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petrichoravis · 2 months ago

Text

So professional. | s.r.

masterlist | navigation | PART TWO

summery: when the team finally has a break through in a case that seemed endless and you and Spencer are assigned to search an abandoned laboratory together, old feeling come to the surface.

word count: 7,3k (it got away from me, sorryyy)

what to expect: ex!spencer reid x fem!bau!reader, kinda like lovers to "enemies" to ??, a lot!! of banter, morgan calls r 'doll', 'princess' and 'sugar', criminal minds typical violence; torture, shooting, gunshot wound, parental/domestic abuse (abusive father/husband), hyporeflexia (the absence of reflexes), medical inaccuracies? I’m sure, English is not my first language.

a/n: aaaa this is so far out of my comfort zone!! I hope you’ll enjoy this while I’ll go into hiding🙈🙈

────── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

This case was endless until it wasn't. Until everything happened so quickly, all at once.

All of the victims had been burned to the point that the ME couldn't figure out the cause of death, until Eleven year old Amilie Porter was found on the side of the road by a passerby.

She had been cold and traumatised and wouldn't speak to anyone, so they brought her to the hospital, who alerted the police that then called you. The BAU.

Now, Spencer and JJ were crouching next to her hospital bed to seem less intimidating. Everything was going great, she wasn't speaking, but engaged in the conversation by nodding or shaking her head to their questions.

Until Amilie accidentally grabbed the mug of hot tea JJ handed her by the burning hot part, but instead of flinching she just held it there, as if it wasn't burning her fingers.

"Woah, hey hey hey!" Spencer took the cup from her before any more damage could be done. "Careful, that's still hot."

But his squeaked comment only made Amilie retreated into herself.

"Sorry, I'm—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. Did—" he frowned, he wasn't been sure how to ask her what he wanted to ask, given that she was eleven and still in shock.

"Did you not feel how hot that was?" He asked gently.

Amilie only nodded.

"Yes, you didn't feel how hot it was?"

She shook her head.

"So…you felt it, but didn't pull back?" He was trying his best not to come across as too impatient, keeping his voice low and soft.

He went on as she agreed to the question, "Let me ask you this, Amilie. Did—did the bad man do this?"

When Amilie nodded her head in answer to his question, Spencer glanced up at JJ, nodding as well. He could tell Amilie was exhausted and needed rest, his questions were probably not helping much.

He didn't blame her for being unresponsive, what happened to her must have been enough to traumatise a person with a fully developed brain. He could only calculate what damage it had done and will do to her life.

JJ's voice brought him back into the glaringly white hospital room. "Thank you, Amilie, you helped us very much. We're going to call the nice nurse back in, okay?"

She took Amilie's turning away from them as a yes and they made their way to the reception desk. After they were sure that the nurse was on her way, they walked back to the car.

"What did you see?" She asked him as they walked out of the hospital, onto the parking lot. Sirens were coming from every direction, so they had to speak a little louder.

"Wait—can you drive? I'll call the team." Spencer said, already pulling out his phone and dialling the first contact.

Which, unfortunately, was you.

"Reid? What did she say?" Your voice was usually distant, as if you were scared that letting any emotion into you voice would break the dam.

He pressed a hand over his ear to hear you better.

You see, when you and Spencer got together, you had to promise Hotch that you would stay professional when you would break up. A great prophecy for the rest of your relationship, right? Having to talk about your hypothetical breakup on the first official day of your relationship.

Both of you really tried to stay professional, but working with an ex was hard enough, working with an ex you haven't really talked it out with was harder.

"I think he might be torturing the victims until they loose their reflexes." He clamped the phone between his ear and shoulder as he unlocked the car door, holding it open for JJ, handing her the keys and getting into the passenger seat after she was securely in the car.

"Hyporeflexia? Do you—wait let me put you on speaker." There was shuffling on the other side of the phone. "You have Hotch and I. Do you know how he does it?"

"No. I have theories, but nothing concrete. There are a few ways to accomplish the absence of reflexes, drugs like K779 or Leuprorelin, for example. But I doubt he is using a drug, it would have shown up on the toxicology report and the chances of these drugs causing Hyporeflexia are too slim."

"What's your guess?" Hotch piped up.

