#they are the kind to know how the other moves and plots

[utilitycaster]

How would you rank each of the PCs endings against each other? I feel like I have a pretty good guess who's end up at the rock bottom but I'm curious about the rest. Thank you for the time!

So I'm not sure if you mean Bells Hells only or everyone but I'll do everyone. No one fully fails for me, actually, but there's a LOT of low-tier shit. Also I don't know what Fy'ra is up to so I can't speak to her and she is not included.

S tier: All of the Mighty Nein (includes Molly) whose stories were not significantly changed; FCG; Pike, Grog, and Scanlan; presumably Taryon; honestly for me Morrighan; Bor'Dor in that his ending was interesting.

A tier: Deanna, FRIDA, presumably Prism, Dariax and Deni$e. Percy and Vex; this is a drop from their pre-C3 S-tier because the way that they had both largely moved on with her life and Keyleth hadn't was an interesting dynamic, and while the people who made a big fucking deal about Vax mostly focusing on Keyleth and not Vex in his role as Champion struck me as deeply unwell weirdos, bringing Vax back actually does kind of like, show the cracks in that dynamic. I still very much love their story but it's been weakened slightly. I would also put Braius here; being in only a small part of the story and having clear goals really worked for him.

B tier: Chetney, Fearne, Orym, Dorian. I wish that the story had done more justice to their character concepts and that their plot hooks had actually been explored in depth, and Orym and Dorian in particular feel ill-served by both having a lack of consequences that feels justified but is weakened by the overall narrative never having consequences for anyone, but I like their endings and I can see where they follow from.

C tier: Ashton, Imogen, Laudna. I don't dislike where their characters ended up - in fact, I genuinely was pleasantly surprised by where Ashton ends up, though "dying in their first genuinely heroic move after so much posturing" would have shot them up to at least B-tier if not A-tier - but it all feels entirely unearned and empty. Somehow, in a story where Imogen was constantly at the center, I feel her concept, which was a strong one initially, still feels unexplored given how poorly she inhabited her decisions and how little philosophical grounding she had; and I've said my piece about Laudna.

D tier: Vax and Keyleth; self-explanatory.

edited: forgot Opal, she is also D-tier; wholly unearned freedom from everything Lolth did, seemingly unaffected by the loss of her memories, what the fuck was that honestly

[lilysworldofjoy]

I just saw those Tisha hcs and.. omg I can't stop thinking of scenarios where Vee just wrecks Tisha. Could you write a fanfic off of Ler Vee and Lee Tisha? Kind of like a payback fic? Your honor I love them

"How you like that, huh?" (Dandy's World tickle fic)

A/N: Yes.

Plot: Vee and Tisha are made to go on a run together due to a random arrangement. That's where Vee discovers that Tisha is ticklish. Cue the shenanigans.

~🧼📺~

Another day, another run. And of all toons to be paired with, it's that green television.

Astro would've been nice. Sprout would've been...eh. Bobette would be a solid pick, and so would Pebble. And she would've loved to go with Shelly, but change is nice every once in a while.

...Or that she thinks.

Tisha just got off from cleaning, and went off to do the run of the day. And she had to go with a main character, so why not. It was chosen randomly and yup, that's how they got here.

She stepped inside, looked at the toon inside, and acknowledged her situation.

Not a word was exchanged between the tissue box and Vee as the elevator went down to the first floor.

"So."

Tisha looked at Vee, who just said that. "Yes?"

"Let's just get this over with."

"...Agreed."

Once that elevator opened, each toon got off to do their task: do machines and escape from Twisteds. Vee did a mic check to observe the Twisteds in the area.

No Twisteds in sight. Huh, weird. A sigh came out from Tisha, as they both left the elevator.

Then Vee's microphone accidentally scraped against Tisha's side, causing a flinch and a giggle.

Vee, of course, noticed this movement. Her antennae perked up and she looked at Tisha.

"Don't you DARE." The tissue box said.

The green TV didn't think much at first, but when she finally noticed her reaction, a smirk came to her face. Oho, she was going to have fun with this.

Without an ounce of hesitation, she pounced, aiming directly for her sides. Vee landed right on top of Tisha, her hands moving at her sides. And it seems that the tissue box is holding it in—or at least trying to.

"What's wrong, Tish? Ticklish?~"

Upon those words, Tisha pounded her fist on Vee's chest in protest, as in a way to say 'No! Of course not', but we all know the truth anyways. She attempted to kick Vee away, but to no avail.

"Oh no no no, you're not getting out of this one, darling~"

She started kicking even more, but Vee was stronger, strengthening her grip and managing to weaken Tisha's protests by a bit. And that's when Vee dropped one bomb of a tease.

"Awwe, you're soo much fun to tickle! That's adorable~ You're sooooooo adorable~"

This kept on until it broke the tissue box.

"PFFF—NOOOOHOHOHOHOHO!"

Tisha went into instant hysterics, endlessly kicking and squirming before Vee. And Vee? She was having a field day. "Ha. How you like that, huh?~"

"SHUHUT UHUHUP!"

Figures. She makes people crack FAST.

With a devious glint in her eye, Vee decided to up the ante and go to her stomach, slithering her fingers between it and her sides and causing a shriek from the tissue box. She used one of her hands to restrain Tisha's arms, making sure she doesn't move.

"Now you're less squirmy. Which means I can do this~" Vee goes on to bury her fingers on Tisha with slow deliberate strokes, causing Tisha to squirm due to the cold temperature of her fingers.

And to worsen things, she wrapped her mic around her stomach, wiggling it with deadly precision and a smirk. Because of this, the tissue box only kicked harder.

"AAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA! OKAY OKAHAY! STAHAAP!"

Vee didn't let up and only tickled harder, but it wasn't until a bit later (which felt like hours for Tisha) that she finally relented, letting the tissue box go at last.

After they both rose from the ground and Tisha regained her composure, the last words she received from the tissue box were: "Never do that again."

Tisha would go on to leave and find a machine as Vee smirked. She rolled an eye, albeit playfully unlike the other times.

Vee would 100% do that again.

~🧼📺~

[nereidprinc3ss]

I didn’t mean to have so much to say about this but wow do I!!!!

Lots of people say they love domestic spencer reid but I don’t think they love domestic spencer reid like EYEEE love domestic Spencer Reid. Because I love domestic spencer reid where he’s doing nothing. Or he’s being kind of….. not an asshole but…… where it becomes clear that he’s just dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person and then I love domestic Spencer Reid where he’s dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person but he can still say I’m sorry!!! And they can hug and it’s okay because loving someone requires being close enough to sometimes hurt them!!!! And the realism of this kind of fic just fills me w so much joy like THISSSS is what I want from tumblr dot com I LOVEE the meditative fics where nothing crazy happens and the plot comes from the authors understanding of rich interpersonal relationships!!!! I love!!!!

This was also beautifully beautifully written like a breath of fresh air wow I truly am so lucky to get to read work from such talented people thank you for writing this and thank you for sharing it with us!!

So anyway here are the lines that jumped out at me. There is really no rhyme or reason, I tend to extra love lines that are a little philosophical and ponderous about human connection and boy was this full of that!! I am not a literary critic I am just a girl full of thoughts

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

I just think this is an jarringly astute and concise observation of something we as humans do all the time in relationships and again there is nothing I love more than an observation about human connection that I can point at and go MEEEE I UNDERSTAND THAT I KNOW HOW IT FEELS!!!! It’s very exciting to me!!

