotch didn’t respond right away.

He didn’t need to.

The deadpan look he shot Sean over his shoulder was enough to say ‘I know her type because I know her’.

Sean, however, wasn’t deterred. “Okay, genius, enlighten me. What exactly is her type, then? Because I’m charming, good-looking, and - let’s not forget - single.” He motioned to himself like he was presenting the world’s greatest catch.

Hotch sighed. “Her type,” he began almost whispering, now suddenly afraid that someone would hear him, “is someone more serious. Someone who knows how to respect her work ethic, her intelligence, and the fact that she’s earned her place here. Someone who doesn’t think he can waltz in and-” He cut himself off, realizing he was veering dangerously close to sounding personal.

Too personal.

Too bad he stopped talking before he could drop the one crucial piece of information Sean probably needed to know: as far as Hotch knew, you only dated older... much older.

And him being the same age as you? Yeah, that definitely didn’t work in his favor.

Sean tilted his head, a slow grin spreading across his face. “So… basically, someone who isn’t me. But someone who is… maybe a little more like you?” He watched the way Hotch’s shoulders stiffened at the suggestion.

Hotch turned fully to face his brother, his expression dark. “Sean,” he warned, his voice a low rumble.

But Sean wasn’t fazed. “I’m just saying, Aaron. You’re standing here, going on about how she deserves someone serious and respectful and all that, but you’re practically describing yourself. So maybe the reason you don’t want me going after her is because-”

“That’s enough,” Hotch interrupted, his tone sharp enough to cut through any further teasing. “It’s not appropriate, and it’s not happening. End of discussion.”

Sean held up his hands in mock surrender, though his smirk stayed firmly in place. “Alright, alright. But for the record, you didn’t deny it.”

Hotch didn’t bother dignifying that with a response. Instead, he turned back toward the windows of Gideon’s office, his gaze locking on your profile once more.

Sean followed his brother’s line of sight, leaning closer “She really does have you all twisted up, doesn’t she?”

Hotch ignored him.

But as much as he wanted to pretend Sean was wrong, the burn in his chest told him otherwise.

Because 'twisted up' was probably an understatement for what you were doing to him.

---

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

[mindless-existence1]

Live Action Movie Shadow x reader

Summery: You give him head scratches while watching a movie.

Authors note: My first sonic fic, this is suggesting romance where reader and Shadow have crushes on eachother but neither knows.

After the chaos of Eggman’s defeat, life in Green Hills had finally started to settle. Tom and Maddie had been kind enough to take Shadow in, giving him a place to stay alongside Sonic, Tails, Knuckles—and you. The house was lively, to say the least, but today, it was unusually quiet.

Tom had taken Sonic, Knuckles, and Tails out for a hike to “burn off some energy,” leaving you and Shadow alone. Not that Shadow minded the peace. He always seemed to prefer solitude, though you noticed he never complained when you were around.

You glanced over at him as he sat on the couch, his arms crossed and his usual stern expression in place.

“Hey, Shadow,” you said, holding up a DVD. “Wanna watch a movie?”

He turned his crimson gaze to you, his ears twitching slightly. “What kind of movie?”

“Your pick,” you replied with a shrug.

The two of you settled on an action-packed thriller—something you figured would hold his attention. As the movie started, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him. Even in a relaxed setting like this, Shadow carried himself with an air of quiet intensity that you found… oddly endearing.

About halfway through the movie, you noticed how his ears twitched every time the sound effects got loud. You hesitated, then decided to ask something that had been on your mind.“Shadow?”

“Hm?” he replied, not looking away from the screen. “Can I… pet your head?” That got his attention. He turned to you, his eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “Why would you want to do that?”

You smiled sheepishly. “I don’t know. Your fur looks really soft. And… you look like you could use some relaxation.” He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Just as you were about to backtrack and say it was a dumb idea, he surprised you by sighing and shifting slightly.

“Do as you wish,” he muttered, his cheeks tinged with the faintest hint of pink.Your heart skipped a beat as you reached out tentatively, your fingers brushing through the fur on his head.

It was just as soft as you’d imagined, and Shadow let out a barely audible hum of approval. Emboldened, you continued, gently scratching behind his ears.

To your surprise, Shadow leaned into your touch, his usually rigid posture softening. After a moment, he shifted again, lying down and resting his head in your lap.

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked down at him. He had his eyes closed now, his expression peaceful in a way you’d never seen before.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly.He opened one eye to look up at you, his voice low and almost shy. “It’s… nice.”

You smiled, your heart fluttering as you continued to run your fingers through his fur. For a while, neither of you spoke, the only sounds coming from the movie playing in the background.

As you absentmindedly scratched behind his ears, you found yourself wondering if Shadow could hear how fast your heart was beating. You’d had a crush on him for a while now, but moments like this made it harder to keep your feelings to yourself.

Unbeknownst to you, Shadow was having similar thoughts. He hadn’t understood why your presence always seemed to calm him or why he found himself seeking you out more often than not.

But as he lay there, feeling your gentle touch, he started to wonder if this was what peace felt like.“Y/N,” he said quietly, breaking the silence.

“Yeah?” you replied, looking down at him.

“...Thank you.”Your cheeks flushed. “For what?”

“For staying,” he said simply, his eyes closing again.You smiled softly, your fingers tracing gentle patterns through his fur. “Always.”

Neither of you said anything after that, but the unspoken feelings between you lingered in the air, a quiet promise that maybe—just maybe—neither of you would have to be alone anymore.

[uchinagai]

Echoes of Us - winter

𝜗𝜚 idol!Winter x producer!reader

𝜗𝜚 synopsis : Winter just wanted a peaceful global solo debut with the help of another company, 88rising, but of course, the universe had to nerf her with worse luck, or not…

𝜗𝜚 contains : idol! winter, producer ex !reader, fem!reader, wlw, mentions of a messy break-up, kind of angsty but gets better!! um yeah idk what else to say

𝜗𝜚 w/k : 1.5k+

𝜗𝜚 a/n : English is not my first OR second language so please, ignore anything incorrect. js a random idea I wanted to write about nothing too big >.<

The conference room felt suffocating despite its size. She tapped her pen against the table—a small, futile attempt to keep calm as the 88rising team finalized her debut plans.

How long has she been wishing on this? God knows. One might say she has wanted to be solo since her debut. So having her artist name—Winter—without Aespa attached to it made her feel funny and giggly inside.

Well not for long, because not only was the producer she was assigned to unknown and hid their artist name, not even taking credit sometimes, but they were late too.

Very late.

The conference was about to end when the staff, who was sent in instead of the producer attending, got a message and looked down at the phone letting out probably the biggest sigh of relief.

“She’s gonna be in here 5 minutes, can we manage to stretch it?”

She?

Winter's manager looked down at the clock and nodded.

“We have a full day today, Minjeong has no schedules,”

It was obvious, that the person they sent in to replace her, was clueless about most of the things. She couldn’t answer anything related to the producer's working ethic and how long it would take her to finish up the project.

It was when Winter glanced towards the door when it opened, revealing a beautiful figure of a woman, in her 20s entering the room causing Winter the forget how to breathe.

Not only was the woman beautiful but also… familiar, way too familiar to her liking.

As she sat down next to her replacement, also across from Winter, the girl almost felt nauseous.

The familiar scent hitting her nose brought back many memories, such as holding and kissing a person with this scent.

As the person across her settled down on the chair, taking off the cap, Minjeong heard a small *click* in her head, putting everything together.

She wasn’t just gonna work with anybody, she was gonna work with y/n l/n.

The ex.

Well, how did this all begin??

Let’s divide winter's 4 years of training into three parts.

Two years of being friends with y/n

Almost dating y/n for two years

y/n l/n vanishing from her life without a word.

y/n managed to erase herself from Minjeongs life like she never existed, if the rest of the Aespa didn’t know y/n personally they would think Minjeong was crazy and making up lies about her imaginary girlfriend that made her life worth it all.

It’s been 4 years now, and has the younger one moved on? She thought she did before seeing the girl appear right in front of her like they spoke just yesterday, all chill and relaxed. 

Did she plan this all out? Just reappearing into her life as her producer four years later after being ghosted?

Blonde felt sick to her stomach, everything was coming back to her and all she could do was stare at the girl in front of her, frozen.

As the staff finally managed to give y/n all the information she missed, she looked across her table, seeing the stunned girl in front of her.

“Minjeong?”

The same sweetness filled with worry rang Winter back to reality as she shook her head a little, maybe she was imagining it all, but no. The girl in front of her stayed at the same spot, looking at her with worry.

As much as she was happy seeing her, she felt just as sick and disgusted.

“I-i can’t–” is all she could mutter out before storming out of that room where barely any natural light setting in.

Older watched her storm off as she sighed and excused herself calmly getting up from the chair.

Y/n knew the SM building well enough to know where the shorter girl would run off, so calmly, she approached the bathrooms on the 4th floor, which in winter's words were the cleanest ones.

Knock once. Twice. No response.

The door was unlocked so y/n let herself into a sight of winter leaning onto the sink, water on. Face visibly wet which meant she splashed herself with it.

“No hello?”

“Don’t bullshit me y/n”

“Woah sorry me, trying to lighten the mood up”

“Lighten the mood? You’re four years late for that.”

“Still sassy as ever, hm?”

“What do you want? Did you take onto this job on purpose to make it a living hell y/n?”

“I took on a job offer from SM ent. For Winter of Aespa because I missed Minjeong.”

She shorter one bit on her lower lip, suppressing a smile, why was she folding so easily to someone that ghosted her for four years? She didn’t know. 

Winter removed her hands from the sink and approached the taller one, keeping a distance.

“Missed Minjeong so bad that you couldn’t think of a reply to her countless messages for four fucking years, l/n?”

