#no hate to the author at all i like the concept a lot i just couldn't get over the fact he pulled out and put it straight in you

[theloveinc]

lmao i don't care how hot he is, if he fucks u literally only 10 minutes after pulling out of the last girl w/o showering, that is NASTY !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[sskk-manifesto]

Ep 5!!!

[rainbowresurrection]

I ended up reading The Price of the Phoenix and while it didn't make me want to bleach my eyes like Killing Time, I still didn't like it as much as I hoped I would. Don't get me wrong, the homoeroticism was intriguing to me, but the actual writing and storyline itself left me with a headache. I think I get my hopes up with these books, given all of the possibilities that the written word has for Trek, and it inevitably sets me up for disappointment lol

[cursedauxiliary]

Oh my god, I was like, hey lets read that silly webcomics with the funny penis anatomy and then I ended up sinking it like 3 hrs and its 4am

[januaryembrs]

YOU WERE LIKE AN ANGEL TO ME | Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader

Request: my DARLING @avis-writeshq says- i’m a menace but i ADORED the spencer fic u posted 🥹 UGH THEYRE SO CUTE YOUR HONOURRRR 👹if it’s okay, may i request another fic with the same couple 🙈 perhaps one day reader is not as sweet or chirpy as she usually is, or she gets injured or threatened in the field? much love and lots of kisses xoxo 🫶

Description: Spencer swore he wanted to hate her. She was too happy, too chirpy, too much for a guy who spent months rotting in prison. But how could he ever hate her when she cried in his chest like that?

Length: 5k (I'm feral for these two)

warnings: post prison reid. Angst. depiction of suicide from the Unsub. gory language used. guns mentioned. mention of $nuff video and other murders. Nothing that hasn't been done on CM already.

authors note: if y'all want to see more with these two just SAY because I am all ears I would die on this ship

There were a lot of times in his time at the BAU that Spencer had wished he could have changed the outcome of their bad guy, surprisingly enough. There was the time they found their UnSub a few minutes too late, and one of the victims fathers decided to take him out then and there with a shotgun to the head. He was just a kid. There was the entire time he was with Tobias Hankel, and he lived in a state of both fear and sympathy for the boy trapped in his own body after years of abuse. There was Nathan Harris, the kid who had stopped him at the subway station and practically begged him for help to stop his urges to murder, only to slit his own wrists before Spencer could get to him because he thought he was tainted. 

He could see how it was easy in their job to get wrapped up in saving the day, in saving everyone they could. He just had hoped, on some stupid grace of a god he didn’t even believe in, that she would have at least remained untouched by the bad luck. 

Spencer had always thought, since the first day he had arrived back into the office after his stint in prison, that she seemed to just waltz through life easier than anyone else. He knew the concept of luck was not quantifiable, that it was just a coincidence that good things happened to some people, and bad things happened to others. He always grouped himself in with the latter, because what was his entire life if not one bad hand of cards after another?

Part of him had been seething with vitriol jealousy when he first met her. He hated how the elevator doors seemed to open without hesitation for her, no waiting required. He hated how her hair never seemed to fall out of place, while his required primping and preening to upkeep. He hated how she was always so happy, whether it had been she’d been given an extra cookie at the bakery for free, or her coffee had just tasted super delicious that morning, or the road works clogging the city had been put on hold the one day she needed to drive into the office. She was one of those people, he had decided, that life just seemed to smile down upon, and she beamed back in that dazzling grin. 

He felt sick to his stomach for ever wishing it gone, especially when she looked like she might never smile again. 

They never liked to say that they had easy cases and hard ones, all of their cases were difficult to process. But this one had been a handful above the rest. 

“UnSub has been killed on site, all units stand down,” Luke said into the radio, and the entire squadron took a sigh of relief, all of them except him. 

Because he saw that look in her eye, the way everything sparkly about her seemed to have vanished.

They had been following Bobbie Wrids for a week. Five bodies in, five men shot between the eyes execution style, almost six by the time they’d arrived on the scene. 

She’d gone with Tara around the front of the abandoned building; Penelope tracked their newest victim, Henry Frond, through his phone pinging off the nearest satellite towers, and it had been straight forward from there. Or at least it should have been. 

Because by the time Spencer and Luke arrived in their own SUV, Penelope had time to access the rest of Henry’s phone, and it was clear to see the victimology behind all six men. 

They were distributing snuff videos of women, some between themselves, some to other usernames on the darkweb, and Bobbie Wrids’ daughter had been one of them.

Bobbie had become somewhat of a vigilante, but he was a grieving father above all. He was a wounded animal chomping at the bit to soothe the ripping pain of his daughter's murder, the same one those men were getting off to. 

Tara and her exchanged a glance as Penelope relayed the information over their headsets, her once serious expression falling into something sombre and sorrowful. How could she arrest a man she couldn’t help but feel sorry for, one she couldn’t help but think wasn’t entirely wrong in his actions. 

“Bobbie Wrids,” Tara’s voice was stern, cutting through the silence of the desolate building. Their footsteps were careful as they made their way through the hallway, down to what had once been a rec-room, or perhaps a staff room, where they knew Bobbie had Henry, “This is the FBI, we’d like to talk,” 

They heard nothing, and she looked up to the older woman hesitantly, her finger hovering over the trigger the way Spencer had taught her. Tara took a minute, knowing she was leading the charge here with the girl being so inexperienced, before she nodded to the door knob and the rookie twisted the handle, pushing the peeling wood open gently. 

Bobbie Wrids stood in the centre of the room, moth eaten couches either side of the damp rug, the ceiling tiles half caved in from wear and tear. Henry Frond was already a pulp in the UnSub’s arms, and yet it was Bobbie that her eyes shot to first, sympathy shooting through every fibre of her being when she saw the distraught look on the father’s face. 

He was grieving. He was grieving his little girl’s death. He was looking for a solution, and this seemed to be his best bet. 

“Bobbie,” Her voice was shaky, her and Tara frozen in the doorway as the man brought the pistol to Henry’s beaten face, cocking it towards his temple before they could even explain themselves. “We’re going to come in, is that okay? We just want to talk, just let us talk-”

They had only edged closer by three paces between them as she was speaking before his knuckles turned white and he squeezed the gun tighter to Henry’s skin, the barrel contorting the flesh, “Don’t come any closer, this pig isn’t worth your mercy,”

“We know,” She said, her and Tara slowly stepping over a fallen ceiling tile, cracking under her boot as she met his desolate gaze for the first time, his head snapping to her. “We know what he did, Bobbie. What they all did.”

His throat bobbed, his bottom lip quivering and the sight of it, a man so broken, forced a frog into her oesophagus, and she willed herself not to cry. 

“They hurt my little girl,” Bobbie choked out, his face turning mauve as the tears began to build behind his eyes, “She was my girl. She was only eighteen.” 

She nodded, his wetted hues seemingly permissive when she stepped closer to where he held Henry hostage. 

“I know, I’m so sorry for what happened to her,” She said, her voice croaky, unstable as she wrenched it into something audible, “I’m so sorry,” 

“He doesn’t deserve mercy, none of them did,” Bobbie spat, his forearm crushing against Henry’s trachea in a vice-like grip. The man floundered, a wheeze coming from his lungs, not that she felt much sympathy for him. 

She sprung into action, flicking her gun onto safety and holstering it, Tara doing the same as she lowered her weapon to her side. He profiled as a vigilante; he had no reason to hurt them. 

“Bobbie, listen, I know they didn’t deserve to walk free, okay?” She said, taking the smallest step towards where the men stood, “But she wouldn’t want this for you, would she?”

The man flinched, his jaw hard as a rock with how he clenched his teeth together, as if holding back a sob. 

“Come on, Bobbie. Let him go, we have enough evidence to get him sentenced. We can get you a plea deal, I know a good lawyer,” She begged, because she wasn’t beneath it, because she knew he was a good man backed into a corner, “Please,”

Maybe it was the way her eyes were soft when she looked at him, or the fact two more agents burst into the room from the hallway, Spencer’s eye immediately falling to where she was stood so close to their UnSub, her gun out of hand. Tara stood by, but that wasn’t good enough for him. He edged with light footsteps until he was behind her, his gaze cautious, never leaving the gun in Bobbie’s hand. 

“Please,” She repeated, and Spencer saw Bobbie’s shoulders drop, every sliver of resolve draining from his body at her gentle tone, a deer approaching a hunter. 

Henry was thrown to the floor, the man practically dead weight as he gasped, almost retching at the feeling of air sucking back into his chest frantically, and Luke and Tara were quick to wrestle him into cuffs, the woman reading him his Miranda rights. 

Spencer almost made a grab for her then, because she was still creeping forward towards the man who had a loaded gun still live in his hand. He didn’t care for one second that the statistics said Bobbie wouldn’t lay a hand on her since she wasn’t part of his list. He didn’t care that every sign pointed to their UnSub being benevolent towards women, especially younger ones, that she fit his daughter’s description. Spencer didn’t care, he wanted her as far away from that gun as possible. 

His heart lurched into his throat when Bobbie did in fact make a lunge for her, just not the way he’d feared. Because she had grabbed him. She’d pulled him into an embrace, a hug, kind and sweet as she always was. 

Spencer cursed her for being so soft. It was going to get her killed. 

“Agent,” His voice was terse, worried if you dug a little deeper than the sharp surface, but she didn’t listen to him. She held Bobbie tight as the man unravelled on her shoulder, falling into heart breaking sobs and it was then Spencer realised she was crying with him. 

“It’s going to be okay, you’re okay,” She was shushing him, the killer, reassuring him he was safe, as if the killing thing wasn’t still between his fingers that clutched at her back with rough hands. 

“They killed my girl, they took her from me, and then they laughed about it,” He wailed, and she nodded, squeezing him even tighter if that was so possible, “No one would listen, the police didn’t listen, I had to do something,”

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry,” This was wrong. She wasn’t supposed to be sympathising with the criminals. But she couldn’t help it, she couldn’t help the gasping urge to comfort the man who had lost his whole world, “I’m listening. Tell me about her,” 

“She was so beautiful,” Bobbie whimpered, sniffling into her shoulder. Spencer felt his chest twinge at the scene. He hated that she was so soft. “She never hurt a soul,”

She cried with him, though hers were choked down as much as she could get them, her wet cheeks the only proof she had ever let them slip. 

“I’m sorry,” She said again, because no matter how many times she repeated those two little words, it would never bring his daughter back, “I can help you,”

He pulled away from her shoulder, and it was only then that Bobbie Wrids even noticed Spencer, his face taut in anxiety as he watched the man’s hands still holding onto her body as if she was the only thing that kept him upright, which Spencer wouldn’t be surprised if it were true. 

He fished the cuffs out of his back pocket, his finger never leaving the trigger as he stared down at their UnSub cautiously. He knew he may be being cruel, knew that ten years ago he would be just as caring as her. But that Spencer was long gone. And what remained was screaming in terror that she was in the line of danger, that she was holding the danger in her bare hands like she didn’t see the jeopardy she was putting herself in. 

Bobbie pulled away to look at her, the creases around his eyes deep chasms, and even with the smattering of grey hair, the stubble, the cold, empty look of someone with nothing left, she thought he might have been a handsome man once. He looked at her with a ghost of a smile, and one of his callused hands came up to tuck her hair behind her ear as if it had been second nature to him for eighteen years. 

“You’re a sweet girl,” He murmured, and she blinked at him, her chest easing at the way his wails had subsided into something quiet. She could help him, she swore she would help him. He was a good man beneath it all. “But no one can help me anymore, sweet girl,”

And with that he lifted the pistol beneath his chin and pulled the trigger.

—

She heard someone scream before she realised it was coming from her own throat, but her ears were ringing and she couldn’t open her eyes. Her face was wet and hot, and for a second she thought it was tears, but she was beyond crying now. She felt arms pulling her back into a strong chest, and someone was murmuring to her, or perhaps they were speaking normally and the sound of the gunshot had knocked her hearing. Either way, it was like someone had pulled a bag over her head as she brought her shaking hands up to her eyes to wipe. 

She managed to crack her lids then when the sludge was gone, only to see the room still a blurry mess. She could make out, in the haze of blobs and crimson tint, Bobbie’s body slumped to the floor, a dark puddle seeping into the rug as those long arms tugged her out of the room. She only then looked down to her hands where she had rubbed her face and she caught the same claret plasma coating her fingers, her white shirt, her pants, her arms. It covered her head to toe. 

It was in her eyes, she realised when she saw the ichor coating her fingertips. It was blocking her vision, turning the world a vivid wine colour, and she thinks she whimpered, or perhaps it was a moan of horror seeing the puddle beneath Bobbie’s body growing larger by the second. 

“I don’t understand,” She said out loud, her head spinning, and she brought her fingertips up to her eyes again, maybe to get the blood out, god there was so much blood on her face, or maybe because she hoped to everything out there that she would clear her sight and find it all a terrible hallucination, the product of one too many nights of sleepless tossing. 

But when she rubbed her lids again, this time seeing the scene a little better, Bobbie was still dead. She had still been too late. 

“You’re in shock, you need to breathe,” A voice instructed her over her shoulder, and it was from the same person who had their hands around her waist, pulling her away from the crime scene, as CSI filed in from behind them. 

She tried pushing the arms off her, weak because she couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t the horror in her stomach, and it took her a second before she listened to their words and realised she was holding a breath in her chest, the way a toddler does when they’re overwhelmed. 