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

This to me was a kind of honesty most fanfic lacks and obviously most fanfic is supposed to be optimistic and perfect and reflect the readers desires back to them but quite frankly to me it hits harder when there is this subtle kind of interpersonal angst and strife that is something we can feel and recognize within ourselves it makes it easier for me to actually connect to the fic. Rather than watching it like a movie I can recognize this kind of sentiment and it’s far more immersive to me and therefore a lot more fulfilling and rewarding and interesting to read

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

YEAH MAYBE THAT IS THE POINT!!! THE POINT OF EVERYTHING!!! THE POINT OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!!! This to me is just beautiful and very succinctly summarizes something I’ve been working on and will probably continue to work on for the rest of my life and I think really the whole point of love and the lesson most people need to learn!!!! Once again I like my fluffy fanfic tempered w this kind of realism!! It adds so much texture

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

No yeah actually this IS the sexiest thing a man could possible say or do!! Like care and pay attention and be present and observant!!! I won’t even be talking about this because I love it too much to dissect it

Anyways this is maybe making me look crazy I just haven’t been engaged with fanfic very much recently and I did not go into this with the intention of having anything to say about it afterward but to my own personal deep surprise was so motivated to!! And it was so beautiful and so lovely I had to say something. Pls excuse if I’ve gone overboard!! This is just such a good example of fanfic at its absolute best to me like this is what it’s forrrr this is what I wanttttt!!!! Thank you for writing thank you for posting beautiful

mouthful of sunlight (18+)

Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter. warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools wc: 7.6k

You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.

Spencer is still asleep beside you.

You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.

You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.

The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.

In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.

You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.

Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.

But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.

The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.

You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.

Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.

You go still.

A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.

He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.

And god, that does something to you.

You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.

The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.

Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.

He is here. He is yours.

The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.

You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.

It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.

His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.

Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.

Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.

His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.

There is morning, and then there is night.

There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.

His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.

"I don’t know how to turn it off."

It takes you a moment to realize what he means.

He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.

"Spencer."

Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.

"Come to bed."

He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

"I can’t."

A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"

"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.

A pause.

Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.

Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"

And there it is.

The knife twisting.

You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.

The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.

You just want him to rest.

To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.

But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.

So instead, you say nothing.

"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.

Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.

Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.

Morning. Again.

Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.

Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.

His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.

You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.

Time lurches.

His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.

"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."

Morning.

Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.

You want to wake up to this every morning.

But the truth is, you don’t.

You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.

And you love him anyway.

Maybe because of it.

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.

Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.

You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.

The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.

You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.

But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.

“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.

He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”

You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.

“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”

Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”

You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.

The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.

Spencer is slow to let you go.

Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.

But then his stomach growls. Loudly.

You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”

Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”

You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”

He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”

Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.

“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.

He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”

“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.

You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.

Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.

When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”

“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.

Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”

You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”

He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

He says it so easily.

No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.

You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”

You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.

“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”

And so you say it again, just for him.

Just because he likes hearing it.

“I love you.” Spencer smiles.

After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.

You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.

Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.

Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.

Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.

“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.

Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.

You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.

There’s nothing rushed about it.

Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.

Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.

And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.

His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.

You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.

His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.

Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.

He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.

“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.

You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.

Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.

You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.

His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.

Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.

He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.

His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He answers you with a kiss.

Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.

You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.

“Again,” he whispers.

So you kiss him again. And again. And again.

Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.

His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.

“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.

You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”

And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.

Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.

Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.

And you let him.

Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.

Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.

Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.

“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.

Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”

You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.

His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.

And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.

You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”

“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”

You don’t let him finish.

You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.

When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—

Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.

Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.

Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.

And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.

You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.

Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.

“I love you,” he whispers.

And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.

"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.

"I know, I know."

It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.

It should be impossible, the way you fit together.

Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.

Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.

He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.

It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.

It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.

When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.

As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.

Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.

Whole. Uninterrupted.

Until—

A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.

Spencer stills.

You blink.

And then—

Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.

Spencer bursts into laughter.

It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.

You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.

"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.

You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.

He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.

"No, I don't really like scrambled."

Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.

"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."

"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."

The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.

And then—

You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.

Your stomach grumbles again.

Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”

You throw a dish towel at him.

||||

There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.

He’s gone.

Not forever. Neer forever.

But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.

The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.

A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.

A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.

The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.

You knew this would happen.

It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.

You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.

Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.

Spencer: I miss you.

The breath in your chest stutters.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.

You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.

You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.

Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.

You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.

It’s not the same.

But for now, it will have to be enough.

||||

The door unlocks with a quiet click.

You don’t move right away.

You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.

Footsteps. Familiar, careful.

“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.

You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.

You are in his arms.

He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.

“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.

Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”

You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.

“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.

“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.

His lips twitch. “Liar.”

You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.

“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.

So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”

His breath stumbles and he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.

It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.

You don’t ask him about the case.

Not yet.

Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.

“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”

You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."

“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”

Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”

“Would you?”

“I’d be an educational ghost.”

You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”

Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.

You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.

Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.

One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.

You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."

It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.

You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”

He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”

You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”

Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”

You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”

Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”

Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”

Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”

“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”

Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.

He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”

Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”

Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”

You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”

“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”

“You didn’t have to watch it!”

Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”

You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.

Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”

You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ‘not thinking’ thing.”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”

“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”

“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”

He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”

“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.

Spencer just stares at you.

You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”

Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.

"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.

"I would never say that-"

"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."

"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."

"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."

He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.

After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.

“You make coming home easy.”

Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”

Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.

It’s the perfect time to strike.

You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.

Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Putting something on to help you unwind.”

His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”

You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”

Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.

The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.

You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.

The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.

A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:

"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"

Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”

You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”

Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”

You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”

He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:

"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."

Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.

“A dog?” he scoffs.

You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”

He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”

Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."

You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”

“I do not—”

A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.

Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.

“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.

You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.

“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.

“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.

He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”

And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.

Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.

You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.

You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.

[factual-fantasy]

27 Asks! Thank you! :}} 💞

@peaspods

I might not be understanding, but I'm imagining this as people opening up commissions so people can give them money and they can turn around and donate that money to me..

I fear that this would create the opportunity to scam people.. "I'm taking commissions on behalf of Factual Fantasy! They're very sick so please commission me!" only for them to run away with the money they make..

I've been thinking a lot about setting up some kind of commission/donation thing because I'm starting to kind'a need the money.. but idk, I'm just kind'a run down and need some time to keep thinking about it. Thank you very much though <:)))

@zecromgen5

Thank you very much! :) And I've been hanging in there.. there hasn't been much improvement to my health or my mental state. The fact that in April it will officially been over a year since my health started to decline, and the fact that I'm going to spend my birthday at home collapsed on the couch has made me feel very sad <:( But I'm doing my best to work on it.. I'm hoping this new advice from my doctor helps me feel better <:)

And something good HAS happened actually, I got my tablet/FireAlpaca to work again! :))

XDD SJKFJSH AWW! THANK YOU SO MUCH!! :DDD

I've only seen a bit of it from Markiplier. So far I'm 50/50. Somethings I like and others I don't care for 😅

@neo-metalscottic

Thank you so much! :D 'm glad you've liked my recent artwork!! :}}}}

Also for Homes eyes, that was just meant to represent its oppressive presence and the fact that its watching them in that moment.. 👁��👁️

And I don't have any plans for any of the neighbors or Wally to figure out the house is alive. My AU is more like "a day in the life of" thing. Having someone discover Home is alive would move the plot forward. Which I don't feel like doing <XDD

Now communication... Home understands the concept, but he has no way of communicating other than creaking the floorboards and slamming doors..