“Guess you can say that,” Producer shrugged leaning against the door frame with a smirk as the idol scoffed at her audacity.

“Don’t bullshit me”

“Fine, then let’s say your company knew our little relationship, didn’t want me to debut with you guys and I didn’t wanna debut either so we came to a mutual agreement.”

Winter couldn’t believe her ears. She knew y/n like the back of her hand and she could always tell if she was lying by the way she avoided eye contact, or how she fidgeted with her hair or body part, but this time it was none.

“So that’s it then? I was just a ‘mutual agreement’ for you?”

y/n reached out her hand, trying to run her hand through blonde hair, like she would when Winter needed comfort after a long day of training. But she was four years late to comfort her, four years late to tell her ‘you can do this’, so of course, the idol refused and slapped her hand away.

“Hey now,”

“No, y/n. You can’t just show up in my life that I worked so hard to build and keep it after you just..-” she was tearing up, the lump in her throat was holding her back. y/n always knew how to crumble the walls she built. Like when y/n just effortlessly got a confession out of her and started dating just like that. Her wall was long crumbled when she breathed her scent after four years.

“I get it Minjeong, I do, why do you think I kept my name hidden all this time? Because I wanted to be ‘mysterious’? Bullshit. It was the only way SM would take me, not knowing me. The 88rising team has been going feral, trying to secretly set up a collab with you for me.-”

All Minjeong could do was watch the way y/n moved her lips up to her eyes, searching for a small bit of lie for her to point out and call her a liar but she couldn’t, older was sincere, which broke her even more.

“--I’m sorry for leaving you in this cruel industry, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you when you needed me the most!”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Wha-”

And she felt the familiar cherry-flavored lips mixed with salty tears land on hers, shutting her instantly.

Winter’s lips moved against hers with an urgency that wasn’t just longing—it was pain, anger, and frustration all tangled together. It didn’t feel like out of love to y/n, but it didn’t matter her Minjeong was kissing her.

But as much as she wanted to melt into the kiss, into her, Y/n pulled back gently, resting her forehead against Winter’s. Her breath came out shaky as she whispered, “Jeongie…”

The younger girl opened her eyes, her gaze locking with Y/n’s. They were glassy and red, but there was still fire in them. “Don’t. Don’t say my name like that. Like you still care.”

Older wrapped her arm around her, resting her head now onto her shoulder, snuggling to her like a leach as younger didn’t pull her away, and going as far as wrapping her arms around her neck securing her.

“You know I do, Jeongie… I always cared,” she mumbled against the singer's neck.

“You wouldn’t leave me like that if you did, y/n…”

“Jeongie, you had your dreams and I was gonna hold you back, you know it. I was gonna hold back the star that shines on the stage today and I didn’t want that,”

Winter couldn’t think of anything. She was too drunk to hold her close, so she closed her eyes. So they stayed like this for a while, enjoying each other's embrace after four years of longing.

“You missed me, hm?”

“Missing you doesn’t mean I forgive you, y/n l/n,” Said the shorter one and pulled away from her, while keeping her hands on her shoulders.

“Tomorrow, don’t forget, we still have music to make,”

She said with a giggle and just ran out of the bathroom, causing y/n to laugh at her childish behavior.

“Jeongie!!” the producer chased after her as their running and laughter filled the SM ent building hallways, just like the old days.

Maybe there was still hope…

[gigisaquarium]

captain's quarters, monkey d. luffy x reader 𐙚 likes, comments, and reposts are so appreciated !! requests are encouraged !! i’m looking for friends and regulars !! this is my first time writing in a few months, please consider this a warm up

𐙚 summary : Luffy's filter, or lack thereof, often times got him into trouble, even for simple things, like his obvious favoritism. (Spoiler alert: you're his favorite.) However, this time, it was quite beneficial.

𐙚 warnings: SMUT !! goofy first time, cutely awkward, no piv YET, masturbation, silly luffy rambles, possible bad/messy writing it’s been forever, kind of too long?? idk

def not proofread it’s like wayyy to late for that

Luffy wasn’t “sexy” by any means. He was very attractive and had a bright personality, but he was such an idiot. He was always goofing off or sneaking a snack when the crew wasn’t under attack, so you never thought you’d have any thought of having sex with your captain. You doubted he was even aware of sex. It wasn’t something that crossed your mind, at least until last week.

It was an unspoken rule of respect to not enter Luffy’s room. The captain’s quarters were typically private places to wind down and exist outside of being a pirate. However, being the thoughtful person you were, you decided to do Luffy’s laundry for him. In reality, you were hoping to catch a little glimpse into his mind. Curiosity had taken over, and you just wanted a tiny peek, just an idea of what his room looked like. Was it clean or messy? Was it decorated? Simple questions that had plagued your mind.

Luffy seemed to plague your mind quite a bit these days. A simple memory of him made you smile and you found yourself wondering how his day was going if you stayed in the girl’s dorms for a longer period of time than usual. There was no doubt that you were the captain’s favorite, and you wondered if that is what originally swayed you. After thinking on it over night, you decided it was just his big heart and his pretty smile that drew you in.

That’s how your curiosities came about. That’s why you were stood outside of Luffy’s door all those days ago, shocked to hear that he had beat you there. You were expecting the room to be temporarily abandoned, especially since Luffy never stayed in one place. He was in there, though, and it was obvious. While muffled, you could clearly hear his grunts and whines, and you nearly froze in place. You weren’t stupid; you knew what he was doing. You were simply shocked. You weren’t sure if you were more caught off guard or more surprised that Luffy even knew how to jack off. He always seemed so oblivious about everything.

Time passed, and the sounds he made creeped into your mind more and more. You hadn’t spoken to him much since. You left the laundry basket outside his door and had simply retreated. You weren’t purposefully avoiding him. You just felt so flustered every time you saw him, now. He had definitely noticed this and began to make an effort to figure out what was bothering you.

“Are you mad at me,” he would ask, following you around the Sunny as you kept yourself busy. You would simply smile and shake your head. “No, of course not.” He gave up on that after a while, instead trying to think back on every small detail from the past few days. He wasn’t much of a thinker, though. It got frustrating quickly.

He finally made the connection when he remembered finding the laundry basket outside of his room after he came all over his stomach. It was an aha moment for him, and he quickly rushed to find you, despite the clock reading 2:54 am. “Y/n,” he whispered, standing at the entrance of the girl’s dorm. He moved closer to you, gently tapping you on the shoulder in attempt to wake you.

When you finally open your eyes, eyes fluttering in confusion and eyebrows drawn together, he tugs on your arm. “I know why you’ve been avoiding me,” he whispers, pulling you out of bed. You felt your stomach churn, and, suddenly, you were very awake. You let him pull you up onto the deck, using your free hand to rub your eyes. “You do,” you question in a hushed expression of surprise. How did he figure it out?

“Yeah! You’re upset that I don’t let you in my room,” he answers, pulling you towards his room. What…? “I saw the laundry you left outside of my door, and I realized that you never go inside. So I’m taking you to my room, so you can see inside,” he goes on, looking back at you with a sleepy grin.

“Luffy, no, that’s not it. It’s okay,” you tell, but he was already pushing his door open, urging you to step inside. Taking the opportunity to look around, you purse your lips. It was very… Luffy. Clean, but not organized. There wasn’t anything on his floors, but his bed was unmade and miscellaneous trinkets were scattered across his desk. “Then what is it?” He questions, dropping down onto his bed, the springs rattling.

“I don’t think it’s something… we should talk about.” He tilts his head before flopping backwards, peeling off his socks. “You can talk to me about anything. I like to know what you’re thinking,” Luffy assured you, stretching out on the big mattress. You let out a little huff, playing with a little ceramic shrimp that was sitting on the edge of his bedside table. “It was something I wasn’t supposed to know, anyways. Hear, not know,” you explain, looking down at him.

You sensed his dusty cogs spinning, spiderwebs snapping as he analyzed your words. “It was during the day, right? You probably heard me jerking off,” he says simply, sitting up now. “Is that what’s bothering you? Are you jealous? I wasn’t thinking about other girls or anything. I was thinking about you.”

You had no idea how he could say that with such a straight face. It was difficult for you to even process his words. How did this idiot’s brain even work? “Okay, yes… that is what had been on my mind, but I really didn’t mean to avoid you over it. And, no, I wasn’t jealous, I was just… it was difficult for me to not think about you in that kind of way after hearing that,” you ramble on, nerves getting to you now.

“I thought that we liked each other, so, thought you’d be jealous,” he explains, scratching his head while slowly kicking his feet. It was too early in the morning for… whatever this was. “Do we? Do you like me?” You ask, trying to form a cohesive thought. Luffy was making it difficult. “I really like you. I thought you knew that,” he giggles, laying back again. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

Did he not feel awkward at all? Maybe it was just you . You were putting too much thought into it. “Then I guess we do like each other,” you finally sigh. It felt better for it to be out in the open than kept tucked away, anyways. “Do you wanna know what I was thinking about?” Luffy asks softly, filling the silence. You lie down next to him, raising a brow. “When I was getting off,” he clarifies.

Would it be weird to say yes? “Sure,” you mumble, eyes locked on the grey-ish ceiling that was clearly worn down. “I was thinking about you doing it for me. ‘Cus I think I’d rather you do it, than me,” he tells. You got that feeling in your stomach again, a burning fire that demanded attention. “Do you want to?” He follows up, clearly not satisfied with your silence. “Right now,” you ask, completely surprised.

“Yeah. Unless you don’t wanna go so fast. Then you don’t have to,” he tells, propping his head up so he could look at you better. Your heart was way too quick and your thighs were reacting before your brain could. The subtle press of them didn’t fly over Luffy’s head. Sanji had told him way too much about women. “If you want to,” you nod, throat feeling dry. Luffy looks straight into your eyes. You never knew what he was thinking. “I want you to want to. Don’t do it just for me,” he says firmly.