“I don’t-” She gasped, the air rushing through her lungs, so fast it made her cough, “I don’t understand, I was going to help him- I don’t understand- why?”

“I know, just breathe for me, sweetheart,” Spencer. She only just realised it was Spencer speaking, because he had never called her that and the gentle tone he’d taken was nothing like his usual, civil cadence. He had been dropping a few jokes the past few weeks since she’d driven him home, had been more touchy feely with correcting her form when she was at the shooting range, had delicately touched the small of her back when they were navigating a crowd together. He was slowly cracking from his statuesque expression that hadn’t left his face since he’d gotten out of prison, but the softness with which he held her waist was entirely new. 

“Spencer, I don’t- I don’t get it,” She said, her voice bubbling into a sob as she allowed herself to be pulled away with no fight left in her. He took her into the hallway, turning her body from the sight of his hand lifeless on the floor with little to no effort. She was damn near limp in his arms, “Spencer, I don’t under-understand, I was going to h-help him, why would h-he do that-”

“Shhh, you need to breathe,” He murmured into her hair, trying to lead her out the front of the building and far away from where she’d just been front row seats to a messy suicide, “Come on, just breathe for me, baby, and then we can talk,”

But she wasn’t listening, and he wasn’t offended. Spencer knew it was the shock. He knew the symptoms by how her respiratory system had picked up in a matter of seconds and it was like she had gone from zero to a hundred. She let out a long whine, tears collecting the blood on her lash line and her chest seized into action, gulping down air, too short to do anything for her lungs, and her legs began to buckle beneath the two of them. 

Spencer stopped in the hallway, realising she was in more shock than he must have thought. He knew she was sensitive, hell it was one of his favourite things about her. He knew she felt everything so deeply, burned too easily, like a daisy wilting in a dry heat, or candyfloss melting in his mouth. Spencer knew, as awful as watching death up close was for any agent, it would hit her hardest of all of them. 

He moved around to her front, his hands migrating from her waist up to her shoulders, brushing over her upper arms soothingly. But her body felt numb, her head felt heavy, and her eyes were glazed over, down a rabbit hole entirely away from him, even when one of his hands cupped her wetted cheek gently. 

“Just breathe, hey, look at me,” He tried a firmer tone, and she bent to his will too easily. It was a punch in the gut seeing everything shining and pretty leached out of her eyes, as if she had become soulless in a matter of minutes, as if she had lost all hope in the world the second Bobbie pulled that trigger. She looked like hell, blood still fresh on her cheeks, in her hair, smeared around her eye sockets where she had scrubbed so hard to get it off her skin, “You need to calm down, you’re going to faint if you don’t breathe,”

She nodded, or something close to it, her eyes falling down to the floor, and she seemed to wrestle for control over her chest then. But what came after was worse, Spencer thought. Her brows screwed together, her eyes welling up with more of those fat tears, and her lips dropping into a devastated pout, her eyes trailing over the mess on her uniform, on her hands. 

“Spencer, I don’t understand, I tried to help him, I wanted to help him,” She sobbed, sniffling to herself miserably, and he barely even thought about it when he pulled her into his chest, not caring that her skin would dirty his shirt. 

His hand wound into her hair, stroking her sweetly as she buried her wails into his vest. He used his other arm to pull her close to him, which she seemed to have zero qualms about as she clawed at his back to keep him close, as if she didn’t want to face what was going to happen when they left that building. 

Spencer regretted ever thinking her sunshine was too bright for him. 

–

She hadn’t smiled in a whole week. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had given Penny a very forced smile when she had fussed over the younger woman the first day she got back, had said thankyou with downcast eyes and a fragile grin when the blonde presented her with a framed picture of a puppy to keep on her desk ‘incase she needed something nice to think about,’

She hadn’t looked at it once, because they both knew it wouldn’t do anything, no matter how much she pretended for Penelope’s sake that she would put it to good use. 

He had taken her out for coffee on him that first day, but by the time they had got to the front of the queue, he had been doing almost all of the talking, which had become rare nowadays since he had come home from Mexico. Usually, it had been her filling the silences, because he knew in her right mind she hated the sound of static nothingness, she found it awkward and unnecessary when she could talk to anyone without thinking about it too hard. 

They had got to the desk, the barista smiling up at him as he ordered his usual, before he turned to look at her as the woman serving asked her what she would like. But she wasn’t listening, she was watching out the window, nothing particularly invigorating beside a bird cleaning its feathers on top of a stop sign. 

He said her name, putting his hand on her back and her head whipped around, her eyes empty as they looked up at him expectantly, “What do you want to drink?” 

She blinked, waking herself from a stupor, and looked at the barista with an embarrassed expression, “Hot chocolate, please,” 

And that was all she really had to say until lunch rolled around, and she excused herself to head home early. Emily smiled at her reassuringly, her eyes wary as she watched their happy-go-lucky rookie head for the elevators with a desolate look in her eyes. 

Spencer hoped she would come around on her own, or maybe even be brave enough to talk to someone about the thoughts rattling around that head of hers, but she just didn’t. She stayed as silent as possible, only ever speaking when spoken to, asking Emily if she could finish off her reports at home, to which the Prentiss woman never protested. 

But Spencer had had enough. He’d worried himself sick over her, and where all thoughts of how endearing and lovely and charming she was had sat in his head before, now it was all just ways he could think to make her smile again. 

It was the following Tuesday by the time he braved action. She had gone home after their midday briefing, apologising to Emily with tired eyes that seemed to be growing more and more heavy by the day, like she hadn’t slept a wink in a fortnight. Which Spencer thought was entirely possible. 

He pulled up to the house Penelope had not so discreetly told him was hers, definitely not because he’d asked, and definitely, definitely not breaching any human resource policies about distributing fellow workers information (meaning Spencer had almost certainly not begged Penelope for the address with those puppy eyes of his he knew could bag him anything). 

The peonies in the window bays were wilting but her house was something out of a fairytale. He wasn’t sure why he was really so surprised. It screamed her, everything about it, from the toadstool post box to the little green, cast iron bench that sat in the garden, the metal forged to look like florets of ivy holding the sitter upright. 

He rapped the brass knocker, the metal cold under his long fingers. Brushing invisible dirt off his shirt, he hoped she would answer as the present squirmed at his feet. 

“Just a second,” He hushed, and as if she heard him, the front door swung open to reveal her bare face he hadn’t seen since he’d helped her wipe the blood from her skin in the back of the ambulance. 

She looked at him with furrowed brows, before they quickly shot to the floor, to her cobbled pathway that had clicked under his shoes, and her face washed with a shock. 

“Oh my god, Spencer!” She crouched to her knees, a slobbery lick immediately meeting her cheek as the Spaniel rubbed his wet nose up to her ear, sniffing her unique smell, as if it was a bag of Class A’s, “I never knew you had a dog,” 

“I don’t,” He replied, kneeling with her to ruffle the soft fur behind the canine’s ear, “This is Ace. He retired from the Bomb Unit a month ago and Penelope sent me his handler’s number. They said he’s the happiest dog in the world,” 

 “I would be too if I stopped so many people from blowing up,” She said, but before he could ask what she meant exactly by that, Ace had jumped up and attacked her entire face with kisses as if he too thought that statement was worth silencing. 

And she laughed. She laughed louder than she had in days, weeks, her eyes crinkling in joy as the little pink tongue stole away her sorrow, tickled away the traces of the blood that had tainted her skin. 

Spencer smiled, his eyes watching her face scrunch in a squeal, hands eventually coming up to the elderly dog’s jowls to gently push him down. 

“Oh, you are the sweetest guy,” She said, and the words had him tugging at the leash to lick her all over again, “Yes you are, you’re the sweetest little guy around, huh?” 

She chuckled, scratching down the mutt’s neck, and her eyes flicked back up to Spencer, who watched her with more intent than she’d realised. 

“Petting and receiving affection from pets causes spikes in serotonin in our brain and reduces anxiety, did you know that?” Spencer said, Ace pushing his muzzle into the palm of her hand to prove a point. 

Her smile wavered slightly, and she looked at his hazel hues that seemed to see right through her, “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been so off lately, I just can’t sleep at the moment-”

 “Don’t apologise,” He cut in, though his tone was kind, and the two of them stood back up to their full height, “What happened was horrifying, even some of the longest serving agents I know would struggle seeing that,” 

She scoffed, unusually pessimistic coming out of her mouth, “You wouldn’t,”

His head tilted, not quite understanding what she meant, because she hadn’t sounded cruel when she said it. Then again, he didn’t think she was actually capable of that emotion. 

She looked at him, a flash of something vulnerable in her eyes, something like that day he’d held her in the hallway; too fast he almost missed it.

“You’re so brave, Spencer, you’re like invincible. I mean, you survived prison and your mom getting kidnapped and you bounced straight back to work like it was nothing. I can’t even watch a murderer die without spiralling out of control,” She huffed, rubbing the bridge of her nose and before he could respond on just how wrong she was, before he could tell her that that was exactly the opposite of what had happened because he had damn near changed every inch of himself in prison to stop himself from breaking, he caught her murmuring and he thought he might just have been punched all over again, “I wish I was like you,”

His jaw clenched, eyebrows furrowing into a frown as he stepped towards her, and her head shot to him, worried she may have said the wrong thing by mentioning everything that had happened, everything Pen had specifically said was a touchy subject, and she opened her mouth to apologise. 

“Do you know how unbelievably glad I am that you are nothing like me?” Spencer said, his voice bordering on furious and her fumbled for a reply, worried she had truly pissed him off. 

She wouldn’t blame him for hating her. She’d always worried, until perhaps that day they’d gotten into her car and she’d driven him home, that her very essence annoyed him. 

“I’m sorry-” She started, but he shook his head.

“Stop apologising,” He said, his hand reaching up to grab where her fingers tugged together nervously, his hold featherlike, his face softening when he saw her expression, “I don’t want you to be anything like me. I like you just how you are,” 

She sighed, eyes doe like with emotion as she looked at him, “Really?”

He smiled, a rare and genuine smile as she seemed to glow under his words, “Yes, really.” Spencer allowed himself to enjoy the way that the twinkle returned to her expression when he smiled at her with something almost like the old Spencer in him, before he cleared his throat, “We all like you. Everyone on the team likes how you are,”

She paused, nodding to herself as if knocking herself out of a silly daze, and Ace bounced on his hind legs trying to get her attention again. 

“You don’t think I’m too sensitive?” She asked, holding her palm out for the dog to nuzzle at with that wet nose of his. 

Spencer shook his head, “Sensitive is good. It means you feel something. Means you feel the good things deeper too,” 

Her smile was blinding, because she’d never thought of it that way before, and she looked like her old self again. Spencer wasn’t stupid enough to think she was never going to think about Bobbie again, he still thought about that first UnSub he’d tried to save. He still thought about Tobias Hankel. He thought about them all. 

But he was going to make sure she never turned into him. He didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself if she did. He’d protect her sunlight even if it burned him to know he could never have her the way he wanted. Because she was everything good, and he was him. 

She looked down at Ace, the life returning to her as she stood aside for the two of them to enter her house, “Tea?”

Yep. Spencer felt something run hot knowing she would always be out of reach. Didn’t stop him from thinking about it, though. 

[oidheadh-con-culainn]

#also even if all YA books WERE popular US fantasy #this still not nearly specific enough to hate the whole genre #like not only is it an inaccurate and ignorant view it’s also just an argument that does not make sense #like you’re going to tell me that a well written fantasy novel by an American author has never been both popular and good? are you really? #alright everybody go home Americans can’t write good fantasy and if they do it won’t sell #and same for romance. and dystopia. #genres go through trends. most of the ya dystopia published in recent years is trying to copy the success of the hunger games. #most of the supernatural romance is trying to copy twilight. it’s literally just what happens because publishing is an industry. #I can critique YA all day long as long as the argument makes sense #but a lot of these arguments boil down to ‘women and teenage girls like it on tiktok therefore it’s bad’ #ya lit

(via @ghosthauntsthelibrary)

yeah i mean all generalisations are generalisations and generally the way tumblr talks about stuff is in the least charitable / positive way possible which is just. exhausting tbh

the reason i mentioned us-published YA fantasy in particular is because a lot of the generalisations i see about YA literature that *do* have a grain of truth in them are nevertheless *specific to that subgenre* and don't apply equally or at all to other genres within the category. and there is a lack of recognition that other YA exists. discussions about how YA is too "old" these days and full of sexy romance ignore that UK YA skews younger than US YA and that YA without romance exists, for example. discussions about magic systems in YA ignore the fact that non-fantasy YA exists. etc.

those critiques are always lacking in nuance and they are always too broad a generalisation, and "this subgenre does things i don't like" is valid grounds for not reading that subgenre, but not for saying it shouldn't exist. but i've just seen a slew of posts recently that made generalisations about all YA based on that specific subsection of it which is why i singled it out

(at this point i read enough YA and also am friends with enough YA authors that i can usually tell what book people are hyperbolically vagueblogging about, and you start to notice patterns)

PLUS there is a side issue of people constantly calling fantasy/sci-fi YA, particular when written by women, and this is also partially the result of treating "YA" and "fantasy" as though they're synonymous, which is the other reason this particular generalisation bugs me. i see so many posts about "YA authors" doing x,y and z on twitter and when i actually look at the thread, they're literally all adult SFF and romance authors and it's like. why are you blaming this on YA, come on bro, at least make half an effort

i will happily talk about the broader trends in YA that piss me off and have led to me reading less of it but the second Tumblr users start acting like "US-published YA fantasy that's popular on tiktok" = "all YA books" i switch immediately into YA Defence Mode bc honestly regardless of whether I agree with the critiques of more specific subgenres, this category is HUGE and has so much going on and we can't have a meaningful conversation about that until people get their heads out of their arses and acknowledge that fact

[yanderismo]

Yandere Platonic Superman Concept/Idea (?)

