#what is between a particle and another

[eresia-catara]

actually those first philosophers who denied the possibility that the void could exist were onto something

[jinwoosbabyboo]

Keep Talking

Your LADS man hitting it so well that you start speaking another language. Here's how I imagine they would react. [Requested by: tianalamb] A/N: Took some creative liberties as always CW: ‼️MDNI‼️fem!reader, afab!reader, p in v, raw dogging

Zayne

Type: Checks if you’re okay

Zayne is already incredibly touch starved so anytime the two of you are getting it in he is absolutely drowning in you. Nothing, but tangled limbs, faint snow particles that melt when they touch your heated skin, heavy breaths, searing wet kisses and whimpers of pleasure. Such a gentleman in the streets, but a real pussy pleaser in the sheets.

Here you are straddling him, dripping down his dick, watching him whimper under you. Unfortunately for you those thighs of yours are starting to burn. “Wooo hold on Zayne” The only thing he’s holding onto is your hips as he plants his feet and pistons up into you. The sudden change in power has you throwing your head back in ecstasy. Your sudden loud moans mingle with the string of foreign words. Zayne slows his pace and pulls you down; examining your face with concern “Is this okay? Did I go too fast?” You’re still trembling on the brink of another orgasm “No Zayne it was perfect keep going I'm close” He would waste no time snaking an arm around you and holding you close as he continued to bully your swollen pussy with those same vicious strokes that continuously massage your g spot.

Rafayel

Type: Speaks back to you in Lemurian

Rafayel is all red ears and shaky breaths yet somehow you always end up pinned underneath him. His lips never leaving your neck as he slid into you so tenderly. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close while he gave you long languid strokes. The way you gripped him already had him whimpering with each thrust, but the minute you started to beg him to go faster he thought he’d lost his damn mind. He’d slip his hand between your sweaty bodies, thumbing your clit while pounding your weeping pussy mercilessly. You jerked and squirmed under him as tears pricked your eyes.

When those foreign words reached his ears Rafayel would raise his head meeting your gaze and respond in Lemurian. Knowing that he’s hitting it so good you’ve reverted to your mother tongue would boost his ego immensely. He’d sit up pressing one of your legs down by your head and throwing the other over his shoulder so he can get even deeper — repeatedly hitting your sweet spot. That devilish smirk gracing his lips when he sees your eyes rolling from pleasure. “Raf- ngh! I’m cl- ah!” he’d lean down — folding you like a pretzel — taking your bottom lip between his teeth and giving you a sharp nip before whispering “I like when you speak in your mother tongue”

Xavier

Type: Gets turned on even more

Xavier was always insatiable when he got hot and bothered. He knows exactly what to do when it comes to making a mess of you. His goal would always be to have you begging for mercy while simultaneously begging for more. “One more baby just give me one more you can do it” his words were said through gritted teeth as he gave you rough calculated strokes. He would stare into your lust filled eyes as foreign words fell from your kiss swollen lips.

He had no clue what you were saying, but that silky voice of yours only turned him on even more. He gripped the fat of your hips and continued bullying your dripping cunt like he wants to mold the shape of your gummy walls to fit him and him only. Shudders rippling up his spine as your orgasm has your pussy spasming around him making him fall right over the edge with you.

His grip on you would become bruising as thick ropes of his cum filled you up. He’d pull out slowly watching his seed drip out of you. Just when you think you’re going to get a chance to catch your breath Xavier has you bent over the couch stretching you on his cock again. “Keep talking to me like that” he’d say breathless trailing wet kisses wherever his lips could reach.

Sylus

Type: Talks to you in the same language

It should be known by now that Sylus is a polyglot because he refuses to hire an interpreter for his business. He has the patience of a saint when it comes to prepping you. So when he has you pinned under him squirming and shaking from your second orgasm it’s not a surprise when foreign words roll off your tongue draped in pure bliss.

“You’re divine” He says slipping into your sopping cunt, audibly groaning as he sinks every inch into your welcoming heat. Once he bottoms out inside you he has to take deep breaths to stop himself from cumming too quick. His thumbs lovingly stroke your waist as he starts slowing moving. He’d already have you overstimulated so it didn’t take long before your third orgasm crashed over you.

His grip is turning harsh as he talks you through your third — his hips snapping into you at an even pace making your high last even longer. His breath is hot and choppy next to your ear; he’s trembling just as much as you. Sylus would have you so drunk on him that you didn’t even notice the entire time he was talking you through your orgasm he was speaking in the same language you were rambling in. You’d try your best to run, telling Sylus it’s too much. He’d hold you in place, singing your praises in your language as he added his fingers to the mix. Light spanking straight on your puffy clit had you practically screaming. His thrusts become sloppy right before spilling into you. Heavy ropes of cum painting your insides as Sylus holds you close whispering what feels like poetry into your ear.

Caleb

Type: Makes you repeat yourself over and over

Caleb could never get enough of you. The way his hands roamed from your boobs, to your hips, down to your thighs and slowly but surely making their way back to your waist. Your mind already going blank from the multiple orgasms he’d snatched from you. His thrusts are deep and slow “I could stay like this forever” he’d whimper as your cunt squeezed him mercilessly.

He perked up when those breathy foreign words dripped from your lips like honey. You pressed a hand against his stomach, covered in both your juices and his cum, whining for a quick break. Caleb has no idea what you’re saying, but the way you squirmed and whined under him only made his desire grow.

One moment you’re clawing at his back and next you’re flat on your stomach being pressed into the mattress. “Say it again” his breath is hot against your ear, but his tone has the heat in your core reigniting with a passion. His hand slipping under you and propping your chin up so he can hear you clearly as you ramble in your native language. He’d slip two of his long fingers into your mouth when you try to stifle a moan by biting your lip “Again” he’d demand. He licked and sucked on your neck while you drooled from both sets of lips, eyes rolling as he bullied his cock into you until you were whimpering uncontrollably; barely forming words. “Keep talking” Caleb really couldn’t get enough of you especially now.

[sirsoggybread]

smitten | spencer reid

spencer reid x bau!reader

summary: when an unsub is killing teenage couples, you and spencer have to go undercover to lure him out.

warnings: mentions of murder and violence, typical criminal minds case, kissing, allusions to a praise kink? (nothing freaky nasty tho), mentions of bugs and eating bugs (sorry.)

wc: 2k

a/n: criticism appreciated since im new to writing (esp x reader fics) pls be nice tho. hope you enjoy!

Spencer wasn't even sure how he got here. He tried to place it, recalling every interaction he's had with you since you joined the BAU, but he still wasn't sure when his crush had started to form.

Crush. He hated that. He hated calling it that because it made him feel like a child, but that's what it was, wasn't it? He was smitten for you.

Maybe, it wasn't one particular moment in which a switch flipped in his brain, and he decided to start imagining how his daily routine would change to include you. Maybe, when he first met you, you planted a tiny seed of curiosity in his heart that slowly grew to consume him.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of your voice, "Hey, Doc, I gotta question for you."

His lips twitched into a smile, he loved that you appreciated his endless knowledge. You didn't brush him off like most people did. You listened to his rambles, you enjoyed his fun facts, you asked for more.

"Hm, what's up?" He hummed, stirring another spill of sugar into his coffee to distract himself from your eyes.

"I saw a video the other day of a girl talking about how there's cockroaches in our ground coffee... is that true?" You asked, tilting your head, your eyes locked onto his cup.

"Yes." He answered, bringing his cup to his lips and taking a sip, causing your nose to scrunch in disgust. He let out a chuckle at your cute expression. "It's not just cockroaches either, it's mostly beetles and weevils."

Your jaw fell slack, "You know this and you drink it?"

His lips pressed into a thin line as he suppressed his amused smile, "It's not uncommon for bug particles to get into most of the food we consume, but they're ultimately undetectable and unharmful. In fact, it's an added source of fiber. In some countries such as Japan, China, Indonesia, Mexico, and more, bugs are commonly enjoyed as a delicacy and appreciated for their nutritious benefits."

You nodded slowly in response to the influx of information. Your eyes locked onto the coffee pot, internally grappling with the prospect of bugs being in the next cup of coffee that you were most definitely still going to drink.

Spencer bit back an amused smile as he watched you struggle, his gaze lingered for a moment too long, before he decided he should probably find his desk again. He settled into his chair and glanced up from his report, watching as you tentatively sipped your freshly made cup of coffee.

Naturally, Derek caught Spencer staring, and couldn't resist the urge to tease, “What's going on between the two of you, lover boy?”

Spencer felt the heat creep up his neck, his shoulder's tensing, “What? Nothing.” He cringed, knowing he was quick to answer.

Derek chuckled, “Oh, really?” He challenged, “How'd you even know who I was talking about then?”

“Ooh,” Emily leaned against Spencer's desk, “Are we talking about Spencer's crush?”

If Spencer's face wasn't red before, it definitely was now. “It's not a crush.” He said adamantly.

“Denial.” Emily hummed, earning a chuckle from Derek. She continued to tease, “You know, JJ and I have a bet going on about this, you wanna get in on that?”

“Can everybody meet in the briefing room? We got a case.”

Spencer's shoulder slumped with relief as JJ rushed past them. It's weird to be relieved by a new case, but the teasing would come to halt, and he could focus on something other than the way your nose scrunched as you drank your coffee.

Everyone gathered around the round table, trading theories and observations as JJ presented the case.

“Unlike the previous murders, Benjamin and Gina both had ligature marks on their wrists, their bodies were also deeper in the desert than our first couple.” JJ zoomed in on the bruised wrists of the corpses displayed across the TV.

“He's escalating,” Derek stated simply.

You nodded in agreement, “Controlling two people at once isn't easy, even with the threat of a weapon. He’s applying what he learned from the first murders.”

“Perfecting his craft.” Rossi hummed, the disgust evident in his voice.

“One thing is for certain,” Hotch started, standing from his seat, “His time between kills is getting shorter, which means he's probably looking for another couple now. Wheels up in 20.”

–

Even as the team ate dinner, it was shitty fast food in the police station and your noses were buried in files. Spencer still stood, staring intently at the map pinned to the board in front of him, his brows knitted tightly together.

“Staring at the board isn't going to make the answer any clearer,” you said, familiar with his expression that crossed his face, “what are you thinking?”

“Tommy and Jane both lived in the south side of town, not far from the dumpsite, but Benjamin lived in the Northside, and Gina lived in the Northeast. Garcia couldn't find any connection between the two couples– different schools, different jobs, different friend groups. So… why these couples? Where is he finding his victims?”

You stopped in your tracks, recalling an earlier interview with the parents. His question struck a realization in you. “If you're 18 with super religious parents, where are you going to makeout with your boyfriend?”

“A makeout spot,” Derek interjected.

Spencer turned to face the team with a quizzical expression, “A makeout spot?”

“Yeah, yeah,” You answered, “Sometimes teenagers find secluded spots where they'll go to makeout or whatever. Then, they tell their friends, who tell their friends, so on and so forth.”

You turned to Hotch with a sense of urgency, “Is JJ still with Gina's friends?”

“I'm calling her now.” Hotch said, already holding the phone to his ear.

Derek’s eyes flickered between you and Spencer, his brow raised, “You realize what this means, right?”

“What?” Spencer asked.

Everyone's attention was on the two of you, you sighed, “It means you and I are going to have to go undercover as a couple.”

Spencer’s eyes widened, and he frantically shook his head, “What? Why- Why us? Why can't you two do it?” He gestured between Derek and Emily.

Emily deadpanned, though a smirk tugged at her lips.

“Come on, you really think Emily and I can pass as teenagers?” Derek asked, before adding, “I mean, I probably could, but Emily definitely can't.”

“Wha- Hey!” Emily slapped his shoulder lightly.

A stern look from Hotch caused four of you to quiet down. He hung up the phone and glanced between you and Spencer, “JJ just sent me the location. Are the two of you up for this?”

“Yes.” You answered quickly, your heart thumping with anticipation. This guy had killed four teenagers, you didn't even have to consider it.

Spencer swallowed, his eyes flickering over each member of the team, all focused on him. He wanted to kiss you, be close to you, but this isn't how he wanted it to go. “Yes,” he sighed.

–

Spencer sat stiffly in the backseat of the beat down car. His ears were tinted pink, and he couldn't even blame it on the wind drifting through the cracked windows–damn, Arizona, and their warm weather.

“Should we um, should we lay down?” He asked, fidgeting with his hands.

“No,” you answered, “we don't want him to find us in any more of a compromising position than we'll already be in.”

Spencer swallowed, and nodded. “So, um…”

“Spencer, relax.” You coaxed, but he couldn't. He was supposed to kiss you, and touch you, and the whole team was listening, and you guys were about to get attacked by a serial killer. Ironically, that last one was the least nerve-wracking.

“Just don't think.” You guided his hands to your waist, “I will do all the kissing and touching, and I'll stay on high-alert. Just… try to relax, and… make sounds.” Even your cheeks grew warm at your last words.

He was about to ask what you meant by make sounds, but he was caught off by your lips pressing against his–well, sort of. You kept your thumb hidden between your mouths, so your lips never completely touched. Spencer was grateful for that, it made the scene feel less intimate.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, Hotch occasionally giving you updates through your ear piece.“We have eyes on someone, but we can't move in until we're sure it's the unsub.”

You sighed, knowing the unsub wouldn't approach until he was sure the two of you were too caught up in each other to notice him.

You moved your head next to Spencer's ear, and his breath hitched at the sensation of your warm breath on his neck.

“This okay?” you asked in a hushed tone.

“Mhm,” He hummed, forcing his shoulders to relax, and willing his head to fall to the side. He understood what you meant by ‘make sounds’ now, because the moment your lips met his neck with wet kisses, a gasp escaped his lips.

“That's good, keep doing that.” you hummed against his neck, his grip on your waist tightened as his mind started to blur. He knew you meant the noise was good because it would convince the unsub, but the praise still caused an embarrassing amount of heat to pool in his stomach.

“Suspect is approaching.” If Aaron's voice through the earpiece wasn't enough to pull him out of the haze, the car door opening, followed by a rush of footsteps definitely was.

Emily's voice rang out, “FBI, you are under arrest for the murder of Thomas Buros, Jane Martin, Gina Amato, and Benjamin Cohen.”

You could still hear Emily reciting the Miranda rights as she pulled the unsub away from the car. Hotch poked his head in, “Are you guys okay?”

“Fine,” Spencer mumbled, his heart still racing from the array of events that unfolded.

You nodded, “Yeah, we're good.”

“We're taking him back to the station. We're not anticipating for him to request a lawyer, so Rossi's going to lead the interrogation. You two are good to head to the hotel for the rest of the night.”

–

Hotch was right, he never requested a lawyer, and it didn't take long for Rossi to get him to confess. The next morning, the team was on a flight back to D.C.

Things had been awkward between you and Spencer. Well, Spencer had been awkward, and the teasing from the team was relentless.

So, you waited. You let him sit as far as possible from you on the jet and you waited until everyone had drifted off into sleep, before finding a spot next to Spencer.

You gently nudged him out of his sleep. He inhaled deeply, and rubbed his eyes as he came to, and his cheeks flushed instantly upon seeing you. He swallowed as he sat up, his pulse began to race, anticipating the conversation he was sure you were going to insist on having.

Instead, you held out a square lollipop, with a scorpion encased in the center of the transparent, red candy.

His brows furrowed, “What? What is that?”

“It's candy,” You smiled, “they had them at the corner store near the hotel, so I got it for you.”

His lips curled into a curious smile as he accepted the candy, and began inspecting it.

“Bugs are commonly enjoyed as delicacies and appreciated for their nutritional benefits.” You echoed back to him a part of your earlier conversation, and he let out a chuckle. Now it made sense.

“Well, I think the uh, candy casing might be a little counterproductive.” He commented, his lips pursing as he suppressed his amused smile, “You didn't get one for yourself?”

“Oh, no. I will have to pass on the uh, scorpion. I prefer my bugs to be undetectable.” You said quickly, earning a laugh from Spencer. His anxiety over the impending conversation seemed to dissipate.

He unwrapped the candy and stuck it in his mouth, causing your nose to wrinkle. Suddenly, he felt like he was right back where he started–his stomach fluttering as you looked at him with an amused gleam in your eye, and his heart swelling as you referenced your earlier conversation. You listened, you remembered, and you thought of him enough to buy him this piece of candy (in his favorite flavor too.)

Yes, he was definitely smitten, but then again, maybe you were too.

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Stanley wasn't sure if he was supposed to be dead. He wasn't all too sure if he was supposed to be alive, either.

He was... somewhere. He didn't know where exactly, but it didn't matter. Nothing really seemed to matter all that much in this strange place. Compared to the unfathomable expanse of nothingness that surrounded him, everything else practically paled in comparison. Still, Stanley felt as though this all-consuming abyss that kept him prisoner within its dark maw deserved a name; at the very least, a title. Yet, it didn't feel right to call this place anything. Death too egregious, and Life too extroadinary; either terms felt far too extreme to his liking. There was nothing particularly hideous nor amazing about where he was. He was simply somewhere in-between.