“I want to,” you tell him. “I do.” He stares a little longer, finally scooting closer. Putting a hand on the side of your face, he pressed a small kiss to your nose. After a moment of hesitation, he moved on to your lips. It was clear that he was inexperienced; the kiss was all over the place, and lasted a little bit too long for what it was, but you didn’t mind. Your head was spinning, anyways. For whatever reason, Luffy begins to giggle again. “What?” You pull back, unable to keep yourself from joining in on his laughter.

“I’m just happy,” he tells you, kissing your cheek. “I like kissing you.” It isn’t long before you feel him beginning to gently rub himself against your leg. After a few more kisses, he reaches down, unbuttoning his shorts. You don’t know why you were surprised to see him drop his pants so casually. “I don’t know if I can wait any longer.” He always was impatient. It didn’t bother you, though. You were more caught up in the moment. Nervous, aroused, and caught up in anticipation.

“Look. You do it like this,” he instructs, taking your hand and rubbing it against his hardened cock. “I know. I just… I’m nervous,” you explain. You had been trying not to look. You wanted to look, you just couldn’t. “Then you don’t have to. We can stop,” he hums, pulling his hand away from yours. “I want to keep going.” You finally muster up the confidence to look down, gently moving your hand up and down his shaft, that was beginning to leak just because you were so pretty.

Luffy lets out a little breath, putting his hand back on yours. “Squeeze it.” He looks up, remembering his manners. “Please.” A word as simple as please fed the flames in your stomach, and you were quick to really go for it this time. You gently rub a small circle around his tip with your index finger, spreading the precum that was dripping down his balls now. Luffy grabs your wrist, letting out a breathy moan. You continue on, lightly running your fingers over the spot right under the head, his cock immediately twitching. “Feels good,” Luffy mumbles, putting a hand on your knee.

“You like this,” you ask, rubbing the tip again, and he nods, but moves your hand to his shaft. “Like it, but ‘s too much. Right here, rub here.” His face had grown pink, and he couldn’t seem to hold back a smile. “You’re doing really good. So good,” Luffy assures, pulling the sleeves to your sweater up to your elbows. He thought of the little things like that, even if he wasn’t one for thinking.

Dragging your hand up and down his throbbing dick, you realized how intimate the moment felt. There was no longer this odd pressure in your chest or a dark fog surround your brain. Your nerves subsided and you felt heat rising in your own body. You were snapped back into reality when you found the perfect amount of pressure and the right speed. Luffy began to grunt with each agonizing pump. “I’m ‘bout to cum. I can do it if you want. It’s messy,” he tells, looking up at the ceiling.

“‘S okay. I don’t mind a mess,” you mumble, twisting your hand at the tip and using your free hand to carefully squeeze his balls, seeing what worked and what didn’t. Finally, you could see his stomach tense, Luffy letting out a heavy groan as the built up tension finally released in an explosion. “Thank you, pretty, shit, shit, shit,” he mumbles. “Keep going a little,” he requests, putting his hand over yours so you could help him ride out his high.

After it’s all over, he cleans up, meeting you back at his door. He wraps you up in his arms, swaying side to side. “It feels better when it’s you. Tomorrow I’ll do something for you, ‘kay?” He whispers, stepping outside with you. “‘Kay,” you grin, pulling away from his hug.

What the fuck just happened?

.

this was lowkey butt

ITS OKAY THOUGH ILL DO WAYYYY BETTER WHEN IM NOT SO TIRED AND HAVE A GOOD IDEA

[luveline]

𝐰𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥

part one | chapter list

new visitors in Jackson inspire strong feelings, in both you and Joel. 

cw: super protective joel, all cards on the table slow burn, complicated everything, eventual scary joel, more cw to be added later

જ⁀➴　

The Tipsy Bison is intimate in its capacity. It’s not unlikely to let yourself in and be able to greet each person inside with familiarity —there’s Jesse at the bar talking to Astrid; there’s Eugene at the back with a battered old book; there’s Joel Miller and his rambunctious, not-so-little charge sharing a sandwich. You’re used to it. You’ve come to expect to see your community and nobody else, even the vaguely less familiar. 

S’why tonight sucks. 

“Is this really… you know, is this a good idea?” 

Jesse is younger than you, but he’s nice enough. He can see you’re not comfortable in the crowd and he’s cordoned you off. “Apparently. Maria trusts him.” 

‘Him’ being Jonathan, a travelling tradesman from a small community of only twelve people. Five men, four women, three children. Maria knew the leader from a time before Jackson, and she trusts him enough to give him the secret of Jackson, which is a big deal. 

The idea of losing what you have here makes you feel nauseous. You have to trust Maria, is all, because she wouldn’t wanna lose it either. 

“Do we…” You squeeze your hands nervously without finishing Joel’s sentence. 

Jesse frowns at you. “Why don’t you go sit with Mr. Miller, if you’re so freaked?” 

Mr. Miller is his teasing. Somehow, someway, one of the kids (who don’t seem to be kids anymore) figured you out. It’s not a big deal, you’re not sure you’d even go so far as to call it a crush. It’s an appreciation. You like Joel. Like his nose, his brown eyes, his hands. You like how he stands against doorways and how sometimes, late at night, you’ll walk home and see him sitting on the porch with a candle at his feet. Ellie with him, alone, but always with a dinky acoustic guitar, strumming away quietly, picking at strings. He must learn by ear. You like the way he speaks to people. 

Don’t worry, he says, a smidge pissed. Or, genuine, Could you move, honey? 

That’s how you got caught. Joel called you ‘honey’ without meaning anything by it and you must’ve looked a shade too close to pleased. By the next day, Ellie herself was sidling up to you outside the stables to ask about your lil ole crush. “I can make myself scarce,” she’d said, rolling the words around in a way that hinted at their pre-rehearsal, even as she laughed. “Just tell me when.” 

You look down at your glass of gin. “What business do I have sitting with Joel Miller?” you ask lightly.

You’re not trying to convince Jesse —again, the kids know. You don’t care, so long as they keep it to themselves. Troubling Joel is the last thing you wanna do. He looks tired tonight. Long trip out with Tommy, maybe, or on pins like everybody else now that the bar is full of strangers. 

Said strangers give a raucous bubble of laughter. The electricity is a marvel, the booze a delight, and they sit entranced by the small roller TV, warmed by old malt whisky and the space heater under their table. A fire rips in the kitchen, crackling, and it’s enough to make you flinch. 

“I think I’m gonna head home,” you tell Jesse, not loving the sympathy lining his eyes and brows. 

“Don’t be a coward.” He’s joking, and he softens as he adds, “If that’ll make you feel better, sure. Go home.” 

“What’s that mean?” 

He shrugs. “Seriously. If you can’t handle it, don’t suffer.” 

It’s not your dream to spend the evening with the young ones, anyhow. You’d hoped Tommy would be sitting with Joel, ‘cos Tommy tries to set Joel up every now and then with the available ladies of the commune. And you, pretending it’s a joke you’re in on and not a real reason to sit, always laugh and sit and try your best to flirt, just a little. Joel was frosty to begin with, kinder now. Whenever he sees Tommy beckoning you over, you can’t help thinking that he’s relieved it’s you sitting down. His shoulders relax. 

You give him a last look, not longing but getting there. He’s nursing a dark glass sitting beside the sandy-haired man in charge of the laundromat. Keith, maybe. They’re not talking, frowning in sync as the table of tradesmen once again reaches a fever pitch. 

He turns to you, sensing your gaze. You offer an uneasy smile. Hadn’t meant to. The group of outsiders is making you feel sick. 

His frown stays in place, but his eyes change. They don’t soften, but they shift. His hand uncurls from his glass. 

“Hi.”

You feel your eyes move of their own accord as a man steps in front of your view. The lightbulb by the door flickers. You blink at this new stranger. 

He’s handsome, almost Clooney-like, Thin Red Line but gruff. He has a few strands of salt in his beard, but he’s not much older than you are, you’d wager. 

“Hey,” you say, a question mark suggested at the end. 

“I’m Jamie.” 

“Hi, Jamie.” 

He smiles lightly. “This is usually where you give your own name.” 

You think about turning then and there, a thread of you that knows you don’t have to go through anything that makes you uncomfortable, but just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. You give him your name against your wants, and he asks if he can buy you a drink. 

“It’s a commune,” you say, not sure if he’s kidding. “Drinks are free, so long as you don’t jerk Seth around.” 

“Right, of course they are. It’s a shame, I wouldn’t have minded.” 

You know this is where you’re supposed to say something obligingly forgiving: It’s okay, do you wanna sit down? But you’d rather not. 

It’s not like he really likes you. Clean intimacy is hard to come by. 

“Have you lived here long?” he asks. 

“Uh, couple years. Great years.” Should you try to sell it? You could spin a lie. Jackson is the worst and nobody should ever want to raid it. “Living in a commune is the hard part, there’s not much time to rest.” 

“Seems alright now.” 

He’s right. The evening’s are often your own to do as you like. “Not too bad,” you agree quietly. 

Jamie has cloudy blue eyes, light in the light and dark in the dark. He turns his head and seems fiercer than you’d expected him to be. Your mind is playing childish tricks. You’re too old for monsters, but he seems off, then. 

“I’m going home now. Nice to meet you,” you say. 

He frowns. It’s nothing like Joel’s. “Okay, yeah. Have a good night, sweetheart.” 

You rush out of the double doors of the Bison and skirt around the wall until you’re hidden. Jackson’s hardly ever dark, but there are shadows to retreat to when you’re not feeling right. You press yourself into an alcove, feel the chill of the stone behind you seeping into your back like water, frozen air kissing your cheeks. The cold isn’t in the wind, it’s everywhere, and after half a minute your nose feels like it’s hurting. A couple seconds later and the door is whipping open. 