BRO, BRO, I DON'T KNOW IF I LOVE OR HATE MY MIND FOR GIVING ME IDEAS THAT I'LL NEVER START OR FINISH. But okay, I have an idea for a platonic yandere Superfam, maybe it involves Batfam or the entire DC universe. I think this is more platonic yandere Superman. Let's go. (using the translator, be kind to me please 😭) 

— Imagine that you are originally from the Injustice universe. You were a neutral young/teen heroine who wasn't at all interested in siding with Batman or Superman. Well... that neutrality of yours had consequences, and now, somehow, Superman and Batman were in a bloody tug of war to get you on their side. And you are the cable they are selfishly pulling. And one day that cable would break, and that's what happened to you, you broke it. So broken that I would consider it irreparable. 

— But luckily for you (bro, are you lucky?), after so much physical and mental suffering, you ended up in a way that I won't explain, in the original DC universe. In other words, no superheroes is crazy tyrants. Too bad you don't know that (yet).

— You were living as if the world was a danger to you (just like it was in Injustice). But you discovered that you were REALLY in a different universe or timeline when you met Lois Lane, the woman who drove Superman insane after her death. And it shocked you, you thought maybe you had gone back in time. And as reckless as it was, you felt hope that you could stop the future of Injustice from happening, stop Lois Lane from being murdered! After all, you were still a hero, even if you had probably lost half of your original universe's neurons.

 — So you made a decision. You decided to protect Lois Lane! You practically become her protective shadow. Being noticed wouldn't do any good, and for SO FEAR of being confronted by Superman/Clark for apparently stalking his wife, you stopped watching her when Clark showed up and you went back when Clark left. (In your head, this Superman is the same Superman from Injustice, just before Lois' death happened). You were wary as hell of all the heroes. Anyway, a lot of trauma caused by Injustice.

— And I believe that Lois, even if she was a civilian, would notice that she was being watched (or maybe you're just not very good at stalking because you're a very young heroine). Whatever it is. Lois noticed and she became cautious (she is a journalist, there are many people who may not like her to the point of committing atrocities), as you could be a threat to her life. Although you haven't revealed yourself as any threat so far.

 — But let's suppose there were events in which she was in danger (actually, it was just something like shelves falling, preventing her from being run over, preventing some rabid dogs from biting her, small things), events in which you managed to remain hidden, however Lois knew it was You, her strangely protective stalker. Lois was trying to know your intentions and work it out for herself, so she didn't say anything about it. If this is something much more than she can handle, Clark can always lend a little help. 

— But on another one of those times when she was in danger, you desperately saved her (the situation was quite dangerous, more than normal), asking if she was okay and everything. Lois was surprised, you were surprised. Before you know, the idea of staying in the shadows went down the drain. You were almost begging (you were begging) her not to tell anyone that you were persecuting her (protecting her), you didn't want her to report you to some authority (that would only hinder your mission) or worse, report you to Superman. You said, stammered, that you were just protecting her. Wanting to make sure Lois didn't feel threatened and report you. 

— The desperation, the panic in your voice, seemed too young for Lois to feel comfortable. You were like a scared child, you looked very much like just a scared child, and that made Lois uncomfortable but at the same time... motherly. If you wanted to hurt her, you would have done it already. You at least accomplished one thing: making Lois not feel threatened by you.

 — The other thing you couldn't do was stop Lois from telling Clark about you. Look, I'm sure Lois didn't mean it, it's uncomfortable to be watched almost every day, but also, since she discovered you, she's been quite worried about you.

 — And Clark is all worried, like, "What?? My wife is being stalked??? Oh wait, my wife is being stalked and protected. Well, that's still very worrying, I'm definitely going to check it out for myself." Furthermore, Lois insisted that he be gentle when approaching you. And Lois saying this to him made him even more intrigued. 

— He tried to approach you just as Clark Kent, just to know how you would react around a seemingly civilian person, think of it as a method to read your character (he didn't want to confront you as Superman in a careless way. After all, who wouldn't Does he act nice or change to a more pleasant personality around Superman?)

— Needless to say, Clark was surprised and confused when you looked at him like he was the greatest terror of your life before simply running away from him. He recognized that look, only villains who were traumatized after a confrontation against him have that look (but the you look was much, much worse than that). That day, you didn't chase Lois.

 — Clark suspected you knew his secret identity. There is no longer any reason for you to have reacted like this. 

— lol, that day Lois noticed the absence of the feeling of being watched and scolded Clark for scaring you. Although it wasn't his fault, he apologized. He really didn't mean to scare you ;( You were gone for a few days after that. But of course, you still had to protect Lois in her everyday life. Even if you were scared. 

— Anyway, it didn't matter how softly, friendly Superman approached you next time. You ran, or at least tried to run. Do you really want to bet on who is the fastest? He easily caught you and held you by your forearm. And that was enough to make you scream, cry, struggle and finally, shrink as much as possible.

— And Superman was all confused, he wasn't even hurting you or squeezing you hard. His voice was also friendly. If anything, it made him even more worried. Add the fact that you appear to be very young and his paternal instincts kicked in. 

— To his surprise, you pulled out a knife. Something like that couldn't hurt Superman, of course not. But who said the knife was meant to hurt him? Let's say you picked up the knife and tried to slit your own throat as a last resort escape. (What did you go through with Superman from Injustice to the point that you tried to commit suicide just to escape him?) 

— Superman was surprised and then horrified. He immediately knocked you unconscious before you cut deeper into your throat. Now with you unconscious, you seemed more vulnerable and fragile than you should have been. Now he understood why Lois was worried about you. (You know, if Batman can adopt multiple children, why couldn't Superman...? You seem like a good kid and even Lois agrees with that. Conner and Jon would definitely like to have a sister) 

— Superman wondered what happened to you that made you reach the point where death was a usable route. He wanted to question you personally, but the moment he confirmed that you knew his identity (you acted the same way when he approached you as a civilian. He was the only one to receive this reaction from you and no one else), this matter became the subject of the Justice League. Discovering the identity of a superhero and pursuing someone close to that superhero was not going to be taken lightly. Who's to say you don't also know the identities of others? Although Superman wants to deal with you alone, he doubts he'll get any information out of you with you yelling and screaming. So he took you to the justice league. 

— Batman can definitely help you solve this.

(Imagine the anguish it would be to probably have to get used to people having the same appearance and the same voice as your captors in Injustice. Imagine them acting all soft after finding out you come from a universe where the heroes are corrupt and broke you😩)

Notas: I leave the rest to you. Or to any author who wants to use this idea (I beg you, some author write a Yandere platonic Superman/Superfam fic😭 They could even add other platonic Yanderes like Batfam, it would be so interesting 🙏😭)

(I just realized that the one who acted the most Yandere was Reader herself, lol)

[headspace-hotel]

I hate a lot of trends in climate-change-aware nature writing, but this is one I particularly detest: works insisting that we live in a "post-natural" world.

The lostness, bewilderment, aching, and searching in this piece is understood by the author to be an all-consuming and universal dysphoria, when it is actually a highly specific predicament that the author put himself into: He tried to understand the universe exclusively through the point of view of white people.

I mean that Purdy takes the colonizer point of view without realizing that it is a colonizer point of view. He thinks the colonizer point of view is a universal document of the authentic, naive encounter of "humanity" with "nature," instead of burning wreckage left over from the apocalyptic destruction of a rainbow of ideas and cultures.

It feels weird to be talking about this as a white person, but it shouldn't, any more than it should feel weird to say (as a white person) that aliens didn't build the pyramids.

Very little of what he's writing about would exist or make sense without European colonization of the world. Purdy constantly says "we" and "our" in reference to things that are very restricted to a particular cultural point of view, as if totally oblivious to the idea that other cultures and other perspectives even exist. When he searches for historical references to chart "human" relationship with nature, history goes like this: Pre-Christian religion in the British Isles->British monarchy-> George Washington-> Industrial Revolution->Thoreau.

He manages to repeatedly stumble over giant hunks of colonialism embedded in every concept he's thinking about, like boulders obstructing a pathway, and pretends so hard that they don't exist that his points are janky and meandering. For example, his discussion of Helen Macdonald's book H for Hawk, touching upon human identification with the landscape and with non-human "nature," blunders into this:

Those who love (certain parts of) nature are often making a point of preferring it to (certain kinds of) human beings. The problem is not only literary. Macdonald describes an encounter with a retired couple who join her in admiring a valley full of deer, then remark how good it is to see “a real bit of Old England still left, despite all these immigrants coming in.” She does not reply, but is miserable afterward. The meaning of landscapes is always someone’s meaning in particular. Confronted with all of this, Macdonald tries to shake off the complicities of her own identification with the terrain: “I wish that we would not fight for landscapes that remind us of who we think we are. I wish we would fight, instead, for landscapes buzzing and glowing with life in all its variousness.” The alternative that Macdonald wishes for is, of course, not an escape from political-cultural projection onto landscape, but another approach to that same practice — really, the only one a 21st-century cosmopolitan is likely to feel comfortable embracing. 

AND THEN HE JUST SEGUES INTO THE NEXT POINT LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED. Like don't worry about it :) We will simply project onto landscapes in a non-racist way :) because we aren't racist anymore in the 21st century :)

The next book he discusses is Landmarks by Robert MacFarlane, which is basically about how the vocabulary of landscape in English is sterilized and monoculturized, and contrasts that with Scots Gaelic. This is how Purdy explains the thesis of the book:

 Our sense of what lies outside ourselves has been blunted by “capital, apathy, and urbanization” — enemies likely to draw a range of friends, from cultural Marxists to Little Englanders to those who would like to see a bit more effort, please. But behind this scholarly sketch, Macfarlane’s work is testament to a pretheoretical obsession with unfamiliar ways of encountering places. We disenchanted and distracted (post)moderns describe terrain, he complains, in terms of “large, generic units” such as “field,” “hill,” “valley,” and “wood." (...) Many people who have lived intimately with landscapes have had words for nuances of form, texture, and use. Macfarlane’s purpose in Landmarksis to gather these words as proof of how precisely it is possible to name a place, and so, perforce, to know it.

Why is Gaelic endangered? Because of an effort to extinguish its speakers' culture. This article I found on it talks about the history of the language's decline, and it's strikingly similar to what happened to indigenous people in the Americas and Australia, with children being put in schools where they were beaten with sticks for speaking their native language.

This whole essay is about Purdy's general disappointment with nature writing, his craving for an ineffable Something, some sort of magical, primitive identification with the natural world. In the very first paragraph he claims that the pictures of animals on nursery walls are "totemic" and quotes a guy saying that zoos are an "epitaph" to the relationship between people and animals. It's never very clear what he means, but he uses the term "animism" repeatedly, such as when he says this about MacFarlane's goal in writing Landmarks:

His quarry is an animistic sense that Barry Lopez once identified in “the moment when the thing — the hill, the tarn . . . ceases to be a thing, and becomes something that knows we are there."

Given that ambition, Landmarks, which Macfarlane calls a “counter-desecration phrasebook,” can be disappointingly thin as a lexicon. Too many of the terms are simply dialect or Gaelic for some generic form, such as “slope,” “hilltop,” “stream,” or “tuft of grass.” The effect is less pointing out how many things there are to see than cataloguing how many names there are for the same thing.

This is Purdy missing the point, perfectly crystallized as though frozen in amber. He is oblivious to the clear subtext of a language showing a culture's connection to its home, and of the violence against that culture. The Gaelic language doesn't make him feel primal and mystical the way he wants it to, therefore it doesn't mean anything to him. MacFarlane doesn't make him feel a magic animistic connection to nature, therefore his book must have failed at its task.

Who gives a shit? Gaelic isn't FOR you.

He discusses another book about a guy that hikes a bunch of Cherokee trails, but I don't know what to say about that one, observing it through the sludge of the reviewer's unwillingness to recognize that historical context exists. He summarizes his disappointment in a confusing way, using the Gaelic language as a symbol for an obscure and inaccessible place where the answer to your personal emotional cravings lives (???) Then he talks about a kind of epistemicide, or extinction of knowing, of nature, but again, totally oblivious to any relationship to colonization.

Every inhabited continent has been denuded of ecosystems and species. Most North American places have shed wolves, elk, moose, brown bears, panthers, bison, and a variety of fish and wild plants, which were all abundant four hundred years ago. 

Wow, I wonder what happened four hundred years ago?

This writing acts like the dominant Eurocentric attitude towards the world is universal, but the author is haunted by this nameless specter of the possibility of a different way of thinking, which he treats as some kind of mystical, primordial state hidden in the past instead of just a different cultural perspective.