For as long as he could remember, Stanley's world was just that. This somewhere; this in-between of not quite Death and not quite Life. This empty, greedy abyss that seemed to swallow him whole, stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. There was no sky, no ground, no anything; only the daunting dakness engulfing his every senses and leaving him horribly, hopelessly blank.

That wasn't all there was to it, however. This... somewhere, it was more than just a lifeless void.

Stanley wasn't sure if he could find the right words to properly describe it. He didn't think he could ever come to fully understand the feeling himself, but. Somehow, the abyss felt... hungry. Unimaginably, insatiably, and unbearably hungry.

The hunger seemed to eat away at Stanley, tearing off pieces of him chunk by chunk, piece by piece. With every blink, another part of himself seemed to disappear into the ravenous darkness around him. The void never took much at once, only pieces; nigh imperceptible impossibly tiny crumbs of what made him- so little that they should have hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. But Stanley noticed. He noticed every particle, every atom that was taken away from him by this greedy hunger. The darkness was eating him; digesting him.

It was as though hunger was all that mattered in this somewhere, this stomach; the world itself a single immense digestive system. He could practically feel the void's biting hunger pangs reverberate through his bones. It was so hungry, so hungry.

The dark ate him slowly, ripping him apart from inside out and outside in. It took his flesh first; stealing away the muscles and fat beneath the skin, leaving behind nothing but meager skin stretched over bone. Sometimes, not even his bones were given the luxury of being spared, and he would find himself with an odd dip in his side where the abyss had taken a rib or two; or with half his face lopsidedly sagging into a limp mess with no muscles, fat, nor eye socket to properly hold up the skin of his face onto his skull.

The hunger took without mercy, without order nor preference. It ate anything, everything, as long it helped abate the forever stabbing, starving desperation that painfully twisted and tore at its non-existent stomach. It never really was satisfied.

It got worse when it started eating his memories.

Stanley despised the thought of losing more of himself than simply his physical body to this greedy void. However, what terrified him far more than the notion that this insatiable hunger could breach even his mind, was the fact that he couldn't remember which memories it took.

Stanley couldn't remember much; before the darkness; before the endless hunger. He liked to imagine, though, of what he could have been before. He'd probably had a warm home, warmer than the cold, cold abyss. He'd probably had a loving family. Probably. He couldn't remember.

Everything turned unsure when his own mind started failing on him. Stanley tried to cling to what little he knew. He had his name held tight in his iron clad grip, repeating it to himself like a mantra. He would try and keep track of time, but it was all in vain. Time didn't seem to matter in the face of hunger. Perhaps it had been years since Stanley's arrival; hundred, maybe even thousands. Or, perhaps it had only been a few days, weeks, months. Stan once had a fleeting, terrifying thought that maybe Time too was already victim to the darkness' insatiable hunger.

However, as much as Stan could forget his past, his identity, and life, perhaps the most tragic loss to him greater than anything else was the memory of Him.

He was important to Stanley. He couldn't remember why, but he was. There was nothing of Him left in his memories. No face, no name; not even why He mattered to him in the first place. All he knew was that the loss of Him had struck him with such profound heartache and sorrow that it had left him weeping helplessly for so long, unable to move and rooted in one spot for days, weeks, years. He couldn't remember how long.

Stan was only snapped out of his comatose stupor by His hand.

It was all that was left of Him, other than the knowledge of His past existence. It was warm, a glowing red hand that pulsed almost reassuringly within Stanley's own, its long six digits curled tightly and firmly around his hand, never once faltering in its grip. He couldn't remember a time when he didn't have it. He's had it clutched within his own cold, rough palms like a lifeline since forever; every step he took and every move he made done hand in hand with Him.

Desperately, frantically, he held onto His hand, never once letting it go. Losing the hand meant losing Him for good, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to cope with the consequences of that all alone.

However, ocasionally, even the the comforting presence of His hand was unable to keep his mind anchroed for too long, and Stanley would lose track of his memories. Plagued by odd laspes of utter emptiness, Stanley would suddenly forget. His own name, his face, everything he knew and remembered would slip withut warning between his fingers like sand; streaming down, down, down and getting lost in the gaping mouth of the void below him. He would wander aimlessly with no real destination in mind, simply roaming somwhere, anywhere.

He would come across all sorts of sights during these odd episodes of his. He'd crossed paths with hundreds upon thousands of partically decomposed remnants of once living, breathing organisms; All of them endeniably, for the lack of better words: dead. He'd walked past entire forests; enormous clusters of tall pine trees completely uprooted and floating in a massive mass of rotting leaves and half digested bark. He'd walked past countless animals, big and small, all in various stages of digestion. Animals always seemed to rot away faster than anything else, and Stanley wasn't so sure what that meant for him.

Once, Stan had somehow even found his way before the destroyed remains of a universe.

It was dead. There was no other way to describe the state it was in. He hadn't even known it was possible for entire universes to simply... die. Stolen away from its rightful place in the starry night sky.

The scene was everything he'd thought impossible to take place in this all-consuming abyss. It was extroadinary. A veritable bursting cacophany of light and heat. It was as though the universe's explosion had been paused at just the right moment, frozen in time at the very moment of its heat death. Its particles flickered, undulating softly and shifting ever so slightly like looking through a warped window. If Stanley stood still enough, and listened closely, he thought he could even hear the softest sound of the shattered screams of the broken remains of the universe ringing silently in the air. It was as ethereal as it was haunting.

The thought of the unimaginable power required to be able annihilate entire universes just like that... It scared Stan.

Stanley may not be sure of anything anymore, but as he watched the debris swirl gently in the blinding epicenter of the shattered universe from afar, he knew with a certainty that he didn't think he possessed anymore, that he did not belong here.

Part 1/2

[worldoshaking]

I find Y’shtola so interesting; I think she exemplifies some very fascinating dilemmas, but what’s unique about her is that they’re externalised as ways of seeing the world rather than internal emotional states. Her perspective is also a really important aspect of the story and the world.

The most fundamental thing about her is that she’s a scientist. It’s not just what she does, it’s who she is. It represents her strengths, her ambitions, her temperament, and the way she interacts with the world.

Unlike the other scions, she’s a scientist who grew up outside of Sharlayan’s academic structure, and is unbounded by its strictures and politics. She represents unbounded theoretical curiosity, independent of institutions and all their dampening considerations. It’s a beautiful, idealised vision of what science could be, if unbound by considerations like institutional approval and funding. It’s something Y’shtola learned in part from Matoya, who rejected the confines of Sharlayan academia and accomplished stupendous things in her cave.

I think this complements G’raha Tia, who represents an idealised vision of what academia could be: he explores the limits of what people can achieve together if they can throw aside clout-chasing, nepotism, petty politicking, biases, and the other things that cloud the idealism of academic institutions. G’raha is someone who fell in love with what Sharlayan represented, and came back to point out how they fell short of their own ideals. G’raha is someone who works to reform institutions; Y’shtola simply works independently of them, pushing the limits of what one person can accomplish.

Another very scientific characteristic of Y’shtola is her refusal to acknowledge limits: when she finds a thing that can’t be done, she hammers at it until it budges. She is convinced that there are answers to everything, and that science can find them. This is really something that’s fundamental to the scientific method: the idea that there’s always an answer to the question of ’why,’ and that that answer is something we can find and comprehend. What are atoms made of? Why are there only so many fundamental particles? Why do voidgates form? What is the fate of the universe? There is an answer, and she’ll find it. This is part of her initial clash with G’raha; she is insistent on the truth, and doesn’t like his keeping secrets.

She is also committed to seeing the science through, no matter what she’ll learn from it. She was ready to hear the Ea’s answer about the fate of the universe, no matter how terrible it was. And when she finds it, she’ll greet the unknown with delight; when she meets Zero, she looks the void in the face and smiles.

She’s also just a little remote, in the way of one who has spent too long staring into the heart of things. This doesn’t change the fact that she is a brave, steadfast, loyal companion to her friends, and a staunch champion of what’s right in the world. It’s something very personal; she sees things beyond the others’ sight, and her heart is preoccupied with things that are very removed from the considerations of everyday.

The Sharlayans’ performance of scientific objectivity is shown to be rooted in their very human prejudices, something that’s very true of institutional science in our world too. Y’shtola’s objectivity isn’t that sort of cold, inhumane objectivity; it isn’t a pretext for bigotry, or an abdication of responsibility. It’s something much more remote and whimsical, a commitment to a way of approaching things rather than a badge of superiority.

These are all, in a way, things that characterise the WoL, and I think they underlie the curious solidarity that builds between them post-Endwalker. The WoL, in a different way, is someone who doesn’t acknowledge the limitations of common sense, someone who looks truth in the face without flinching.

It’s also a delightful contrast, because the WoL is someone who repeatedly defies the limits of possibility, and that makes it even more interesting that they’re drawn together. Y’shtola is someone dancing at those very limits; the point where the preposterous becomes fact is where scientific discovery is born.

It’s also a very fun way of seeing science. Science as an institution is actually preoccupied with a kind of individualism - with the performance of individual merit, with the idea of the lone genius. (As we see in post-ARR, Alphinaud is misled by the accolades of the Studium to disastrous hubris.) Y’shtola might be fiercely independent, but she also isn’t that lone genius. She is utterly preoccupied with finding the answers, and not at all with any idea of personal success. The thing that lets her transcend her limits, the thing that lets her accomplish more than Matoya could, is friendship. When she works with the Scions, or Nidhana, or Zero, she can accomplish more than she ever could on her own.

I also think it’s very relevant that she’s a woman; in both our world and theirs, academia is largely male-dominated, and a lot of its flaws have to do with upholding that hegemony and not being open to more diverse perspectives. The ideal of the lone genius is overwhelmingly associated with men.

I think there’s something deeply idealistic and joyous about this unfettered spirit of scientific curiosity persisting through and after the events of Endwalker. We met the god of everything and defeated her in a duel; that doesn’t mean we know all the answers, or even all the questions. We cross paths with a far more technologically advanced civilisation, and Y’shtola is still able to have interesting scientific conversations with them. Even if many things about our world are arbitrary and uncaring, Y’shtola holds to her belief in the scientific method, and is still wholly, exuberantly committed to seeking out truths.

[angelsworks]

Goldilocks and the Four Bears

Chapter 2

Poly!141 x reader

Summary: You wake to four strangers at the end of your bed.

Warnings: 18+, dark themes, mention of kidnap, mention of torture,

Note: Merry Christmas Everyone - I hope you all enjoy this chapter! 🎅🏻🎄

Masterlist -> Here

For the first time in a long time, you slept well. More than well actually, amazing.

Your body was supported at all points, neck raised slightly, head cushioned on a thick feather pillow. And the sheets were actual bedsheets. One matching set of dark grey linen sheets, adorning the king sized mattress.

A luxury compared to how you’ve slept in the last few months. You never could fall into a deep sleep. Knowing that at any point your captors would come back to your room, kicking you from your slumber and starting your torment once more. When you did try to sleep it was on the concrete floor. Curled in a ball, spread like a starfish, lying on your front. All positions that you’d tried and failed to have a restful night of sleep in.

It must have been the light that woke you, you think wistfully to yourself. A ghost of a smile graces your face at the sight. Light streaming in and hitting the bedspread. Particles of dust, dancing carelessly in the rays. Things were turning around.

You roll on to your back. Stretching your neck from side to side and groaning. Your eyes find the ceiling, a plain white rectangle above you. You take a moment or two to enjoy the silence of the morning, letting yourself wake up.

It’s when you turn to your other side to gaze out the other window, that your peace is disturbed. The window itself is fine, the glass is intact, with a thin frosting of snow on each pane. But the figure that leans beside it is not something you wanted to see, in the previously empty cabin.

A mix of a gasp and shout of surprise leaves your sore throat as you jump in place. Your body becoming rigid and tense with stress at the sight of the intruder. Now sitting more upright, you see that the stranger not alone. He stands with three other men, each more imposing than the last.

While the one by the window did frighten you, his boyish dimples and lean figure have nothing on how the Goliath by the dresser makes you feel. He stands tall, taller than the rest. His face covered by a skull painted balaclava. His grey eyes give nothing away as they stare blankly at you on the bed.

Between the two opposites, are another two men. One stood next to the nicest looking of the four, crossing his arms and trying to keep his face stoic. His hair is styled into a Mohawk and the sight reminds you of bad guys from old movies. His blue eyes stand out against his brutish appearance. Softening the fear that his very being brings you.

The only one left is the man who sits on a chair found in the room. His legs naturally spread a little due to the size of his thighs. His arms are crossed over his chest, causing the muscles in his forearms to bulge under his long sleeve shirt.

His face is blank, hiding what his true thoughts are and most likely what he truly feels. His face is adorned with a healthy amount of facial hear. The feature ages him and makes him look rugged. Your eyes draw to the thick line of hair that he harbours above his pink lips.

They say nothing. They just stare. The action unnerving you. Making you feel like some sort of zoo animal.

The sight of the four muscular and good-looking men put you on edge of course. But there’s something else. Urges that you’d never thought of before. Feelings were never part of the mission. You were determined to keep it that way.

“You sleep alright love?” The man sitting asks you. Him deciding to speak first and the fact that he others look towards him leads you to believe that he is the leader of the men. Despite the authority that they all seem to hold.

His voice is low and quiet. The sounds rumbling together at the low volume. The words are clear enough though, that you can make them out a few feet away on the bed.

You don’t respond, you can’t. What is he wanting you to say? Yes thank you, it was the best sleep of my life.

So you strengthen your resolve and stay silent. Slowly shifting your position so you’re sitting up more instead of lying down. You calm your breathing and focus your mind. You let your eyes glance over the men in the room again.

“Enjoy sleeping in a strangers sheets?” Again his voice is quiet, soft even. But his eyes tell a different story. His eyes that are squeezed into a glare, glower at you. When you meet his eyes it’s too intense. You feel as if you’re on trial for your life. Come to think of it you are.

You stand no chance against these men. In any capacity. If they wanted to kill you, they could. If they wanted to hurt you, they could. If they wanted to take you, they could.

The last thought resonates with you deeply. That’s when the a prick of fear starts to grow in the back of your head. You realised how lucky you were that Miasma had no interest in hurting you in any sort of sexual way. Despite there being many opportunities too, the guards found more enjoyment in kicking you around then fucking you.

“Not going to answer love? Fine.” The man stands from his chair. He moves to stand at the bottom of your bed, hands stretching out over the bed frame. His presence getting that much more suffocating. When he stands close you find no refuge from his gaze. You can’t look to the other men as much, only him. Only his cold, piercing eyes that tell you telling this man anything but the truth is a death sentence.

“What are you doing in our house?” His tone is sharper, harder. The softness found in the low rumble of his previous words is lost.

Your mind races through the cover story you had before infiltrating Miasma. The details around it are so fuzzy. It feels like you’ve got the right story but there are undecided parts.

What were you here for?

Start simple. If you start simple you can fill in the details later. Give yourself a chance to think.

“I got lost in the woods.” Good start, it’s vague enough. Now change your tone.

“I’d been walking for so long and I,” your voice cracks for good measure and you feel your eyes starting to water. You use the emotions from the last few hours to fuel your tears. You were scared. You were afraid. These were all real feelings, you just had to try and channel them. “I was just so cold and so desperate. This was the first place I’d seen in miles.”

For a moment you see his eyes soften. In a flash they’re back on your again. Hard and cold and unrelenting.

“What we’re you doing in the woods, in the middle of winter?” He asks you. Behind his imposing figure you see the one with the Mohawk shift in his stance, trying to get a better look of you.

Your story doesn’t have to just convince the man I front of you. It has to convince the other three in the room. The thought registers as you run through your cover story as quickly as you can.

“I’m a zoologist. I was out here studying brown bears before they went into hibernation. Then these men-” you pause your story, desperate to have a few tears running down your cheek before telling them the rest. You need to sell this or all you’re done, all you’ve survived, would be worth nothing now.

“Go on love, finish your story.” The soft tone has returned, no doubt that it was due to the sight of your tears running and sniffling nose.

“These men came in trucks,” your eye contact won’t be enough you realise, so you free your hands from your side and use them to talk. “It didn’t seem right so I abandoned my stuff and hid. They came looking round and they, they had guns. I snuck away quietly but they found me. They took me back to some sort of military base. Last night was when I managed to escape.”

It wasn’t far from the truth. At least now you’d have a way to explain the myriad of injuries that had been inflicted on you.

The man hums audibly. You aren’t sure if you’ve done enough to convince him. His face doesn’t give anything away.

“Why do yer have their clothes if yer were a captive?” A voice from behind the man calls out, thick with a Scottish accent.

The clothes by the fire.