Joel cuts right down the path toward your shared street. 

You rush after him, your shoes packing snow, alerting him to another presence. 

“Oh,” he says, whipping his head to yours. “What’re you doing standing out here?” 

“Nothing– wanted some air. You going home?” You wipe your cheek. “Can I walk with you?” 

“Hey, are you okay?” 

You sniffle. The change in temperature does it to you every time. Any transition from warm to cold makes your nose run like a faucet. “I’m tired.” 

Joel’s eyes dart inside. “What did that jackass want?” 

“Nothing. Asking me for a drink or something, I don’t know. I told him Seth and Cory make them.” You sniffle again, self-conscious as you rub your wet nose. 

“He upset you?” 

“No, no, it’s real cold, that’s all,” you rush out, trekking a bump of snow to stand beside him, the reality of his face closer and finer. You can feel the scratch of his scruff under your fingers without touching it. He has a scar on the left side of his cheek still red with newness. “How’d you get that?” You point to your own. 

“Pulled a nail out of a doorframe, I was standing too close.” 

“Did it hurt?” 

“Did it hurt?” he asks.

“Yeah.” 

“No, it’s hardly a scratch. What about you? He hurt you?” 

“Jamie?” 

“I don’t know his name. Did he?” 

You shake your head. Joel’s like this. He doesn’t smile for nothing, but he’s the first one to offer you a hand if you fall on your ass. ”Didn’t so much as touch me.” 

“So why’re you crying?” he asks. 

You’re lost. 

“If he touched you, said something to you, anything, I’ll take care of it,” he says firmly. “They aren’t here to do whatever they want, nobody gets to upset you, not here.” 

You wipe your eyes again. The cold, you think, is making you glossy-eyed and sad. Joel must’ve caught you looking earlier and figured you were asking for help. “You came out here looking for me?” you ask.

“You didn’t look happy.” 

“I’m not. I don’t like new people. Don’t like what might happen if they won’t keep Jackson a secret.” 

“Nobody’s gonna get you in here, honey.” He ducks his head, his hand judging your arm. “Alright?” Less sure of himself, he clasps your elbow. “Alright?” he asks again. 

“I’m okay. It’s just cold.”

“Warm ya’ up,” he mumbles, letting his hand slide behind your back. “Head home and stoke a fire, that’s what we’re gonna do.” 

“You don’t have to, Joel. I’m really fine, I am, it’s the sniffles–”

“‘M gonna take you home,” he says surely. “I’ll feel better if I can keep an eye on you now, ‘til you’re feeling alright.” 

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything at all as he leads you down the snow-packed road from the Tipsy Bison to the neighbourhood street. In five minutes you’re at his door, he’s pushing it open, shouting down into the garage to see if Ellie’s home. He’s taking off his coat and tossing it over the bannister, hands open, expecting you to do the same. 

You shrug out of it and pass it over. He puts it with a hell of a lot more care beside his own. 

“C’mon,” he says quietly, “this way.” 

He stokes the embers in the fireplace. Throws a couple of logs in when they start to glow. Adds some scrap paper, a conservative splash of fire starter. The heat starts to nip your fingers, like a painful pinging you can’t shake. 

“What?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at your shaking hands. 

“Just hurting.” 

“Your hands?” He takes your wrists into his hands and holds the bottoms of your hands to his chest. “You gotta be careful. Frostbite don’t take long to set in.” 

“I don’t have frostbite, it’s ’cos it’s warm now, it’s– it’s like getting in the bath too soon.” 

Joel’s hardened, sure. But there isn’t one person living in Jackson now who doesn’t have at least one good thing to say about him. Joel fixed my front door, found my bike a new tire, took my kid for an hour when I felt like I was gonna explode.Youve heard the bad with the good, whispers of what he did before he got to Jackson, and the rumour of what he did after. Thing is, you can see past it. You’ve done cruel shit too. 

He doesn’t feel cruel as he rubs your fingers back to life. “What do you mean? Getting in the bath too soon?” he asks quietly.

“When it’s cold, and it’s always cold here, and I get into the bathtub as soon as I get home from the stables, it makes my hands do what they’re doing now…” You shudder as he presses them flat to his chest and covers them. “You’re gonna make it worse,” you murmur, tepid teasing. 

“The quicker you warm up, the quicker it goes away,” he says. He’s smiling, and his voice is all full of something sweet, like it’s rolling around in his mouth before he uses it. 

“I really don’t like these new people.” 

“Yeah, me neither. They won’t be here long, couple more days.” 

“That Jamie guy… I don’t know, guess I wasn’t as nice to him as I should’ve been, he didn’t want anything. Well–”

“He wanted something.” 

“I know that, but– it’s not a crime, is it? Doesn’t everybody want that?” 

“He’d be blind if he didn’t want it with you, honey,” Joel says. 

There’s that word again, tacked at the end of an implication that makes you go white hot. 

For once, he notices your reaction. “Shit,” he says, “sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t mean it like that. You’re beautiful.” He shakes his head. “Shit,” he says under his breath. 

“…Thank you, Joel.” He’s holding you awfully tight, really, saying this stuff. You’re grown. You know what it means; can’t pretend it away, can’t will or while it into an insecure maybe. He can’t want me, I’m me. But Joel wouldn’t do this to you if he didn’t feel something for you, even if all that something is is just thinking you’re beautiful. “I think you’re handsome, too, you know.” 

He transfers both of your hands to one of his, the other coming up behind his neck in a show of bashfulness you aren’t sure is real or not. “Ellie mighta let something slip about that.” 

“What sort of something?” 

“Said you might like me. You know.” 

What were you thinking, back at the Bison? It’s not a crush, it’s worse, you’re totally fucked because he’s looking at you like he wants to lean in and kiss you, and he’s solid enough to do it, to take you by the shoulders and tip your head to the side with a nudge of his nicely shaped nose, he could kiss you sick. 

Joel Miller, you think, frowning at him softly, please don’t mess me up. 

“Took you long enough to find out,” you say. 

“You think I didn’t notice? I was waiting on you to come clean.” 

“And this has nothing to do with Jamie?” you ask, heart popping under your ribs in a panic that you might actually like feeling. 

“Of course it has to do with Jamie, j’s not all of it.” He ducks his gaze. “I don’t like seeing you like that, all antsy, and I really don’t like seeing you crying.” 

“I wasn’t crying,” you say with a soft laugh, sure you’re about to be kissed, “I was cold.” 

He lets go of your hand and begins rubbing twin lines up and down your arms. “Shit,” he says, potty mouth, “I was doing something about that. Let me get you a blanket. I got a huge one up in the bedroom, you stay here.” 

Leaving you blinking next to the crackling fire. Unkissed, and without an invitation. 

“You want a cup of coffee?” he calls from the stairs, looking down at you, wearing an expression you can’t decipher. “You go on and help yourself, honey.” 

You nod at him until he carries on upstairs. Coffee is the last thing on your mind, but you find your way into Joel’s shining kitchen and warm the coffee pot, pouring a brew in a ceramic mug, the scratch-owl drawn on its side bumpy to the touch.

You get to thinking. You’d wanted to be kissed, but what if Joel actually kisses you, big hands on your face, weight between your legs? He’s bringing down that big blanket to cover you up, both of you, ‘cos even with the fire it’s too cold to get undressed without one–

“You alright?” Joel asks when he returns, a throw blanket slung over his shoulder. “You look jittery.” 

You swallow roughly and wave a shy hand. Just the coffee, you explain. 

[ellecdc]

ignore me

poly!wolfstar x afab!reader who is very good at ignoring Sirius [611 words]

CW: fem!reader, p in v intercourse, explicit sexual content, pure smut, porn without plot, thinly veiled degradation if you squint, Sirius has an ignore kink, Remus likes to watch Sirius be ignored, based off of the idea from this anon

Remus stroked himself lazily with a cruel smirk on his face as he watched Sirius become desperate, a whimper nearly falling from the long-haired boy's lips as he readjusted his bruising grip on your waist and pounded into you with renewed vigour. 

“How’re you doing there, dove?” Remus asked lowly, fighting back a chuckle at Sirius’ broken laugh turned cry when he couldn’t even manage to get attention from Remus right now.

You looked over as though you were surprised that you had company at all. 

“Not too bad,” you replied evenly, “almost done the chapter, actually.” 

You held the novel up as if to prove your point, paying no mind to the fact that your current seat was Sirius’ lap as he thrusted up into you. 

“Yeah?” Remus continued, vowels stretched and consonants breathy as he thumbed a bead of precum from the tip of his cock before spreading it over the rest of his shaft. “How’re you enjoying it?”

You made a displeased so-so sound as you tilted your head back and forth, causing Sirius’ brows to furrow as he let out a pained whimper. 

“I expected more, honestly.” You offered flippantly. “Found myself nearly bored; it could hardly keep my attention.” 

Sirius nearly wailed before he pulled you roughly down onto his cock, holding you there in a way that had even Remus’ balls tightening at how impossibly deep his boyfriend was currently inside of you. But he couldn’t bring himself to be jealous of Sirius, not when you so expertly recovered from what Remus was sure was about to be a moan of pleasure that you turned into a disappointed sigh. 

Remus quickened the strokes on his own cock as Sirius returned to a steady rhythm from beneath you; he didn’t know how you could manage to continue ‘reading’ without getting motion sickness at the constant up and down, but he figured you had your motives. 

Your skirt was bunched up around your waist, crumpled between Sirius’ tight fists in the bruising grip he had on your sides as he worked you over his cock, drops of sweat trailing down his jaw that caused the hairs that had fallen loose early on in his desperation for your attention to stick to his face; black tendrils of hair plastered in high contrast to his alabaster skin that was taking on a beautiful pinkish hue. 

Remus pitied him.