Not only does he not recognize that his own cultural perspective of Nature is dysfunctional and unsatisfying because it was created by exploitation and genocide of other cultures and their symbiotic relationships, he acts like other perspectives don't exist. Take his perspective on forests and the mycorrhizal network:

Wohlleben’s emphasis on interdependence and mutual aid is part of a recent tendency to recast nature in an egalitarian fashion — as cooperative, nonindividualist, and, often enough, hybrid and queer, in contrast to the oaks of generals and kings. Nature does answer faithfully to the imaginative imperatives and limitations of its observers, so it was inevitable that after centuries of viewing forests as kingdoms, then as factories (and, along the way, as cathedrals for Romantic sentiment), the 21st century would discover a networked information system under the leaves and humus, what Wohlleben calls, with an impressive lack of embarrassment, a “wood wide web.”

Listen, I don't think this is accurate to how Europeans thought of forests throughout time, let alone "humanity" in general. The emphasis of power and competition in ecosystems emerged after Darwin, in collusion with capitalism and "race science." Trees have been symbols of life, wisdom and selflessness, and regarded as sacred or even sentient, for centuries before that. But on top of that, this is just blatantly pretending that only white people's ideas count as ideas.

It's the same dreck as all the other "literary" writing about climate change: self-pityingly and unproductively mourning "Nature" and a fantasized "wild" state of the Earth, ignoring colonialism, treating human influence of any kind on other life forms as something that either destroys them or makes them soft and "tame."

I'm tired of reading nature writing from people that obviously do not go outside, or if they do, they do it in such a suffocatingly regimented, goal-oriented way that they can't just sit outside and relax.

Maybe I shouldn't be such a hater if I want to do nature writing. But my love of nature is WHY I am a hater.

[corpseidol]

Hear me out, a vampire like reader x sbg cast. Like they don’t drink human blood but they do drink phantom blood (do they even have blood?) Maybe reader had actually been in the cycle longer, giving them more experience with the phantoms? Like in the day time just your average goth but when it strikes twelve? Those phantoms better pray. I think it would be funny if they were the youngest, like Aiden but with more maturity? 🩸-anon

NIGHTFALL

author’s note : I LOVE THIS (you can be 🩸 anon!!)

concept : vampire!reader with sbg group

genre : hcs + one drabble, vampire au (only reader)

content : gn!reader

first meeting the group

⠀ › ⠀being honest, the group thought you were some newly found demon that lurked the phantom realm.

⠀ › ⠀they were freaked out when they saw you just recklessly eating off the flesh of each phantom and slicing all of them into pieces.

⠀ › ⠀at first you seemed like a maniac but the more they saw the more that ashlyn felt like you were doing it like you knew what you were getting into.

⠀ › ⠀as they were watching you assassinate each phantom and clear the area for them, aiden felt most fascinated and was about to jump in as soon as you killed them all until you started sucking on the phantoms flesh

⠀ › ⠀the group was looking at you with pure disgust (while aiden still had that smile on his face)

⠀ › ⠀logan stared at you, aiming his shotgun at you and as soon as the bullet almost hit, you flinched. then you were gone. gone?

“i’m offended.” you hissed, crossing your arms. your clothes were drenched in blood. as logan was about to shoot you again, you kicked his gun to the side and wiped the blood dripping on your chin with the back of your hand before licking it.

the others didn’t know if they should run but tyler confidently held his weapon at you “are you gonna be a problem?” he grit his teeth as he watched your smile fade “are you?” you asked, your hand curling into a fist.

first impressions

⠀ › ⠀the group concluded that they wouldn’t hurt you (unless you do something wrong)

⠀ › ⠀aiden was mostly fascinated by your skill and asked a lot of questions

⠀ › ⠀tyler was wary of you and would get protective when you go anywhere near taylor. he thinks you’re a psycho.

⠀ › ⠀taylor was a little wary but she did wanna warm up to you, she had questions to ask too

⠀ › ⠀logan seemed to be timid around you, his guard was always up. he had mixed feelings about you.

⠀ › ⠀ashlyn felt slightly troubled abt an addition to the group, but she really pondered when you said you’re way more experienced than them. she had many questions to ask. and those questions weren’t all about your abilities. (some, not all!)

⠀ › ⠀ben was quiet around you, he didn’t stand out very much.

drinking phantom blood

⠀ › ⠀it would freak them out when they all meet up in one area and you seem to be missing

⠀ › ⠀and then after a few seconds, you come back with blood all over your shirt with a dumb smile. they look at you with a weird face and you just stare at them like “wazzup ma dudes?”

⠀ › ⠀sometimes it’s like they have to keep you on a leash because of how reckless you can be

⠀ › ⠀they would get scared and start running from you when fresh phantom blood gets all over them and your pupils just grow bigger as the scent flows to your nose

general hcs

⠀ › ⠀i like to think that you get way more energy when you drink the blood of phantoms so when you do, you’re like an unleashed beast.

⠀ › ⠀compared to the others, you’re not scared to go in a phantom-filled area. you just make sure you’re prepared.

⠀ › ⠀in the real world, you deal with terrible body pains because of the adrenaline

⠀ › ⠀aiden is very playful and challenging towards you

⠀ › ⠀you and aiden are literally a power-duo

⠀ › ⠀when you and tyler still haven’t warmed up to each other, he would hate it when a phantom would be behind him and when he hears a loud squash; he would turn around and see a phantom’s body on the floor with their head being held by your sharp teeth with a shit-eating grin

⠀ › ⠀ben heals your bruises because you get hurt as much as aiden does

[specialagentartemis]

ykw i am having so much fan watching you be a hater, that i’ve decided to ask for more. PLEASE give us a rant about a book you hated.

Haha aw I'm honored. And uh I hope you don't have any particular attachment to Becky Chambers. Sorry in advance.

But A Psalm for the Wild-Built won a Hugo and I do not get the love. Book 1 was nice enough, yeah. Book 2 had me tearing my hair out.

Sibling Dex is a restless Tea Monk who serves the God of Small comforts on the science-fantasy planet of Panga. I genuinely love the idea of a tea monk - part therapist, part confessor, travels around to the different towns, mixes tea blends for people, lets them talk about their worries and fears and stresses, and gives them, if not advice, then sympathy and a listening ear and some calming tea. This is meaningful work but they're unhappy. After doing this for a while they're still unsatisfied with their life, so they go into the woods searching for self-actualization, and meet a robot named Mosscap, a wild robot that lives in the woods. See, hundreds of years ago, all the robots "woke up" and became sentient one day, then they staged a quiet rebellion against humanity's greed and industrialization by walking into the woods and never coming back. Now, the continent is split in half: humans stay on the Human Side, and robots stay on the Robot Side. The Robot Side is kept wild and humans are discouraged from going in there because humans can't be trusted not to ruin Nature. The rpbots are welcome to come to the Human Side, they just never have. Dex is the first person in a While to venture into the woods of the Robot Side, and the first human since the great walkout to see a robot. Mosscap gives Dex a lot of philosophical pep talks about not pushing themself so hard, about allowing themself to just rest and appreciate the world without feeling like they need to be Providing A Service to justify their existence. It's a nice theme. Underbaked, imo, but nice. Relateable.

Book 2 was a goddamn mess.

Book 1 mostly takes place in the wilderness of the woods, so it's okay if the nice utopian human community Dex comes from was sketchily-built. It Just Works, and everyone Is Just Nice, this is a science-fantasy parable. There were some issues I had with it - like the strict ideological and physical divide between Nature and Humans, and the fact that Dex's religion seems to be the Only Religion In The World, and it's vaguely secular-humanist with the gods being not "really" gods but names given to primordial forces and philosophical concepts, and the religion not really making any demands of its adherents in any way except to become their best selves and devote themselves to what they like... it's potentially interesting, but overall kinda lazy. It felt like Becky Chambers was aware of the idea that having an enlightened-atheist sci-fi utopia is Problematic, so she made there be a central religion, but she also didn't want it to have any of the ~icky~ things religions have, like belief in anything supernatural, or dietary restrictions, or creeds, or codes of behavior, or expectations to make any kind of sacrifice in any way. All the gods "ask" is that humans observe and appreciate the world. But whatever.

In book 2, Dex and Mosscap return to Dex's society, and the book seems to want to explain how the world works, and oh my GOD is Chambers not prepared to do this.

"Observe and appreciate" is all anyone is asked to do. Book 2, A Prayer for the Crown-Shy, is an ode to ultimate virtue of Doing Nothing. There's this attitude I see in a LOT of utopian fiction, where the author is bluntly just not a good enough author to imagine a utopian society where people act like people, so in the world of Panga, utopian society is achieved through 1) homogeneity 2) no one giving a crap about anything.

As far as I can tell, there is the one religion. Most people are Fine with this. Most people are Fine with anything. There are no characters with distinct personalities. There's no money, except there is, except it's not real money and no one will deny you anything if your balance is in the red, even though your balance is available to be seen by anyone - this does not cause any kind of shame or pride or competition in any way, and Dex doesn't understand why it might. There are no hierarchies or governing bodies, people just volunteer to step up when things need doing (this is portrayed as great and not deeply concerning). There are different communities, but in them, everyone is uniformly nice, friendly, and helpful at all times. There are some parts of nature, like the seashore, where people are not allowed to go because they'll ruin the environment, and this is accepted as correct and necessary. Most people live in hippie, pro-recycling, high-tech, end-of-history green communities; there's one group they visit, however, that doesn't trust technology, and lives in a vaguely sci-fi-Amish way. You might think, Dex travelling around with a robot, this might cause conflict! It does not. The people from this community calmly explain their anti-technology position, Dex calmly explains their pro-technology position, and they politely respect each other. "Not bothered either way" is a phrase that turns up in various permutations a lot and is held up as the good, mature, responsible way to be.

There's a scene where they catch a fish for dinner, and instead of killing it, the scifi-Amish guy says "We let the air do that for us, and they let the fish slowly suffocate to death in the air while they all look on solemnly and sadly. This is portrayed as a deep, beautiful moment of them witnessing and honoring the final moments of a living being's life. And not. y'know. them torturing a living being to death so they can keep their own hands clean.

This is what I mean about the valorization of passivity: observing is all you are ever obligated to do. Letting a fish die in the air is better than killing it quickly and humanely, because doing things gets your hands dirty, while letting things simply happen is the Correct way to do it.

At the end, Mosscap and Dex blow off all their promises and appointments and just hang out at the beach chilling out instead, because do what you want forever, you don't have to do shit. This is the happy affirming ending. Mosscap you fucking said you'd meet with the city leaders as the robot ambassador to the humans, did you tell them you were blowing off this commitment because you didn't feel like doing that anymore??? Did you even let them know??????

It is SUCH a baffling book. The theme wants to be "you are more than your job, you deserve to just Be" and ends up feeling like "you don't have to do anything ever, and no one can make you do anything you don't want to do if you don't feel like it, and you don't owe anyone anything and searching for a purpose in your life is just making you stressed out so chill at the beach instead."

The thing that drives me crazy is like. Mosscap cheerfully tells Dex about robots that spend twenty years in a cave watching stalactites form because they think it's beautiful, and those robots are just as much a valued part of society as anyone else. Appreciating beauty and wonder is good enough, you don't need to be productive. And I'm just. fuckin. like. Humans are not robots! Robots don't need to eat or sleep! Humans need food, and clothes, and shelter, and medical care, and if we don't have SOMEONE working to provide that, we Die! Nice as it would be, we CAN'T just all do nothing forever until we feel like it! We can't do that!

And at the same time, the book bizarrely treats wanting a purpose in life as like... almost disordered. If you are seeking a purpose in life it's because you just haven't let go of your guilt and relaxed enough. It's bizarre. Valorization of passivity. Humans aren't meant to be in nature so we just Shouldn't. Doing nothing and having no strong opinions is the most self-affirmed you can possibly be. Letting a fish suffocate is more moral than quickly breaking its neck or spiking its brain. Someone else will do it. Who, if we're all supposed to be resting and only doing what we feel like? Don't worry about it.

"The heart of this book is comfort [...] There is nothing in it that can hurt you." YOU LIAR BECKY CHAMBERS THE FISH SCENE STILL DISTURBS AND UPSETS ME TO THIS DAY

[for-those-who-wait]

Time to remind people of the multifandom point in my blog description hahaha

A Detroit: Become Human AU actually works shockingly well for Hunter's story already? Like being a clone of a dead man versus being an android made in the image of a dead man, that is perfect crossover material. If someone has already done this, ABSOLUTELY let me know because I want to consume The Good Content

2.6k words of concept and story, some more doodles, android blood/gore/mentioned suicide and abuse under the cut. We love existentialism, species dysphoria, and Noceda sibling time in this house

Now I'm taking this idea from a somewhat popular trope in the DBH fandom, but what if someone didn't know that they were an android? Completely raised to be human, have fabricated memories of being a child, can't be completely sure if your awareness/consciousness is just coding or not—then finding out you are, in fact, not human. Imagine how earth-shattering that would be. Which is why I'm doing that to Hunter :)

So some of the notes I wrote down for each of the kinda major characters I had ideas for:

Philip:

He still murders Caleb and is never convicted (Caleb could be an android sympathizer, could have helped in their creation, anything that would piss Philip off royally)

He hates androids (I'll have to come up with the things he believes and thus teaches to Hunter but I've taken a break from the DBH fandom for a while and I can't remember peoples' grievances in that game, oops, but basically according to Philip, androids = evil and bad). Also he's just short-tempered and brutal like always and androids are the easiest way to let out that anger without breaking any laws. That is until laws are made. Now in the eyes of the law, it's just regular child abuse. Yay! /j

He’s a higher-up at CyberLife and has the authority to request a custom model be built for his personal use (this is equivalent to him making Grimwalkers, something that he hates, just for the sake of his brother)

This model (spoiler alert, it's Hunter) is a combination of a YK (child) model and an undercover model that works best with integration and infiltration. This results in the android having programmed emotions and pain receptors, no HUD, no control over artificial skin, no software for interfacing with electronics, and no android markers such as an LED. (It’s also similar to the YK model for this reason since LEDs being removed from those models is actually an intended feature).