The captain watched your reaction for a moment. You hope he doesn’t think the flash of realisation that was on your face a moment ago, is evidence you’re lying.

He moves to the side slightly so that you can look the Scotsman in the eye as you answer him.

“They took my clothes. It was the first thing I grabbed when I escaped.” The four men say nothing for a moment. Eyes dead set on you, on your movements, your body language. Contemplating your words, your tone, your story and your tears.

It feels like hours until the leader speaks up again. Hours of waiting for them to pass judgement on you and your future.

“They hurt you?” He asks, tone quiet once more.

You hesitate, “A little…why?” Why does he care? Why would any of them care?

The man ignores your question, “Do you need a first aid kit?”

The question confuses you. Is this some kind of trick.

Part of you wants to say yes. Knowing you’ve got cuts and bruises a plenty that could use cleaning or stitching in some cases. But your hyper aware of where they’re placed. To get to the cuts on your back you’d have to raise or take off your shirt. Not exactly something your eager to do in the four men’s company.

Your shake your head, eyes now wide and mutter out a no.

It causes the men’s eyes to narrow.

“Don’t lie to him lass. Ye wouldn’t want to see what happens if ye do.” The Scotsman threatens.

You bite your lip, “I can handle it. It’s nothing serious.”

“Serious or not, we need to see what damage has been done.” You don’t miss the we in that sentence. Do they all really need to see how banged up you are?

You still shake your head at the premise. The idea causing a pit to form in your stomach.

“You stay put love, we’ll find a first aid kit and bring you a drink. Don’t move.” He fixes you with a final look before he leaves the room. The rest of the men trailing after him.

When the last of the men leaves the room, he shuts the door. The sight of the dark oak door brings air back into your lungs, it lets the haze that’s filled your mind clear.

You need to run, you need to get out of here.

You need to return to Gunner. You don’t need to be getting involved with these four strangers. Who just so happen to be extremely handsome and muscular.

You don’t trust them. Not one bit. How do you know they aren’t Miasma, here to find out what you know and finish the job?

As quietly as you can you leave the warmth of the linen sheets and step on to the plush carpet. Creeping towards the now shut door as you gently pry it open. You have little time to get out the cabin before it’s too late.

You cringe as the door scrapes against the carpet. The sound is practically deafening in the silence you’ve created in the master bedroom. You pause for a moment, convinced the men from downstairs have heard you.

When you don’t hear the thunder of steps up the stairs, you begin your mission to escape. Moving as silently as you can along the carpeted floor. Hoping to get out before they find the first aid kit.

“What are we doing price?” Ghost finds himself asking in a hushed voice as the entirety of the 141 congregate in the kitchen.

“Looking for a first Aid kit lieutenant.” Price answers and returns to searching the cupboards.

Simon wants to scream at his captain. He wants to complain to his team. He wants to know why they’re entertaining this girl. No matter how pretty she may be, she’s lying about something. Simon hasn’t got this far in his career without being an expert in body language.

Price busies himself with rifling through the cupboards. Thankful that Laswell keeps all safe houses fully stocked.

His hands brush past plates and cans and glasses before coming to the last cupboard. Finally his hands grasp the large green box, packed with medical supplies.

When his gaze moves from the first aid kid, he sees his men staring out him. Looking confused at the sight.

“I’ve got Laswell doing background on the insignia on the jacket. I want to see she’s lying. Looking at those so called injuries will do that.” Price tells the team as he checks the first aid box before taking it upstairs.

It seems the rest of the team h av e a permanent frown on their face.

“I just don’t think any of this is right.” Ghost mutters. “It all just feels wrong.”

“Aye, she looks so frail and small. How can a lass like that escape a group of armed men?” Soap questions.

“She’s either insanely lucky or has some sort of special training.” Gaz voices to the others.

The thought permeates within their heads. Are you some sort of secret agent? Able to escape from armed men at hidden facilities?

The sound of a creak breaks them from their thoughts.

[daryltwdixon]

Chapter 3

series masterlist Summary: In the time between when he took you to now, something changed. His hands grew gentler. Your fear turned quiet. And somewhere in the stillness, love kindled. || angst, trauma & ptsd, captor!joel, raider!joel, a little bit of dark!joel, kidnapping, dark themes, morally gray comfort, Pre-Boston QZ, slow burn, no additional chapter warnings ||

For a moment, you forgot.

You forgot why your wrists weren’t sore. Why your shoulders didn’t ache. Why you woke up warm.

The room was quiet, sunlight slipping through the broken slats in the boarded-up window, particles of dust caught the light in soft, lazy spirals. Your eyes fluttered open, slow, half-dreaming. There was a body behind you, broad and steady, chest rising against your back. You breathed in the scent of pine and woodsmoke and–

You flinched like someone had poured boiling water straight into your chest. 

The faces flashed in your vision, burning and haunting.

Your mother’s broken body. Your sister’s empty eyes. Your father slumped in that corner, unmoving.

It all crashed into you like a pulse of lightning. Your whole body seized as the memories came back in lashes—loud, ugly, too fast to process. Your throat tightened and your breath caught in your lungs as you shoved the blanket off and sat up fast, your pulse hammering. The room blurred around the edges.

You stood too quickly. Moved to the corner of the room like the distance would help, pressing your back to the wall, trying to breathe.

Joel was still asleep. One arm stretched over the empty space where you’d been. His mouth slightly open and peaceful. Like this was normal.

Maybe that’s what made it worse. You hated how easily he’d made it seem normal.

The way he’d brought you to the bath, bathed you and pulled you up to your feet to dry you. Those rough hands never lingering, those eyes never looking where he shouldn’t. The way he slipped his shirt over your head like it was just another night. The way he tucked you into bed and made room for you like he wasn’t the reason you were here in the first place.

You hated how gentle he was suddenly. How careful.

You hated that you’d asked to stay. And especially that you’d meant it.

Your face burned suddenly, hot and tight with something like shame. He’d washed your body. Held you. Pulled you against him without taking anything more.

He hadn’t let you touch him in the way you asked. He rejected you, told you no. He was….respectful.

Why was he suddenly acting like he was a good man? That he hadn’t taken you, stolen you, kept you captive and tied up. As if it supposed to feel okay.

This wasn’t okay. This wasn’t normal.

But your body had sunk into his like it belonged there. Like it wanted to stay.

You stared at him from across the room, hands curled into fists, heart pounding, but slower now. Softer. Not panic. Not rage.

Just the crushing, hollow ache of not knowing what the fuck to do next.

It was only a little while later that you found yourself on the porch, curled into one corner of the rickety swing with a moth-eaten blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders. The early spring air was cold and crisp, biting through even the patches of sun. Your hands were still, one curled around a battered paperback pinched between your fingers, the other tucked warmly around you. The pages of your book were yellowed, some torn, most water-damaged. Of Mice and Men. It was the only book left on the shelf in the living room.

You wondered if he’d ever let you go back for your books. The ones that still had your name written inside the covers, pages dog-eared and well loved. Not that it really mattered—you weren’t sure you could stomach walking through that house again.

The porch door creaked behind you, followed by the steady sound of boots on old wood. You didn’t look up.

Joel didn’t speak at first. Just stood behind you for a long moment, like he wasn’t sure what version of you he was going to find out here. Then, eventually, he stepped forward, slow and measured, and looked out toward the yard.

“You sleep alright?”

You didn’t answer right away. Didn’t look at him. You could still feel the ghost of his arm around your waist, the scent of his shirt in the pillow you’d pressed your face into. It made your throat feel tight, like it didn’t know how to let words pass through again.

“Fine,” you said finally, voice clipped and low.

Joel nodded like he expected as much. There was a pause. Then he spoke again, a little lighter this time, like he was testing something.

“Thinkin’ now that the weather’s turnin’ we might start a garden out here.”

You didn’t move to look up as he shifted slightly, gesturing out toward the yard in the corner of your eye. “That patch by the treeline gets good sun. Probably start small. Onions. Potatoes. Carrots, maybe, if the seed’s still good. Got it out near Austin. Been holdin’ onto it for a while, just waitin’ for the right place to stick.”

You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t return the glance. Your thumb slipped along the edge of a torn page.

“I’m not your gardener,” you muttered.

Joel was quiet for a moment, then exhaled slow, deep. You could hear the edge start to creep into his voice when he finally answered, low and rough.

“You’re not my prisoner either.”

That made you look at him. Just for a second before planting your eyes back on the page, words blurring together. But in that split second when your eyes met, his expression was hard to read—tired, maybe, but still steady. Like he’d said it before. Like he was going to keep saying it until you believed it.

“You came back,” he added, his voice firmer now. “You called it home.”

You looked out into the yard. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Joel stood rigid, the wooden floor boards of the porch creaking under his weight. He wiped his palms on his jeans and didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“You’re different today,” he said after a long stretch of silence, his voice low but not unkind. “Yesterday... I thought maybe—”

“I found my family dead,” you snapped, the words cutting out of you faster than you meant.

The book in your lap slammed shut with a flat, final sound, and you turned to look at him for the first time all morning. The blanket slipped from your shoulder as you twisted, but you didn’t bother fixing it.

“I was fucked up,” you said, each word brittle, sharp at the edges. “I didn’t know my left from my right. I didn’t know if I was even breathing half the time. And now you’re sitting here looking at me like—like we’re supposed to play house? Like I’m supposed to sit here and pretend we’re some fucking happily married couple?”

Joel didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. He just held your stare.

“You took me,” you said, softer now, but no less bitter. “Don’t forget that. I don't want to be here.”

His jaw twitched once. You could see it in the line of his throat, the set of his shoulders—he was bracing for more. But he didn’t lash out. He didn’t raise his voice. He just looked at you with that same hard stillness, like he was hearing every word, even the ones you didn’t say.

Then he nodded. Once. Slow.

“Right,” he said. “Got it.”

Then he turned and walked back inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a dull thud.

Nonetheless, you began on the garden.

Joel didn’t say anything when you stepped off the porch and joined him in the field only an hour later. He didn’t smile or thank you or act surprised. He just handed you his leather set of gloves that swallowed your hands as you slipped them on, and nodded toward a patch of earth he’d already started to clear.

It was good, though you’d never admit it to him, to keep your hands busy. The work numbed something else—quieted the noise in your chest, gave your thoughts somewhere to go that wasn’t backward. The ground was still cold, the early spring frost clinging just beneath the surface, and your fingers went numb quickly, even with the gloves. But you worked anyway. You dug at the roots of stubborn weeds, breaking your nails beneath the soil, watching Joel drive the spade into the earth where it had begun to soften.

The sun rose slowly over the trees, melting what little frost had lingered. Neither of you spoke.

By mid-afternoon, your knees were sore, your palms stung, and the earth was turned. Joel moved back and forth along the rows, measuring each space with rough efficiency, while you knelt in the dirt and placed the seeds carefully. 

You didn’t know what it meant, planting things here. If it was surrendering to the idea of staying. Or if it was hope. Or just something to do with your hands.

But you did it anyway.

By the evening, you joined him inside for the rabbit he’d caught that day. He’d roasted it in the pan over the hearth fire, seasoned it with something dry and earthy that you didn’t recognize. The smell of the low fire and roasted game filled your nose, your senses, the whole house. 

You sat across from him, trying to keep your knees from brushing his under the wooden table, your plate quiet except for the dull sound of your fork.

The meal passed in silence, the kind that didn’t feel heavy exactly—just there. You didn’t look at him. You weren’t sure if he looked at you either.

He waited until you finished, until your plate was cleared and your body had settled into that loose, post-meal stillness. Then he leaned back slightly in his chair, legs widening as he sighed.

“There’s a town a few miles west,” he said, voice low and even. He reached across the table for his pack, pulling out a large paper and opening it between you. The landscape, town names and forests were all labeled, a pen scribbled here and there with notes he added to each area.

“Marked it on the map last time I passed through, looks like it’s still standin’. Could be somethin’ there.”

You looked up, slow. He was looking at you expectantly, but didn’t wait for your input. 

“Hardware store, maybe. Could use tools. Bedding. Food, if I’m lucky and the place ain’t been picked clean.”

You didn’t answer right away. You watched the way the light of the hearth moved across his face—half in shadow, flickering with the flames.

“I’ll leave first thing,” he said. “Should be back by early afternoon.”

You swallowed, the taste of rabbit still clinging to your mouth. Your fingers curled slightly around the edge of the table. 

He must've realized you didn't have anything to add because he quietly rose from his rickety chair, collected your dishes, and placed them in the old rusted sink. 

You didn’t thank him or say anything else, but the idea of waking up here alone made your skin crawl beneath your shirt.

You started to get used to the morning routine. Sitting in front of the lit fire, the brush gliding through your hair easily now. After, he neatly rebraided it from a night spent on the opposite side of the bed, not curled into him or even under his covers. He hadn’t spoken much. And before he left, he ran his fingers through your braid one last time like it was routine now. But it lingered. When you were finally alone, you wandered through the house with no real plan, just movement.

You hadn’t ever really been alone before. Not like this. Not without someone in the next room, not without a voice or a footstep or a presence. It made your skin itch.

Outside, the sky was overcast, the air thick with the faint, damp smell of coming rain. You checked the garden even though you knew it was too soon. The little mounds of dirt sat there like bruises on the earth, and you crouched beside them, brushing your fingers over the surface like something might’ve changed while you weren’t looking. Nothing had.

Back inside, you opened the closet in the room he’d kept you in—small, dark, that damn radiator in the corner. You’d meant to avoid it, but your feet moved on their own. Inside were a few old picture frames stacked together, dusty and crooked. Landscapes. A family you didn’t recognize. One of a yellow field under a pale sky. You liked looking at them. You started hanging them up—one by the kitchen door, another above the fireplace. You didn’t know why. It just made the walls feel less empty.

You swept the floor next, the old broom bristled and uneven. It scraped loud across the planks. You did the dishes after that—carried them out to the well, filled the bucket, scrubbed them one by one until your knuckles ached and your fingertips wrinkled.

None of it made the time move any faster.

By late afternoon, your muscles were tired, your shoulders tight, and still—he hadn’t come back.

You caught yourself standing at the window. Then at the door. Then again on the porch, arms wrapped around your chest like that might keep something from leaking out.

You didn’t remember how long you’d been standing on the porch, watching the tree line, chewing at the inside of your cheek. You told yourself you weren’t looking for him. That you were only antsy because you were all alone. That it had nothing to do with his presence, his softening gaze and hands.

But when Joel’s figure finally appeared just as the sun dipped behind the far trees, turning everything gold and red and casting long shadows across the field, something in your chest lurched.

He wasn’t walking right.

From a distance, you could see how uneven his steps were, how he was hunched over, his arms wrapped tight around his chest like he was holding something, or maybe just holding himself together. His silhouette was dark against the sun, backlit and strange-looking, and the closer he got, the more wrong it felt.

Then he stumbled.

And dropped.

The sound that followed wasn’t quite a groan, and not quite a yell—it was sharper, thinner, like a whine or a cry. You couldn’t place it. But you suddenly couldn’t breathe either.

Your feet were off the porch before you knew it. You didn’t think, didn’t stop to be embarrassed by how fast your heart was racing, how afraid you suddenly were. You ran through the tall grass, legs slicing through weeds and brush, your breath loud in your ears as you followed the place where you’d seen him fall.

You found him maybe fifty yards out, sprawled flat on his back, half-covered by the grass. His pack was stuffed full to the side of him, ripped in places that looked like scratches. Blood soaked one side of his shirt under his jacket, smears of it up his neck and across his jaw. Scratches bloomed across his throat and temple, dark and crusted. His eyes were open, chest heaving like he’d just barely outrun something.

“Joel?” you breathed, skidding to a stop beside him, kneeling without thinking.

He didn’t answer. Nor did he move.

You reached for him, and that’s when he shifted, turning slightly on his side, one arm still tight around his coat.

And then—he smiled.

Not wide or flashy, just crooked and tired, the corner of his mouth twitching up beneath the grime. But it was a smile. It hit you harder than the blood.

You didn’t know he could smile.

Before you could ask what the hell was going on, he reached into his coat and pulled something out—a bundle of squirming fur and skinny limbs, letting out a high-pitched yelp as it twisted in his grip.

You blinked, stunned.

It had ears. Big ones. A wet black nose, shaggy fur, matted in places, but soft-looking. Small and warm and whimpering, it looked up at you.

“Here,” Joel grunted, wincing as he sat up. “Take it.”

You hesitated, your hands hovering between you like you weren’t sure if it would bite.

“What is it?” you asked, frowning.

Joel stared at you, deadpan. “What is—girl, you seriously ain’t never seen a daggum puppy before?”

You shook your head. The –dog? You’re almost certain that’s what it was called now that you remembered the books you’ve read– squirmed again in his hands, and without really meaning to, you reached out and took it. Its body fit awkwardly against your chest, all ribs and fluff and little twitchy paws. It was warm and so much softer than anything you’d ever felt before. You held it tighter than you meant to.