"Well I think he might be damaging their nervous system. You see, motor neutrons send messages between the spinal cord and brain. Collectively they send messages to the rest of your body to control muscle movements. It's possible that the UnSub is damaging the sensory nerves, spinal cord or motor nerves to cause hyporeflexia." He rambled off the facts and you could practically see the wild gesturing of his hands.

"How is the girl?" You asked.

"She's quiet, but in good hands," he reassured you. "She'll be okay in no time."

"Are you on your way back?" Hotch asked, crossing his arms.

"Yes. We're driving to you now."

"Drive safely." You said, purely for performance purposes.

"I'm not driving." He replied dryly.

"That's why it was meant for JJ."

"She always drives safely." You tried not to roll your eyes as Spencer just hung up.

Being professional when the person you used to plan your future with was now your worst enemy was hard. And while you might spite him a lot, you were sad about it more than you were angry.

But anger always came easier to you than admitting to yourself and him that the break up really hurt you, that you want nothing more than to be friends if you couldn't have him as a partner. You wanted to hold him in your arms again, to fall asleep to his heartbeat every night.

You couldn't tell anyone that, of course, your pride would be in shambles.

So you took a deep breath and turned back to Hotch.

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

When Spencer and JJ got back to Quantico the team reassembled for the briefing. Everyone shared their thoughts and theories and Spencer explained what had happened at the hospital.

"Um…I know that there is a poison called curare, it's won from various plants and causes paralysis by binding to the acetylcholine receptor of the junction where two nerve cells dock together and therefore prevents nerve impulses from activating skeletal muscles. Could it be something like that?" You asked into the room.

Spencer was quiet for a moment and you're unsure whether he was impressed by your knowledge or just thinking really hard about the possibilities. "Well, we obviously can't tell because the bodies are burnt. But it's unlikely that he is using curare, given that Amilie wasn't paralysed, but developed Hyporeflexia."

Never mind, he was just thinking of a polite way to say, you're so far from the point, stupid.

"Right. So what do you think?" You almost added oh almighty! but were able to stop yourself. Because you're professional.

"As I already said," he gave you a look, "he is probably damaging the nervous system."

"Right, sorry. I meant, how is he doing that?" You had been able to sound so unfazed until this moment.

"I don't know," he frowned at you, as if his answer was obvious (you would like to state that it was not), "or I would have shared it already."

The team was nice enough not to comment on your little dispute, but it's clear that it was getting on their nerves. Especially Hotch, who was looking more stoic than usual, Morgan was finding it more amusing than anything.

"I'll get Garcia to search for similar occurrences in the area." You said quickly, already hurrying out of the room and away from the pending lecture.

Spencer watched you scurry off with a sinking feeling in his gut.

He didn't know why he bitt like a wounded dog every time the two of you spoke. He would like to think that it was because he just genuinely didn't like you anymore, but he knew that wasn't true. Hating you would be easier than this.

On the other side of the office, you ripped open door of Penelope Garcia's office and slammed it closed behind you, leaning back against it with a heavy sigh.

Penelope startled upright, turning her swivel chair to look at you with wide eyes. "Well, hello. Are you alright?"

"No," you whined dramatically. "All of this is so incredibly fucking fucked."

"Oh, love," she patted the place next to her. "He, who shall not be named again?"

You nodded, slumping into the chair. "He's just so—I just feel so…ugh. All we do is spite each other. When will this get easier?"

She looks at you with so much pity, you can't stand it. "I'm not going to tell you that it will pass with time, because, well…" She gave you a look that said nothing less than because you're quite dramatic, over the rim of her glasses.

While you huffed in response, you couldn't quite find a good argument that spoke against her unspoken statement, so your mouth stayed closed. But you didn't refrain from sending her a glare.

"What?" She asked innocently, if anything about Penelope Garcia can ever be called innocent.

You gave her a look. "Constructive criticism? Didn't we just talk about that?"

"I didn't even say anything! It's not my fault that you interpreted something into my very lovely face."

You decided that this was totally fruitless, your fault for thinking that you had a friend in her. "Can you look into past histories of people with hyporeflexia? Anything you can find. People who have been diagnosed with it in the past…let's say fifteen years, suspicious reports of it, someone being especially interested in it, maybe a lot of it happening in one area. You know the drill."

"Yep, totally, ma chère. One sec." She turned her chair towards the computer screen and began working her magic.