“Awe dovey, come on. Is he not being a good boy for you?” He cooed near pathetically.

Your brows furrowed. “Who?”

Sirius let out a choked sound as his head fell back in agony. 

A similar sound nearly fell from Remus’ own lips as the sound produced another bead of precum, further slicking up his throbbing cock. 

“You’re making him feel so good, babydove. Isn’t she Sirius?” Remus narrated, earning him eager and enthusiastic head nods from your boyfriend who you still weren’t paying any mind. 

You merely smiled over at Remus as you chewed none too innocently on your bottom lip.

“You’re really not gonna acknowledge him?” He chuckled. 

You made a sound as though you were thinking about it causing Sirius to nearly pant like a fucking dog.

“Maybe next time.”

Sirius made a broken sound as his movements stuttered, managing two more quick pumps up into you before he was cumming with a cry.

He caught his breath by resting his forehead against the space between your shoulder blades, and you allowed him the respite. 

Remus didn’t.

“Alright Pads, hand ‘er over.” Remus said as he stood, kicking his trousers off the rest of the way before he was pulling you up off of Sirius’ cock. “My turn.” 

[revelboo]

love your stuff so much, you bless us day after day with such wonderful writing... and lately there's been moments of multiple bots daydreaming about making babies with their human mates and that really got my gears turning... that's my kink!! i can't help but want to worldbuild around justifying it!!

so i wanted to share my thoughts on how a transformer could babytrap his squishy lover: nanites build things, right? so if they repair the wear & tear of the human body, what if they can also take advantage of a partner with the necessary hardware for gestation if there's, ahem, enough regular injections of fluid... maybe it's an adaptation for colonizing and cyberforming other planets, breeding out the original inhabitants that way, or maybe it's an astronomical coincidence unique to human biology and this discovery shifts the entire tone of how cybertronians interact with them. which do you prefer?

I might have some ideas on that… Happy New Year

Everything Is Alright Pt 100

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• No longer restricted to feeling only your emotions or quick flashes of images, Soundwave can see you. All of you. And can feel you drifting through him. Avoiding him when he reaches for you. Denying him. Chasing after you, drawn desperately by the warmth and brightness of you, he’s aware of a duller, less distinct shape shadowing you. Knows it’s the vestiges of your existing bond with Starscream, the form enough like the Seeker even as it isn’t quite right. A different frame, but he recognizes that crackling animosity every time he almost catches you only to have you slip thought his servos.

• Drowning in Soundwave’s memories, his need, you’re dimly aware of Starscream yelling, his fury and worry lashing at you through the bond. Of Soundwave’s hips rocking against you, his spike stroking deep. Of him reaching for you again and again. Wanting to submit, but every time he gets close, a jangling, desperate terror you don’t understand sends you fleeing. Wanting him, but worried even though you can’t figure out why, feeling like you’re in danger even though you trust him.

• Your distress hurts him, that ungrounded fear of him tearing at his spark. Because you don’t really think he’d harm you, he can feel that. So why? That shadow of Starscream curls more firmly around you as he reaches again, unable to stop himself. And finally overtakes you, dragging your light to himself and claiming it, feeling Starscream’s bond prickle through him, all resentment, hate, and fear and he claims that, too. Knowing there’s no way to separate you from it. And both of you rush into him, seeing all of you and the Seeker even as you curl into yourself, trying to keep something hidden.

• Wanting nothing more than to relax into the warmth and belonging of Soundwave, that unconscious fear is still there, making you struggle as he coaxes at you. Wrapping himself more firmly in you, overwhelming you with his life. With flashes of memory and emotion until you submit to him. Feel him washing into you, nothing hidden or secret. And also feeling when he hesitates. His realization becoming your own.

• “You son of a glitch,” Starscream seethes, servos flexing. Unable to just yank Soundwave off of you because he doesn’t know what abruptly severing the bond will do to you. If it might harm you and unwilling to risk it. Then you make a noise, lips parting as Soundwave shudders and lifts up slightly, ending the connection himself. Stray tendrils of spark energy reaching as Soundwave closes the panels around his spark and gathers you to him. Watching you press your face into his neck as Soundwave stares at him, furious. “Give me my mate. Now.”

• Venting raggedly, Soundwave awkwardly sits up, keeping you in his lap as you lay against him, heart racing. Because what he’d felt, what you’d been unconsciously protecting? It shouldn’t have been possible. No more possible than spark bonding without a spark. Hand cupping the back of your head, he catches Starscream’s wrist when he tries to take you from him. Ruthlessly digging through the Seeker’s mind before letting go to send Starscream stumbling back, furious. Because the Seeker doesn’t know what he did. Has no idea. “Our mate,” Soundwave snarls protectively. Their mate who somehow has a very fragile, newly formed, and wholly impossible spark entangled in themself. Hand sliding against your spine as you tremble, he knows you know now. That you knew the moment he did through the bond. “With sparkling,” he says, because sooner or later, no matter how self obsessed and oblivious the Seeker is, he’s going to figure it out himself and he feels you cringe.

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[pencil-n-pen]

Princess ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

⊹‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

leon kennedy x fem!reader

Summary: Being an independent woman and a full time student is all fun and games until final’s season. Luckily, your not-quite academic rival Leon Kennedy is there to pick you up when you fall.

cw: Female pronouns and description used for reader but nothing detailed (no skin color, eye color, hair type, body type, etc.) This is basically just an x reader for my independent eldest daughters who do nothing but their absolute best all the time everyday and deep down want a hot guy with beefy arms to let them relax for a minute. So i guess expect the related issues that come with being an eldest daughter?

Tags/tropes: hurt/comfort, dom! leon if you squint, leon’s very touchy, leon being a gentleman!! probably ooc, i kinda struggled finding his voice :/

wc: 3.3k

a/n: wowee so i’m not rlly looking to be a full time author or anything but i could NOT get this idea out of my head and i figured i could give back to the tumblr fic community <3 here’s to everyone who wants hurt/comfort without smut, incest, or a needlessly specific reader! hope everyone’s recovering well from finals!

— ‎ ‧₊˚ 𓂃౨ৎ

The first time it happened, it honestly, truly, was an accident. A mistake, if you will. You would never willingly fall asleep on a random guy at a party. That is all kinds of bad for a number of reasons.

However. There were some… extenuating circumstances.

Finals. They’re a make-or-break for the first semester. Mostly just a break. In the sense that you contemplated how upset your parents would be at you if you dropped out and if the subsequent disowning would be worth it.

You did finals the same way you did everything. You worked. Studied. Borderline obsessed over it. Romanticized it so you could push through when the other’s resolve started dropping. Stayed home. Your friends bemoaned your “no-fun attitude” but they’re crying over their grades and you’re not, so.

Well. Actually you’re definitely crying over your grades, almost every day in fact. But not because they’re bad. Just because you’re tired. Really tired. The kind of tired that makes people have public breakdowns. But you can’t afford to have a public breakdown because you have to succeed at college and you have to work in order to stay on top of your bills and be able to send some money home to your family and make sure you have time to call your parents and make time for your sister to call you and vent because you didn’t have a you at her age and you wish you did so you have to be there for her and your friends need you to be there for them not to mention planning for how you’re going to use your degree after you graduate and—

Most of the time you try not to think about it.

So finals were over. And everyone wanted to celebrate. And you did, you promise. You’re totally the party girl type. Totally. (Maybe if you say it enough times it’ll come true?)

You don’t hate parties. You like dressing up and going out. It’s fun! It’s just… not your idea of an unwind. Not after you nearly ran yourself into the ground for a month straight for the sake of academic validation. You’d prefer to sleep for 72 hours straight. And maybe watch a movie at home in the sweatshirt you cried over your textbooks in. Maybe over a glass of wine? You’re not really sure. Relaxing never really goes well for you. It’s either depression-bed-rotting or full productivity.

Needless to say, you weren’t exactly thrilled to find yourself at this party. You’re not really sure how your friends convinced you.

But you’re here, in makeup and an outfit you like (you’re thankful this isn’t one of the ‘put on a tight dress and dance’ parties) and you just honestly want to go to bed. It’s a house party, so it’s not nearly as crazy as some of the other parties you’ve been (read: dragged) to, but still.

You’re on the couch, ignoring the smell of alcohol in the air and pretending the pounding baseline of the music coming from the speaker in the kitchen isn’t starting to give you a headache.

Ada Wong, a girl you’ve hesitantly dubbed your party friend, is sitting on your left, while the guy you can never quite tell what he is to her, is sitting on your right.

Leon Kennedy.

On a good day, Leon Kennedy is a smart, brooding, annoyingly capable guy who you share some of your classes with. On a bad day, he’s the bane of your existence. On a really bad day, you fantasize about all the ways you could kill him and turn the experience into a really good term paper.

It’s complicated. You’re smart. He’s smart. You tend to clash because neither of you like backing down from a challenge.

But right now, in this moment, at this party, the only thing you can think about is how fucking tired you are and how warm he is.

The music is so loud it drowns everything out in your brain. The few thoughts that make it through the overwhelm of sound are fuzzy and staticky. The cling and slip around in your head like syrup. The worst parts about parties are, funnily enough, working to cancel out the main reason you can’t fall asleep in your own bed at night: overthinking.

That and the fact that you haven’t sleep in forty-eight hours. An energy drink and an iced coffee count as a full nights sleep, right? You’re sure the heart palpitations are normal.

You manage to keep up with the steady flow of the group conversation, but as the night wears on, talking becomes harder and harder and just plain processing the words being said slowly turns into an impossible task. At some point, someone else squeezed onto the couch— you think it might be Chris? Ada did say he was coming late— so now you’re pressed against the one and only Leon Kennedy, and he’s radiating heat like a furnace.

Like you, he opted for a slightly more casual approach to the house party. Of course, he’s a guy, so his wardrobe was probably never that big, but still. It’s nice to see someone else in a sweatshirt and jeans.