I've heard about the well. That could work for Cliffjumper and Breakdown maybe.. and the twins perhaps.? But wouldn't they have to have Tailgates body in order to revive him? Hmmm.. idk actually,,

I've watched the bayverse movies, most of Prime and a few other things here and there. I didn't mind the bayverse movies that much, but I can see why a lot of people don't like them <XD

I just imaging trying to consume more than one Transformers media would be a lot to take on.. and I also don't like the animation styles of most other transformers shows 😅

(That's actually how I decided to watch Prime. I took a look at all the shows and went "this one looks ugly, this one looks ugly,, this one looks REALLY ugly.. Oh, this one doesn't look half bad. TFP it is then!")

@acreaturecalledkyfa

I've watched Markipliers first video on it. So far I'm not sure how I feel about those two 😅

The way I immediately opened YouTube and went looking for it XDD

@fandomcenteral (Link in ask)

Thank you so much! :DD This will come in handy!

@mason-gaylord

Aw! Thank you so much!! 🥰🥰

@im-nice-but-i-dont-like-you

Jangles would be a helicopter probably, Gerald would be a tank, Cici would be a Miata and Bibi would be a slightly raised up Miata XDD

Aw, I'm honored that you miss them <:}} Though I don't know if I'll draw them anytime soon.. I'm really not into inserted OCs anymore <:(

I'm waiting on Markiplier to release more videos on it <XD

@fadlingartisanfreakwinner

I like to imagine that Pokémon can learn dozens of moves. But 4 is the limit for official Pokémon battles. So any wild Pokémon in my comics can use/learn as many as they want :0

And yeah, they had that chat eventually. I just never got around to drawing it 😅

@wolfie-777

Nah nah its just iced tea XDDD

@whereismycupofcoffee

:DDD Thank you so much!! :}}}}

AAAA THANKYOU SO MCUHH!! :DDDD

@nuggybee

Yeahh,, Sky has its ups and downs. I'm currently in one of its downs. It seems like I'm let down by everything they're releasing 😓

@smithanonsworld

I feel like I've never seen a rabbit that color... its so cute 😭💞💞💞

@heaventhehedgi3

That sounds like me! Though I don't draw Octonauts anymore 😅

I'll keep it in mind! :0

🥹🥹🥹Aw... that's so sweet! Thank you so much!! 😭💞💞

@captain-skyler1987

You made an account just to follow me? :DD Aw that's so sweet! :) Thank you!

Also I'm sorry to hear you got the flu :(( I hope you're better by now!

I also have not played Dandy's world 😅

@stargirldrawsx3

The first thing that came to mind was very anxious all the time 😅

@network-warrior-01

Ah, that was an April fools post. <XD There is no drawing

[hurtspideyparker]

I’m sending this because I saw your post on the tags. You’re not a Tom Holland fan, you’re a Peter Parker/Spider-Man fan. You only talk about this character on your blog. You’re a Marvel stan. I doubt you can't even name more than 5 Tom projects that aren't Spider-Man movies. You’re not obssesed with him, you’re obssesed with his version of the character which is not the same as being a fan of the actor and support his career outside of one thing.

Well this is a very rude way of supporting someone who only promotes kindness and adores his work with Spider-Man.

First of all, this is a Marvel side blog. So I only post about Marvel and adjacent things on here, in my personal life and other blogs I do have other interests. I will also say I have a hyperfixation on Marvel, especially the MCU, and my favourite character since I was a child is Spider-Man. So yes, that is my favourite Tom Holland role, he is my favourite spidey, so my blog focuses on him a lot. And the thing about hyperfixations is 1. I can't control it and 2. I am literally mentally ill about him.

But I do absolutely adore Tom Holland as an actor, so I'll take this as an opportunity to gush about some of my favourite projects of his!

The Crowded Room: If someone says Tom isn't a good actor I know for a fact they've never seen this. The amount of roles he plays in this, heavy and variable, was remarkable. Switching between the accents, mannerisms, even down to the way they stand. I was in complete awe, especially when he would switch between them without cuts. I watched an interview where he said he doesn't memorize scripts completely, but he learns the characters so deeply that he knows what they'd say and do anyways. To do that in a role like this just shows how seriously he takes the art. The story in and of itself was very moving, well written, and paced beautifully. I loved all the characters and how they fit together in order to protect Danny. 10/10 would recommend, there is heavy subject matter and I cried when he was on the stand and they didn't believe he had DID (especially when the man who loved him also started doubting if Ariana was real), and then again when he said Adam was him :(

Cherry: Incredibly real story, hurt my heart that people go through this. Tom did a fantastic job being respectful of the subject matter—a veteran with PTSD who falls into drug addiction and crime to fuel it. You can see his character harden over time, and I have a crush on the version of Cherry when he was in college hehe. The way he loves Emily so intensely through it all, how reverently he treats her, and his total breakdown when she overdoses. He rather have her clean and away from him than be together in their suffering. And it has a happy ending! Ngl Tom with a mustache made me giggle, just looks so silly lol. I know he can't grow facial hair to save his life

Uncharted: While Tom is fantastic in those heavy roles and I love seeing him cry, let my boy have fun! This movie was a great action movie, and idc about all the video game nerds who says he isn't a good fit for Nathan. He might not be Nathan, but he is BORN for action babyyy. Suave, intelligent, and sweet. I know he had a lot of fun with this role and is a big fan of the game, so happy he got it! I am still hoping for a sequel because I need Tom in more action and light-hearted films

Chaos Walking: The sci-fi aspects of this are really cool, and a unique way of commentating on patriarchy. The plot twists were cool and Todd Hewitt is my sweet little feminist king. He's so funny to me, bro is trying his best, I definitely view Todd as an underdog who has all this responsibility put on him. World building and characterization was sick, wish it got a bit more love

The Devil All the Time: Okay this movie was objectively really good but SO WEIRD? I felt very discomfited after. But Tom's character was definitely my absolute favourite, what a terrible journey he goes through. Even though the movie was odd Tom made it all worth it. A genuinely good guy pushed to do terrible things because of other terrible people, like yes you get em king!!! Had me on the edge of my seat

The Impossible: The fact that this was his first film!? SO INTENSE, and yet he did fantastic. Tom Holland didn't really plan to be an actor, he truly just had greatness thrust upon him. Scooped up as Billy Elliot, then scouted as Lucas in this film. He genuinely has a natural talent for this stuff, this movie is based off a true story and seeing the devastation and little Tom covered in dirt and grieving his family that is still alive, oh gosh. Heavy but the happy ending will make you cry.

Can I also say lip sync battle as one of my fave projects? I need this man to do more dancing or at least physical work. So enamored with him and his confidence. It's interesting looking back on that video after a recent interview he spoke about how young he was and eager, but as an adult (and the adults around him at the time) being more hesitant and cautious about putting yourself in the media like that. It's been cool watching Tom mature!