Joel was still breathing heavy, one hand clutched to his side.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice quieter now. You glanced at the blood on his shirt, at the torn fabric and the dark patch still growing under his hand.

“Town was worse than I thought,” he grunted. “Infected everywhere. Got what I could, cleared some out. On my way back, saw a dumpster behind an old deli… this little guy was hidin’ behind it. Mama didn’t make it.”

He didn’t say what happened to the mother, but he didn’t have to. The way his eyes dropped told you enough.

“I thought about leavin’ him,” Joel said. “But he kept cryin’. Couldn’t do it.”

You looked down at the puppy in your arms. Its fur was rough, but soft in places. It didn’t look like anything you’d ever seen in the wild. It was so fragile and helpless. You weren’t sure what it was in you that reacted to it, but your fingers curled around the puppy’s little body, your jaw clenched to keep from saying something too kind.

“I’m…” you swallowed hard. “I’m glad you brought him back.”

Joel only nodded, then groaned again as he tried to push himself up to his feet.

“Jesus,” you said, stepping toward him with the mutt still cradled in one arm. “You’re bleeding. Sit down—fuck, or lean on me—just don’t fall over again.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, but his hand was shaking where it pressed to his ribs.

“Yeah, clearly,” you said, rolling your eyes even as you stepped closer. “Let’s get inside before it gets dark. I’ll take a look at that.”

He didn’t argue.

You walked beside him as he limped back toward the house, the puppy nestled tight to your chest. It made a soft noise and settled in, eyes closed, trusting you in a way that felt too easy.

Joel was still covered in blood.

You still hated him.

But something in your chest felt a little less hollow than it had yesterday.

And that was the part you couldn’t stand.

Joel sat with his layers off, chest bare in a wooden dining chair by the hearth now aglow with fire, leaning forward slightly, one hand braced on his knee while the other rested carefully at his side. The wound just beneath his ribs had stopped bleeding, but the gash was still raw, red and angry-looking, skin torn just deep enough to need closing. You had boiled water, torn one of the old pillowcases into strips, and found a small sewing kit stashed in the kitchen drawer—thread brittle but still usable.

The puppy had claimed Joel’s usual spot—the armchair he always used when brushing your hair. Now it was occupied by a lumpy ball of fur, one oversized paw hanging off the side, belly rising and falling in the rhythm of deep, exhausted sleep. His ears twitched occasionally, as if even his dreams weren’t peaceful.

You sat on a stool pulled close to Joel’s knees, your legs folded beneath you, the kit open on the floor between your feet. Your fingers trembled slightly as you threaded the needle. He watched you but didn’t say anything. Just waited.

“This is going to hurt,” you said, voice quiet but even.

Joel grunted. “Ain’t my first rodeo.”

Your brows furrowed, “What’s a–?” but you shook your head and leaned in.

The first puncture made his jaw twitch, but he didn’t flinch. You kept your eyes on the skin, focused on the motion—pierce, pull, tie. Your hands steadied as you went, the repetition calming even as the silence grew thick between you.

After a few minutes, Joel’s voice broke through it.

“He likes my chair.”

You glanced over. The puppy had rolled onto his back, paws twitching.

“Guess you officially lost your spot.” you murmured, knotting the next stitch, “S’a real comfy chair too.”

Joel exhaled what was almost a laugh, just a quick exhale of breathe a twitch of his lips, scratching at the back of his neck. “We oughta call him somethin’. Can’t imagine sayin ‘hey, dog.’”

You didn’t answer right away. The puppy gave a small sigh in his sleep, his whole body rising and falling in one smooth motion, ears twitching like he was dreaming. You paused with the thread still pinched between your fingers, watching the way his fur moved with each breath. It was the only sound in the room besides the low crackle of the fire.

“There was this flower I used to always pick when I was a kid…” you said after a while, voice low, careful, like speaking too quickly might spook the memory loose. You swallowed hard, pushing past the lump in your throat. “My mom said it was good for toothaches. Could make salves from it. Think it was called Samson? Black Samson?”

Joel turned slightly in the chair, looking at you more than the dog now. His brow softened.

“Samson…” he said, trying the name out, the corners of his mouth twitching faintly. His eyes dropped to the pup again. “Think I like that.”

You nodded once, threading the needle again.

“Samson it is, then,”

taglist: @orcasoul, @ilovetoomanymen, @niceforcum, @glaszdoll, @therewastherewas

[gojoest]

COMPETITION — gojo satoru

satoru tries to beat the bad cook allegations and win his girls back

girl dad satoru, established relationship — you’re married & have a daughter (oc), her name is sora, f! reader, reader is referred to as “mama”, mentions of food, this is a silly little thing, not proofread, wc: 1.2k

satoru can be a lot of things — the strongest sorcerer, the most loving and devoted husband, the world’s greatest dad, society’s biggest menace, and according to some “the owner of the most annoying heh”  — but there’s one thing he most definitely isn’t. a good cook.

but ever since you had a family brunch gathering at nanami’s place where the latter had singlehandedly prepared a feast, without letting his wife lift a single finger even when it came to setting the table, satoru took it upon himself to prove that he can be as good of a cook as nanami, or even better.

the way you and your five-year-old daughter, sora, looked as if you’ve just tasted heaven while savoring each bite was a blow below the belt for satoru, while the finishing one was you complimenting nanami and telling his wife how she is the luckiest woman alive to have a husband who’s so skilled and willing in the kitchen because satoru can’t even boil water — to which sora nodded in agreement, “papa really sucks in the kitchen.”

it’s been two weeks ever since and you regret ever making that snarky remark about satoru’s incompetence because you’ve been banned from the kitchen all along, not even allowed to pour yourself a glass of water — all you have to do is ask and your husband will do it for you while you sit back and watch as the state of your kitchen worsens with each passing day.

he would occasionally have sora keep him company and help him prep the ingredients, sometimes even take the first bite if the end product looks edible, but for you the kitchen was completely off limits, he’s got a point to prove — that he is the best husband and you should’ve never said those flattering words about his friend in the first place because he can’t stand it when you acknowledge in any way any other man that isn’t him.

satoru’s determination is strong. he has no intention of letting this matter go, not until he sees that same expression on you and your daughter’s face — this is his life goal right now, he cannot have his two most important girls swayed by another man’s cooking, not even if that man is nanami (and especially because it’s him).

you might be running out of usable plates and pans, as they’re either broken or burnt, but satoru is definitely making progress. all the cooking videos he’s watched and the tips he’s gotten from talking to mothers on online forums are finally paying off because today, for the first time ever, he didn’t burn the pancakes for breakfast.

“papa”, sora looks with disapproving eyes at her dad, her cheeks squished between her tiny palms as she’s leaning her elbows on the kitchen counter.

“yes, my life”, satoru crouches down to her level. even though she’s standing on the toddler step stool her head can barely reach his hips. but whenever satoru talks to her, he always, without fail, either squats down or leans forward or holds her in his arms — because in those moments it’s just him and his little princess against the world, on equal footing always so he can hear her better and never miss a single expression she makes. “what’s with that look, hm?”, he nuzzles his flour covered nose against hers, the action itself causing some of the white particles to smudge on hers too.

“the pancakes look like pancakes this time but mama will not like this mess you made, again” — the sink is filled to the brim, there’s flour and baking powder on every single surface — counter, table, chairs, floor, the butter has started melting because satoru placed it too close to the stove after using some of it, there’s eggshells on the floor — any clean freak’s biggest nightmare.

“the mess i made?”, he gasps, “aren’t you an accomplice in this, little miss?”

“no”, she flatly denies, “i only watched you and broke the eggs”

“on the floor, that is”

“it’s because you said pick three eggs while i can only carry two, look—”, she stretches her tiny hands forward, palms facing up, to prove her point, “i have only two hands and they’re not big like yours, how am i supposed to hold the third one?”

satoru chuckles at her genuinely puzzled face, “you’re right, my life”, he replies through a soft smile after taking her hands into his and peppering kisses on the inside of each, “papa didn’t consider this”

“it’s okay, papa”, sora rests her forehead against her dad’s, “i am a big girl now, i will help you clean after breakfast”

“but you’ll always be my little girl no matter how old you get”, satoru whispers softly, lifting her up with just one arm so his free hand can gently caress the back of her head as she comfortably nuzzles her face into the crook of his neck, “which is why papa will take care of it”

“but first”, he sits her on the countertop and cuts a small piece of the pancake for her to taste. “say aah”, he holds the fork to her mouth, eagerly observing every gesture on her face as she takes the bite and starts chewing. it’s definitely not the look she made while eating nanami’s cooking but she doesn’t seem to hate it either.

“papa.”

“yes, my life?”, satoru looks at her expectantly.

“can i be honest with you?”

“yes, of course you can”

“uncle nanamin does it better”, she admits to which satoru instantly deflates, “but—”

“but?”, a tiny spark of hope makes it back to his sulking eyes.

“i wouldn’t trade your pancakes for the world”

“YESSS”, satoru triumphantly pumps his fist in the air and spins around beaming with joy, “got one of my girls back on my team — now let’s hear your mother’s verdict… but hold on”, his face painted in concern again.

“hmm?”, sora questions the sudden change in his demeanor.

“sora.”, satoru speaks in a rather serious voice.

“papa?”

“you’re not saying this just because i’m your papa, right?”

“well, it’s partly because of it actually”, sora pauses for a second, trying to pick the right words before continuing, “but it’s because you put so much love and effort to make me and mama happy that it makes anything you do my favorite thing in the world, and i wouldn’t trade it for anything, papa”

“i haven’t tasted the pancakes yet but i must agree with sora on this”, your voice reaches them from behind as you stand leaning on the doorframe. you came following the sweet and warm aroma wafting through the air but found yourself accidentally eavesdropping on their little heart-to-heart talk. “you put your heart and soul for us always — aren’t we the luckiest girls in the world?”, you wink at sora and she nods.

satoru sighs in relief, “if i can’t give you the best of everything that means i am a failure both as a husband and as a father. because you two are my biggest blessing and i only live to make you happy. also — you’re still not allowed in the kitchen, so just stay there and wait for the pancakes.”

[honey-on-your-tongue]

Kinktober day one

Sex pollen and Logan 😫😫😫😫

Part 2 here!!!

Logan has a bad habit. Okay, actually, he has a bunch. But one of them is never really paying attention to Scott. He annoys him. Just because.

So Logan just nodded and waved dismissively as Scott said not to go into this one lab downstairs because blah blah blah plant.

But he knows you're working down there, and he likes to be around you. Lately, he's been flirting with you day in and day out, and he really enjoys your company.

As he's looking around for you in one of the labs, his eyes catch a glimpse of an odd plant. It’s bright colors draw him in, and it looks so soft to the touch…

What could possibly be dangerous about a plant? It’s a plant and Logan is the wolverine. He’ll be fine.

So. He touches the plant. Into the air, tiny particles of pollen rise and he doesn’t even have the opportunity to step back when they get stuck all over him. His jacket, shoulders, hair—everything. He’s covered in the soft pink pollen.

As he’s brushing it off, he catches a sweet whiff of the pollen. Curious, he lifts his hand, covered in the particles, to his nose. He sniffs it and, not having thought it through, snorts up most of it by accident.

He coughs, eyes watering, and then sneezes. He walks out of the lab, muttering about stupid plants, when he catches your scent.

He follows it until he reaches the lab you’re in, dilligently working away on some compound or another.

You blush with so much ease when you see him. “Hi, Lo,” you say sweetly.

Logan’s body jolts with electricity, heat coursing through his veins. The sensation is so sudden and intense that he doesn’t really understand what’s happening until his cock twitches in his jeans and he realizes he’s getting hard.

“Hey,” he replies, clearing his throat. “Hi.” He offers you a smile.

But he can feel his body start to lose to a craze. His skin feels like it’s on fire. His cock is being pumped full of blood and will soon be too hard to conceal. Beads of sweat are forming on his brow and his vision is growing a tad hazy.

You glance at him when you hear his heavy breathing and are immediately concerned. A discreet flush has settled on his face, his pupils are dilated and he’s shaking his head every now and then, as if trying to get rid of something.

“You alright?” you ask him, eyeing hands rolled into fists and his prominent veins. “Lo?”

His eyes fly up from the floor to meet you. You see his gaze, dark and intense, and it scares you as much as it thrills you. You’ve never seen him look like such an animal…

“Lo?”

He closes the distance between you two with a few strides, and it’s only as he’s backing you up onto one of the lab tables that you see the pink pollen particles in his hair.

Uh-oh.

---

Kinktober masterlist

Blog masterlist

[samsno1]

Dream Of Me

Sam Winchester x F!Reader

i was going to do this fic much, much longer, it would have a whole plot and all but i am so exhausted i wasn't feeling it so have this short horny ass one-shot because i was ovulating while writing this lol

Summary: You quite literally got into Sam's head...

Warnings: SMUTish, m. masturbation, use of y/n, descriptions of nudity, *almost* cunnilingus (read it so you will understand lmao), kissing, nipple sucking, marking (?), english is not my first language

You can learn how to change "Y/N" for your actual name here

Read it on AO3

Read Part Two

WC: 2.3k

enjoy!

Sam kissed you deeply, his lips dragging against yours eagerly. His big hands grabbed at your hips, blunt nails digging into your skin through your clothes. His tongue sinfully entered your mouth, exploring the warmth and groaning at your taste.

Your hands wrapped themselves behind his neck, fingers brushing through his long locks, lightly tugging at each lap of his tongue through your lips. He slowly walked you back, your knees hitting the edge of the mattress and Sam gently held your upper back to place you softly over the covers, mouths never leaving each other. His long hair tickled your cheeks, his nose bumped into yours. His desire was almost palpable as his kisses became more and more desperate, his hands clawing at your back as one of his knees supported his weight between your thighs. His long torso angled itself in an arch to keep his assault on your mouth.

When he finally pulls away, a whine escapes your throat, your raw lips begging for more as your eyes watch his flushed face. He panted above you as he straightened up, his arms crossing to grab at the hem of his shirt and pull it off, the collar of the clothing lifting his hair and then making it bounce back in place perfectly, a stupid grin on his face – a sinful, I know you like what you see grin – as he catches your beautiful eyes analyzing every bit of exposed skin.

He places both his hands on each side of your head, his hair framing his face, a little curtain to hide the absolutely hungry look on his eyes.

“Like what you see, pretty girl?” He questions and you nod in affirmation. He dips down again to attack your neck with open mouthed kisses and bites, making you whine and mewl on his ears and your hands reach for his back, your nails digging into the flesh. His hands drag down your front, bumping against your hard nipples and going low enough so that he can drag your shirt up, his obnoxiously long fingers brushing against your hot skin and throwing even more wood in the fire that was in your belly.

He pulls away momentarily and you lift your arms above your head so that he can take the shirt off for you, the clothing blocking the stunning view of an aroused Sam Winchester for a few seconds as it goes through your head. When he finally throws the shirt away on the ground he practically pouts when he sees the bra covering your breasts and sensually – slowly – trails his hands to your back, leaving yet another mind blowing kiss on your lips, humming, fucking humming in delight, just for being able to do this to you.

He unclasps the undergarment, and you feel him smile against your lips as if he was saying finally I can really see you. As he takes yet another article of clothing off of you he really eyes you down – I mean really. He registers every curve, every scar and every single particle of your skin, his lust-blown eyes eating you alive right then and there, your chest going up and down with deep breaths, your abused mouth half open, your hands splayed beside your head – everything.

He takes a single hand to caress over your skin, starting low at your neck and slowly coming down at the valley of your breasts, down your belly until he’s below your belly button then his other hand joins the action, one on each side of you, dragging up your waist and feeling around your ribs until they finally grab at each boob, squeezing. You groan and grab at both his wrists to keep him there, the little stimulation you got better than anything. He hums above you, his head dipping down to leave feather-light kisses over your collarbones.

“So pretty” He murmurs against your skin “So, so beautiful for me Y/N”

You sigh as he massages your breasts, his mouth dragging down to one of your nipples, wrapping around it and hollowing his cheeks, sucking on your skin and circling his tongue around your tit. You arch your back, a low moan rippling through your throat as you roll your hips, trying to find any kind of friction for the ache between your thighs.

“Sam…” You plead, grabbing at his hair to tug. He groans at your action, biting lightly on your nipple and you shriek. He lifts his head up, chuckling lowly, evil even, a smug smirk on his face, his dimples making him look even prettier above you. He lets your breasts go and smashes his mouth to yours again, swallowing your complaints.

His hands hold you at your belt loop and he bumps his crotch against yours and oh my god. You let out a cry, breaking the connection, and hide your head in his shoulder, your mouth kissing below his ear lobe as you whisper to him:

“Please, please, please, do something, Sam” You beg and he hushes you, one of his hands going towards your lower back to hug your naked tummy against his defined body. He squeezes your skin, wanting to mold into you and turn you inside out.