You at least put on your favorite jeans! You call them your hot jeans, for self explanatory reasons. So what if you’re wearing an oversized sweatshirt? It’s cold!

You jolt in place, not realizing your eyes had slipped close and the conversation had continued on without you. Something prickles in the back of your head. An instinctual sort of thing.

Don’t fall asleep in public places.

Don’t fall asleep at someone’s house you don’t know.

You know the owner of the house, you think. You’ve been here once or twice. But you don’t know everyone at the party and where your friends have gone because they’re not in the group talking here and you should probably stand up soon, to wake yourself up, don’t let your friends down, don’t be that girl who falls asleep at the party, don’t—

You jolt again.

Wake up. You tell yourself. Leon’s looking at you out of the corner of his eye, but you ignore it.

It feels like a record skip. You’ll blink, and the conversation isn’t the same as when you first closed your eyes. The song isn’t the same. Were the lights always this bright?

“Whew!” Ada whistles from above. When did she stand up? “Someone’s got final’s exhaustion written all over their face!”

The group laughs and you do too, but it sounds different. Leon doesn’t. Why isn’t he laughing?

You jolt again. Harder this one. A full body shake. You wince as your knee knocks into Leon’s.

“Sorr—“

“Stop that.” He grumbles, and oh. A warm, solid hand snakes around your waist and pulls you closer. Closed to that warm, stupidly comfortable side.

This is wrong. It’s Leon. It’s Leon. You can’t. And this is a party, and your friends are here—

“Stop being stupid,” You can feel his chest rumble from where your cheek is pressed flush against it, and when did that happen? He picks up your left arm and drapes it across his stomach, then picks up your right arm and wraps it around his lower pack. “Squeeze.”

You listen, and wow. Who has time to go to the gym this much and be an academic rival? You feel like you’re slacking. Maybe you need to make time to get some—

“I can hear you thinking,” He says, voice deep and rumbly. It’s honestly a miracle you can hear him over the music. It’s probably because your face is pressed against his chest. If you strain, you can feel the dull thud of his heart.

“You have a heart?” You say, half-delirious with exhaustion. It comes out more as a question than a statement

“Mhm,” He rumbles. “I am in possession of one. Great observation princess.”

You frown into his chest. “Why are you always so mean? You call me that stupid name. I’m not a princess.”

“I’m not mean. Whoever said princess was a mean nickname? You decided that on your own.”

“Then how come you call me that?”

“Because,” He huffs, repositioning to a more slouched position that’s more comfortable for your neck. The arm tightens around your waist.

It’s nice. It’s possessive. Protective. No one’s ever really done that for you before. Usually it’s you doing the protecting.

You don’t want to relax. You can’t. You can’t.

“Because,” He continues, “Princesses need to be taken care of. Especially smart, stubborn princesses who never pause for one second. Not even when they should.”

You should get up. Apologize for how weird you’re being. Have another coffee or energy drink. Join the party. Do something that isn’t this.

“Go to sleep,” He says, his voice like a warm blanket settling and slipping into your mind. “Nothing‘s going to happen to you while I’m here. No one is going to be mad at you for sleeping. And if they are, I’ll kick their ass. Go to sleep.”

It’s easy to give in after that.

You sag, boneless. Like a puppet with it’s strings cut. You inhale deeply, breathing in the deep, rich scent that’s distinctly Leon.

Just for a few minutes. Because Leon’s watching. He won’t let something happen to you. Just for a few minutes. You’ll get up soon. You will.

He tucks you closer to him. “Sleep.”

You’re out like a light.

—

“No way, she’s actually asleep?”

“Holy shit Leon, did you drug her?”

“I did not.”

“Well, thanks, for whatever weird magic-spell you cast. Seriously. We’re all starting to get worried about her. She doesn’t take any breaks and she doesn’t let anyone help. Last week a librarian found her asleep on the printer. Fully standing.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m going to start inviting you to our apartment if it means she’ll actually get some fucking sleep. It’s unsettling finding her in the same position as when I left like, six hours beforehand.”

“Don’t worry. She’s in good hands.”

—

It’s horrific, running into him in the library.

What makes it more horrible is the fact that you’re ugly crying silently in the English textbook section, because it’s always empty. You’re ugly crying in the English textbook section of the university library and Leon Kennedy just walked into the aisle.

You sniff, lifting your head from your knees to stare up at him from the ground. He has a knack for finding you at your lowest, it would seem.

“We’ve got to stop seeing each other like this, princess.”

“Oh?” You sniff hard, running a hand across your face as if that will clear up your red rimmed, puffy eyes, the tear tracks on your face, or the flush on your nose. The action at least wipes away the snot. “I wasn’t aware you ever fell asleep on me at a party. Did I ever find you crying in the English textbook section of the library?”

He tilts his head. “Why the English textbook section? It’s one of your best subjects.”

“It’s the emptiest section. Plus, anyone looking for an English textbook at this hour isn’t going to bat an eye at me.” You wrap your arms around your legs and hug them to your chest. “What are you doing here?”

“One of your roommates called Ada. They said you haven’t been home since this morning. They thought you might’ve been at hers, or with me.”

You snort. “It’s like they don’t even know me.”

He rolls his eyes. “I think they were hoping you’d be there. I think anyone who knows you knew you’d be here.”

“Crying in the English section?”

“In the library, dumbass.”

He stalks forward, leaning back against the bookshelf across from you and sliding his hands into his sweatpants pockets.

“Tell me. Is your pathological avoidance to asking for help conscious or not?”

You kick out, one shoed foot catching him in the shins. “Dick.”

He shrugs. “Just want to know. I can’t exactly gloat over scoring two points above you if you’re not in top form. I want a fair fight.”

“Is that what you're here for?” You ask suddenly, everything in your body going rigid. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” He says calmly. “I’m here because you’re being stupid again. You know what’s not healthy, or smart?”

He gestures to you. You, sitting on the floor, tears drying on your face. “This. Going out to parties to make your friends happy when you should be at home, sleeping. Studying for so long you end up looking like your boyfriend of eight years just broke up with you. Come on, princess. Where’s those brains you brag about?”

“They’re up here,” You tap your forehead. Against your will, your eyes burn, tears welling up, your face tightening. “And they’re tired.”

You drop your head into your hands, forgoing your silent crying of earlier in the place of open mouth sobbing. You can’t help it. You’re just so tired. So done with it all. With trying to keep up, with trying to make space, with trying to make time. With doing your best and it not being enough. You’re tired of being tired.

“Annnd there it is. Come here.”

He lowers himself to the floor next to you, tucking you close in a similar fashion as that night at the party.

“Come on, same thing as before. Hold onto me. Give yourself a minute.”

You wrap your arms around his middle, same way as last time, burying your face into his shoulder. Someone could see. Someone you know might see you crying and think—

He reaches a hand up and pulls the hood of your sweatshirt over your head.

“There. Now no one can see your face. Stop worrying. Just cry, princess.”

You sniffle. “I’m getting snot on your sweatshirt.”

“It’s had worse on it.”

“Gross.”

You can practically feel the eye roll. “Can you stop being dirty-minded and focus on something productive? Like crying? Or not crying, if that would make you feel better.”

You shift, so your head is lying against his shoulder instead of smashed into it like before.

“Why do you care if I feel better?”

Why do you care?

He shrugs against you.

“Told you,” He pushes your hood back a bit, tapping you on the forehead with his pointer finger. “My competition’s no fun if she’s not taking care of herself. How else is she gonna kick my ass?”

“I can take care of myself just fine. I don’t need you to swoop in here, Leon.”

“Mhm,” He says. “And i’m sure you do great at it, considering you’re still alive and kicking my ass at those stupid socratic seminars. Consider this… self-care. In the face mask, getting your nails done way.”

“Who taught you self care?”

“Ada. We have face mask nights.”

You jolt up. “Is she—“

“She’s not my girlfriend, we’re not fucking, no she’s not going to be upset or care in any way about this. Calm down.”

You begrudgingly settle back against him.

“If anything,” He continues. “She’ll be excited to see you at more parties in the coming months.”

You frown. “I never said—“

“You only go to parties if your friends physically drag you or when you feel confident enough in your grades and the general state of your life. It’s really easy to tell which version of you shows up to the party. It’s the way you dress.”

“How so?”

He shifts slightly. Guilt twinges in your stomach as you realize how uncomfortable he must be.

“You wear your pick-me-up pants when you’re dragged there. The ones that make your ass look great.”

You sit up with a gasp. “My hot pants?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you call them?”

Your brain catches up to the rest of what he said. “Hold on. Did you just say—“

“I said what I said. I’m assuming there’s a reason you call them your hot pants.”

He smirks, and you flush.

“Moving onto more pressing matters,” He tilts his head at you. “You have two options this evening. Either I take you back to your place and you sleep in your own bed, or you come to my place and we binge watch the Oceans movies until you fall asleep.”

“How did you know I like the—“

“The icebreaker for club thing. You said they were your favorite movies.”

You look up at him. “You remembered?”

“You were wearing your hot jeans.”

“You’re the worst.”

He scans your face for a moment, eyes sparking with mirth and a little something less innocent. “Maybe.”

You sigh and lean back against him, exhaustion from all your crying hitting you at once.

“Nuh-uh, no sleeping here. You gotta pick one. My place or yours?”

You frown into his shoulder. “Ugh. Fine. Yours, but only because I wanna watch the Ocean’s movies. You better not have a disgusting frat house.”

“I do not. I do have popcorn and ice cream.”

“Ada bought those, didn’t she?”

“Nope,” He says, nudging you with his shoulder to stand. You clamber in gracefully to your feet, your head starting to pound. “Chris likes to have movie nights. It pays to be well stocked.”