Films I would not recommend as a Tom Holland fan:

How I Live Now: Tom isn't in it that much, and it was a really slow, disturbing film. I felt sad, gross, and uncomfortable watching it, just for Tom to barely be seen. Do not recommend

Edge of Winter: Also a very disturbing film. Tom was in it more, but it's mostly a slow horror film without much closure, and Tom's character isn't that interesting. Bland and uncomfortable

Now I'm not interested in his animated voice work, and I don't like period pieces, so I haven't seen those films. But if they're great enough and Tom has a good role in them pls feel free to recommend!

I just want to say you don't need to hit a quota to be a fan of someone. If you like one song, book, film... you're allowed to call yourself a fan! Gate-keeping art is not cool, and even if someone only likes one character then that sure is one fantastic character. Spider-Man is something very important to Tom; it's a big part of his career, he met his future wife through it, it changed his world to become his childhood hero. And his depiction of Spider-Man is something very special to me. It isn't just the character, it's him; the freshness, the awkwardness, the naivety he brought to Peter that Andrew and Tobey didn't choose to do. It is such a fantastic character to show off his physical skills, humour, his range from childishness to the grief and fury. You look at him in Homecoming and compare it to NWH and you see how Tom has evolved the character. I'm in awe of every thing Tom Holland does, but Spider-Man is 6 huge projects of his and to be more, which shows so much of his skill.

I also love his interviews. He's a very down to Earth, sweet, and genuine man. I think he's funny, charismatic and confident, but has fantastic work-life balance. I watched that 2 hour interview of his talking about spirituality and mental health, and seeing where he is now with Bero after his struggles with alcohol warms my heart. I wish I could have seen his Romeo & Juliet production, but in the least I think it was a nice break from the big screen for him. And best believe I was fighting for my life in comment sections for his costars—the racism was disgusting. One day that man is going to be a father and we'll never see him again, and I'll support that too. Can't wait for his Nolan film, can't believe how far he's come so quickly, and oh yes, I'm most excited for more Spider-Man films ;)

[revelboo]

Could we maybe get more for the Seeker Trine please? 🙏🙏

Sure! 18+ Mass displaced mechs 🌶️

True Romance Pt 18

Trine x Reader

• Shivering when Thundercracker brushes the tip of a servo against your shoulder before he frowns, you know he’s found one of Skywarp’s bite marks. That there’ll probably be bruises. Can’t even bring yourself to care about that. Know you’re going to be sore and overly sensitive, but you want him, too. Want all of your trine even as you appreciate him giving you a breather. “We don’t have to,” he says, his low, rumbling voice soothing. Giving you an out if you want to rest.

• “What if I want to?” You ask, cupping his cheek with a soft hand. “If I want you?” And how is he going to deny you? Brushing his mouth against yours, he growls when you press yourself against his front. Mouth moving hungrily against his when he just wants to take it slow. Explore every inch of you. But you’re hooking a leg against his hip, little hands stroking over him. Groans as you rock yourself against him, those eyes mischievous and he frees his spike to roll you under him. Doesn’t care that Star and Skywarp are right there watching, right now it’s only you and him. And they’re part of his trine just like you now are. A little, shared mate to unite them.

• Arching at the feeling of his spike stretching you and sliding deep, his mouth covers yours again, hips rocking lazily against you. Gasping as he vents against your heated skin, lips brushing your cheek, you hold onto him. And he finds a rhythm, thrusting deep with slow, deliberate drives of his hips. Those red optics watching your reaction. “This okay?” He asks, voice a strained growl before you pull his head down and reclaim his mouth. Because Star had dominated you. Sky had been rough and urgent. But with Thundercracker? It’s different. Almost reverent. Making love, not just fucking and your body heats again, coiling.

• Their human. Knows Skywarp is right as he watches Thundercracker roll his hips to make you moan and pull him down for a kiss. And his own spike is stirring again, listening to those breathy sounds you’re making. Hadn’t imagined this would be the outcome when he’d agreed to keep you. How could he have? It’s blasphemous to want you at all. Knows none of the other Decepticons would understand this. That they might see it as a kind of sickness to want an organic. But you belong to them. To their trine and he’ll fight to protect that. Because Skywarp isn’t arguing or starting fights, hasn’t come home bleeding energon after provoking someone else wanting a fight. Thundercracker is smiling down at you as you cry out under him, one of your legs sliding against the outside of his. Smiling instead of looking so serious and watchful. And that’s what matters to him. His Trine and you matter to them. To him, too. You’d been just a chance encounter, but he’s so glad he’d found you. Taken you.

• Star’s frowning again, watching you and Thundercracker moving together. Worrying most likely. Had figured you’d frag the stress right out of him, but to be fair, Skywarp knows there’s a lot of stress and anxiety there between Star and Thundercracker. Gets it. Thundercracker’s always fussing over them, worrying. And Star’s always plotting, clawing for more for their trine. Whether they want it or not. Power has never really interested him. Would rather have some fun and you’re definitely that. Why would he want to be in charge, though? Take on all that responsibility. Knows that Star’s dissatisfied with the Decepticon cause lately, but hopes you can distract him. Keep him from getting hurt when his schemes go sideways. Keep their trine together when they’ve been drifting apart for a while now. He’s felt it and he knows they had to have felt it, too. Just wants it to be like it was. The three of them united under a common cause. And right now, that’s you.

Previous

[7postitsjumpingonabed]

TF2 Mamma Mia! AU

Cannot over stress how it’s-on-the-tin this is.

If you’re curious, my qualifications for this are the fact I’ve seen the movie like 4 times and am currently in a production of the musical so I know my shit.

Also Mamma Mia! is a romcom so I’ll just say the roms I chose are Sniper/Scout, Spy/Ma, minor Heavy/Medic, and optional Soldier/Demo(I present two options).

That’s all the preamble, lets get into this

Sophie

Alright let’s start with the most important character, who is our bride-to-be and catalyst for the whole plot? Scout, of course. Did I mostly pick him because he has known familial relationships that are easily enough translated to these characters? Yes absolutely. Did I also pick him because he seems the type to think inviting three strangers who could be his dad to his wedding is a good idea, he seems the type to be excited over a large and exciting wedding, and is commonly characterized with some form of anxiety that would lead really well into ‘Under Attack’? Also yes absolutely. Broadly, I think that Scout’s young, enthusiastic, and not-forward thinking personality lines up well with Sophie. For this we are going to ignore the other 7 Willis boys as characters, sorry unnamed brothers Sophie is very significantly an only child.

Skye

A reader with baseline knowledge of Mamma Mia! and who read the preamble can easily guess that Sniper is my Skye. I chose him because I like Speeding Bullet, he would definitely prefer a quiet elopement over a big white wedding, and he is also commonly characterized as kind of whipped for Scout so I would see him begrudgingly accepting this wedding as his life and making it work. You may be seeing this and asking ‘Postit, how on earth are you getting Sniper to dance, sing, and do all that theater kid bullshit?’ And to that I raise two things, 1. that is making me think of a community theater AU and that’s absolutely hilarious and now I want to make it but as I write this I’m realizing he would be in lighting… alright anyway 2. Through musicals are things are possible so write that down. Scout and Sniper going off to travel together seems very accurate and cute as well.