“Shh, beautiful, I’m gonna take care of you” He says, kissing your neck and unbuttoning your tight jeans with one hand. Excitement runs through his veins, his mouth still marking your skin.

His hand finally manages to unzip your pants and he flattens his palm against your lower belly to drag his fingers below the waistband of your panties. He swipes one teasing middle finger between your folds making you buck against his hand and let out a cry of desperation. He brings his finger out, making you groan in complaint until he lifts his head up, grabs your chin and makes you stare at him in the eyes.

When he’s sure you’re looking, he inserts his slick soaked finger into his mouth and sucks on it, pleasurable noises coming out of his throat as he savors your taste on his tongue, his eyes closing in bliss. The sight is beyond unholy, the action making your cunt clench into nothing, your glossy eyes couldn’t look away and Sam was taking advantage of that. Nothing you’ve ever experienced with anyone before made you feel so needy for someone's mouth between your thighs, eating you out with all their want, need, for you, nose deep into your pussy. Sam did that.

He takes his finger out of his mouth with a pop, licking his lips with his tongue and he opens his eyes to look at you and you are, for sure, looking at him, completely hypnotized by his spell. He grins and dips his head close to your ear, his hot breath sending goosebumps all over your body.

“I’m going to eat you out until you’re begging me to stop, until you’re physically unable to take anything anymore” He whispers and bites at your earlobe and jesus fucking christ where did this man get this mouth. You let out a shaky breath at his words, the fantasy making you squeeze your legs together.

“Please, please, please” You beg as Sam starts kissing down your body, open mouthed kisses left and right. His mouth bit and sucked at points he learned made you tingly inside and your hips roll below him. When he gets to the waistband of your pants he hooks two fingers of each hand through it to drag both your underwear and your jeans down your legs. It felt cold for about three seconds until the sight of Sam looking up at your face through his long lashes, eyes filled with lust, burned you from the inside out.

Once you were completely bare under him he left kisses in each of your inner thighs, his calloused hands kneading on the skin. You look down again, his hair brushes your legs, his mouth so close, so, so close that you could feel his breath against your soaked cunt. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you and you felt like the last woman on earth, wondering how this man could be so perfect, inside and outside. He finally starts to approach your folds, his mouth slowly opening to wrap around your clit and…and…

“Sammy wake up!” Sam’s shaken awake by a hand on his arm and takes a deep breath in. He rubs his eyes, trying to adjust to the light that got turned on by whoever disturbed his sleep – his very good and desirable sleep. His blurred vision starts to focus on the figure besides his bed. Dean towers over Sam in his robe, an unfazed look on his face and a cup of coffee in his hand that isn’t holding his arm.

“Dean?” He questions, voice hoarse from sleep, as he sits up on the bed, the covers falling from his chest to pool around his hips, still hiding his legs below it. Dean drops his hand from his upper arm “What time is it?”

“About 10AM” He says “We might’ve found a case, we need your help with research” He affirmed and Sam nodded. Oh my god. You. How was he going to face you? How was he going to be able to concentrate on your explanation of the case to him when he just fantasized about his mouth between your legs eating you – scratch that – almost eating you out? I’m screwed. “Clean up and meet me and Y/N at the library” Dean says finally, snapping him out of his thoughts and giving him a slap on his back, to which Sam groaned in annoyance. He leaves the room soon after, closing the door behind him.

He lets out a shaky breath, his hands supporting his upper body against the mattress. Just now did he notice the blood pulsing between his legs and the way he seemed hotter than usual. He rubbed both hands over his face, get it together, God damn it. He threw his legs off the side of the bed and stood up, making a beeline to the bathroom. He needed a cold shower, an ice bath, drown in the lakes of Alaska, anything to cool his body and his thoughts.

Every time he blinked there you were, his disheveled hair and lust blown pupils looking up at you. It had been some time since he started developing a crush on the huntress, your kind and caring – but at the same time firm and assertive – personality got him hooked pretty quick and your smartness always impressed him. Dean often made fun of you for being sort of a nerd – in his words – but that just made you even more desirable for him. And, of course, you looked incredible. Your killer body and beautiful features made you look amazing even when you were covered in monster guts.

Peeling off his clothes and turning the water to the coldest setting definitely helped. But, his boner was still there. He cursed to himself and hesitantly wrapped a hand around his cock, eyes closing and teeth digging into his lips to hold back any noise. He started rubbing slowly, up and down, visions of you on his head, beneath him, hair messed up by his hands and skin marked by his mouth and teeth. He wondered how your pussy would taste on his tongue, which noises you would make when he finally brought you over that edge just with his mouth. Then with his fingers. Then…

He quickened his movements, his chest going up and down quickly with deep breaths. Sam should feel bad for touching himself to the thought of you, he should feel bad for dreaming of you that way but he just couldn’t. The images of you flashing into his mind were making him feel thoroughly euphoric, his heartbeat could be felt in his ears and he couldn’t stop himself from imagining your cries of pleasure as he pumped into you or the different positions he could put you in. Fucking you against the shower wall or over the map table.

His drenched hair fell besides his face, the cold water running down his head and back as he slightly hunched over. One of his hands supported his weight against the wall while the other grasped tightly at his shaft. He thought about you moaning his name, much like you did in the dream, and how it sounded so sweet yet so arousing. 

His breathing was shallow, his hands were shaking and with a sigh of your name he finally came. He was in bliss, the orgasm hitting him like a truck. He pressed his forearm against the wall in a horizontal position and rested his head over it, his softening dick still in his hand. He opened his eyes, the sound of the water falling to the ground finally being processed by his brain again.

Jesus Christ.

The guilt suddenly hit him and he shook his head, partially in disbelief at what his body and mind made him feel. And do. Even if his body calmed down, his brain still had that dream practically memorized. He sighed, cleaning himself up all over again, the mess he made going down the drain, hiding the evidence. He got out of the shower, toweling his hair and drying his face.

He stood in front of the mirror and looked at his reflection. His cheeks were still flushed but, besides that, nothing could give anything away. He breathed out a chuckle.

“God damn it” He whispered to himself as he proceeded to dry the rest of his body with a different towel than the one he used in his hair, then wrapping that towel around his hips and going back to his room to change into different clothes. Today was going to be a long day.

A/N: Notes and reblogs encourage me to keep writing, feedback makes those writings better. Thank you for reading, Xoxo

Read Part Two

[peakyrain]

"proving" shifting through scientific evidence (& philosophic theory)

this post is heavily inspired by @voldyateme on tiktok. i saw her video and decided to do research on my own, and write a detailed post about this topic to make myself understand better. i also would like to mention that some of the claims irene made in her tiktok were wrong (and biased) i also wanted to clear some things up for myself.

fyi: long post ahead. this took me three days to understand and write. i might still be a bit unclear on my understanding of some aspects, but to avoid having to write a whole novel on the subject, i simplified my findings and shortened them by a lot.

-

john clauser is a physicist who won the nobel peace prize in 2022 for his work on quantum entanglement. his theory confirms that quantum particles can be entangled across vast distances, and that their behaviors are instantly connected, even if they're light years apart.

a very simplified example:

i: you create two entangled particles

ii: you send particle A to tokyo, and particle B to paris

iii: a person in tokyo measures particle A and sees it spinning up, then instantly, meaning instantly, faster than light, the person in paris will know particle B is spinning down

this is simply based on particle A or B's observation, w/o there having to be sent any message or signal between them. they behave as if they're one system - not two separate ones.

the moment you measure one particle, you're instantly aware of the other particle's state.

⭒ relating quantum entanglement to shifting:

okay so now we know that entangled particles act as of they're one system, even through long distances. so, if everything was once connected to the big bang, then on some level, everything may still be entangled. meaning you, your consciousness and other "versions" of yourself in other realities.

this could therefore suggest that we are already connected to all possible versions of ourselves. they exist within a quantum field of potential, and our awareness can shift between these versions by tuning into the version we desire - essentially by choosing a different frequency.

say you're listening to the radio. you know that you’re able to listen to any radio broadcast because there are thousands playing at the same exact time, but you choose which one to listen to, knowing you have the choice to change it to another.

it's the same exact with shifting. you know that there are endless versions of you in existence right this moment - you only have to choose to become aware of your desired self.

-

john wheeler, another physicist, proved that reality is directly linked to our consciousness and what we observe. it's been demonstrated that particles don't move until they're actually observed. so if we're not observing something, it doesn't have a definite state at all. this is called the "observer effect"

the effect has challenged and in some ways helped disprove einstein's theory of realism. einstein believed that that the physical world exists independently of whether we observe it or not.

example: according to einstein, if a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to observe it, the tree still falls. this is shown to be false on a quantum level. that said, we can't w/ certainty say that the tree does (or doesn’t) exist if no one is perceiving it (confusing, trust me, i know)

wheeler also proved that particles will change their makeup based on our choices and observation. simplified, this means that reality doesn't fully decide its state until it's observed. it can have different outcomes, and our choices affect the past behavior of particles.

⭒ relating the observer effect to shifting:

we know that quantum particles don't take on a definite form or "reality" until they're observed. this implies that our observation plays a direct role in shaping reality - not just by watching, but also deciding. this implies that reality isn't fixed, but fluid, shaped by our decisions, thoughts and observations and means we can "choose" our reality.

quantum physics shows that reality isn't fixed until observed, observation and consciousness do play a key role and that multiple outcomes are possible. so our consciousness focus can be said to be the mechanism that "shifts" us into a desired timeline or reality.

-

way before quantum physics existed, george berkley, a philosopher in the 1700s argued the idea "to be is to be perceived", which is eerily similar to what scientists are exploring today.

he believed that physical objects don't exist independently of our own perception. so if no one is for example perceiving a tree, then it doesn't exist.

berkeley said that there is no such thing as matter existing on its own w/o a mind to perceive it. BUT! there's a twist. you see, berkley also argued the existence of God being necessary to explain how the world works within his theory of perception and idealism.

okay so, to simplify because it can be really confusing:

i: physical things only exist if they're being perceived.

ii: when humans aren't perceiving things, God is.

iii: the reason why the world keeps existing even when we're not looking is because God is always "watching".

this raises the question: if we're not perceiving something, and the only reason it exists because God is, then how do we know it actually exists when we're not perceiving it?

berkeley responded:

"we know it exists because we can come back and perceive it again, and it behaves consistently"

if you look at a tree, walk away, come back. it's still there. berkeley argued that you assume the tree existed the whole time because when you go back, the tree would still be there, at the exact same spot.

this consistency would therefore be explained by God's continuous perception of it. so even though you didn't perceive it the whole time, the fact that reality is orderly and consistent is reliable "proof" that something (God) kept it there.

critics have argued back that assuming God is perceiving all the time isn't proof that He actually is, so how would we know that?

the answer is: w/o God, things would just pop in and out of existence every time we blink and that doesn't happen. so God is used to explain why the world is consistent and stable even when we're not watching.

you can't personally perceive something that you're not perceiving, but you trust that it's still there when you go back there, because of God.

berkeley's theory is still relevant today because the things he imagined in the 1700s do line up w/ scientific discoveries today and i resonate w/ his theory, so i just had to include it even though God’s existence isn’t proven. it’s fascinating, really.

⭒ relating george’s idealism to reality shifting:

if, like berkeley said, things only exist when they're being perceived, and if reality stays consistent because someone is always perceiving it, then that means perception isn't just passive, it's creative and shapes what exists.

this ties back to shifting beacuse it suggests that your desired reality doesn't need to "appear" in front of you for it to be real - it only needs to be perceived. if you consciously focus on your dr, perceiving it in your mind as real, then by berkeley's logic, it is real, maybe not in the physical sense just yet, but within the field of awareness that gives rise to reality in the first place.

so basically: if reality is perception based, and you're perceiving your dr, then you're giving form to something that exists because you're actively perceiving it, and you are capable of being in that place.

[bakuhatsufallinlove]

here’s the OTHER leaker translation I would explode out of existence

listen.

I know, okay?

I know everyone loves this. I know everyone lost their shit for it. But I hate it.

I will admit honestly that it is 70% abject fury over the misuse of one word. Another 20% is frustration over how the fandom reacted to the official translation with such vitriol and how the leaker fueled it with their smug comments. That final 10% amounts to what some might consider pedantic or nitpicky. But I don't care.

This translation sucks. It doesn't sound cool, it doesn't sound threatening, and the leaker's rookie mistakes ruin what makes this moment great for me.

Allow me to elaborate.

The emphasis is on the wrong part

I’ve talked about some of the pronoun differences in this line before, but did you know Katsuki also changes the particles every time?

‘Cause I sure don’t think the leaker noticed. Grammar particles are what determine the relationship between words in a sentence. They pack a lot of punch, denoting subject, object, indirect object, purpose, location, time, origin point, direction of movement, means or method—and a bunch more shit that can be hard to describe.

Word order and particles work together to direct our attention to specific parts of a sentence, emphasizing the importance of what is being said. They are some of the most difficult parts of Japanese for learners to grasp and use with the same ease that native speakers do. I’m acutely aware of this weakness, so I often pay particular attention to them. Let’s break down how each iteration shifts the meaning and emphasis of the base sentence.

First time

Chapter 322 おまえが拭えねぇもんは俺たちが拭う omae ga nuguenee mon wa oretachi ga nuguu

Katsuki uses ga with both the second person pronoun for Izuku and the first person plural pronoun for himself and Class 1-A. Ga emphasizes the word that comes directly before it, so this focuses not on the verb itself, but the persons doing the verb. Katsuki's first person plural pronoun oretachi of course means "we," but if you wanted to highlight his literal meaning, he's saying: "the things you cannot handle, me and the people with me will handle."

Second time

Chapter 323 てめーが拭えねーもんはこっちで拭う temee ga nuguenee mon wa kocchi de nuguu

Here, Katsuki retains ga for Izuku’s second person pronoun, but changes both his first person pronoun and its particle, giving us kocchi de. This shifts the implication of who is doing the act—the first time, Katsuki's "we" pronoun highlighted the classmates who accompanied him and acted with him to help save Izuku. But by the time he says this line again, a number of people outside their class have stepped forward to defend Izuku’s return to UA.

Unlike distinctly singular pronouns like ore, kocchi both refers to oneself and something greater than oneself. By switching to this, Katsuki expands that narrow “me and the people with me” into “our side,” presenting the people who support Izuku as a unified force.

You see, kocchi de subtly shifts the verb to being executed by subject(s) defined by a specific characteristic or condition.

Explanations of particle de from Mainichi Nonbiri. The heading and explanation read, "Subject: 'De' is used to denote the subject who deals with or engages in the action expressed by the predicate."

The first example uses jibun de (by oneself) to describe the conditions under which the listener is asked to execute the verb. The third uses gikai de (in the parliament or by the parliament, as a governing body representing many people) to explain the plurality and nature of the subject executing the verb.

The second example uses socchi de, which is the second person "you" version of kocchi, meaning your side. With this, you can see the purpose is to highlight division: "you did that over there on your side of things without any input from me."

Kocchi de as Katsuki uses it likewise creates "sides" by highlighting connection.

These details emphasize Izuku as the person who cannot handle these things and the relationship he has with the people supporting him, a collective Katsuki aligns himself with.

If we maintain this emphasis and the conditions in a literal way, we have: "The things you cannot handle, our side will handle for you."

Third time

Chapter 405 OFA(あいつ)に拭えねーもんはこっちで拭うってなあぁああ！！！ OFA (aitsu) ni nuguenee mon wa kocchi de nuguutte naaaa!!!

I want you to look really close at the particle ni.

Then look at the way the first word balloon ends with the particle wa.

And hear me when I say that this does not emphasize Izuku.

Ni is not a particle for emphasis. If Izuku's personal inability to handle AFO were being highlighted, Katsuki could have used には, which I talk about briefly in this post:

The combination of the two particles ni and wa are used to emphasize, compare, and contrast. This is extremely telling just on its own. Izuku is emphasizing the fact that, compared to everyone he could possibly tell, he cannot tell Katsuki this. He might be able to tell other people, but when it comes to Katsuki, he cannot. Ienai does not specify where the limitation stems from, but ni wa sure implies it.

If Katsuki wanted to disparage Izuku in comparison to himself, like "that guy obviously can't handle you, so I'll do it," he would have said something like this. He even could have slapped his own singular pronoun and ga in there (俺が拭う) to emphasize himself as an individual actor. But that's not what he did.

The particle wa tells us what the topic is. Neither Katsuki nor Izuku are the topic in any iteration of this line; they are subjects engaging with the verbs. The topic is "the things OFA (that guy) can't handle."

Now, because every other time Katsuki said this line had ga in it too, wa wasn't quite as strong as it is this third time. If ga emphasizes what comes before it, then wa emphasizes what comes after. It tells us, "this is the topic, now hold onto your seats."

Katsuki is emphasizing the predicate and the verb. What's gonna happen and how it's gonna happen.