After what feels like three seconds—thank God for Penelope's speed on the keyboard and swift fingers—she piped up, "Hyporeflexia is quite a rare official diagnosis, so I cross referenced it with torture or unnatural causes and I found," a few more mouse clicks. "…a Theodore Wilson, who has been in and out of the hospital for severe burns and bruises a lot when he was young."

Frowning, you lean over Penelope's shoulder to look at the screen. "And that's relevant because…?"

"That, my gorgeous girl," she booped your nose with her fluffy pen and you scrunched your nose. "Is because they look suspiciously similar to our victims and…" She paused for dramatic effect. "Theodore's father was a biochemist best known for his research on Hyporeflexia."

You frown deepened. "Is his father still alive?"

A few clicks later, Penelope replied, "Nope." She popped the p. "He died last month, but Theo's mother still lives in Virginia."

"If we consider Theodore a suspect, his father's passing could have been the stressor. Thank you, Pen. Could you—"

"The address is sent to your phone." She smiled up at you as you got up and walked towards the door. "But don't think our talk about you-know-who is over!" She sing-songs just before you could leave.

You rolled your eyes. The nicknames were getting excessive.

"I can't hear you!" You called back just before closing the door behind you.

You froze when you turned and saw the team gathered in the bullpen area. "Um," you glanced at Spencer for just a millisecond to see how much he has heard, but his face seemed impassive. Looking back at your unit chief, you continued, "Penelope found a lead."

Hotch nodded for you to continue and you made your way closer to the group. Recognition flickered across Spencer's face at the name Don Wilson, but he said nothing as you continued to explain what Penelope found.

"Penelope send the address of his mother to me already." You said as you finished.

"Do you think he might be the first victim or the UnSub?" Hotch asked.

"Possibly both. That's what I'd like to find out by talking to the mother." You replied, taking the last steps towards the team.

Hotch nodded. "Morgan, you accompany her."

Great, just what you needed. Relentless teasing from Derek Morgan, fun!

The devil grinned. "Let's do this, doll."

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

You ignored Morgan the whole drive.

No, seriously, you didn't say a word to him besides giving him the directions. Of course that only stroked the fire.

When you finally did arrive at the house of Theodore's mother, you felt like you had just taught a class of first graders.

Morgan was in the middle of something like, "—come on, we're all waiting to hear what happened between you and pretty boy—" when you got out of the car and slammed the door shut. You couldn't stand to listen to even one more second of it.

But of course he just continued after exiting the car, too. "That bad, huh?"

If you didn't know any better, you might have thought there was some pity in that comment. "It's fine. And also really none of your business."

"You and Reid are kind of making it everyones business, princess."

Rolling your eyes at his statement, you sped up your steps along the gravel path. The faster you got to the door, the faster Morgan had to get into work mode and could finally stop behaving like an assho—

The door opened unexpectedly.

"Oh," an elderly woman—she must have been in her late sixties—startled back at the sight of the both of you. She had shoulder length red-brown hair that was frizzy and clearly not washed for at least two weeks. Her hands were fiddling with a button of her worn down brown cardigan.

Undoubtedly the woman you saw on the picture on Penelope's computer.

You quickly pulled out your badge, animating Morgan to do so as well. "Mrs. Wilson? We're with the FBI. My apologies if we startled you."

"The FBI?" She frowned, clutching her cardigan tightly around herself like an armour. "Why would the FBI come to my house?"

"Ma'am, we have reason to believe that your son might be involved in the case we are investigating right now." You said carefully, not knowing how much she could handle before having a heart attack.

"What? No, that—that's ridiculous! He—he…" she seemed to have forgotten what she was saying, now studying the ground for dirt.

Morgan and you glanced at each other. This was going to be difficult.

"Ma'am?" Morgan tried again. "Could we come in?"

She frowned up at him. "Yes, yes, of course. How rude of me." She made a sound that could have been a laugh as much as it could have been a sob.

"Make yourselves at home, dears. Oh, my apologies it's a little messy." She hurried across the room, gathering scraps of fabric and dirty dishes.

"Uh," you weren't sure how to say this politely, but you were in a rush and sour mood.

Luckily, Morgan saved you from having to come up with something polite. "Mrs. Wilson, we'd like to ask you some questions about your son, Theodore, if that is alright with you?"