Donna

Alright this one should be clear, it’s Scout’s Ma. In all honesty I did briefly consider having Spy in this role but the fact that Sophie wants her dad at her wedding to do dad things is really important to setting the plot in motion so I’ve relegated him to a different role. Anyway besides literally being Scout’s mom I think she fits well because despite her lack of characterization, from what we do know about her she is a no-nonsense hard worker, who is trying to move past old and questionable decisions, and support her son in what she thinks is a silly decision. Overall I just think she’s the best option and can be made to fit well.

Ali and Lisa

If you only have a passing knowledge of Mamma Mia! you might not know these characters, and honestly I considered combining them into one person because they don’t have large individual impacts but it just worked better to keep them both, but they’re Sophie’s friends and advisors, as well as generation counter parts to Rosie and Tanya. I chose Ms. Pauling and Pyro for these roles. I had really no ideas on this front so it got filled in near the end of planning but I think Pauling and Pyro work well enough. I think if Pauling and Scout can move past potential love

Sam Carmichael

Who else? It’s Spy. With Scout’s Ms as Donna there wasn’t really any other choice. Sam is sort of the prime father and ends up marrying Donna at the end of the story. The second act songs between him and Donna are all about the past, regrets, and missed opportunities and that goes perfectly with the implied dynamic between Spy and Scout’s Ma. In this AU ‘Loraine’ would be Spy’s job, he would leave to work it and come back only to find Ma with other men. Speaking of.

Harry Bright

Harry is contemplative, plays the guitar, and had a ‘rough’ past that doesn’t reflect his current quieter life? Now who does that sound like? Engineer isn’t canonically an ex-punk but the idea of him ‘headbanging’ is really funny. I largely chose him because of his demeanor and the irony of him being a punk in a previous life but the straight forward attitude and guitar playing are also very appropriate.

Bill Anderson

Heavy is my Bill Anderson because he’s the last reasonable man left, his writing associations, and the fact Bill’s two duets in the musical have him mostly responding to another’s behavior. After Heavy the men get a little more visibly insane, even on a picturesque Greek vacation. Bill is a writer and travel books aren’t exactly Russian lit but the general idea lines up. The role of Bill being quiet most of the time and being the first father to figure out his relation to Sophie feels very Heavy.

Rosie

Rosie is Donna’s friend that is on the wild side, never married, and ends up ‘taking a chance’ (imagine me lightly elbowing you at my joke) on Bill. Replace Bill with Heavy and that’s an in complete description of Medic. I can see Medic having not terrible, if not normal, friendships with people willing to embrace the lunacy. A lady who shot her shot with Spy of all people and raised Scout can definitely handle some lunacy. Also there’s a line somewhere, musical or movie, when Bill mentions having one of Rosie’s cookbooks, and that seems like a sweet, Red Oktoberfest thing to do.

Tanya

For lack of better option, Demo is my Tanya. There’s no particularly strong connections between them but Demo needs to go somewhere and Soldier is even worse of a fit for this role. Since this is where he’s going I’ll propose that, if the viewer desires so and is willing to lose the alignment of Tanya’s marriages with the one happening at the end, the series of failed marriages could be changed to jobs, which would give this hypothetical casting more cohesion.

Pepper and Eddy

The only merc left is Soldier and I think him as a largely unhelpful, partying, kind of a freak feels… not terrible. This is where my two options in the Soldier/Demo situation is explained, you can go classic ‘Does Your Mother Know?’ and set the two up as romantic counterparts or you could just have them as friends. Like, Soldier is a ‘bad’ influence and Demo is trying to be normal for Scout’s Ma but is having too much fun with Soldier to resist. I think both work fine and it depends on preferences. For Eddy I want an unenthusiastic Merasmus. We know that Soldier just harasses him and drags him into random scenarios so a reluctant Merasmus can fit as a variation on Eddy so the cast is all lined up.

That’s where my fan cast ends but I want to say that if anyone wants to work with this idea, go ahead but tag me so I can see! Also I’m still thinking about Spy!Donna so there might be a follow up…. But we’ll see. Thank you for reading!

[therese-lokidottir]

Tony is not heart, when under the right writer he can be great character, but that doesn't make him the heart. He was just the first in the MCU.

I'd argue the heart of DC comics is divided between the Big three, Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman but the reason it is usually look to Superman is because he is both the standard heroes are held to because of his compassion and altruism. Doing the right thing because it's the right thing to do. In-Universe Superman has show leading by example and inspiring others to make the right choices. He is the heart because of his heart

Now it comes to Marvel I'd say it's already not as clear cut. I think you could say it's between Spider-Man and Captain America. Captain America because of similar reason for Superman, but for Spider-Man it is the standard he sets for being relatable. Peter Parker was written with the intent of someone the audiences can see themselves in and that is the idea behind many a marvel hero. The idea of Great Power Comes Great responsibility and determination through the worst of time is a central theme of marvel comics

Not only do I think that Tony does not these kinds of precedent, but I also think that Civil War to a sledgehammer to any one character being the heart of the franchise. Considering how much that filmed divided people, then at the very least people need to admit that both Iron Man and Captain America shared the role as the heart.

Tony had nothing to do with the overarching main plot, Tony was not the one who brought the team together and Tony is not the one who leads by example, in universe or out. He's just the first, that doesn't make him the heart and the MCU need. That's not to say his movies weren't good or even weren't important, but Tony Stark is not needed to move forward or for marvel to find succuss.

The general public did not know who the Avengers were prior to 2007. The only reason why the movie right were so attainable was because these were lesser-known properties. This franchise was such a gamble, and it was because creators had to work from basically scratch and work to build audience investment is why it work.

The heart of the MCU was within the ensemble. It was multiple characters coming together and all of them playing their parts in the larger narrative.

RDJ as Doctor Doom is the most uninspired flavorless casting I have ever witnessed

[fury161]

portraits for a de au i think about a little bit

[carefulfears]

we've both talked about how scully isn't jealous fire. what differences do you see between protective scully vs jealous scully?

yeah to me the main difference is that one is more external and the other internal. she gets very emotional when she’s jealous. in episodes like alpha (literally sitting that woman down and going “i’m watching you.” cracks me tf up. Dana nobody is taking your man.) and war of the coprophages, it’s kind of angry. it’s louder, but still something very vulnerable and true to her (hater-ism). in episodes like the end, it’s heartbreak. that’s one of the very few episodes where i think she was purely jealous, and sad. she usually understands what’s going on and i think she knew as soon as she heard him call diana by her first name that something was going to change. i think it hurt her feelings, that specific display of connection, usually reserved for her.

when she’s jealous she retreats. she watches quietly. she cries alone in her car. she needs a moment to herself.

it’s when she’s protective that you can’t shake her for anything. one of my favorite images in fire is her standing in the doorway while mulder and phoebe meet with the arson specialist. i didn’t even notice she was there the first time i saw it. she wasn’t invited. she’s just keeping watch. later, she’s standing in the hallway. after that, she’s in his hotel room, and doesn’t leave when phoebe comes in. says “are you okay?” the moment they’re alone.

people write off her behavior in this one as being “jealous” because she has a lil crush and there’s another woman there, but i honestly find that dismissive. sometimes people discuss scully through such a wide lens, not taking into account who she is. she’s really surprised throughout the time that phoebe was there. it’s that soft edge that still shocks to cruelty, that she never really loses. it’s what shocks in the pilot when the doctor hits mulder twice. what shocks in the following episode when the government agents punch him on the side of the road. (look at you you’ve radicalized scully). it’s what makes her wary of jerry lamana, even before he stole mulder’s work.

but phoebe is so cruel, and so personal, and has so much history. it’s not jealousy that makes scully linger in doorways. it’s not jealousy that spawns that folie a deux. no one else understands. no one else can be trusted. (which i do kind of think started in fire, i’ve said before). she isn’t jealous that he startles when he hears this woman’s voice.

and i know that’s a lot on phoebe as an example, but it doesn’t stop. she doesn’t stop keeping watch. she doesn’t stop shocking to cruelty. she’ll get loud. she’ll make plans. she’ll surprise herself. and it doesn’t come with jealousy’s mortifying intimacy.