He's saying, "our side is gonna fucking crush you."

The wa particle and the separate balloons build tension, suspense, and excitement—which the leaker instantly deflates. By front-loading Katsuki as both topic and subject ("I'm the guy"), the emphasis is no longer on the promise of destruction he will deliver on.

The emphasis is indisputably on the part after the balloon break, so the mention of Izuku ("when that nerd can't handle it all on his own") reads weirdly like an insult. Hell, most of the words the leaker uses are about Izuku's inability to handle the situation, which bloat the second half of the line and effectively kill the momentum.

Fumbling the flow of a line is a common mistake for amateur translators. Sometimes, it's hard to avoid because Japanese grammar is often the inverse of English grammar; maintaining the original order may render it awkward or even unintelligible.

But that is not the case here.

pikahlua's literal translation

There's no reason to reorder the clauses. You can spruce up the wording, but the lines are perfectly understandable and effective in this order even at their most literal.

The leaker chose to reorder the lines this way, and their translation is worse for it.

Viz Comparison

Official translation by Viz

After what I've said about particles, pacing, and emphasis, I think you can plainly see that the official translator understood these details and made his own choices to highlight them.

Any time you get text with furigana (explained here), you have to decide how to incorporate those dual pieces of information into the text. He could have translated this as "that guy couldn't keep you in the ground," but instead he prioritized the reference to OFA.

By doing this, Viz's translation avoids the implication of insult towards Izuku that the leaker falls prey to.

He also made the choice to translate kocchi as "we."

First, I’m bringing this post back around to remind people that kocchi is a pronoun of ambiguous plurality. This means that an interpretation of “we” is just as correct as an interpretation of “I.” Readers may interpret it differently, but on simply linguistic grounds, they are of equal validity. You will often see this kind of ambiguous language used in Japanese, even with characters that are forthright. The reason is one part cultural expectation that the listener will read between the lines, and one part a willingness to accept two things as simultaneously true. This exists and is frequently found in English as well, there just isn’t a direct parallel for kocchi itself.

A number of people were infuriated by this, because they felt some sort of bkdk moment was erased by Katsuki saying "we" rather than "I."

Yet it seemed like these same people were also mad one week prior when the leaker and the official translator worded Katsuki's rallying cry slightly differently.

Chapter 404. Leaker, left. Official, right.

The claim there was apparently that the official translator was ignoring Katsuki's character development.

And like, which is it, guys? Do you want him centering the collective or himself?

The fact is that the official translation's characterization of Katsuki in the final battle is internally consistent with itself, while the leaker's is all over the goddamn place. Let us never forget that the leaker was just straight up WRONG here while the official got it exactly right.

Chapter 408. Leaker, left. Official, right.

People were losing their shit that Viz made Katsuki "insult himself" and "expect failure" as though he's never used temee to refer to himself self-deprecatingly before.

And then the leaker just had to pretend that didn't happen in the next fucking chapter, while the official got to correctly reiterate their interpretation like they were taking a victory lap.

Chapter 409. Leaker, left. Official, right.

All of this makes it unbelievably rich for the leaker to go and say shit like this:

The leaker is an amateur translator. They spent ages stealing an artist's work and releasing it illegally for a profit with shoddy translations and misleading, even outright false "summaries."

Based on the nature of their translation mistakes, it is obvious to me that they are not fluent in Japanese, yet here they are bragging about their inability to understand how kocchi could mean "we."

Right before the line in question, Katsuki emphasizes himself as an individual in declaring himself to be the final boss.

Chapter 405 俺がラスボスだ AFO!! ore ga rasu bosu da AFO!!

And then, by using ってな, Katsuki is basically quoting himself.

"I said we were gonna handle what that guy couldn't, didn't I!?"

This suggests he is repeating the established meaning for emphasis, not changing it. If kocchi was plural when he said it in chapter 323, it's reasonable for it to still be plural here. Katsuki is not ignoring himself as an individual by doing this; he is rubbing it in AFO's face that neither he nor Izuku are solitary actors fighting this battle alone, they both belong to something greater than themselves.

I'm gonna step up on a soapbox for a bit.

I am kinda tired of people calling Japanese vague. I often see it used to imply Japanese is inherently hard to understand or that it doesn't have the capacity for specificity. Like any language, Japanese can be used to express specific, clear, and direct information. While it is true Japanese culture values indirectness as a way to maintain harmony, I would like to challenge the ethnocentricism I feel sometimes goes unaddressed in this topic.

Japanese is less tolerant of repetition and verbal excess than English is; information that has been established should only be repeated for a purpose. Japanese speakers expect their conversation partners to maintain awareness of context, social expectations, and specific interpersonal information to grasp the intended meaning of their words. Specificity is doled out when it is warranted or desired.

Specificity divides one thing from another, drawing lines in the sand and saying "this is this, and that is that." English often requires repetitive specificity to even be grammatically comprehensible. And while this might not be directly related, many English-speaking countries tend to have a more individualistic outlook on society than collectivist countries like Japan.

To me, "vague" often smacks of a value judgment: "there should be division here, and there isn't."

I said earlier that kocchi creates division by highlighting sides, us vs. them, but when people press on and ask, "but did he say we or I? which did he REALLY mean?" I just want to say that really? truly? he meant both. all of the above.

I think it is unproductive to think of Japanese as vague just because it doesn't exclude possibilities as often or as strongly as English does. I think it is a lot more useful and interesting to think of Japanese as expansive.

Why should there be division between Katsuki and the people fighting by his side? Why should he separate himself from the people who saved his life and risked their own in relentless pursuit of their common, heroic goal?

Why is it unacceptable to imagine an "I" belonging so sincerely and wholly to a "we" that their voices are one?

Katsuki's words reflect the fact that this fight being fought by a collective, a team.

In this context, OFA is a weapon in their arsenal, just as Katsuki himself is.

He is a force of nature, an agent of their willpower.

Chapter 404

He rode upon the winds of their prayers, ushered on by Izuku's hopes

and his own regrets,

to change the course of fate itself.

For much of the series, Katsuki is our beacon of individualism, of defiant refusal to bend to the will and expectations of others.

But Katsuki is also our image of victory. He shows us how to face our failures and change our hearts. He is our proof that rejecting others only hurts us in the end—his love for Izuku and Izuku's love for him is the story's greatest proof that as human beings, we are not better alone, we are better with each other. Other people change us, inspire us, and we do the same for them.

We need each other. We belong to each other.

It is in this final battle where Katsuki becomes his truest self, overcoming every obstacle in his path, making up for every painful regret in his heart, and utilizing every single thing in his grasp to save and win.

If Katsuki ever truly belonged to something bigger than himself, it is in this moment right here.

English divides the one from the many, and while that has its benefits, I think there is real, honest beauty to be found in a word that smooths those lines in the sand until there is no distinction at all.

That's who the fucking "we" is, rukasu.

Now onto my next gripe.

Katsuki is supposed to sound badass here

Frankly, the fan fury surrounding Viz's use of "we" completely overshadowed the fact that the phrase "One For All couldn't keep you in the ground" is fucking metal.

It rules. I'm fucking jealous I didn't write those words. It is such a good translation and it packs so much punch and I wouldn't have thought of it in a thousand years.

The official translator focuses his efforts on genre-specific tone translation, and sometimes he really nails it. I will freely admit that I find his style grating or overwrought at times, and indeed, one of his key weaknesses is that the flavor of comic-book dialogue he pulls from can sound one generation too old to be cool.

One of the most damning examples of this is him having Katsuki utter the word "bub"—

Chapter 406

—which I think no English-speaker under the age of 30 had actually heard before Deadpool & Wolverine came out.

Honestly, if you just read Wolverine comics from the 80s, 90s, and early 2000s, you can see the character archetype he leans into for Katsuki's dialogue. 405's tagged-on "—and then some!!" is straight out of American action movies.

But the main point here is that Katsuki is taunting AFO and threatening him. He blows up AFO's face, announces himself as the final boss, then vows to kick his ass to death on behalf of everyone. It's amazing.

The line sounds cool as fuck in Japanese. The "naaaa" flourish at the end is nearly untranslatable in any direct way that still captures the appeal and impact of it.

I tend to think of sentence enders like this as flavor text or tone tags. To properly convey them in English, you may have to add a bunch of words, and you have to choose them carefully.

All of this is to say, the official translation tries pretty hard to make Katsuki sound cool. Do they succeed? I think to an extent, they do.

I actually think it's possible the translator did recognize the callback, but wasn't satisfied with the effect of repeating it. You can see that "finish the job" is supposed to link Izuku's actions to theirs, while also sounding grandiose and final.

The Viz translator might've simply prioritized showcasing the cool-guy threat while maintaining the collectivist angle, rather than matching the callback word for word. I don't really think that's the best choice, but I can see why it might be made.

The leaker's translation doesn't make any real effort to up the ante. Maybe this line is cool to somebody, but it ain't me.

In fact, are we ever gonna acknowledge that the leaker's translation just scoops up most of its wording from the official release of chapters 322 and 323?

"I'm the guy who steps in when that nerd can't handle it all on his own!!"

The leaker was not responsible for these translations, but just look at how other people tried to grapple with Katsuki's metaphor.

In fact, the only person whose choice of words prophetically matched Viz was pikahlua, four days before the official release:

And even then, you can see that "step in when" is unique to Viz.

I'm not saying that similarities in translation are unacceptable or that directly referencing the official release is bad, but I do find it truly incredible they had the gall to shit-talk the official translator after cheating off his damn homework.

The leaker basically contributed six words: "I'm the guy who" and "that nerd." I personally disagree with "the guy who" as a translation addition, just because I think it too strongly isolates him in a way that using "I" and "I'm" by themselves do not, but it wouldn't have been terrible if they had also maintained the original clause order: "One For All couldn't handle you... but I'm the guy who—", something like that.

This brings us to my final gripe.

Katsuki did not say “that nerd.”

The leaker made that shit up, they inserted it for no reason and ignored the two pronouns the original text actually provides, OFA and aitsu (that guy).

In the manga, Katsuki has never called Izuku a nerd to villains, not once. It is rare for him to use it while speaking to someone other than Izuku, period. It’s an insulting pet name he uses towards Izuku or while muttering angrily to himself about Izuku.

To be clear, the narrator who uses "shitty nerd" is not Katsuki, they merely validate the accuracy of his nickname for Izuku. Yes, I just linked to my tag for the whole damn 348 chapter, because I've argued against this theory a lot, just read 'em all, it's a good time.

By my count, he only uses it once while talking to Todoroki in chapter 42 and once to Ochako in a 5-page bonus chapter for the first character guide, set shortly after chapter 65. Both take place very early in the series and both are examples of his intense grudge against Izuku.

Did you know that the last time Katsuki uses "nerd" towards Izuku directly is in chapter 320?

Who's ignoring Katsuki's character development again?

The fact is the word doesn't exist in 405's text, and there just isn't precedent for him to say it to All For One.

Trash-talk doesn’t work if your opponent has no clue what the hell you’re talking about. AFO would have no idea who “that nerd” is even supposed to be, because they were not already discussing Izuku, unlike both canon instances of Katsuki using it in conversation with others. The audibly-pronounced aitsu just means "that guy over there (physically near neither you nor me)" and you could argue that is unclear, too, but it's relatively neutral and context clues everyone in to the fact that he means Izuku, with whom he just did an explosive, flying duo move.

I think some bkdk fans were keen to see him use the tsundere insult we all love so much, but it just doesn't read right to me. Writing an insult towards Izuku into this kind of line, even an affectionate one, misdirects the aggression and fails to highlight how Katsuki makes a mockery of AFO during their fight.

I really do think it undercuts how, in his big moment of taunting the greatest villain in history, Katsuki brings up making good on a vow he made to Izuku.

And let's not forget that there is a definitive moment where Katsuki references his relationship with Izuku while taunting AFO:

Chapter 406

To roast the villain for his stupidity in misidentifying him, Katsuki loudly announces himself to be Bakugou no Kacchan.

Katsuki proudly identifies himself with the cutesy nickname his childhood friend has used for him their whole damn lives. That's a far cry from somebody who'd insult Izuku just to hype himself up.

So, no, I don't accept "that nerd." I think the leaker just added it to make their translation sound cooler, but they did so at the expense of Katsuki's character. It's tacky, cheap, and not based in any honest reading of the text.

Put the nickname in your fanworks however brings you joy. Really, go for it, I know I sure do!

But let's not pretend Katsuki said it here.

In conclusion

Katsuki's dialogue offers a unique array of challenges to translators. I would never argue that he is easy to translate, and so much of his characterization is expressed in the minutiae of what he says. Much of his dialogue contains layers of meaning, and any translator is going to have to make a call about how to interpret those layers and what to highlight.

I made this post to say my piece about a translation tons of English-speaking fans love. In the process of dissecting what frustrated me about it, I researched and studied and learned so much.

And to be honest with you, I don't know that I have a solution for this line. I thought of a ton of options:

One For All couldn't keep you in the ground... but we're here to step in and finish the job once and for all!!

I promised we'd step in when that guy couldn't handle it on his own... and I fucking meant it!!

After all, what One For All can't handle... he's got us here to handle for him!!

One For All couldn't stop you… so it's a good thing that guy's got us here to step in and finish the job!!

If the guy with One For All can't get it done alone... then we're here to take you down for him!!

Maybe One For All couldn't handle the job alone... but our side is still gonna kick your ass!!

Some of them are very fun, and each highlights a different set of priorities: collectivism, connection, coolness, intimidation, and so on.

But you could pick apart my words the same way I picked apart the leaker's and Viz's.

There will never be a one true translation. There can't be. For as many readers as there are, there are just as many interpretations to what Katsuki's words mean and what is important about them.

In every translation, you face loss—loss of information, loss of specificity, loss of ambiguity, loss of emotionality, loss of cultural meaning. Your job as a translator is to lose as little as possible, and to make sure you can stomach the things you do lose.

You also gain things in translation. New meanings, new layers, new cultural implications. By showing the audience what you see and choosing how you say it to them, you add something of yourself to the work. You can't not.

As a translator, I want to keep learning and trying and going beyond. I want to do right by the things I translate. I want to share the things I love with other people and figure out, as best I can, how to make them see what is beautiful about it.

Unlike Bakugou Katsuki, we translators can never achieve a perfect victory.

But it's always worth trying.

[mattslolita]

boynextdoor!matt's first interaction with telekinetic!reader . . .

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧

her fingers trembled gently as her eyes scanned the inked wording on the page, lip caught between her teeth in anticipation ─── she'd just begun the chapter where the love interest would reveal his true feelings for the girl, as it was told in her perspective. the library was damn near deserted, the only patron being her. it was quiet, almost lacking lifelessness aside from the librarian herself ─── miriam's anticipation however had her heart racing, beating against her ribcage wildly.

matt quietly walks into the empty library, curious eyes roving over the shelves of books as he searched for the one he would need to complete his assignment for his history class. he was unaware of miriam's already lingering, his mind elsewhere even ─── he'd never spared the girl a second thought in his life. not because of how others around perceived the girl, but because he'd never truly her before.

until today.

he walks towards an isle titled 'historical', dust in his senses causing his eyes to water as the particles caught in his nose due to the lack of interaction in this particular section. he dabs at his nose, a small sniffle following as he continues through the isle.

as he emerges, a lone table comes into view ─── he blinked twice when his eyes landed on a ballpoint pen, hovering just inches above the wooden table it resided on. matt squints his eyes, chest heaving up and down in disbelief ─── what the fuck? a whole pen was hovering above the table ─── no strings had been attached, as it was lone, almost forgotten. matt felt like he was going crazy, like he was imagining things.

until he reached the end of the isle, and a small, brown haired girl came into view. her bangs nearly covered her entire forehead, and he could barely see her brown eyes as they looked down at the pages of the book in her hands, in her lap. her knee high socks were bunched at the bottoms due to her sitting cross-legged in the chair, her skirt just above her ankles. and that's when his breath caught in his throat, when he noticed who she was.

as if sensing his presence, miriam's eyes dart upward, gaze locked on matt as he nervously ran a hand through his tousled dark hair. his adams apple bobs up and down his throat slowly as he gives her a nervous smile ─── a soft gasp leaves miriam's lips as her eyes quickly dart to the pen, the writing tool dropping with a small thud on the table in front of her.

"m'sorry, i didn't mean to. . .i didn't know anybody was here," matt says softly, eyes darting towards the pen again before he looks back up to miriam.

"it's okay," miriam almost whispers, looking down as she picks at the hangnails at her fingertips.

miriam thought he'd walk away ─── his figure comes closer, the curious boy sitting in the seat next to miriam. her breath hitches at the growing body heat pulsing between them, having never been this close to another boy before. it freaks her out so much as so, causing her to scoot her chair away from his. matt's eyebrows crease in confusion at this, however he doesn't question her action ─── instead, his eyes linger on her wondrously.