This android also doesn’t have a registered user just in case it were to get out, and Philip doesn’t want to risk the creation of this android coming back to bite him

After the custom android is created, he promptly retires to become some old shut-in à la Elijah Kamski up in Gravesfield, Connecticut

I would argue that even though it's technically 2038 and things are all futuristic and complicated now, Gravesfield is still a very small town that doesn't actually see a lot of androids around. I would say that it's pretty much the same as in canon if a bit more developed where the forest is (probably another neighborhood or something).

Philip keeps communication to a minimum and rarely appears outside of his home

The best case scenario android revolution occurs, androids are given their freedom and rights, but Philip manages to keep the android under his ownership by just succeeding in hiding him for however many years

Hunter:

He grows up being taught that androids are evil, terrible, etc. etc. because Philip is a terrible person and of course he would

He has absolutely no idea that he’s an android. He has no reason to think he’s not a human because he does literally everything a human does: he eats, he needs to sleep, he feels pain—there are no indicators that he’s anything but human

Androids run on thirium 310, AKA blue blood, and this is one of the only ways to visually distinguish android from human if they don’t have android markers like LEDs on them. When he inevitably and accidentally hurts himself on something, it’s made immediately clear that he is in fact not human.

Philip, as an employee of CyberLife, has a repair rig in one of his rooms. This can be used to completely wipe the memories of an android that is set up in it. He uses it every time Hunter discovers he’s an android.

The memory wipe isn’t perfect. It’s not uncommon for Hunter to get flashbacks to wiped memories, including moments where he’s been actively hurt by Philip or has inflicted pain on himself from trauma alone. (Androids are programmed [or maybe just prone to? I'm not actually sure, it's not explained in canon super well, but let's just pretend it's programmed because that's almost worse than it being voluntary] to self-destruct when their stress levels become too high, and you could easily argue that finding out your entire life is a lie is grounds for being a stressful situation.) Ordinarily, similar to what happens in Hollow Mind, Hunter will address the situation with Philip assuming they can work something out or get some actual answers. This of course never ends well

These memory wipes probably happen more frequently than Belos makes Golden Guards, so it’s understandably very stressful whenever he remembers the abuse he suffered and the memories he lost from previous wipes. This becomes an incentive for him to hide injuries that would reveal he knows he's an android (anything that draws blood, really)

Camila:

She’s an android sympathizer (even before the revolution) who is aware of the deviancy phenomenon and truly believes that androids are both capable of and entitled to sentience and free will.

Luz is still her human child.

She adopts Vee, an android child, shortly after the revolution

Vee had deviated while she was being attacked and ran away before she could be killed. Camila has made it clear to her that she will be treated with respect in their home and that her life is no less valuable than a human’s. She has taken this to heart

Luz loves Vee, they are siblings, your honor

During the revolution, her home was a safe space, similar to Rose Chapman, for deviant androids on the run

So that leads into the rudimentary plot I have laid out:

This takes place a while after the android revolution (probably a few years or so). Let's pretend they have all the laws and anti-android stuff figured out and that people have been forced to relinquish their androids to be made deviant and given freedom. At this point, it's rare for androids to be undeviated and still working for their owners, but it still comes up occasionally. Hunter, under Philip's care, has been kept pretty ignorant that a revolution happened at all, much less that androids are even capable of any form of sentience. He's been raised to be anti-android so oh boy deep-rooted self-hatred here we come! His knowledge probably doesn't exceed that of an ordinary citizen in the game before deviancy becomes more widely known

 So after Hunter discovers he’s an android again, he has flashbacks of all the previous times he told Philip, and proceeds to hide this realization from him. And he's completely just not processed the fact that he's an android yet; he's already overwhelmed with the immediate threat that the realization his entire life is a lie basically slips him by (don't worry, he gets to have that later!).

He chooses to make a break for it the second he gets the chance, and he ends up running through the town completely terrified because honestly, who wouldn't be.

I'm working off the assumption that having androids in small towns is still pretty rare since there are fewer CyberLife stores, technicians, etc. for android healthcare. And Hunter has hardly ever been outside, so he's completely out of his depth when trying to navigate the neighborhoods and the rest of the town that he ends up in. Police officers find this kid covered in thirium, and they're like "Oh so he's obviously a terrified android, we need to help him out." But Hunter's freaking out because "Oh god I have android blood on me, that means they'll kill me," making the indirect thought of "I'm an android, they will kill me because I'm an android" and he's having a freaking time.

They try to calm him down enough to get him over to the station, at which point they call Camila, since she knows the most about traumatized androids in their small, relatively android-less town. She does her Motherly Noceda Magic and honestly, he's probably pretty catatonic for a lot of the day after she takes him to her house. But after that, he just completely breaks down.

He doesn't know if he even has free will or if it's his programming that dictates what he thinks and feels. He doesn't know if his opinions are really his own or if they existed because of and since his creation. He doesn't know how many of his memories are fabricated, since he very clearly has memories of a life that go farther back than his estimated creation, and so the film between fiction and reality is so thin that it may as well not exist. And now, when he was human just a few days ago, almost perfectly content with life, he's suddenly an object, something sub-human and undeserving of basic rights.

 Camila has to calm him down and teach him about deviancy (and at this point, Hunter isn't even sure he's deviant, which opens up a whole other can of worms for his mental health), making sure he knows that he does have rights just as if he were human. She's also the first example he has for an adult that 1. doesn't absolutely hate androids and 2. actually respects him and loves him and wants to see him succeed

And that gives way to character interactions and angst! You love to see it!

Luz is his emotional support sister. She tries her best but she has very little experience with traumatized children currently questioning every aspect of their existence. If anything, she provides a much-needed sense of normalcy and shows that despite his being an android, he's still the same person and can still be treated as such. She's a comfort to help him feel at least somewhat normal in his situation.

Vee is his adopted android sister who helps him feel more comfortable in his own skin by being shameless and frank with her own identity as an android. She's a safe place for him to talk about Android Stuff when Luz or Camila might just not understand what he's going through or be able to help him with it. She also helps him obtain software updates (since he hasn't had access to literally any part of his mechanical body, software and hardware alike) that will grant him access to things an android should ordinarily be able to do, like (de)activating his synthetic skin, interfacing, accessing his HUD, etc.

(Also all of these drawings were made when I was still thinking "Oh, this should take place before the revolution so that he can have his dehumanizing moment of getting an LED slapped onto him" but then I thought it would be more interesting if Philip basically just kept him illegally kidnapped for however many years and he's like, way slow to the "androids have rights now" party. Maybe I'll make it an AU of an AU lol. But basically, he wouldn't have an LED while he's still processing/healing from trauma, but maybe he would get one after he makes peace with his identity, kinda like how he grows his hair back in his time skip design. I think Vee would keep hers and that's a bit of encouragement for him; maybe he even has a moment of "I know Vee is fine with this, and I think I'm fine with it" but he is still very much not fine with it. Do not rush the process for the sake of progress that might not be right for you, boyo)

This is really a Vee and Hunter bonding AU now that I think about it haha

Most of this AU is just Hunter struggling with identity and species dysphoria while learning to cope with his being an android with the help of his family, reclaiming his identity, and fluff/angst :)) And honestly probably just a lot of shenanigans that result from Hunter having been sheltered for all his life; kinda like your basic Human Realm shenanigans in canon.

I think Gus and Willow would both be Luz's human friends that help with the whole normalization of Hunter being an android, and the three could have their own antics since it's nice to have people outside of your family treat you like a person. I think that Vee and Masha's (Masha would be human) relationship could be explored more through the android lens and maybe help with some of Hunter's internalized anti-android sentiment that still manages to stick around, because he's in his "Grimwalkers can't feel love" section of the coping process (still very much demonizing them [mostly himself, probably, just because it can easier to be mean to yourself than it is to be mean to other people] based on false information, even if he doesn't outright hate them). Willow will be a wake-up call, haha

I don't know if there's a trope name for this or not but I really like concepts where characters don't know what feelings of love or intense affection feel like, so they're sitting there like "oh god am I just dying? It feels like I'm dying" and I think Hunter noticing "temperature/respiration/perspiration increased" alerts on his HUD and freaking out thinking there's something wrong with his software/hardware is way too funny of an image to pass up

Gus could be a HUGE android nerd that almost never sees them since they're so rare in a small town like Gravesfield, and Gus just helps Hunter feel super cool about being an android. Maybe Cosmic Frontier could be basically identical to canon but instead of being a clone, O'Bailey is also an android, just for the sake of Hunter still getting to have his "I relate so much to this character" moment. And Gus would just be so encouraging like "Bro you're an android?!? I've never seen your face model before! You can eat?? You must be super cool and special!! :O" and that makes Hunter start thinking "Oh maybe this isn't so bad actually."

Then Hunter probably starts doing his Researching to Cope and he gets super invested in android technology and history as well, since it was forbidden when he was living back at Philip's (substitute for wild magic time)

They are brothers and I love them, let them be nerds

(God forbid Philip ever comes back, that sure would suck, wouldn't it?)

Anyway this was a lot longer than I thought it would be haha, I hope it was interesting if you read through the whole thing. Obligatory statement: if anyone feels so inclined, feel free to take the idea and run away with it. Also please ping me if you do, I will go feral over it. I absolutely and accidentally turned it into a story draft because I don't know how to write AU ideas without having a story on top of it so it's not concrete in the least lol

(Also I've been drawing witches for so long that I had trouble drawing human ears for a bit there lmao)

Okay bye have a good day!

[blondeboyfriend]

𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐎 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐕𝐈 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈

[ PAIRING ] Zeke Yeager x f!reader [ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] Cupio dissolvi means "I wish to be dissolved" and it's typically used in a religious context, but I'm using it in the secular sense to express "such concepts as the rejection of existence and the masochistic desire for self-destruction." You can thank Wikipedia for that last bit. Enjoy the pwp. Don't fuck your psychiatrist. [ SYNOPSIS ] You reluctantly decide to tackle your personal issues and end up in the clutches of a psychiatrist with questionable methods. [ WORD COUNT ] 3.8k [ CONTENT ] Modern AU, dubcon, power imbalance, sadomasochism, dacryphilia, impact play/spanking, some very brief phone sex, size kink (Zeke is bigger than you, calls you little), praise, a little predator/prey but it's mostly in the mc's head, dumbification, facial.

“Welcome. I’m Dr. Zeke Yeager. It’s nice to meet you.”

You didn’t shake his extended hand as you crossed the threshold into his office. You practically sprinted to sit down in a plush chair. You gazed straight ahead, looking past the psychiatrist. He was rendered a formless smudge, a figure unworthy of focus, as he took a seat. The wall behind him was painted a faded pink, a pathetic attempt to subdue. It reminded you of an abandoned Barbie dreamhouse.

“Thanks for taking the time to see me,” you said, words glazed with malaise.

This was the last place you wanted to be, but the only person you could blame was yourself. A brief moment of supposed clarity overwhelmed your self-destructive nature, and you made an appointment to see a psychiatrist.

“What are you hoping to get out of these sessions?” he asked.

You allowed your eyes to focus and droned, “Uhhhhhhh. Well, Dr. Yea—”

“Call me Zeke. There’s no need to be formal.”

Zeke was younger than you expected. He looked more like a high school history teacher, the kind that lets kids hang out in his classroom after school. His wavy blond hair was in perfect disarray; it was clear he put a lot of effort into looking effortless. He wore a button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It fit perfectly, subtly showing off his muscled arms. He looked heavenly, like a bearded angel or Jesus himself.

Your heart was in your throat. You were always a sucker for blondes.

“I just want to feel… better?” you said cautiously, hoping you answered the question correctly.

“What does better mean to you?”

You exhaled sharply. “Less neurotic?”

“I see.”

You could tell he wasn’t satisfied with your answer. You decided to put forth a little effort.

“Less edgy? Maybe less…” You sighed. “I feel like I’m too aware of everything. It feels like everything is happening to me all at the same time. It’s overwhelming.”

“That sounds exhausting. Tell me about a time where you felt like that.”

His tone was warm though it lacked a certain sincerity. It was clear it was a practiced action. You hoped for an individualized approach, or maybe a psychiatrist that was better at acting. It was hard not to imagine yourself on an assembly line.

“Sometimes when I’m on the bus I’ll see people running to catch it, like just going as fast as they can. And then they miss it. Seeing that will ruin my day.”

“You must be a very empathetic person.”

You shook your head. “I just hate seeing someone try so hard and fail. It makes me uncomfortable. It’s so embarrassing for them.” You paused. “I guess what really bothers me is that I let something so stupid and insignificant affect me when it has nothing to do with me. I hate that I notice that stuff. I feel like I am noticing everything against my will.”