(don’t have much else to say but i found this from an old post of mine and wanted to share: “scully has that kind of protectiveness towards him that you have towards a child that hasn't been touched by the world yet. it's very 'the world is at least half terrible, though i keep this from my children.’ 'good bones' by maggie smith. scully in the beginning is like......there is something here that should have broken by now. and she wants to watch him be able to walk into every room with the most hopeful answer and a hand out to every stranger.”)

she shares him with the world only reluctantly, Etc etc

[fisherrprince]

oh so alisaie’s exaggerated bully behavior is 80% fanon. saying this she casually picks up a large rock

[opinions-about-tiaras]

I'm going to get up on my hobbyhorse again!

Agents of SHIELD has a crucial difference from all of Disney's streaming shows. It was aired on network TV, in prime time. It was absolutely forced to adhere to fixed running times interrupted at pre-set intervals by commercials breaks. It was forced to adhere to quaint things like "a traditional three-act structure."

Now, good structure cannot save bad writing, of course. But it can make workmanlike, entirely functional writing (which is basically what AoS had for most of its run; it was never incredible, but also rarely dire) seem more solid than it is, because it turns out the basics of storytelling structure in the broadcast medium were worked out many, many decades ago and they have merit to them.

Disney's streaming shows didn't have this. Because streaming, they could be "whatever." Length and act structure and whatnot were completely arbitrary. Need an extra two minutes? Sure, you can have that! Are you short by thirty seconds? No you're not!

This sounds incredibly freeing, right? Only it turns out a lot of writers just straight-up didn't know how to write a show without that basic foundation, that skeleton, of structure holding them up. In addition to their other sins, the Disney streaming shows almost universally feel flabby. Unsure of themselves and how to get form point A to point B. They often noodle around aimlessly, because you can tell that the episode got where it was going to go around the fifteen minute mark, but they can't just END it there, fifteen minutes is too short, but also they're not prepared to move to a whole other episodes worth of plot beats, so they just... spin their wheels. And then you get to the end of their eight-episode season and its "oh, shit gotta cram a ton of stuff in."

(This is, I believe, an outgrowth of the writers trying to write like they're writing movies, rather than TV. But that's another thing.)

Now, this kind of flabby structure could have been rescued if the writing had been absolutely astounding. There are plenty of movies and TV shows that are meandering, ill-structured MESSES (I'm looking in the direction of the recently-deceased and much-mourned David Lynch here) but they manage to be beloved, even successful, anyhow because the writing is SHARP. But the writing isn't sharp. It's mediocre. And while good structure can't save bad writing, bad structure can absolutely doom mediocre writing.

It feels reductive to say "they just needed better writing" but, well, they kinda do. Streaming is so high-stakes. Eight episodes, once every two years, for a lot of series? Man, you need to fucking park it deep every single time. Agents of SHIELD had another advantage; it was airing twenty episodes a year. Some of them could be dogshit! Some of them WERE dogshit! But if you had two really bad ones in a row, it wasn't "well that's a quarter of the season wasted."

You can absolutely use your streaming shows as a synergy platform. I think that could work very well. People were super open to the idea! Everybody pretends to be so over everything but I'm so old I remember how excited we all were in 2020, "oh boy, my favorite stuff is coming to TV! Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson are going to hang out, not just for a few minutes in a two-hour movie, but for MANY hours! On TV!"

But man, the writing has to be there. The structure has to be there. If they aren't, all you have left is a soulless synergy monster laid bare to the world, and people kinda don't like that. It makes them not eager to see Bucky and Sam again.

When Marvel started doing TV shows they were adamant they weren't necessary to understand the movies. One of the first things they said was that even though the show resurrected a well-liked side character, him being alive would never, ever be referenced outside the show. & they stuck to that. Anyway that and some Netflix shows later & they're straight up killing off movie characters permanently in random miniseries

Agents of SHIELD is better received than 90% of the Marvel shows despite Marvel ditching the idea of it as a platform for synergy early on & letting it just exist as a network adventure show for seven years, largely independent of the shared universe. It doesn't even mention the purple man's finger snap. Wait did I say "despite"? I mean "because" they did that. Very much because and not despite

[sskk-manifesto]

ಥ‿ಥ

[doggytail-duck]

Watched the MLB movie finally! While I had a few Notes, all in all I enjoyed it, the animation was so pretty and I was really impressed how they condensed so much stuff into one movie

[lesbiankoby]

[rotates del the trigun oc around]

[sttoru]

⠀ 𝝑𝑒 ⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. play fighting with your lover quickly turns into you being pounded on the couch.

tags. (assassin!)toji x female reader. smut. dōggy style. age gap implied. with plot-ish. unprotected -> p in v. size difference / kink. power trip-ish. teasing. crēampie. dacryphilia. tummy bulging. pūssy slapping. breēding mention. reader gets called ‘(little) girl, pretty, doll, slut.’ not proofread. wc: 3.4k

you let out a sigh of relief when your lover comes back home safe from another mission. toji’s risky job always leaves you anxious, knowing what could happen to him if things took a turn for the worse.

“keheh, there’s my pretty girl,” toji grins as he feels you jump into his embrace the instant he steps into the living room. your arms wrap around his waist and your head rests against his chiseled chest. he’s sweaty and bloody, yet you can’t care less. you’ve waited all day for him.

you tilt your head back and give the black-haired man a quick, passionate kiss. he returns it with equal force before picking you up and bringing you over to the couch. once toji put you down, he reaches a hand out to lazily ruffle your hair, “i’m g’nna take a shower, yeah?”

you shake your head and grab his hand before he can think of moving away. “no, want you to stay. just for a little more,” you attempt to coax toji into staying with you for a bit more.

“after i take a shower, doll. i probably smell ‘n look like shit,” the assassin mumbles in a low tone. his hair is wet with sweat, black locks sticking to his forehead. his compression shirt is torn in some places, but it’s neatly outlining his pecs, which makes him look ten times more attractive.

“nu-uh, you don’t,” you refute and tug at toji’s wrist again. he playfully rolls his eyes after giving in to your innocent request. you clearly don’t mind the sweaty state he’s in. you just want to cuddle up and talk to him about all kinds of things. “you look as handsome as ever,” you smile at him once you straddle his lap. toji’s hands find your hips, his nails ghosting over your skin to send shivers down your spine.