"if you wan' tell me, how. . .did you do that? with the pen?" he queries patiently, eyes still fixated on her.

"i- i can't control it sometimes," miriam replies, voice rising barely above a whisper as she straightens her posture only slightly. "i didn't even notice it was happenin'. mama doesn't know 'bout it either. m'scared to tell her. she'll call me a demon, she'll say i'm a bad seed...punish me."

matt's expression softens as he analyzes the girl sitting beside him ─── everyone was quite aware of miriam's mother and their religious household. he wasn't necessarily a non-believer, but he wasn't religious. he briefly wondered if miriam had believed in God herself, or it was something forced upon her by her mother. the worrisome expression on her face had his brain on overdrive with the numerous questions he wanted to ask her.

"it's pretty cool if ya ask me," matt smiles, nudging her ever so slightly. she jumps at the contact, startled. "it's really a gift if you think about it."

miriam's eyebrows knit together, deep in thought ─── wait a minute. what was she doing? sitting next to this boy, letting him sweet talk her . . . her mama had warned her about this kind of thing already. miriam had been well aware of matthew sturniolo and the crowd her ran with at school; even if he himself had not participated in teasing her, he was friends with the ones who had. and now here he sat, telling her he thought something about her was cool? a trap.

without answering him, miriam began to quickly pack her belongings wordlessly. matt watches her silently, confusion painting his handsome features; had he done something wrong?

"wait, where you goin?" matt asks her, as she's quick to push her chair in with the foot of her low-cut boot.

"goodbye, matt," miriam murmurs, rushing away from him.

but he's unrelenting, quick to stand up and follow close behind her. the librarian gives them a scowl, perhaps due to the scuff their shoes make against the floor. matt's entity looms behind miriam, as she silently prays in her head for him to just give it up and go away.

she's out and just past the libary's pathway, but matt is hot on her heels ─── in an instant, he gently spins her around, warm hand sending shivers through miriam's body against her white sleeve.

"can you stop jus' for a second?"

his slightly demanding tone causes miriam to stop in her tracks and turn around to face him slowly; she studies him carefully, books nestled snuggly between her arms. "why do you wan' talk to me?"

"i don't mean to bug you," matt sighs, suddenly feeling embarrassed with the way he'd chased her, "i guess i'm just curious about you and what you can do."

"you can't tell anybody," miriam warns him, her pupils widening, "promise me."

matt nodded ─── he could do this. he could keep miriam's secret. suddenly, a new feeling blossomed in matt's chest . . . it was more than just curiosity about her power ─── he'd genuinely found his interest piqued since seeing her in the library alone. his mind raced a mile a minute with questions that quickly burred into a jumbled knot, attached to his brain.

"i promise you."

[leyavo]

| Cedere Nescio | 1

- “I know not how to yield”

Summary: You’re forced into a union with another Beta, a way to strengthen the connection to another pack and task force. But you do not yield until you get what you want. Can you deny your mate for the rest of your life though?

Beta!reader x Beta!Soap. Angst/hurt comfort/codependency. Fake relationship. Religious symbol with the moon goddess. Loosely based on my previous Drabble. [Masterlist]

[18+] MDNI (eventual smut later on in this part) 4k+words

One year, your Alpha gave you the twelve months to sever your ties with your fated mate. And after everything, you couldn’t seem to break the bond. You’d harmed yourself more than anything, took herbal remedies and fucked other males, but nothing worked.

Not even a day after you’re sitting in the passenger seat of your mates car. The gold moon charm dangling from the rearview mirror, mocking you as he drove in silence. You daren’t look at him, couldn’t stomach the life you’d left behind. Hated that the females were forced to follow the male and insert themselves into a their lives.

Another pack. New traditions, rules and expectations to be learnt. Your mate might be handsome, that or it’s the damned fated tether blinding you and convincing you some ugly bastard’s a looker. He doesn’t say much, knowing that you aren’t exactly fond of the idea of him and you.

Smart, you’ll give him that. Least he’s kept his hands on the steering wheel and away from you. Every now and then his fingers twitched, head angled ever so slightly as he stole a glance at you. There’s no way you’re initiating anything with him, he can fuck all the females he wanted if it means he doesn’t get you. Oh, he has you just not in the traditional sense.

He agreed to your terms. Faking the union and acting like there’s a connection to keep the relationship between your two packs and task force safe. No mating, no ceremony and nothing more than acquaintances.

The base is like any other, a little larger than the one you grew up on. You watched the rolling chain link fence close behind the car as he drove through the check point.

Johnny Mactavish, task force 141. An hour away from your previous home and your childhood friend. The one person you wanted to talk to, but you had to give up in order to be with your mate. You bit back the growl, swallowing the burn at the back of your throat.

You pinched your nose, trying not to let his scent invade your senses. Better not look at him as you climb out of the car, his biceps flexing as he carried your two bags with ease. It’s just the mating bond, you reminded yourself. You hope he can’t hear the increase of your heartbeat.

The residential house’s air stale as you walked over the threshold, particles of dust floating in the air in the morning sun. It’s modest, an open plan living area and kitchen. Stairs leading to two bedrooms and shower room, no bath.

“Ye’ can have the double room,” he said, dumping your bags at the foot of the bed. He doesn’t glance at you, his jaw set in a tight line. It reeked of him, even if he’d tried masking it with an air freshener and new sheets.

“Small will be fine.” You shrugged, brushing off his murmured complaints. He picked up your bags, knuckles red as he grasped the straps tightly. Short fuse, noted. Very on brand for a demolition expert.

You followed, squeezing past him in the hallway and entering the room. A single bed against the wall, desk beside it looking out the square window and a built in wardrobe to the right. Standard military box room for guests, if only you weren’t so permanent. You turned to Johnny lingering in the doorway, but your gaze zeroed in at the crescent moon nailed to the door. Good goddess he must be some religious nut, pinning the moon up and worshiping the goddess. The third one you’d seen since he’d picked you up.

“Thanks, Mactavish.”

You don’t miss the subtle flinch, his last name like a slap in the face. “Sure,” he snapped, disappearing out of sight in a blink of an eye.

The bond twisted your chest, your fist knocking the pesky pang away. You would not feel sorry for him, not when he made you give up everything that you are.

You busied yourself with unpacking your clothes and organising the wardrobe. Placing a framed photo on the desk beside your bed, laptop and books neatly tucked away in the drawer. You stilled as you saw the small blanket at the bottom of your bag, not yours though, your best friends. Your nose trailed the soft fabric, her scent calming your racing heart.

How did you not know she’d snuck it into your bag? You fluffed it up on your bed, placing it over your pillow. The only reminder of your little omega, your one friend. A high pitched whine slipped from your lips and you buried your head into the blanket once again.

The hairs on the back of your neck rose, no noise moving around the house. Johnny no doubt standing still and trying to listen like you are now. Hopefully he didn’t hear your whines, he probably felt the sadness travel down the bond like the snap of a rubber band.

What you’d do to snap at him, but you weren’t sure what hand he’d give you. So you thought better not to.

Your stomach rumbled as you sat up on the bed. The sweet aromas travelling upstairs drawing a groan out of you. Padding down the hallway, you hesitated at the top of the stairs. Johnny would still be down there, but you were too hungry to care. Didn’t get a chance to have breakfast, using most of your time left with your omega.

The closer you get to the kitchen, the more your mouth watered. Johnny’s back is facing you as he dished up the food from the stove. Muscles shifting beneath the stretched fabric of T-shirt. Do not look at his arms, good goddess.

Some sort of lunch, meat which you don’t eat anymore. Anything to keep you out of the canteen and away from the males.

Your nose turning up as you spot the crescent moon tattoo on his forearm, he’s probably thinking you’re judging his cooking. The damned moon is enough to put you off.

“Eat, starve. I don’ care,” he snarled, the bowl clinking on the kitchen side. Whatever he’d prepared for dinner, he looked a good cook.

Lies, of course he cared. You were trying hard not to. Every part of you wanted to, but you couldn’t stomach the thought of giving into the bond. If you crumbled now, you’d snowball into his bed by dinner time.

No you’d leave that for your dreams.

Those same dreams that drench you in sweat each night, your muffled whimpers pressed into the mattress in hopes Johnny doesn’t hear. He doesn’t say anything the next morning, thankfully he got the message on not making you any food. You’ve gone a year without wanting him? What’s the rest of your life? Deny him like he denies you.

Johnny sat opposite you, “meeting the guys for lunch today, remember?” He said, sipping his coffee and glancing up at you from his newspaper. The page hadn’t been turned since you’d slid into the seat.

How could you forget? You grunted in response, pushing the scrambled eggs around your plate.

“Ye’ know you’re gonna have to try harder than that,” he said, cup slamming against the table and coffee sloshing over the side. His restraint is noble, you’ll give him that.

Your previous Alpha would have grabbed the scruff of your neck long before now if you were to treat a male like this. Johnny hadn’t so much lifted a hand or demanded you obey him.

“I know,” you said between a mouthful of food, nodding as you swallowed before continuing. “One kiss,” you raised your pointer finger. “We can touch briefly, but only hand in hand or touching the thigh…lower down Mactavish before you get any ideas.”

If you’re going to keep up the charade, you’d have to allow some sort of fleeting touch.

“Fine,” he grumbled, flicking through the newspaper and tearing the edge. “Just try to keep up with me.”

You don’t bother questioning him, standing from the table and washing your plate. He remained at the table, you could feel his gaze trailing after you as you walked up the stairs.

The small bedroom reminded you of home, of a childhood that moulded you into something you are not. You still struggled to think before acting. Doesn’t matter how hard you tried, you’re hardwired to bite first and beg for forgiveness later. Forever hurting the hand that feeds you for a splinter of control. Your omega the only one that truly saw you.

You eyed yourself in the mirror on the back of the door, palms smoothing down the thin cotton of your dress. Navy bodice and long panel skimming the back of your calves. A dainty floral print decorating the fabric. You could be beautiful, but you feel like a wolf in sheep’s lining.

Nothing could make you something you are not. You glanced at your nails, a habit of checking if there was dirt beneath them. The braid you’d tied swept across your shoulder blades, the only style you bothered to learn growing up.

Shaking yourself out of those memories, you exited the comfort of your own room. The first one you ever called your own. You descended the stairs, pausing on the bottom step as Johnny’s gaze connected with yours.

Goddess, you wicked, cruel thing. He’d swapped his T-shirt for a black button down shirt, the top few open and showing the curls of dark hair on his chest. Long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, straining against the muscle and displaying the moon tattoo. He was breathtaking your mate, minus the ink.

He seemed to share the same sentiment as you, blue eyes trailing down your neck and shoulders, the bare skin he’d not seen before.

“What should I call you?” You asked breaking him out of his thoughts. It’s a simple question, one you never thought you’d ask in your lifetime. Let alone be accepted by a mate.

“Johnny’s ok, wouldn’t want to send you over tha’ edge,” he said, smirk playing on his lips as if he knew you’d refuse any term of endearment.

“Jimmy, right,” you teased, squeezing through the gap of the open door, but Johnny’s hand circled your elbow and yanked you back in. Short fuse, remember.

You raised a brow, gaze darting to his fingers digging into your skin. He removed it, pulling a gold chain from the pocket of his dress pants.

“I am not wearing that.” That bloody crescent moon might as well have been scored into your eyes, the amount of times you’d seen it.

“They won’t believe us if you don’t wear it. My families tradition, to give it to our mate. It’s an honour. Charged it on the last full moon…”

“Bloody hells, give it ‘ere. Don’t need the whole fucking scripture read out to me.” You reached to snatch it from his grasp, but he dodged your attempt. Gesturing for you to turn around so he could put it on for you.

He might as well be collaring you. The chain and crescent moon pendant cool against your chest. His knuckles brushed the nape of your neck, your braid draped over one shoulder and you shivered. As soon as you heard the clip of the clasp you stepped away from him. His touch dizzying, no one told you about the tingles that still danced across your skin in his wake.

“Let’s get this over with,” you mumbled, taking his hand as reached for yours.

You’d met Alpha Price more times than you had Johnny. Still not used to calling him John now though. He wasn’t like the usual alpha’s only asked to be referred to his rank at work and not all the time. Simon Riley was the one to watch, his dark observing gaze narrowed at you and Johnny the entire afternoon. He’d be the one that’d need convincing.

Johnny’s palm rested on your knee under the table, weight keeping your body angled to his. Apparently a good sign that you’re interested in the male. Your jaw ached from smiling so much, head throbbing and voice scratchy as you tried to keep up with their merging conversations.

Kyle seemed the most welcoming, warm hazel eyes holding yours as you spoke to him. You mirrored the softness of his voice back to him. There was something haunting though about his gaze. You could tell something wasn’t right, like part of him wasn’t truly there. Kyle smiled as his mate sat on his lap, the light flitting back to his eyes as she introduced herself. An alpha just as magnetic as him, but she did not have the usual commanding energy surrounding her.

“So what about your parents?” Kyle asked, his hand grasped the back of Johnny’s neck and shook him. “They approve of this one, eh?”

The chatter around the table dwindling to nothing. Your vision blurred, but the squeeze on your knee drew your attention back to room.

“I don’t know my parents, I had a few different guardians here and there till I came of age at sixteen,” you rushed the words out, your finger tracing the stem of your wine glass. Johnny’s hand slid from your knee to your hand in your lap, warmth spreading across your knuckles. His touch soothing the ache in your chest, you didn’t fight it.

“I suppose the moon will decide if he’s good enough,” Price said, winking at you across the table. He turned to Johnny, “suppose we won’t be seeing you tomorrow, since it’s a full moon.”

“You say tha’ like I’m the only one. Kyle still respects tradition,” Johnny chuckled, flinging a hand towards him. “You need to find your mates, goddess knows you might find one if you actually look.”

You don’t keep up with their discussions, all you could focus on was the back of Johnny’s hand brushing the inside of your thigh and his thumb rubbing your knuckles. You fought the urge to move, the heat of your skin burning. Why didn’t anyone tell you how good it felt to be touched by your mate?

No male had ever had this effect on you. How could he sit beside you and not feel the lightning surging through your veins? He turned to you, lips moving and voiced muffled by the blood rushing to your ears.

He leant into you, hot breath fanning against the shell of your ear and whispered. “Ready to go?”

You nodded, tongue heavy and mouth dry that you didn’t bother to speak. Is his head spinning too? Nothing else mattered around you as if you only saw him. You’ve already waved goodbye to his friends, allowing him to guide you home.

As soon you stepped through the front door, your fingers twisted his shirt ripping a button off with it. You pushed him against the wall, his head dipping as his lips met yours. Teeth clinking and noses nudging as you tried to chase his movements.

Johnny’s fingers bunched your dress up to your hips and lifted you from the ground, wrapping your legs around him. He turned, pressing your back to the wall, his palms at the back of your thighs. Your head dropped to his neck, teeth grazing his scenting gland and you bumped your nose into the familiar smell. Like burning cedar and pinewood, the type you used too…snap.

You trailed your canines down to his shoulder and sunk them in to his skin. Blood pooled in your mouth and trickled down your jaw. Johnny stilled, one of his hands cupping the back of your head as his over slid between your bodies and squeezed your locked jaw.

Johnny set you back on your feet, palm covering the wound on his shoulder, but he still stared at you. Silence, his hand shot to the side of your head before you could get away.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low and soft. Something you were not used to.

Your whole body trembled, the blood on your jaw running down your throat. All you could stare at was his red stained shoulder. “I…” you stuttered, “your scent it…I.”

His finger hooked under your chin and tilted your head up. “Come on now, look at me,” he said, tapping your chin for you to comply. “Not in trouble, know what ya’ are.”

What you are, not the best of choice of words. You spat at him, shoving him away and ducked under his arm. “Fuck you, Mactavish!”

“You’re the one that bit me!” He called after you, “we’re all a bit feral.”

Feral, the label slapped on you whenever you did something they didn’t like. Granted, you had just bit him which was frowned upon, but you didn’t appreciate the way that word made you feel. How it alienated you from the pack and kept you in place at the very bottom. Below everyone else, even if you were a beta it didn’t make a different. You were an animal in their eyes. How they used it against you, used you.

"Just a scratch, not like I wont heal by the morning," he said, as if sensing your deep inner turmoil. Maybe the mating bond made him softer and more understanding, because he hasn't made a move since.

So you nod, whispering a goodnight to him as you retreated to your room.

—☽◯☾—

Johnny woke with a start, the weight dropping off his chest and thumping to the mattress beside him. His mouth hung open as his eyes fell on your bare shoulders peaking out of the bedsheets.

You’re sound asleep, now that he thought of it he hadn’t slept the whole night through since he’d joined the military. His knees sunk into the mattress as he leant forward and swept your hair out of your face. He nearly leapt back on closer inspection.

A sheen of sweat covered your forehead, his sheets sticking to you like a second skin. Your honeyed scent both sweet and sickly, a wave of nausea rolling his stomach all thanks to the first phase of your heat.