"Oh, Theo," he fingertips touched her lips and her eyes welled up a little. It was a nostalgia only a mother could feel. "We—we don't talk a lot anymore, now that he is at university."

You frowned. There had been no evidence of Theodore being at university. "What is he studying?"

The woman seemed frozen in her thoughts. "Physics. No, that's not right…Chemistry, yes. He is studying chemistry at Princeton. He told me that."

You gave Morgan a signal to fact check that with Penelope and he left the room, leaving you to talk to Mrs. Wilson alone.

"Did he always like chemistry?"

"Yes, yes. When he was young, he always used to…no, I think that was biology." She laughed almost hysterically. "Can't keep up with that boy. So many talents."

Bingo. Biochemistry. His father's influence, no doubt. And it fit the theory of Theodore taking on his father's murderous tendencies. Just a little more and you had him.

"Was there any particular niche he was particularly interested in?"

"Yes, but…but I don't remember. You see, Don, my husband—Theo's father, he would know. He—he was the one who always went to the laboratory with Theo."

Laboratory? You froze at the mention of a possible secondary location. Double bingo, a place to hide the victims and possibly burn them. A place where his father could have taught him his ways, pass the torture down like some families might pass down jewellery.

"This lab," you asked cautiously, not wanting to come across too pushy or desperate (which you very much were). "You don't happen to know where it is?"

"Oh, it's abandoned now, run down, I'm certain. They stopped going there after Don got sick…" she couldn't finish the sentence, her eyes fogging up with grief.

You doubted that he just stopped going, but she didn't need to know that. "Is it possible that you find out where it is located?"

She nodded, mumbling something about a postcard before disappearing into another room.

Morgan came back from the hallway.

"There is no record of him at Princeton. No pay checks, nothing." He whispered to you.

That was to be expected. You just nodded.

All of this left you with a horrible, nauseating feeling in the pit of your stomach. This woman had lost everything—her husband, her son, her sanity—but the hope she clung to was that her son was in university, building a life of his own, making a name for himself.

Now you were working on destroying that hope. It might ruin her entirely. Irrevocably.

She came back a second later, a postcard in her hands. "That's the address, I think." She held it out to you.

But as you went to grab it, fingers closing around it, she didn't let go, keeping a tight grip on it. Like a lifeline. Like a part of her knew, that if she let you have it, there was no going back to the normal she once knew.

"Mrs. Wilson…?" You tested carefully.

She startled. "Oh! I'm sorry." She let the paper go. "Here you go. I hope it helps with your…"

Her face creased up, thinking hard of a reason why two FBI agents could be in her house, asking for her perfect son who was studying chemistry in Princeton.

Morgan, ever the escape artist, waved politely, "You have been very helpful, Ma'am. We best be going then, have a nice day."

"Yes, yes, of course. You must be busy kids." But just as you stepped through the door, feet just hitting the gravel, she called after you. "Agents?"

Both of you turned. "Yes?" You asked politely.

"My son, when you visit him at Princeton, could—could you tell him I was sorry?"

"Of course, Ma'am." You let your voice trail off, hoping she would clarify what she was apologising for.

Mrs. Wilson leaned against the door with one hand, as if stabilising herself. "We had a fight, you see. The night before he left for Princeton. I never got to apologise to him."

You were tempted to ask what the fight was about, but you held back. It might be important for the case, but not enough to dig up the rotten bones. "Of course. We will tell him, Mrs."

"Thank you—thank you. Tell him I love him, too, would you be so kind?"

You nodded. "Of course."

Morgan and you walked away, then. Leaving the woman behind.

You didn't recall reaching the car, didn't recall Morgan unlocking it and even holding open the door for you to climb in. Too deep in the past, too caught up in the future.

The conversation with the mother affected you more than you'd like to admit. A fight could ruin so many relationships, it could make you go crazy, make you say things that caused you to drift further and further apart. Until you didn't know each other at all anymore, but you still clung to the past yous that you once were.

You only came to yourself when you felt the seat under you, when the engine started to hum.

"We had a fight." You mumbled as Morgan reversed out of the parking space.

"What?" He looked over at you shortly, confused. He couldn't recall having fought with you.

"Spencer and I. We fought. That's why we broke up."

Morgan felt a little like laughing. "You broke up because of a fight? Must have been one hell of a fight, then. The both of you were always so inseparable."