Your cheeks warm as a large, steadying hand finds its way to the small of your back. “How many of my friends are you friends with?”

“I was friends with them first.”

“Ass.”

He chuckles incredulously. “For having friends?”

“Yes,” You say, letting him pull you to his side while you walk to your table where you left your stuff. Probably not the best idea to leave your entire net-worth unattended, but whatever. You were going through it. “How dare you.”

“Mmm. I see. My apologies, princess. I’ll tell Chris and Ada.”

“You get on that.”

You can’t help but smile as he helps you pack up your things, passing you items across the table and carefully zipping up your pencil case.

“Don’t touch my papers, I have a system.”

“Is the system absolute chaos?”

“Shut up.”

Once everything is packed up, you zip up your backpack, but before you can sling it on, Leon’s arm darts out and snags it right out from under you.

Your expression grows pinched. “I can carry my own bag, Leon.”

“I know you can.”

“Give me my bag.”

“No.”

You groan. “Why do you want to carry my bag?”

“See, there’s this thing called chivalry—“

“Oh my god, shut up. When have you and chivalry ever been synonymous?”

He shrugs. “Ever since I met the girl in the hot jeans who regularly kicks my ass academically.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Mmm,” He hums, wrapping an arm around your waist and walking you towards the doors to the library. “And you’re stubborn. Come on. Brad Pitt and George Clooney are waiting for you.”

You sigh dramatically, hiding a small smile in your hand.

Maybe you could get used to this.

♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ

[blackenedsnow]

SHADOW X MOBIAN!READER REQUEST PLEASE

Here’s a funny fanfic idea, Shadow finds out his gf is an active 4chan member so he looks into 4chan to y’know bond with each other more but he finds the interesting content on the sites like When 4chan sent Taylor swift to a deaf kid school, when 4chan tried to send Justin biber to North Korea,Mlp rainbow dash jar,the time they hacked a website so the founder of 4chan would be the number 1 of time 100 etc etc

dark corners

WARNING: None

PAIRING: Shadow the Hedgehog x Reader

NOTE: LMAO. This was such a fun idea to write! Hope you enjoy!

SUMMARY: Shadow, in an attempt to bond with you, stumbles across 4chan.... He just wanted to understand his girlfriend more.

"What is this?" Shadow muttered, his brow furrowing as his eyes scanned the glowing screen in front of him.

He had never considered himself a tech-savvy hedgehog, but recently, he had become curious about something you had mentioned in passing—your involvement in 4chan. At first, it seemed harmless enough, just another strange part of the world he didn't quite understand. But after hearing you talk about it with a strange mix of excitement and amusement, he figured he'd give it a shot.

"I’m sure it’s just a place for people to talk and share ideas," he'd told himself confidently. "It’ll be easy to understand. I’ll know more about her. We’ll bond."

The moment he typed “4chan” into the search bar, he realized that things weren’t going to be as simple as he’d hoped. The first thing he clicked on was a post about Taylor Swift almost being sent to a deaf school. He blinked, rereading it. Did they really do that?

Curiosity gnawed at him. He clicked deeper.

Then there was the one about Justin Bieber almost being sent to North Korea. Shadow's face twisted into a scowl. "What is wrong with these people?"

And then there were the pictures. The ones with Rainbow Dash. In a jar. Shadow leaned forward, squinting at the screen as his mind struggled to process what he was looking at.

His thoughts grew more complicated as he kept scrolling, he found posts about hacking, pranks, and more absurdities. The chaos of it all was overwhelming. He was beginning to feel like he had made a grave mistake, thinking he could understand the appeal of this “4chan.”

"How does this have anything to do with her?" he muttered to himself, trying to make sense of it. "This is pure madness."

Later that evening, you walked into the room, your eyes lighting up when you saw Shadow at the desk.

“Hey, Shadow! What’s up?” you asked, casually flopping onto the couch.

Shadow looked at you, a little uncomfortable. “I… I did what you said. I looked at 4chan. I thought I might understand you better.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And?”

Shadow hesitated, trying to collect his thoughts. “I… I don’t think I understand anything anymore.” He ran a hand through his quills in frustration. “Why would people… Why do they even do these things?”

You blinked, your lips twitching into a smile as you tried to hold back laughter. “Oh, you found that stuff, huh?”

“Found it? I was bombarded by it.” Shadow slumped into the chair, exasperated. “How can you enjoy a place like this?"

You chuckled, sitting up and giving him a playful look. “Yeah, it’s definitely weird. But that’s kind of the fun of it. It’s like... the internet's version of a circus. Weird stuff happens, and we just roll with it.”

Shadow sighed, rubbing his temples. “I feel like I’ve entered an alternate dimension. How is this supposed to help me understand you more?”

You smiled warmly, moving over to sit beside him. "Psh, who cares! Just appreciate it."

Shadow raised an eyebrow. “Appreciating chaos…” He took another look at the screen. “I suppose I did learn that I can’t understand a single thing that happens here. But... I’m still willing to try.”

Your grin softened, and you gently took his hand. "Hey, if you find yourself getting lost, at least you know now why I laugh so hard at this stuff.”

Shadow sighed, looking at the screen again. “If I must… But if I see one more pony....jar.... I swear I’ll…” He trailed off, trying to think of a fitting threat. But he couldn’t help but let out a short laugh. Maybe this was something they could bond over.

[renren-006]

Emporor Lucius | Lucius Verus x fem reader

plot: old friends and Lucius coming back into your life as the emperor after being a gladiator. (has a tad bit of similar plot to my other story)

a/n: i wanted another old freinds to lovers story so here it is! please enjoy! let me know of any other story ideas! also thank you so much for the love on my first lucius story> Familiar eyes

The halls of the emperors glowed in the sunlight. They came through the windows and open archways, spilling golden rays onto the marble flooring. Lucius walked the halls like he had done for the past few days, bathing in the light and the revelations of power. He never wanted to be here again, in this position, yet here he was. The events after his fight in Rime and the killing of Macranis led to the people wanting him in power to have a slower position of power in the senate. The issues with the Senate were evident, and Lucius had to fix them before he could trust the people. 

His head hung low as he walked towards those inner gardens. He watched from the corner of the open room as you strolled in. You were doing your duties like you had for the last 20 years, tending to the gardens and animals and small, tedious things that needed care. You knew a new emperor was in the place now, but you had not met him. Lucius purposefully kept it that way once he knew you were still where he had left you. Your life had always been to serve, and Lucious was just happy you had not been harmed. You had the same spirit and carefree smile as he remembered. He left before you could even see his shadow.

You turned once you heard the shuffling of feet, yet Lucius had already gone. The other maids and servants in the palace didn't speak of the new emperor, leaving you wondering who exactly roamed these halls. Since childhood, you had seen many people come and go from these halls; this time, you hoped whoever it was had a kind soul. Those days of your youth were always filled with smiles, running around these exact gardens and through the halls playing with the prince of Rome. How far off those memories felt now, a feeling of emptiness surrounded you again, the suffocating feeling of knowing you'll never be that child and that boy won't be the cause of your smiles anymore. You stood fast, breathing slowly. “Damn you, Lucius,” you spoke before you grabbed your things and left to do another job far from the gardens. 

Lucius plans to prevent you from working for a few weeks, but he can't control everything. It was another day of him roaming the halls and venturing into the gardens. However, this time, you had become more aware of the presence of someone while you were there. As you tended to the flowers in the center bed, you spoke up.

“You know it is creepy to stand in the shadow and watch a girl work,” you said to the air. You waited a while before he stepped further into the room.

“My apologies,” he spoke. The words he said sent shivers down your spine; the embers of something familiar filled your stomach. You turned slowly to see a man standing in a white tunic and many Roman emblems adorning his chest.

“I did not realize you were the emperor,” you said, shocked. “I should not have spoken the way I did”

“No, you had a right I was…I have been standing in these dark corners while you work,” he told you honestly, “Only fair you figured it out”

“Still, I spoke rather harshly,” you told him. As he ventured further into the room, you stood slightly, realizing there was a slight height difference between the two of you. While the revelation was fleeting, one of the most essential things caught your eye. Those eyes that looked towards you stuck another ember of familiarity. “I…have I met you before?”

“You always were too smart for your own good,” he said, laughing a little. “Me and my theatrics of keeping out of your way were pointless if you were to realize who I was anyways”

“You can not be,” you said, walking closer to the man before you. “Lucius?” “Hello, my darling,” he answered. Tears were fast to fall from your eyes as you threw yourself into his arms. The man you thought was dead stood here in your presence once more. Older, wiser, and more handsome than that little boy you knew. 

“Your back,” you said in his arms. He held you close, letting you hold him. You pulled back and looked up at him. “And you grew”

“That was the first thing you noticed?” “No,” you answered horribly. Lucius laughed, knowing you were lying. He nodded his head and stood tall for you. “I can not believe you came back”

“Not my original plan…” he told you, “Had other plans to leave Rome, but it seems I am needed.”

“Hm. Guess we all dream of leaving at one point or another,” you told him. “That was you, right? The gladiator that caused a stir from the people?” “Guilty,” he spoke, “I am like my father in that way.” “Seems your wish of finding out who your father was came true…Maximus," Lucius humped while looking towards the sky above you. You looked u,p seeing some clouds rolling in. “Let us head inside”

Those following weeks or months were filled with Lucius joining you in your morning routine of tending to the garden. Always brings a new story of his life away to tell you, filling your time in the garden with a magical life. Some stories were sad, but you knew he did what he could to tell them to overcome the grief. Lucius found a way to make your simple life filled with life and meaning. He sparked those embers in you that you desperately hoped could be fueled. You looked forward to those moments spent with him, making your day go by and making you excited for the next day to see him again. As more and more time went by, Lucius joined you for other tasks. It was joyous having him around, but sometimes you forgot about your job in favor of admiring the man before you and listening to whatever story about himself or Rome he was telling you. Sometimes, he would find you after senate meetings just to talk to you about how conniving the men in the room are. 