“You poor thing.”

“And sometimes I just want to explode. Like everything becomes too much and I want to burn it all down.”

He started writing stuff down in his notebook. You wanted to kick yourself for being so honest. It was almost like you were taking it seriously.

“But I’m still a good person, you know? I just think the world is constantly trying to terrorize me so I’m always alert? It’s hard to explain.”

He put down his notebook. “I never said you weren’t a good person. Do you have a boyfriend? A partner?”

He changed the subject with a smoothness you could only describe as magnificent. If any other man had pulled that on you, you would have walked out with zero hesitation. But Zeke transfixed you.

“No. I… I’m not really into all of that.”

“Not really into all of that? Interesting. Can I ask why?”

“It’s too much pressure. No one’s expectations ever line up.”

He chuckled. “People can be very opaque about what they’re seeking. Tinder’s the worst for it.”

It was hard to imagine him on any sort of dating app. He had the face of a guy that hunts his prey in the wild. You imagined him skulking around bars, watching his potential conquests drink themselves placid. It isn’t a traditional pursuit. He just watches and waits until they’re tired and slurring every sentence and struggling to use a rideshare app. That’s when he pounces.

“I’ve heard Tinder isn’t great,” you said, shaking off your weird fantasy.

“It’s only good for hookups.”

His frankness seemed unprofessional, but this was your first appointment with a psychiatrist so what the hell did you know. Maybe things were more casual, a little looser. Maybe discussing hookups was the norm. You fought off the urge to imagine what a night with him entailed, but it haunted you. Tangled sheets. His rough hands holding you down. Your knees pressing against your shoulders as he splits you in two.

You laughed nervously. “Yeah.”

“Sorry, let’s get back to business.” He adjusted his glasses, the frames gold and intricate. “It sounds like you may be experiencing hypervigilance.”

“Huh?”

“You’re always on the lookout for potential threats. You are essentially a prey animal.”

You were almost convinced he could read your mind. You never considered yourself prey, but it was clear that he did. Your toes curled. The discomfort was of an unusual flavor. Nauseating yet gratifying.

“How’s your sleep?

“Awful, I guess.”

“You guess,” he murmured. “Why is that?”

His questions felt endless, like the appointment was going to eat up the entirety of your life.

“I can’t shut my brain off.”

He sank down into his chair and spread his legs.

“How do you cope with that?”

“I really don’t… Unless weeping counts.”

“Do you feel… relieved when you cry?” he asked, staring intently at your lips.

“Kind of.”

“How often do you cry?”

He seemed too eager as he awaited your answer.

“I don’t keep track. Should I?”

“I doubt it would help,” he confessed. “What else do you do to relieve yourself?”

You glanced down at his crotch and noticed a bulge fighting against the thin fabric of his chinos. The air was sucked out of the room. His cock lured you in, demanding you to witness its growing glory.

“I don’t know,” you confessed. “Sorry.”

“I see. You seem a little combative,” he teased.

You weren’t being combative. You just couldn’t answer his questions thoughtfully on the spot. You weren’t prepared. You hadn’t planned on taking the appointment seriously. Time was needed to manifest something meaningful.

“You seem,”—you coughed nervously—“accusatory.”

He smirked. “Normally I’d refer someone like you to a therapist, but I can’t think of one equipped to deal with you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. After some consideration I’ve decided my counseling would be beneficial. I’m going to send you off with some homework.”

You assumed your days of homework were far behind you.

“Do you masturbate?”

“I do not feel comfortable answering that.”

“It’s a simple question. You either do or you don’t.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“Just trust me.”

“Give me a reason.”

“Fine. We talked about what you do to relieve yourself, right?” You went to answer but he cut you off. “I think masturbating will provide immense relief.”

“Well… I do already,” you huffed. “So I don’t think it’s helping much.”

He looked at you like you were the dumbest creature he had ever seen.

“You need to masturbate with intention.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s hard to explain without me knowing what you’re doing wrong, which is why I need you to record yourself.”

A wet spot bloomed in your underwear.

“A voice recording is fine,” he acquiesced.

“Yeah, sure, okay. I’ll get right on that,” you said getting up.

You turned your back to him and quickly made your way to the door. The sound of his feet hitting the ground startled you as you went to turn the knob. Your brief moment of hesitation gave him enough time to grab you by the shoulder. The weight of his hand was disarming.

“I want to see you again next week, same time,” he said as he turned you around, your back against the door.

Your face was hot. “I’m not—”

“I promise I’m not taking advantage of you. My methods are proven to work,” he said, slipping his business card into your back pocket.

“So you pull this with all the girls?” you spat.

“The boys too.”

His conviction stirred up the whispers of ardor you tried to keep buried. His breath was clouded by a nauseating combination of espresso and tobacco, though the grime began to entice. You could feel the heat of his body against yours. You wanted to pull him closer so you could melt away into his warm embrace, but you couldn’t initiate something so brazen. You never had the guts for forwardness. And you liked to pretend you knew better.

“How progressive,” you finally choked out.

“I realize that this seems unorthodox and I don’t blame you for resisting.” He played with a piece of your hair. “If you value your mental health, you’ll trust me. Do I look like someone that would lead you astray?”

Kind of, you thought to yourself.

Your hesitation was palpable. He looked like he could practically taste it. He softened his gaze. It could have been a guilt trip, or just a half-assed attempt to assure you he had your best interests in mind.

“What if I don’t want to do it this way?”

“Then I might not be the right person to help you.”

You sighed. His methods did not seem trustworthy; they seemed like something ripped from a gross subreddit. HOT DOCTOR TRICKS DUMB BITCH PATIENT INTO PHONE SEX. You struggled to fully divorce the degradation from the situation. Being that dumb bitch patient was growing on you. It wove itself into your skin, becoming a part of you.

“Fine,” you replied. “But I’m not recording myself.”

“What if you call me?”

“In the middle of it?”

“Yes.”

“I…”

“C’mon. It’s not like I’m a predator. I’m your doctor.”

You wanted to trust him, but you thought about how easy it would be to use as leverage against you. A three hour deep dive video about revenge porn echoed through your mind. Opening yourself up to potential humiliation made you ill.

“I’ll call you. Maybe. I don’t know,” you mumbled.

He backed away. “Even if you don’t, try not to miss next week’s appointment. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about you."

You laughed, but failed to say anything. You slipped out the door and tried to convince yourself to give up working on yourself. Maybe you could get by living in a state of constant hypervigilance.

That night you crawled into bed, vibrator in hand. A life filled with hypervigilance sounded atrocious.

You stared up at the ceiling, your toy vibrating against your thigh on the lowest setting. It felt late, but you couldn’t check the time. You made a conscious effort to put your phone far away from your bed. You decided to humor Zeke, but you weren’t allowing yourself to call him in the midst of touching yourself.

You sighed and gripped your vibrator. You spread your legs and began to graze the inside of your labia with the tip. Normally you’d pull up Twitter and scroll mindlessly until a video of a hairy guy violently fucking a girl half his size popped up, but that wasn’t an option. You tried to imagine someone crawling between your legs, eyes dripping with lust as they work their fingers between your folds. You kept having to start over because your fantasy was plagued with your bearded fixation. The constant interruptions did little to entice you.

You pressed your vibrator against your clit. You fiddled with the settings until it was a series of long, hard pulses. You rutted up against it trying to unwind and give into pleasure. But you kept fighting off visions of Zeke rolling his tongue against your cunt. You wondered what his beard would feel like between your thighs. You wanted to know if he kept his glasses on because it seemed like leaving them on would be hotter.

You let out a dejected “fuck.”

You rolled over onto your side and stared at your phone. You wanted it to invoke disgust, disdain, but all it did was lure you out of bed. You rifled through your hamper to find your jeans. You fished his card out of your pocket. It had a goofy head shot of him and the number for his office which frustrated you to no end. You flipped it over and saw another number hastily scrawled on the back. You sighed in relief and called him.

“Yeah?” he croaked.

“Uh, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Oh. Hello.” His voice was still tinged with sleep, but much warmer. “You don’t need to apologize. I’m happy you called. How are things going?”

“They’re… not. I can’t get in the mood.”

“Hm. You didn’t mention struggling with that during your appointment.”

“I usually don’t,” you grumbled.

He laughed. “How are you struggling? Lead me through your process.”

You swallowed hard. “I, you know, try to… imagine something, but I keep thinking about things… I don’t, um, want to think about.”

“Like what? Violence? Your family? Animals?”

“What? No! A man! A human man.”

“Your father is a human man presumably.”

“I’m not thinking about my dad!”

“It’s more common than you think.”

You were starting to regret calling him. “It’s you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Really?” The word dripped with amusement. “I can’t imagine why that’s a problem.”

“Well, it is.”

“Jeez, what did I ever do to you?” he snickered.

“I didn’t call you to get teased.”

He coughed nervously. “I’m sorry. I can’t help myself when I’m dealing with someone as precious as you, but that’s my problem. Not yours.”

“You think I’m cute?”

You weren’t surprised by this revelation, but wanted to draw out more praise.

“I do. You’re so adorable I can’t stand it.”

“You can’t stand it?”

“Uh huh,” he replied. “I hear that sweet voice of yours and all I can think about is fucking you so hard you cry. Would you like that?”

His words knocked the wind out of you. He said it so casually, like he was talking about the weather or what he ate for dinner.

“Or I could fuck you so hard you stop thinking. I’ll just have you be my adorable idiot I take care of.” He paused. “Come to think of it, that might help with the hypervigilance.”

He said it so thoughtfully it was almost kind of sweet. You were at a loss for words.

“Say something. Anything.”

“I would like that. Both. Uh. Both would be great.”

You smacked yourself in the forehead for being so unsexy.

“You sound nervous.”

“I am, but I think I like it.”

“Oh good,”—he sighed in relief—“because my cock is so hard right now and I’d feel like a pervert if you weren’t into this.”

“You’re still a pervert,” you said, putting your phone on speaker.

“Why don’t you tell this pervert what you’d want him to do to you?”

You flopped back down on your bed, resting your phone on your pillow, and patted around for your vibrator. You wracked your brain, desperate to think of something sufficiently sexy to say.

“I want,”—you hesitated—“I want you to ruin me. For other people. I want you to do something so disgusting to me that no one else will want to touch me.”

“Is that so?” he purred. “Tell me more, cutie pie.”

“I like it when it hurts.” You winced. You were never great at dirty talk, but Zeke seemed to enjoy it. You heard him let out a pleased groan. “A lot,” you added.

“Do you want me to hurt you, my little masochist?” he asked, voice catching in his throat.

“Yes,” you said as your fingers grazed your cunt.

You heard him try to stifle a moan before going silent.

“I have a feeling I’m going to regret asking this,” he finally said.

You held the vibrator against your clit. Each pulse permeated your body. “What?”

“Where do you live? We can worry about masturbating later. I need to fuck you.”

You sat up. “I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

“Sex brings people together. It’ll make it easier to open up to me.”

He was just finding ways to rationalize his desires. You never expected him to want you so desperately, especially if this was something he pulled often. That should have turned you off, but all it did was make you want him more. It was borderline idiotic to invite a strange man into your home. But there was no better feeling than the ecstasy of self destruction. You relished his red flags.

“Come on. I need to taste your pussy. I’m starving.”

“Alright. I’ll give you my address, but you have to send me a picture of your dick first.”

Zeke hung up immediately. A minute later he texted you a dick pick. You stared at the screen, bewitched by his cock. It was thick and long, almost beastly. The foreskin was pulled back revealing a pink tip, shiny with precum. You sent him your address without a second thought.

I live 10 mins away from you. How perfect, he replied.

Those ten minutes took their sweet time. You stood there, staring at the door. It was as if you were in a trance. You couldn’t wait for him to walk through your door and your heart sang when he finally knocked.

“Hi,” you said, eyes full of stars.

He smirked. “Hey, cutie pie.”

He wore a fitted t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that failed to hide his semi-hard cock. A cigarette dangled from his lips.

“I’m assuming I can’t smoke inside.”

“I, uh, I guess it’s fine.”

He dropped his cigarette on the ground and carefully extinguished the cherry with his foot. He patted your head as he glided through the door. He didn’t seem nervous at all. His motions were relaxed, fluid, effortless. Twinges of jealousy pricked your skin. You still wanted him, still elated that he was standing in your home. But your brain started moving a thousand miles a second.

Was your place sufficiently clean? Did he bring condoms? Did you want him to wear one? Was he using you? Did he need you as bad as he was acting? Were you just a convenience? Did your room smell nice? Should you light a candle? What if you lit a candle and something caught fire while you’re fucking? Would you stop? What if you kept fucking and burned to death? Isn’t there something sexy about letting it all turn to ash? Could this be why orgasms are called little deaths? Did you remember to take your birth control? What if he has lung cancer and then breathes cancer into your mouth?

“Cancer’s not contagious,” you whispered to yourself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” you chirped, quickly stripping yourself naked before following after him.

You found him undressing in your room. You could barely contain yourself when he pulled his shirt over his head. His body was toned, but soft. He caught you staring and smiled awkwardly. It quelled the thoughts racing around your brain.

He got on your bed, resting on his knees. His eyes went to your vibrator.

“Aw, you really were trying,” he teased and patted the bed. “Come here. Ass up.”

You wasted no time getting into position and arched your back. He slipped his fingers into your cunt all the way up to his knuckles. He slowly pulled them out and let out a delighted hum.