“heh. that ain’t nothin’ new,” your lover leans his head back with a cocky smirk. he knows how much you love it when he’s all sweaty and tired. toji never fails to spot the way your eyes wander up and down his muscular figure whenever he’s wearing that signature outfit of his. a black compression shirt that defines his pecs and white-ish baggy pants. you love it.

your fingers trace circles over his chest. you don’t seem to care about the random crimson droplets on his skin. they’re not his, thus you let it go. asking questions about the job he’s finished will only ruin the mood you’ve set. plus, toji clearly needs some distraction from the fact that his limbs are aching. he’s outdone himself today as well.

“you tired?” you ask through a soft murmur. your boyfriend nods while yawning, teasingly pinching your cheek afterwards. “mhm,” toji hums while playing with the collar of your shirt, eyes wandering down to your tits. one of his most favorite spots on your body.

you’re clearly not wearing a bra and it’s making it difficult for him to stay focused. your nipples push against the material of your pyjamas so deliciously, just begging to be touched by his fingers. he quietly clears his throat and looks the other direction to play it off.

“oh?” you giggle and tap toji’s cheek twice to gain his attention, though with no success. he’s trying his best to come off as nonchalant as possible—to remain that stoic man he’s always been. his attempts are proven futile when you press your breasts against his chest.

“come on, babe. look at meeee,” you laugh and resort to tickling toji’s belly and armpits. he freezes for a second before scoffing at your actions, his hands immediately rush under your shirt to tickle you back. you end up squirming on his lap, trying to swat his arms in attempt to defend yourself.

your lover lets out a haughty chuckle as you become defenceless because of his well calculated revenge tickles. “mm? didn’t hear ya, y’ should speak up,” toji teases you, clearly seeing how you’re struggling to talk as he makes you squeal and laugh uncontrollably.

there are tears forming on your eyes. your breath comes in short gasps when you finally find a chance to jump off toji’s lap. “shut up, fushiguro!” you call out, going back to last name basis, which you know toji dislikes. you stumble back a little and stick your tongue out at your lover before fleeing the scene. or at least you try to.

“fushiguro, aye?” you hear toji’s voice right behind you, and when you turn around to face him, he’s already got you caged in his arms. you gasp and kick your legs, hitting him in the shin. the man groans at the contact and loosens his grip a little. you take the opportunity again, jumping onto his back, clinging onto him with your legs around his waist. you encircle your arm around his neck and catch him off guard with a surprise headlock.

“hehe, got you now,” you grin smugly. toji’s not giving his best, you know that, because you’d be on the floor if he did. he’s allowing you to have fun and he’s indulging you, which you more than so appreciate. “what? cat got your tongue, big boy?” you continue challenging him, proud of your little achievement.

you’re painfully oblivious to toji's struggles. how he's struggling with his inner desires, how his hands ball up into fists at his side. he can feel your body clinging onto him, your legs wrapped so tightly around his waist. it’s adorable that you find so much joy in having the upper hand over a grown man like him.

adorable, and such a huge turn on.

toji can’t believe that he’s getting a boner from just playing with you like this. maybe it’s your body that’s pressed against him so snugly, letting him feel every feminine curve or maybe it's the fact that he knows he can easily pin you to the ground and show you what a real man can do until you're begging for mercy.

your nipples are pressed against his back and it’s so hard to act like he can’t feel that. it’s hard to believe you’re not doing it on purpose, but you truly aren’t.

“careful,” toji comments in a husky voice. the corner of his lip twitches, his eyes hidden behind his black bangs, “y’ might start something you can’t finish.” you figure that it’s just bait to scare you off, so you don’t take it seriously. you tighten the headlock a little, biting toji’s ear and nibbling on it as revenge.

“you’re not scaring me with that,” you chuckle and pinch toji’s cheek with your free hand. the older man turns his head slightly, catching a glimpse of your mischievous grin. oh, how cute.

with a swift, fluid motion, toji reaches up with both hands and grasps your thighs firmly. in a heartbeat, your positions reverse and he pins you to the nearby wall. both of his meaty arms cage you in by pressing against the concrete on either side of your head.

“seems like i’m the one who got ya now, doll,” toji murmurs, his voice low and laced with a hint of lust. he gazes down at you, your faces mere inches apart. you can feel his breath fanning against your lips. he’s itching to claim your mouth so, so bad.

but before he can capture your sweet lips with his, you catch him off guard by pushing your full weight forward, causing toji to lose balance. he tumbles backwards onto the carpet below with you on top of him.

“nope, am not giving up so easily,” you giggle as you try to grab at his wrists. you’re oblivious to toji’s desires, too focused on overpowering the man who could snap you in half. it’s fun when he allows you to take control.

however, your lover is slowly losing his rationality. you’re seated on top of his abs and he can swear he can feel the heat of your cunt through your clothes. it’s the only thing he can focus on at that moment. the only thing he craves.

“fuck, c’mere,” toji growls and rolls you over so you’re pinned beneath him on the floor. he can’t help the smirk that tugs at his lips when your laughter echoes throughout the living room. even through his lustful haze, he finds your joy thoroughly endearing.

you manage to find another opening and roll over again so you’re on top of him instead. the cycle continues for a few more seconds, your bodies lost in a tangled mess of limbs. you exchange gasps, grunts and giggles while you’re ‘fighting’ for dominance.

when you bite on toji’s shoulder as a way to catch him off guard once more, he hisses. not in an annoyed or pained way— no. he’s so turned on that you biting him sends a jolt of pleasure right down to his aching cock. so turned on that he may accidentally have developed a new kink in that same second.

either way, that little action was his last straw.

toji effortlessly lifts you up on the couch, your body bouncing a bit on the plush cushions as he turns you around on your stomach. one arm hooks around your neck, his bicep pressing against your throat. not enough to hinder your airway, but enough to send shivers down your spine.

“told ya to b’ careful,” toji grunts, his breath against your sensitive skin from behind, “y’ should start listening to me more.” his tongue flicks out and licks a stripe up your ear. his crotch is pressed right against your ass and only then do you notice his raging hard-on.

your eyes widen, cheek smushed against his muscular arm wrapped around your neck, keeping you in place beneath his big body. “oh, fuck, toji,” you let out a shuddering breath. you’re completely engulfed by his large frame—disappearing out of sight. just how he likes it.

“yeah? feel that?” toji grins as he squeezes his bicep around your delicate throat some more. you gasp and whine, turned on by him overpowering you, as much as you had been enjoying the opposite just seconds ago. he mocks your earlier words with a grunt, “think i have’ta remind my lil’ brat exactly what this ‘big boy’ can do to ya.”

and the older man wastes no time to do exactly that.

your shorts and panties are tossed carelessly on the carpet, your cheek smushed against the cushions that you’re desperately gripping. your face is contorted with pleasure, brows furrowed, eyes glazed over and your swollen lips parted to take shallow breaths.

you can feel the ache in your lower back. the arch of your spine is nearly unnatural as your ass is pushed so high up, bouncing back to meet the mean backshots your man is giving you.