“They undermine me, and whatever I say, some of them look as if my words mean nothing,” he told you as you were in the library working on the catalog. “They…they even insist I must marry to secure Rome even further,” you nodded along.

“Maybe you should,” you spoke absently, “Look at how the emperors did when they did not marry, especially the brothers. Security for Rome is not a bad thing, Lucius.”  The silence after your words grew so intolerable that you were forced to put the book down and look behind you. Lucius' eyes were already in yours. “I say something to upset you? I truly did not mean to”

“Marry me.” Lucious' words did not fully register to you until you had the entire stack of books fall from the table behind you. Somehow, you had stepped back at his words and caused the table to shake. 

“Lucius”

“I am thinking rationally before you tell me I am not,” he said. A few moments passed as he tried to gather his words. “I have come to realize I can not live without you in my life anymore, I need you, y/n”

“Lucius,” you warned, “You realize I have no…prospects. I am nothing in the eyes of the empire; I am a maid to the palace.” “You think I care what Rome thinks of you. I do not. My thoughts and feelings are the only ones that matter,” he told you, stepping closer to you and finally able to grab your hand. “I have not felt love and comfort until I was with you again.”

“I am scared if you choose me, you will realize there are better women to marry.” “Lies,” he said smiling, “You are the only woman in Rome for me.” he leaned down to you, inching closer and closer to you. You stalled momentarily before closing the space, meeting his lips with yours. Those embers inside you turned into a fire. He was for you, and you for him.

[flinnirthefruityfiend]

I am a monokin nonhuman, otherheart, and I have archetropes.

my nonhuman identity is a complex type of elder dragon who's a unibeing. no wings, 4 legs, no fire-breathing, though I do absorb heat from the sun. I have webbed claws and a merfolk-like tail, 3 eyes, and I don't think I have teeth (I have a beak, which might include tiny micro teeth but I'm not sure). I am equinehearted and fictionhearted (Edward kenway). I am a merfolk archetrope and a chameleon archetrope.

I experience nonhuman shifts with my third eye, occasionally mental shifts around coconut water and the ocean, and very rarely astral shifts when I come close to astral projecting.

idk what this question means 😭 if you're asking how it affects my average behavior then idk... it just kind of does?

community is annoying when everyone is only talking about tiktok alterhumans. though I understand because the stereotype of tiktok alterhumans are very annoying.

being alone and away from humans and other creatures for that matter

yeah

trust your intuition

the idea of gear is very appealing, but at the same time I don't want humans to know I'm nonhuman, so like I feel like gear could draw attention to me that way.

I'm spiritually, psychologically and physically nonhuman. I think I'm just a creature here to figure out who I am and then get out. otherwise idk what this question means.

@cringe-fail-dragon @truthfulluce @wild-kindentities @depressedquetzal @felix-01000101 @dogbites15 @im-just-another-pony @nisaetus-nerd @vinnyth3chaoticalt3rhvman @aspenonpawzzz @klauwtje @meowing-creature @corvidthedragon @capn-atlas @ristictistic @dakotaisalsokota sorry if any of you have already done this, I scrolled through the post and tried to see which of my moots have done this

If you are a alterhuman, reblog and answer these questions!

(don't be afraid to write a lot, do what you want ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯)

1/ Which category of alterhumanity do you belong to?

2/ What/who is/are your type(s)? (if you have any)

3/ Do you experience shifts? If so, can you tell us your most common shifts and your strangest cameo shift (if you've ever had a cameo shift)?

4/ How do you experience your alterhumanity in everyday life?

5/ What do you think of the community?

6/ What are the things that make you most comfortable and euphoric in your alterhumanity?

7/ Are you experiencing species dysphoria?

8/ What advice would you like to say to a young alterhuman who has just awakened?

9/ Do you have/want to have gears?

10/ Do you know/have any theories about the origin of your alterhumanity? If so, tell us! (all beliefs are legitimate)

11/ Tag someone/a creature to answer these questions!ㅤᵕ̈

[nanamineedstherapy]

Help! I'm a Woman & I got my two Male Boyfriends Pregnant

Summary: You got your boyfriends Gojo Satoru & Ryomen Sukuna Preganat; now they are spirling, thinking you are going to leave them. Send jesus!

Based on this.

The day started normal enough. Coffee brewed. Cursed spirits got obliterated. You avoided Gojo's pranks and Nanami’s disapproving stares. But nothing could’ve prepared you for this.

Absolutely nothing.

"EXPLAIN," Sukuna growled, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, his crimson eyes flaring with murderous intensity. "HOW THIS HAPPENED."

Beside him, Gojo sat slumped on the couch, his head in his hands. For once, his usual smirk was nowhere to be seen. “She broke me,” he muttered, his voice muffled and full of existential despair.

You blinked, your hands raised defensively as you tried to process the sheer absurdity of what was happening. “Okay, let’s—let’s all calm down and start from the beginning. What exactly—”

“WE’RE PREGNANT!” Sukuna bellowed, his voice rattling the windows.

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“Both of us,” Gojo mumbled, finally lifting his head to glare at you with his piercing blue eyes. “We’re both pregnant. With your cursed energy, apparently.”

You stared at them, your jaw hanging open as your brain desperately tried to make sense of the words coming out of their mouths.

“Wait,” you said slowly, pointing at each of them. “You’re pregnant. And you’re pregnant. And… I’m the father?”

“Yes!” they both shouted in unison.

Gojo flopped back against the couch, throwing an arm over his face dramatically. “I can’t believe this. I’ve never been abandoned before. This is new for me.”

“Abandoned?” you snapped, your bewilderment turning to irritation. “I’m literally right here! No one’s abandoning anyone!”

Sukuna’s glare could’ve melted steel. “You better not be abandoning us. Do you have any idea what this is like? I’m a goddamn king, and now I’m carrying twins! Twins!”

You blinked again. “Twins?”

“Yeah, apparently cursed pregnancies are extra efficient,” Gojo muttered, rubbing his temples. “I’ve got triplets. Freaking triplets.”

Your knees nearly gave out. “Oh my god.”

“Oh your god, indeed,” Sukuna snarled, his pacing becoming more frantic. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve puked today? I’m the King of Curses, not the King of Ginger Ale!”

Gojo groaned dramatically, throwing himself across the couch. “And my ankles are swollen! I didn’t even know I had ankles that could swell!”

You stood there, frozen, as the two most powerful men you knew devolved into chaos before your eyes. Sukuna ranted about hormonal imbalances and cravings for spicy tuna rolls at three in the morning, while Gojo moaned about needing custom maternity uniforms for missions.

“Okay, okay!” you finally shouted, throwing up your hands. “Let’s take a step back and breathe for a second!”

Sukuna whirled on you, his crimson eyes blazing. “You breathe! I can’t breathe because your cursed energy apparently rewired my insides to incubate life!”

“That’s not even scientifically possible!” you argued, gesturing wildly.

Gojo raised a hand from the couch, his voice weak. “Apparently, science has no place in cursed pregnancies.”

“Obviously!” Sukuna snapped.

You groaned, running a hand through your hair. “Okay, look. I don’t know how this happened, but I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure this out together, okay?”

Gojo perked up slightly, peeking at you from under his arm. “So, you’re saying you’re going to stick around? You’re not gonna leave us to fend for ourselves?”

“Of course not!” you said, exasperated. “Why would I abandon you?”

Sukuna snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because that’s what all the terrible stories say. The cursed sorcerer fathers always leave. And yet, here I am, trying to keep it together while I grow two heads and three hearts inside me!”

“What?!” you shrieked.

“Apparently, cursed pregnancies come with… add-ons,” Gojo said, waving his hand vaguely. “It’s fine. We’ll manage. Just… don’t tell anyone.”

“Don’t tell anyone?!” you repeated, your voice climbing several octaves. “How am I supposed to explain why Sukuna is eating pickles and peanut butter out of the jar at 2 a.m.?”

“I’m literally creating life, you peasant!” Sukuna growled.

“And what about you?” you snapped at Gojo. “You’ve been crying for two hours! What even is that?”

Gojo sniffled, his bottom lip trembling. “I just feel so much right now, okay?”

You stared at them, completely overwhelmed, as the reality of the situation sank in. Two of the most powerful sorcerers in existence were pregnant. With your cursed energy. And somehow, it was your job to keep them alive and sane.

“Fine,” you said, throwing your hands up. “I’ll get the pickles and the peanut butter. And maybe a sedative for myself while I’m at it.”

“Don’t forget the chocolate!” Gojo called after you as you stormed out of the room.

“And ginger tea!” Sukuna shouted. “Or so help me, I’ll kill you!”

You groaned, your footsteps echoing down the hall. This was your life now.

A/N: Want more? I can give you more if you ask nicely (͠≖ ͜ʖ͠≖)👌 I will mark this series completed for now until I get any more inspo or ideas (feel free to send yours too). Please comment; it fuels my cheos ᕙ(`▿´)ᕗ Who would you like to get pregnant next?

[directdogman]

Hey doggo! If there were ever to be more dlc routes would it be like a new character or more of a Roger situation?

Also is there any chance we could ever get a dlc route where we take Stabby on a proper date? He seemed very interested in us in both Roger and Randy's route

I haven't decided how many DLCs I wanna make yet. Olandy is a given, a Jerry DLC also has potential (and I have a rough draft of what that DLC could be.)

I also have an unused new datable idea. The idea's very early days yet, but I'm warming up more and more of centering a small DLC around her. There's also another project I'm in the early stages of figuring out (not a DLC, and no, not a sequel) that I'd love to do at some point featuring an existing character that'd be a fun shakeup of the original formula. I'm gonna play it by ear!