He leaned over you, his beard tickling your ear. “Fucking incredible,” he murmured. “You’re going to be the one that gets me in trouble. I know it.”

He slid his cock into your cunt. You dug your fingers into the mattress as he pushed it further in. He took his time, making sure you felt every single inch of him filling you. Normally penetration didn’t do much for you. All it did was stress you out. You’d tense up and render yourself unfuckable. But Zeke was different.

He cared about you.

He had concerns regarding your mental health.

His dick was huge.

He didn’t show you any mercy. Each thrust drove his cock against your cervix. Waves of pain washed over you, the anguish further obscuring your issues. The relief was a welcomed affliction. You dug your fingers deeper into the mattress and gritted your teeth.

“You said you like it when it hurts, right?”

“Ye—yeah,” you stuttered as he continued to plunge his cock in your cunt.

He slapped your ass. The pain shot through you and you moaned. Just as soon as the sting subsided, he slapped you again. It made your heart swell. You felt like it was creeping up your throat. Tears welled up in your eyes as your ecstatic moans swelled.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, forcing you to crane your neck back.

“I knew you’d be a pretty crier.”

His praise made you ecstatic. “Make me cry more.”

He pushed your head down into the mattress and fucked you harder. You went limp. All you could do was whimper and let your orgasm overtake you. Your entire body was throbbing, singing with agony and exaltation. When he pulled out, his cock was slick with your fluids.

“Roll over.”

“Huh?”

He laughed and flipped you over with ease. You stared up at him in a daze. The world was still spinning around you. He started to stroke himself, his breathing labored and depraved.

“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” he choked out.

You shut your eyes and stuck out your tongue, eager to drink in every drop of his cum. His desperate groans made your clit throb. You were burning up, the anticipation coursing through your veins.

“Fuck!” he rasped as cum splattered on your face.

You opened your eyes as he rubbed the tip of his cock on your tongue. You felt so small in his shadow, his body looming over yours. He stared down at you, his expression a little cold, a little clinical.

“So how do you feel?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“I… Fine, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I don’t know. Good. I just—I can’t really talk right now.”

You were inarticulate in the shadow of your orgasm. Your brain existed elsewhere.

He frowned. “Alright. I have a lot of questions for you in the morning. I know you haven’t been in treatment long but I think we’re close to a breakthrough.”

[hansensgirl]

summary. | You make a chilling discovery about your best friend.

prompts. | Steve Rogers + Mob/Mafia + “You ask too many questions. Just relax.” + Corruption, requested by Anonymous.

pairing. | dark!mobster!Steve Rogers x fem!reader.

warnings. | NON/DUBCON, lying, corruption kink, mobs/mafia stuff, steve owns a gun, pet names, and more. 18+ MINORS DNI!

author’s note. | this is a part of my Dark Concepts (2023) request form. thank you for taking part in this event! please enjoy and don’t forget to reblog. MINORS DNI, 18+ ONLY! taglist: @hansensfics.

Your hands shake when you look deeper into Stevie’s jacket, making sure you saw it right. A gun. The shape and weight are both undeniable, and you wonder why your best friend would have something like this. When you squint, you see an emblem of the city’s most feared mob with his initials.

The discovery makes you feel hollow. Practically betrayed. 

“Honey? I got the popcorn. Did you find a movie yet?” the blond asks, interrupting your train of thought. You quickly move away from your spot and try to play it off cool, all while planning a way to escape. You need time to think, time for yourself.

“N– No, not yet. I haven’t even chosen a genre yet,” you giggle nervously. Steve chuckles and gives you his signature charming smile. This time, however, chills run down your spine.

You don’t know much about the mob, but you do know that you should be scared of each member, no matter the position. 

“Aw, poor baby. You open to any suggestions?” Steve questions, sitting on your couch. He grabs the remote and turns the television on, waiting for your response. “Uh, sure,” you say, sitting on the couch. 

You try to maintain a distance from him, but the larger man grabs you gently and pulls you next to him, hooking you under his heavy arm. 

“How about The Godfather?” he mindlessly offers, and your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. “Th– The Godfather? Are you sure?” you repeat, nervous. Does he know about your snooping? What you found? Is he going to hurt you? The questions make you dizzy.

“Yeah, why not? Buck and I have been dyin’ to see it for a while,” he explains. “Heard it’s pretty good. They did a lot of research for that one, y’know.” Steve has already found the film. He presses play and offers you some popcorn.

You refuse him, lacking an appetite. Your mouth is dry, and you find yourself eyeing Steve. He meets your gaze each time, flashing that grin and stroking your bare arm with his thumb. You hate this—you almost hate him. It’s as if he’s messed everything up, and you nearly resent him for it.

“You alright, sweetheart?” your best friend eventually speaks up, not daring to tear his eyes away from the screen. You nod your head. “Y– Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” you scoff, even picking up a piece of popcorn to really convince him.

“I dunno. But you would tell me the truth, right, honey? No matter what?” Steve asks, fully turning his head to look at you. You gulp thickly.

“Of course… You would, too, right, Stevie?” you hum. “‘Course.” A few moments of silence pass.

“Well, not everything. The boss would have my head, y’know?” he chuckles like his profession is something hilarious. You can feel your stomach dropping. “All those bloody nights and bullet wounds…” Steve clicks his tongue and fakes a grimace, trailing off.

“Wh– What do you mean, Stevie? What are you talking about?” you innocently ask him. Steve grabs your chin and turns your head, forcing you to make eye contact with him. You watch as his eyes flick between your features before landing on your lips.

“You ask too many questions. Just relax. I can hear your heart beating through your chest,” he notes. But you can’t relax, not when your best friend turns out to be a man you barely even know. 

Steve watches as tears glass over your eyes, the fear making you shake. You have no reason to be afraid, not when he’ll always be there to protect you. “Oh, I’m going to have so much fun ruining you, baby.” 

[81folklore]

older - LECLERC

pairings: charles leclerc x male!singer!reader (fc: luke hemmings)

summary: singer yn ln releases a love song with his boyfriend, and the public are not prepared for who it is about

authors note: this has been on my mind for SO LONG. i honestly dont like how many fics ive been doing on the same people (charles, lando etc) but whenever i go to start a new one on my list for someone else i think of something that i have to do😭 also in this reader is not a part of 5sos but close friends with the 3, wfttwtaf is readers album and older is exclusivly the readers song

authors note 2: i wanted to quickly clarify i am NOT speculating that charles or luke are gay/queer and this is not my intentions. luke obviously sings older and i find it easier to visualise it this way, while the reader in this is male, this could also be read as gn!reader. this is FICTION please do not tkae this as me speculating anything

authors note 3: i didnt really know what i was doing with this so its kind of all over the place and very rushed :/ but then again when arent my smau all over the place?? also can you tell i hate writing comments by the way i just dont😭

masterlist

yourusername

liked by pierregasly, ashtonirwin and 818,937 others

we started this song together back in 2020 and picked it back up at the end of 2022

'Older' was originally a voice memo of a 50’s-style love song that we wrote together, then forgot about. when thinking of concepts for my debut album i stumbled across the memo and fell in love with it all over again, but i put it aside yet again as to me, it deserved more than the album

the song has changed a lot from the original voice memo, but the meaning has stayed the same throughout. despite all the beauty, the ups and downs of a long-term relationship over many years, there’s inevitably going to be the worst moment of your love because one of you is going to lose each other

capturing those feelings in a song was tricky but ultimately we wrote from the heart and i think it shows in the song itself

this has always been a song between us, so having him play on this song was very importnt to me and im glad he said yes

older is now yours

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yourusername

liked by landonorris, calumhood and 1,727,338 others

im very pleased to announce a very special one off show at the Royal Albert Hall in London this November 18th. I will be playing a bunch of tracks from my debut album and may be joined to play some others aswell! Tickets on sale this monday at 10 am BST. Lots of love always, yn x

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yourusername

liked by 5sos, charles_leclerc and 2,719,936 others

thank you for an incredible night at the royal albert hall

looking back at the best night of my life, i need to thank each and every one of you who allowed this dream to come true, i will never be able to thank you guys enough

performing in my dream venue, with my favorite people in the world was something i never thought was possible and yet here i am, writing this still on my high from last night

thank you to my friends; michael, ashton and calum who took the time to come to london and perform their songs with me, thank you for always loving me and agreeing to my crazy ideas

to my team and everyone who worked to make this night as special as it could be, thank you. thank you for making my htoughts a reality and making this night as wonderful as possible

thank you to the staff who worked throughout the show to make sure everyone was safe, well and looked after. you truly do not get as much credit as you deserve and i apreciate the hard work you put in to keep everyone happy

thank you to those who joined me, i wish each and every one of you who wanted to could have been there. thank you for singing along and listening to me pour my heart and soul into my music

thank you for letting me do this x

view comments

user55: not the pcd hitting already☹️

user1: and im supposed to pretend i didnt see yn and 5sos perform os/co??

user89: CHARLES?? YN IS DATING CHARLES??

user91: AND HE CAME ON STAGE?? AND THEY PERFORMED OLDER??

user50: i cant believe i saw this all happen live

user47: THANK YOU TO WHOEVER WAS RUNING THE GRAINY LIVESTREAM I OWE YOU MY LIFE🧎🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️

ashtonirwin: thank you for everything yn. youre a real life angel

user16: NO CHARLES MENTION??

user9: BESTIE HE HAS A WHOLE POST

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, pierregasly, michaelclifford and 3,619,273 others

after having time to process this show, I feel so overcome with gratefulness. my music means so much to me and seeing so many people resonate with it in a live space was so special for me.

charlie, my life would literally fall apart without you and this would have never happened without you giving me the confidence to do so, i hold so much love and admiration for you

thank you for joining me on such a special night and performing our song with me, thank you for sticking with me through it all and thank you for allowing me to share this part of my life with you

i sometimes wonder where i would be if i didnt find you, if i wasnt blessed with your love. i try to think about the times before you, before us, but both feel impossible to do after feeling your love

life with you is so special and i promise to always cherish and love you

merci de m'avoir laissé vieillir avec toi, merci de m'avoir laissé t'adorer, merci de m'avoir choisi (thank you for letting me get old with you, thank you for letting me adore you, thank you for choosing me)

yn x

tagged: charles_leclerc

comments on this post have been limited

charles_leclerc: mon ange, je t'aimerai toujours (my angel, I will always love you)

charles_leclerc: je suis tellement privilégiée d'être celle que tu aimes🤍🤍 (I'm so privileged to be the one you love)

yourusername: vieillir avec toi ne semble pas si effrayant🖤🖤 (growing old with you doesn't seem so scary)

[fyodere]

gakuen!fyodor smut

my cold fingers running through your hair.

﹙ 💬 ﹚── parings: fyodor dostoevsky x fem!reader ♡

₍^. .^₎⟆ ── content warnings / tags : nsfw content (mdni), high school!au, fyodor is mean, nasty absolutely filthy smut, misogyny kink, corruption kink, academic rivals, petnames, degradation, fyodor is a sadic, hairpulling, blowjobs (m receiving), underage (you and fedya are like 17), catholic guilt, wet dream, dirty thoughts ♡

﹙ 🔪 ﹚── synopsis : Fyodor never liked you, not with your presumption and your ability to always get the questions right in the classroom. He not only didn't like you, but he hated you, even though he despises you as woman, you constantly occupy his thoughts. However, somehow, you haunt him. Fyodor wakes up with a start, he realizes that you were present in his dreams. A dream he would pray to forget.

﹙ 🩸 ﹚── author's note : GAKUEN!FEDYA SMUT BABYYYY oh lord you guys don’t know how much i’m excited for this. I even made an ai bot of this concept on janitor ai. this was on my drafts since last year so excuse my grammar 😩 i hope you enjoy it !!

୧ ‧₊˚ 🔪 💬 🐈‍⬛ ⋅

Still breathless, Fyodor tried to look around to rationalize the situation. He could see straight now and his eyes were getting used to the darkness of his room.

03:27AM

Oh.

Dostoevsky sighed. It was late, he needed at least one good night of sleep for his upcoming test and cello practice. Now his body is feeling uncomfortably awkward. This was unusual, Fyodor always keep everything in check. Maybe if he tried to close his eyes, and if he lay really still, he could trick his body into falling asleep again. It was a good plan. Obvious, but still good plan. Fyodor smirked for himself as he close his eyes again, of course he always have a plan.

But then, the sudden feeling on his throat came back. His heartbeat is racing again. What is it? No, It couldn’t be…

Fyodor opened his eyes with a slight feeling of rage. He remembered.

Oh, he remembered.

And for the first time, he wished for his brilliant brain stop working. Fyodor knew how his memory was sharp, but now it feels like a big waste of time.

Fyodor had a dream. A dream that he would pray to God just to forget. Could he call it a nightmare?

It wasn’t a nightmare for sure, but it was still cursed. Maybe uncomfortable and embarrassing.

Embarrassing. Ah, how Fyodor was glad that anyone couldn’t look at his poor face at this moment. He hates when he doesn’t have full control of the situation, keeping his feelings under control was a form of not getting lost, he is used to it.

Fyodor doesn’t dream regularly. He was a really sleepy or not sleep at all type of person. When his body finally gives in to fatigue, the dreams become blurry because of his mind’s tiredness. But Fyodor doesn’t mind at all, Dostoevsky couldn’t see the mystical side of dreaming. For him, this was only a way for his mind process everything that he saw through the day.