“ah, ngh! t—toooji,” you mewl loudly, droplets of saliva trickling down from the corner of your mouth. you can’t deny that this entire situation has you soaked.

the switch toji went through, from being playful and letting you do what you want to reminding you who’s boss at the end of the day— it’s perfect and feels way too good. the cherry on top is the familiar scent of his body, the sweat mixed with his cologne.

it adds to the pleasure, makes you dizzy in a good way.

toji grips your waist, his manly hands trailing down to your hips every now and then for the extra leverage. his fingers dig into your soft flesh as he pounds into you mercislessly, fucking into you like you’re his personal cocksleeve. “ain’t gonna try that again, are ya?”

“dumb lil’ slut,” your harsh lover grumbles under his breath, hand smacking the fat of your ass. toji loves seeing it ripple underneath him, even more so when his hips smack against your rear with strength that leaves your flesh stinging, “bet ya love it when i remind you who owns this cunt.”

toji groans as he slides his thick cock in and out of your tight cunt. you’re gripping him like you never want to let go, like you want to milk him of every drop of the cum stored in his balls.

the sight that he’s blessed with from his point of view can make him bust a load right then and there. you’re presenting your ass to him shamelessly, looking back over your shoulder with lust-blown eyes.

and don’t get him started on the outline of his dick distending your tummy, the one he can feel whenever he reaches a hand around to press against your lower abdomen and circle your clit. too fucking lewd.

“fuck, yeahhhh. take that fat fuckin’ dick, baby,” toji throws his head back as he pushes your body even further into the couch. you swear he’s folding you in half, “let me show ya what a real man in charge can do— how a real man fucks his woman.”

toji’s cock is ruining you, reshaping your insides to fit his massive size and you don’t mind it one bit. in fact, you love it. love the feel of him, the stretch and burn of his thick cock splitting you open.

“yes, mmh, yes! fuck me!” you keen, sobbing from the pleasure. your hand reaches back to scratch at toji’s arm, trying to hold onto him, to find him even in the midst of it all. the view of your desperation and your pleas makes him lose it.

the dark-haired man scoffs, “oh, i’ll fuck ya, all right. . .”

with a low growl, toji plants one foot on the floor next to you, his other leg still bent at the knee on the sofa you’re laying at. the muscles in his arms ripple as he lifts your hips even higher up to be able to meet his thrusts.

“fuuuuuck! right there!” you wail, your head trashing back and forth on the damp sofa. from this new angle, he can drive his fat dick into you even deeper, engorged tip hitting that sweet spot inside you that makes you see white.

toji revels in the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, mixed with your sweet moans. you seem so much smaller than him in this new position, your body helplessly giving in, allowing him to put you in whatever position he wants. it boosts his ego and makes his cock pulse inside of you.

he loves seeing the tears in your eyes as it nearly gets too much for you to handle. it motivates him to fuck you harder until you’re full on bawling, which he can easily get off on. making you cry in pure bliss is all he wants to achieve.

your pussy is tight as it clenches around his cock like a vice. toji’s hand slithers around to circle your clit, making your legs spasm and hips thrust back sloppily. “shitttt, y’r sweet lil’ cunt was made just for this—” he pants as his thumb presses against the nub, “to take my cock.”

all you can do is dumbly nod at whatever your partner says. “mmhm, ah yeah, made for you,” your small whines are music to his ears. the palms of your hands feel clammy as you hold onto anything you can grasp.

everything around you is a blur as the only thing you can focus on is the way his heavy cock fills you so well.

toji can feel your juices trickling down his heavy sack, soaking his thighs and yours, as well as the couch. it will leave stains, but he doesn’t care and neither do you.

“look at ya,” he huffs and slaps your clit once, callused fingers dragging along your puffy lips that are parted obscenely wide for his cock. toji brings his wet finger to his mouth to lick it clean. he hums satisfactorily at the taste, “pussy’s droolin’ aaaall over my dick. nasty girl.”

your pussy starts fluttering around his thick length as it impales you over and over. it’s a telltale sign of your orgasm, one toji has come to recognise quite easily.

“yeah? gonna make an even bigger mess on my cock?” he grins before pressing his chest against your sweaty back, blanketing your small body. the extra weight added to the ecstasy only makes you scream louder for him.

“yes, yes, yes! gonna cum!” you cry out, toes curling and eyes rolling back as you try to prolong your pleasure. even if it’s only for a second.

toji curses under his breath as his hips move faster to drive you over the edge. he can’t wait to feel your cunt get even tighter, to make it feel like you’re about to snap his dick off. he loves the pain mixed with the pleasure of your tightness.

“do it. cream all over me, c’mon, little girl. y’ can do it,” toji coaxes, delivering small smacks to your clit, causing your hips to jolt back with each slap. you can’t do it anymore— can’t hold on any longer.

you scream as you cum, your pussy spasming wildly around toji’s pulsing cock. that sensation alone has the older man gasping for air, nails digging into the flesh of your ass. no matter how many times he fucks you, the moment you cum, he automatically follows.

the way you squeeze his dick and hold onto it like you don’t want to let go is simply too much.

“fuck, fuck, fuck. g’nna make me bust a fat fuckin’ nut inside of you,” toji groans, his rhythm growing sloppy yet his thrusts are still deliciously hard, “gonna pump this pussy full of my load. breed ‘er nice and deep. shitt— take it!”

a strangled moan leaves his lips as he grinds his hips against your ass while his cock jolts inside of you. he pumps jet after jet of hot cum directly into your womb, tip rubbing against the deepest spot he can reach.

“eaaaasy, yeah, just like that. let it soak into ya,” toji hisses as his hips jerk erratically, “good girl. takin’ all of it so well.” it seems to go on forever as spurts of semen flood your insides for a good few seconds.

once your lover fully empties his balls inside of you, he feels himself grow weak. his thighs and arms tremble a bit from overexertion.

you collapse together in a sweaty heap, toji’s softening dick still buried deep inside of you. the only thing filling the room now is your heavy breathing as you slowly regain your composure. it’s quite a comfortable silence.

after a while, toji shifts. he pulls out with a wet squelch and watches with half-lidded eyes as thick, pearly globs of cum trickle down your slit. he grins lazily at the sight before turning you around.

you’re completely fucked out, it seems. your chest is heaving and your eyes are barely open. the trails of tears and drool on your face tells the man enough. toji wipes a stray strand of hair from your face with a haughty chuckle, “damn, keheh, fucked y’ real good. you okay though?”

you weakly nod in response before wrapping your arms around him. your hands rest on his broad back, pressing your face into the crook of his neck.

toji hums and hugs you back, being careful not to squish you under his weight. he presses chaste kisses to your temple as he enjoys your frame molding perfectly against the hard muscles of his body.

“y’ did so well for me, little girl,” he comments gruffly, voice deep and a bit hoarse. you smile at the praise and murmur a small ‘thanks’. nothing is better than being able to feel safe with your lover after an intense session like that.

you pull back a bit and look up at toji with a little, playful grin. “guess i need to challenge you more often. felt too good, babe.”

toji lets out a small scoff and shakes his head. a ghost of a smirk appears on his lips as he slightly pinches your side. he holds you against his chest and buries his nose into your hair, sighing as he finally relaxes his weary body.

“y’ can try. might break ya for real next time, though.”