No wonder you bit him last night.

He’s hoping you’ll sleep for the first day, most females he’d spent heat with normally do. But you’re his mate, so he should be able to soothe the aches and fulfil your needs easily.

Johnny savours the close proximity, lying back down next to you and watching your shoulders move with each breath you took. He doesn’t touch you, no, only if you ask and even he thinks that won’t happen.

He’s glad you sought him out though. That little tiny spec of hope that you’ll warm to him and trust him.

For most of the first day you’re asleep, humming as Johnny dabbed a wet cloth over your forehead. He doesn’t leave your side, knowing his scent grounds you and soothes the headache scrunching between your brows.

He forgets about the full moon ritual, worshipping you instead. Helping you eat some food in the morning on the second day, you’re more clued in. Pushing him away and snapping, nothing out of the ordinary then. It’s the third day he’s waiting for the most, when you’re on last thread and desperate for some sort of release.

Again he’ll only do it if you ask. Part of him thinks you’ll suffer and not even entertain the idea. Not that he’d bring it up either.

So when the third day arrives, he doesn’t stand too close. You daren’t glance at him, nose buried into his pillow and hands twisted in the sheets as you tried to fight that fated pull. Even Johnny can feel the tug against his chest.

“Why’s it hurt so much,” you winced, pawing at your chest and squeezing your eyes shut as the heat burnt yours legs. His necklace still clasped round your neck, he doesn’t let his eyes linger too long in case you remove it.

Johnny doesn’t say the obvious. How fighting the bond just causes the pain to be stronger. If only you’d just give in and let him ease your suffering.

“Need…” you murmured, gasp leaving your lips as your fingers traced your clothed cunt beneath the sheets. It’s a wonder you’ve lasted two day without sex, especially during your heat and Johnny commends you. Praise is probably the last thing on your mind though.

His ears are ringing, bells echoing as your sentence falls a little too short.

“What do ye’ need?” He almost sings.

“Please just for tonight,” you whispered, you didn’t need to ask him twice. That sweet, sweet voice of yours oh so similar to your honeyed scent.

Foreplays out of the window, he can smell your arousal from here. See that you’ve tried to satisfy yourself whilst he was out of the room, but nothings as good as your mate.

He mirrored you, pulling his boxers down as you wriggled out of your underwear. You sat up, tugging him onto the bed by his wrist. His heart is hammering against his chest, fingers shaking as you welcomed him into his bed.

You guided him to lean against the headboard, finger pressing his chest to keep in place as you climbed on top of him and sunk down on his cock.

Johnny’s head fell back and hit the wall, his fingers running up and down your hips as you bounced up and down. Chasing your own high, taking control of your own needs instead waiting for him to see to it.

Your breath is hot on his skin, touch sending tingles in their wake. He doesn’t want you to stop the soft trail of your fingers tracing the curls of his hair on his chest.

“No biting,” you said, grabbing the scruff of his Mohawk before his head could dip to your collar bone.

“No biting,” he said, lips crashing into yours. He moved in sync with you, rolling his hips and driving his cock deeper into your cunt. Your slick coating your legs and sticking to his.

You traced the faint mark of your teeth on his shoulder, but he’s too focused on your trembling legs and the way you slump into his hold. Your release running down his thigh. He didn’t expect you to last long, not when you’ve denied yourself for two whole days and tortured yourself with him in the room. His mere presence sending you off the edge.

“I got ye,” he whispered, hands cradling you in his lap as he slid down the head board and laid you both on the bed on your sides. His cock still buried inside you, chest flush against your back.

Johnny wedged his leg in between yours, one hand massaging your breast and the over trailing down your stomach, towards the nub between your legs. He circles it slowly, pinching the nub as you grind your ass against his hips.

“There we go.” He’s sweet and soft with you, knowing this is for your need and not his. So he keeps it light and doesn’t draw it out. Knows you want the act and not him.

Fucking into you until you’re too tired to move, till you’re fast asleep. Johnny held you, waking only when he’s feels the cold seep back into your flesh. He slipped his T-shirt over you and tucked you back into bed.

Johnny doesn’t linger, no he stood under the cold shower for twenty minutes. His palm against the cold tiles, his head hung low as he looked at his hard dick and waited for it grow soft. He’d be dreaming of last night til the end of time.

He returned to his bedroom, fully clothed and nose turned up at your scent burning his nose. The overpowering stench giving him a headache.

You shifted in the sheets, sending another potent wave of honey over to Johnny. He yanked the sheets off you and nearly came in his boxers as you groaned in response.

He grabbed your upper arm, hoisting you out of his bed and pushing you to the door. “Have a shower or I’ll be the one biting next,” he snapped pointing down the hallway.

Thanks for reading :) this is part one and I’ll be posting the second one after I’ve done the other 141 guys. There might be some mistakes/errors as I’m dyslexic, I do edit a few time but you do miss stuff out - Leya 💋

[dkniade]

🌌💫🌒

Fan art of @kianamaiart’s characters from I Don’t Want To Be A Magical Girl! (with glasses, ft misc glasses characters & two IDWTBAMG universe fan characters)

I’ve been following this project from the start so it’s been great seeing interactions between the characters and how the fandom is so excited for it. ^^

I tried to draw the cast from memory and, while Miss seems a little different from canon, at least I got the dark hair roots and strands sticking out lol. But details aside they’re all recognizable! Which means they’re lovely designs that are unique from one another✨

Eclipse’s shades are a combination of his usual eye mask and the shades from this artwork, and Hoshi’s glasses are inspired by this one!🌒⭐️

Designs… (I don’t have a name for her yet but) the pigtails girl’s shapes are a combination of curves pointing downwards and curves pointing upwards. The idea ended up being that she’s on Eclipse and Lady DeVoid’s side so (after reading this post by Kiana about how most of the characters had Aika’s design as the springboard and are designed to complement eachother) I wanted her design to complement those two’s, with some influence from Zira. I like that the strands of hair on her forehead and the shape around them mirror both Zira’s hair and DeVoid’s horns haha. Plus, I was trying to figure out how to design her glasses and they ended up being kind of the inverse of Eclipse’s eye mask, which is very nice. Eclipse and DeVoid seem to be associated with sharp curves and circle shapes; maybe her outfit could be a lot fancier…

As for what her role might be in the story… I dunno, if she works with Eclipse and DeVoid, and Eclipse is all ~theatric and grand~ then maybe she could be like… his assistant… or something? Who knows. Or, I say “observer from afar” so perhaps she actually gets along with Zira well and they’d watch on the sidelines while Aika and Eclipse duke it out…?

Eclipse… Moon… Umbra… man what if I just name the pigtails girl Yueshi (月食, lunar eclipse)(for both the moon motif that Zira and Eclipse have, and the darkness motif that Eclipse and DeVoid have haha)

Shooting star and telescope don’t feel quite right, but with the circular shapes and the lunar eclipse, I could kind of see her having some star trail motifs with her sweater…

I guess Umbra would be the same type of elf (? darkness/concept personified?) as Lady DeVoid but I’m not sure haha. We don’t have much information on DeVoid other than the fact that she is darkness itself and that she lost most of her powers which she can’t remember how to use. Banished by a Star Guardian, revenge, recruiting Eclipse to help spread the darkness particles to destroy the Star Guardian… If she has a similar backstory to MLP:FIM’s Princess Luna then does that mean she was originally Aika’s teammate or something? haha

About Umbra’s hair… (Feel free to correct me for any inaccuracies.) I think from the reference photos I was trying to draw box braids but got so focused on also making the braids look like moon phases that I’m not sure if it’d still be box braids in the end? They seem more like cornrows now, at least for the side ones?

Here are some earlier versions of the OCs! and more rambling about designs

Well, initially I scribbled down Yueshi so I could experiment with values because I was thinking about how light-coloured pants draw the eye too much if the outfit or the top half of the character is darker. (Half way through she ended up looking like a IDWTBAMG character so I tried to match the proportions with Aika’s turnaround.) But I suppose if there’s enough contrast for the upper half (and IDWTBAMG’s stark black design style gives a lot of contrast) then it works out better. I think the combination of making Yueshi’s hair and the top half of her sweater black and the circle shape white worked out okay. Initially she had large round eyes so I tried giving her round glasses too but since she ended up being a fan character in the universe, it was too similar to Aika and Zira.

Umbra’s design kind of popped into my mind today so I tried to scribble it down and experimented with hairstyles. But green and purple are already associated with Zira, and that shade of lavender is more like Eclipse so I guess I’ll fiddle around with her colour scheme more. Maybe there’s not enough of the signature black there, and both could use some more details to match the level of details in the canon designs… (If Yueshi works under DeVoid then she’d probably get a fancy outfit too.) Then again, Umbra is more like Miss in terms of detail so it seems she’d be a background/supporting character or something…🤔

(I can’t seem to escape the puffy sleeves/cone shape silhouette🤔 Gotta diversify. Also, not sure if it’s ‘cause of the project’s style or if I just really love circles in character design haha)

[gokyrts]

Can we pleaseee have more patron!carlos?? I want him to grow to love and care for her deeply. He’d do anything for her and kills anyone who disrespects her.

a/n: hey there!! I loved writing this! It’s understandably a bit more into the future of their relationship from the last two fics on patrón Carlos so just note that when you read <3 hope you enjoy!!

18+ | warning: cigarette burning (not on reader), semi-public s-x, road head — oral (m receiving), dirty talk

wc: 1.5k

THIS IS PART THREE IN THE SERIES. PLEASE READ THE INTRODUCTORY FIC HERE AND THE SECOND BLURB HERE TO UNDERSTAND AND ENJOY FULLY .

What began as a crackle of a cheap lighter threatening a premium quality parchment was soon a smoldering pile of ash, a clump that had the remnants of paper and a dying spark that refused to go out under it.

You put the cigarette out on a crystal ashtray, exhaling what was left of it in your lungs. Had you been anywhere else, you would have complained but in his presence, it felt almost natural. Carlos was seated beside you in a booth at a bar he owned. Maybe that was why when you put another cigarette to your lips, three lighters appeared in your field of vision, ready to light it for you.

Ever since your little escapade at the hotel, word of your sharp tongue reached the ears of Carlos’ lieutenants and earned you respect among them. You haven’t felt out of place as much either — the three lighters belonged to Carlos’ most trusted and you were seated among them.

While opinions of you changed for most men, some still saw you as a dirty stray el patrón picked up and kept for some reason. Such was the case of the man you saw outside the window, hopping off his motorcycle. In a cocky fashion, he walked in, waving at the barkeep before making his way over to your booth.

“Buenas, patrón,” his first greeting belonged to the highest among you accompanied by a nod in Carlos’ direction.

“Teto.” Carlos nodded back.

“Muchachos,” the lieutenants were next in line for a friendly greeting.

Then his eyes landed on you. His gaze swept over your body, lingering on places he deemed determined your worth. The nod he gave you was slow as if he hesitated about addressing you at all. “Señorita,” he looked away as he said it, suggesting the weight it held for him.

“Roberto.” You returned the nod in equal enthusiasm, which was none, allowing for the conversation to shift into a debrief Teto was leading.

The man sat himself across from you and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke in your direction as a part of his ongoing disapproval of your presence. He flicked the ash off as he spoke, the dark particles landing on your folded hands atop the table.

“La DEA has been sniffing around the eastern lab, Don Carlos. They’re getting bolder,” you listened as the sicarios discussed a possible counterattack, eyes flickering between the participants.

“Princesa?”

You perked up at Carlos’ voice and his following nod to the group. He was asking for your opinion. You barely kept yourself from smirking but your body language gave away your growing smugness when you leaned back and took a long drag from your cigarette before even speaking. Carlos has been rubbing off on you in such manners much to Teto’s annoyance.

“I say — distraction. Give them something. These guys are new, they make mistakes and will be hungry even for the smallest movement from us.”

Carlos’ expression shifted slightly, his eyebrow twitching, suggesting your input had its desired effect. The senior members nodded too, seemingly valuing your answer but then there was a scoff. You didn’t have to look up to know who it was from but you did anyway.

Teto looked between his boss and fellows, his surprise growing seeing that they were considering your opinion.

He leaned forward, sighing. “These aren’t some cops you can bribe, little lady. This is the DEA,” his tone was condescending as he talked like you were a child who happened to stumble upon a strategic meeting. But you grew thicker skin over time spent with the cartel.

“Oh, of course, because we already bought all the cops there are to be bought.”

Teto squinted at you. “We?”

He knew he hit a nerve when you paused, and a smirk appeared on his face. His eyes dropped to the low-cut dress you had on. “I’m sure you could buy a cop looking like that.”

Silence settled over the room, even the barkeep seemed to stop polishing glasses.

The other sicarios looked at one another, at Carlos, at Teto, one of them hissed a warning to the latter to which he only leaned back and scoffed again.

“What?! You think she could be of any other help?”

Carlos was silent the whole time but his glare spoke volumes, the kind of glare he gave you when you did something bad but he was glaring at your offender now. He sat up, the light above the booth illuminating his face, adding to the intensity in his eyes.

“Teto,” he started, his voice low, laced with warning. “I will give you one chance to apologize. Now.”

“Don Carlos, I—“

“Now.” Carlos insisted.

“But she—”

Teto’s words died in his throat when Carlos snatched the cigarette he was smoking from him and gripped his wrist before slamming it on the table. Teto’s eyes widened when Carlos put the tip of the burning cigarette against the back of his hand, the sensation making him gasp and hiss. But the pain wasn’t the worst, at least from what you observed, it was the confusion in Teto’s eyes, the disbelief that his boss took such measures to protect you.

“Ah, puta madre!” Teto hissed again, squeezing his eyes shut, the scorching sensation overwhelming. “I’m sorry!”

Carlos released his hold on Teto, throwing the now-put-out cigarette into the ashtray. Teto’s hand trembled as he stretched his fingers, the burn mark on his hand an angry red color.

What should have been a sight to horrify you, especially after being witness to how cartels treat people, made heat pool in the pit of your stomach instead. Carlos protected your honor, and the three-degree burn, soon to be scar, on Teto’s hand would be a message to everyone with similar thoughts on insulting you.

Carlos leaned in across the table in Teto’s face. “Next time you bring me problems, try not to create more for yourself.”

He then turned to his other lieutenants. “Do as she said, distract them for the time being.”

All at the table stared as Carlos got up and fixed his clothes before calling you to him. He helped you put on a jacket, further cementing the status of princess you held and the treatment you received.

He reached for your hand next, tugging you along with him from the bar and into the sun-lit city. You could only stare, the way he acted making your heart hammer as you walked across the street to Carlos’ parked car.

“Thank you…” you said, unable to keep your eyes off of him.

Carlos chuckled, giving your hand a light squeeze.

“I didn’t do it for your gratitude, princesa,” he said as he got into the driver’s seat. “but if you want to thank me, you know what to do.”

His gaze burned through you and the heat in your belly intensified. You licked your lips, fixing your seatbelt so you’d be able to stretch your upper half over to him.

“That’s it, show me how grateful you are…” his hand found its way to your hair, thick fingers running through the soft strands as you freed his cock from the confines of his boxers.

Carlos put the car in gear, pulled out of the driveway, and made his way back to the safehouse, all the while sporting a smirk as your hot wet mouth worked him.

He stopped at a red light, his hand pulling on your hair. “Such a good girl, servicing me where everyone can see,” he murmured as he looked out of the window to a car next to you, his smirk widening into a sick grin when the passengers realized what was going on. He put the car back into first gear, letting you please him at your own pace for now.

The greenlight made Carlos slam on the gas pedal, forcing you further onto his cock. You choked as the tip hit the back of your throat, making Carlos groan and his hand move from the shift stick to the back of your head.

“Like that, princesa, like that…” he breathed out, feeling himself nearing the edge.

The speed with which he was going had you pumped full of adrenaline, so the potential danger went right over your head as you licked and sucked on his cock.

As the car went over a bump, the tip of Carlos’ cock hit the back of your throat again and this time he didn’t let you go.

“Hold it, hold it,” he instructed, keeping you pressed against him, relishing in your throat tightening around him. “I don’t want you to waste a drop.”

Your moan was muffled but the vibrations from it were what pushed Carlos over the edge. The salty stickiness splattered over your tongue and down your throat. Obediently, you swallowed everything and when he was sure you got it all, his grip on your head relaxed.

Coughing, you raised your head back up, cheeks red, lips swollen. Carlos kept his eyes on the road but the pleasure on his face was unmistakable. You fitted yourself back into the passenger’s seat and his hand came to rest on your thigh. His thumb swept over the soft flesh, drawing your attention to it.

“You’re welcome,”

His words took you a second but when his eyes met yours at the entrance to the compound, you knew. You acted out your thank you. His voice softened.

“Mi princesa.”

want more patrón!Carlos? ideas and suggestions are appreciated, leave them in my askbox!!

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