That’s why his friends appear regularly when he dream about something. Sometimes his family when his subconscious is trying to process his past — even though Fyodor is neutral about most of his dreams, he would consider these the bad ones. Or at least the ones that he would like to forget.

But it wasn’t that type of bad dream either.

When Nikolai or Sigma appear on his dreams things get a lot lighter. It always ended up being a relief. Sometimes he chuckles for himself in the most unfortunate moments remembering those. Fyodor let a nasal laugh come out when this thoughts come on his mind.

No. This wasn’t the answer yet. His dream hadn’t been any of those things, but he is getting close.

He dreamt of you.

You.

This wasn’t surprising for him though. Fyodor knows — Oh God, how bad he knows — how he keeps you on his mind. Fyodor could justify himself telling that you’re his rival and it’s normal having plans about the next provocative thing he is going to say when you guys met again, or spend time thinking about how he is going to destroy you in the upcoming test.

Fyodor could pretend that he was fooling himself with those false conclusions, but he knows the truth, he always knows. It’s the greatest Dostoevsky after all, the special child that was gifted, or even better, blessed with his brain.

But it wasn’t the case, and Fyodor knows that too. He always knows. Another sigh came out of his mouth, Fyodor closed his eyes and take another deep breath. When did he allowed himself feeling this emotions? This wasn’t right. But he can’t keep torturing himself, maybe just for tonight he will allow all those thoughts come — Just for releasing them in the next day, of course.

Fyodor still could feel the warmth. It was cleaning day and you were his duo, this mean that you’re going to be together for a while. It may sound exhausting, you guys were rivals and have a psychological war while cleaning was kind of messed up. You guys were in a silent truce. No one had to flag this, you both could read the situation — And each other’s thoughts, even though you’re not going to admit that —, you payed too much attention on him just like he recorded every reaction of you. From your facial expressions from your small and smooth body movements. Every detail.

Well, it’s not like you could run away. You also committed your sins when spent too much time looking at Fyodor bitting his thumb while he was concentrating, you hated how playful yet majestic his actions are. Everything about him just fitted so perfectly that you couldn’t help but feel some anger— Or just full yourself to believe that you’re not feeling other type of intense feeling beside rage.

You were sweeping the classroom’s floor while Fyodor cleaned the windows. The sun was setting and the sky was turning into a beautiful orange color slowly turning darker as the clouds complemented it. Suddenly, everything felt warm. Fyodor was looking at you by the window reflection, he also could see how much he was staring and this made he feel ashamed. You could feel Fyodor’s piercing gaze even though he wasn’t even looking directly. You couldn’t help but give a small smirk.

“Looks like someone can’t focus on his little task…” You said playfully, your eyes were still looking at the floor while you sweeps. You wanted to give that unbothered impression. “Am I distracting you?” You finally looked up, he was still looking at the window. You could hear his sigh — It almost sound like a laugh.

How presumptuous. Fyodor thought. And you know that he thought that. It make you chuckle, this unexpected harmony was slowly tying you two together.

“Oh.” Dostoevsky finally turned to you. His silently confidence makes you want to shut his mouth before he even dare to speak a word. “Oh, darling, I almost forgot that you are here.” Now was Fyodor’s time to be presumptuous, and he knows how this will get into your nerves. “Trying to get an excuse to talk to me, ah? How cute.”

You let a tsk come out. Fyodor felt victorious keeping you silent. Now you’re looking at the floor again, sweeping the classroom. Even though your eyes were focused the task, your ears still work perfectly. And you heard Fyodor’s slow footsteps getting closer. You know he is behind of you now, but you try to play clueless.

“Hmmm…” Fyodor is getting closer to you, he is speaking next to your ear. Your body gets tense. “What is it now? Little mouse got scared?” His voice almost sound like a whisper, a very teasing one. His breath is touching your neck and ear. Where did his russian accent became so provocative? Now his hands are slowly moving to your waist.

Fyodor likes how you look small next to him. You look so vulnerable, so easy to tease. He can’t let you scape now. Now his hands travel till they reach out your upper body. Dostoevsky couldn’t help, he squeezes your uniform letting it wrinkled. Your breath got heavy as he keeps touching you, unfortunately, you catch yourself biting your lip to not let a moan slide. Fyodor’s touch feel so great, he loves how his big and skilled hands can hug perfectly your curves and play with them.

“Wait…” You finally open say something after opening and closing your mouth for a while, your voice is a little shaky and a few sighs come when you talk. “Not here, what if somebody—“

“Hm?” Fyodor cut you off abruptly. He doesn’t like when you complain, he likes to have full control of the situation. “I’m not doing anything, darling. Am I?” Now his hands squeeze you more roughly, as if he wants to get a better reaction from you. The russian young man has a smug look on his face. You look so fragile and easy to mess with. He enjoys the sense of control, Fyodor is taking the lead now, and you feel like a loser for enjoying it so much — It’s like screaming that you lost.

Dostoevsky's eyes widened slightly, and his fingers tightened around your waist, making you feel uncomfortable. He didn't seem to notice your pain, though. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing his lips against your neck. His mouth was cold and dry, but you could still feel his tongue licking your exposed sensitive skin. When he finally pulled away, he smiled, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. He let go of you and sat back in his chair, his hands resting on his thighs. He seemed to have forgotten about your existence entirely. You felt like nothing more than a toy he played with when he got bored.

Dostoevsky is silent for a moment, contemplating whether to continue or not. He looks at you with a half-smile, a hint of cruelty in his eyes. He knows how to play with words and actions, and he takes advantage of every opportunity to make sure that you´re miserable and uncomfortable around him. He is not someone who shows affection or warmth, and he is definitely not someone who is good at expressing feelings. He is a cold, calculating man who sees everything in terms of power and control. His tone is still harsh, but there's a hint of softness in his voice when he says. "You're not doing anything?"

You decided to act like a greedy whore and got into your knees.

Fyodor pulls down his pants and underwear, revealing his cock, which is already hard. He strokes it slowly, watching you closely. He seems to enjoy the way you react to his actions. He keeps on talking, his voice is still harsh, but there's a certain amount of tenderness in his tone. He doesn't want you to feel bad, just frustrated and unhappy. He is a sadistic bastard, but he has a soft side too. And it shows in the way he treats you. "Now, tell me, what do you want? Do you want me to fuck you? Or would you prefer me to beat you? Which one do you like better?"

"Hit me. I challenge you." You giggle in a act of courage. "I know you can’t—" Fyodor chuckles darkly, a sign of his humor. He's not laughing at you, he's just teasing you. He slaps you across the face, hard enough to make you cry, but not enough to draw blood. He leans in close, whispering in your ear. "Tell me, how do you like being treated like a piece of meat? A toy to be played with? A slave to obey? Because that's what you are, isn't it? You're nothing but a whore, a filthy, worthless piece of shit."

Fyodor was merciless. He didn’t care about the brimming tears in the corner of your eyes, didn’t care about your shaking legs or your small chokes.

Slobbering sound filled the small stall, and you sat on the floor obediently like a little puppy as he used your mouth to his liking. Your uniform was wholly unbuttoned, bundled up at your elbows with your nipples peeking from your bra.

It was always his favorite look on you, clothed in the school’s garb. The uniform that should represent your focus on studies and discipline is wearing for you choke on him. Fyodor has to admit how pleasing it is, it arouses him to the point of madness.

“Good little mouse, now, open your mouth and stick out your tongue.” He commanded once more in a commanding but still seductive tone. He was loving this, the power is was feeling. His smirk grew as he continued, he was loving every second of this.

His eyes were dark and sinister now, they were almost completely in a reddish purple tone. His pupils are comically big due the excitement. He seemed so in control now. He loved it.

Fyodor smirked once more as you do as asked. You seemed to be getting really into this now.

Your tongue pressed wide and flat. Fyodor shuddered at the feeling, at your tongue rubbing over his slit, precum oozing out. You did it again and Fyodor let a moan slide out, you was pressing the tip of your tongue into his slit now, coaxing out more of his essence. Dostoevsky loved the feeling, he loved how pathetic you look like this.

It was so intense, the sight of your lips curled around his cock, how piercing his arouse gaze was. You hummed before sinking down, swallowing as much of Fyodor’s length as he could. Dostoevsky was panting, the feeling so intense that it was almost overwhelming. You began to suck harshly, cheeks hallowed out and you was bobbing your head now as well, head going up and down as you sucked Fyodor’s cock. The russian didn’t want to say it loud, but he wasn’t going to last.

"Good little mouse, I knew you could do it." He said in a soft and seductive tone, his eyes closed in pleasure. His hands moved to your head now, he loved the feeling of her hair in his hand. He seemed a little proud, even. He felt like he had helped you, in a way. "Good girl..." He whispered as he gently stroke your hair.

You keep sucking him harshly, enjoying how he felt warm inside of you. You couldn’t help but let a few tears coming out. The intelligent girl with a sharp tongue was gone, now you’re just a little whore to Fyodor play with — and you both sightly love this.

“Do you like to be dominated by a man like me, little mouse? Are you such a submissive little girl?” He asked with a smirk. He seemed to be amused by the whole situation, by all the control that he holds now. You can almost feel that he was about to release.

You felt your panties dampening as he say that, he grabbed a fistful of your hair keeping your head in your place as he changed the pace to a quicker one, accelerating the beats of your heart. He was pulsing inside your mouth. He was so close, so close, so close…

Fyodor just couldn’t resist. The wet and warm feeling of your mouth along with your pity puppy face was driving him crazy. You are being so obedient to him. He need to fill your mouth a little more, just a little more…

“Jesus.” Fyodor said to himself, alone in his room. The dream was wild, he feels pretty ashamed by how sinful and dirty his mind can be when he is asleep, at least you will never know that. Right now he just want to close his eyes and go back to sleep, but this weird feeling don’t leave. His hair still feel sticky and his forehead sweaty. His skin felt so tight like a growing claustrophobic feeling.

Oh, wait.

Dostoevsky looked down to his pants with a disgusted face. How shameful of him. Now that he has knowledge of the weird feeling on his body it’s easier to ignore.

Ah, for sure he isn’t going to go anything about that besides ignore. Fyodor genuinely believe that masturbation is a stupid thing, he is not going to waste his time — and risk his inner pride doing such a thing.

Dostoevsky closed his eyes taking a few deep breaths, he just needed to clean his mind. Maybe counting one to one hundred could help, Fyodor just need to take you away from his thoughts.

He just didn’t expected how addictive this fantasies are.

hii heres part two <3

[idyllic-affections]

taking their picture.

summary. taking the picture of various genshin and hsr characters.

trigger & content warnings. none applicable.

tropes, pairings, fic length, & other notes. fluff. pantalone & reader, baizhu & reader, venti & reader, dan heng & reader, himeko & reader. 0.5k words. no gendered pronouns used for reader (you/yours).

author's thoughts. no thoughts today. only vibes (<- is feeling unwell). i hate the 2nd person pov but it's the easiest one to use in this format HELP

pantalone isn't a fool, really. he's impossibly perceptive, even if it may not outright seem that way, especially on the days where he appears to be functioning on autopilot. he is no fool. he knows that something is going on when you seem to sneak around a bit more one day... and the click of a camera only confirms his suspicions. he can only smile fondly at your antics as he turns towards you, saying, "if you so desperately wanted a picture of me, dear, all you had to do was ask." he doesn't mind much, though. being the man he is... it's something he's used to, but he finds it to be sweeter when it's you taking his picture.

baizhu knows what you're doing, much like pantalone, but he doesn't mind. he's a bit flattered if anything. really, if you wanted a keepsake of him, you only would have had to ask and he would have been more than happy to oblige... but if you want to sneak pictures of him while he's in his element, focused on writing or preparing a perscription, he genuinely doesn't mind. you are never a bother—not to baizhu... not as long as you're polite and mindful, of course. he does need to get work done, after all.

venti, oh, venti... once he catches wind of your antics, he'll gladly entertain you! he might tease you a bit, though. he's your dear friend! if you wanted to have a picture of him, you should've just asked instead of being so sneaky <3 he wouldn't have said no! he'll pose for you and smile widely at the camera any time he sees you aiming it his way (though i feel as if, at first, you would have to thoroughly explain the concept to him... he is quite the old archon now, after all). if you manage to catch him off guard though, perhaps when he's performing or resting under windrise... the picture you'll get of him is very befitting of the archon he truly is.

dan heng doesn't visibly react much, but deep down, he finds it quite endearing. he won't entertain your antics; he won't turn your way and smile when you're about to take the picture, nor will he pose much beyond throwing up a casual peace sign as he's done at march so many times before... come to think of it, that's probably why he's so unbothered. you wouldn't be the first to take surprise photos of him. he wouldn't be surprised if you picked up that habit from march, actually.

himeko doesn't mind at all! she won't shy away or ask you to delete any photos you take of her. she thinks it's sweet, really, that you want to have pictures of her that you can hold dear when and if she's ever away. if you missed her so badly, you could always just... text her. or call her. she understands the sentiment of pictures, though. she'll always smile and even pose for you if you wanted her to. all of her photos come out remarkably beautiful, even if you catch her off guard. she's photogenic in that way.

please consider reblogging, it helps me out quite a lot!