When you didn't laugh or react, Morgan glanced over at you again. You looked sad, in thought. With a big pout-slash-frown on your face, fingers fiddling with the sleeves if your button up.

"Hello? Earth to earthling?" He waved a hand in front of your face.

"Sorry." You glanced up at him. "I don't know why I brought it up, I don't like talking about it."

Bless him, Morgan's face softened a little. He wasn't heartless enough to keep teasing you when you clearly had a hard time. Well, okay, he had his moments.

"You don't have to talk about it."

"No, it's okay. We—We fought a lot, leading up to the break up. Silly things like the dishes, different opinions on different things.…The real issue was this job, though." You swallowed around the urge to bolt.

"The job?"

You nodded. "We brought it home with us, made it the centre piece of our relationship."

Morgan winced. It was the mistake every agent was afraid to make when entering a relationship.

"Yeah," you breathed out. "I know. But you know us, we work, that's just who we are."

"Workaholics." Morgan coughed to lighten the mood.

In any other situation you would have dug your elbow into his side, scowled at him. But not in this one.

"It got too much in the end. The fear, the paranoia. We just…snapped. We talked it out, funnily enough that conversation was quite calm. Though we were naive enough to think we could stay friends." You sniffed.

It surprised him, to find out you were struggling so much in the past months leading up to your break up. "You always seemed so happy at work. Everyone agreed when I said you two were meant for each other."

"Yeah, well, things that are meant for each other aren't always the right thing."

"Do you really believe that? Or are you scared that it won't work out if you tried again and you opened yourself up for nothing?" He lifted one hand from the wheel to put air quotes around the word nothing.

You glared at his side profile. "Okay, Mr. Therapist."

"What?" He looked at you again, before focusing back on the road. "I'm just saying. Reid is so far gone for you, opening up to him would never be for nothing. If you want it to work you have to work for it."

"Since when are you an expert on relationships, Derek 'has a new girl every week' Morgan." You rolled your eyes. But you couldn't deny that his words stirred something inside you.

"Okay, you're just being mean now, sugar. I'm incredibly wise." He pretended to push glasses up his nose.

That got a laugh out of you. A real, stomach ache inducing laugh. Maybe you were hysterical now, too.

Morgan smiled at that. He was glad to hear that sound again, after months filled with frown lines and sharp tones.

After you calmed down, you got back into work mode, calling the team and telling them what you had discovered. You told Penelope to check the address and she confirmed that it was an abandoned laboratory.

Now everything happened quickly. Hotch ordered you to drive to the lab and wait for the team, to be on alert for anyone entering or leaving the building, but not to—under any circumstances—enter or separate from each other.

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

Not even twenty minutes later, you and Morgan arrived at the laboratory and prepared by putting on your vests and checking your guns.

The other black SUVs lined up in front of the main entrance shortly after.

You caught Spencer's eyes as he got out of the car. He scanned you from head to toe for injuries. When he found none, the concern on his face melted away quickly enough for you to consider you had imagined it.

"No one has entered or left the front door in the time we were here." You said when the team reassembled.

Hotch nodded. "Morgan, you and Prentiss go in from behind and search the lower level. JJ, Rossi and I search the second floor."

"But that means—" Spencer started to protest but Hotch has already pointed at you.

"You and Reid, go to the upper level."

Because you were so focused on the case (totally not because you want to show Hotch you could be more professional than Spencer), you just nodded.

"Good. Let us not waste time we don't have." Hotch frowns and everyone goes their separate ways.

Spencer glanced at you and you glanced at him. This was the first time you had been alone together since the break up and you were both unsure what to do with each other.

"Is your vest secure?" Spencer asked after a short awkward pause. He took a step closer and you try your best not to flinch back. Professional, you remind yourself like a mantra.

"Yes." You retort steadily enough, but he was already reaching out to tug on the straps.

You frowned at the display of worry, but decided on letting him have his moment. Purely to save energy, of course.

"Fine, let's go up." He said as he was satisfied with your vest. Together you made your way up the stairwell onto the upper level.

As you sneaked through the eerily quiet lab, the only sound heard was the clacking of your heeled boots on the resin floor.

Spencer glared at you. "Couldn't have worn a worse shoe for this, could you?" He whispered.

"I could've hardly worn my crocks." You snapped back. "Focus."

Both of your guns were trained around the corners as you carefully assed the situation. So far there was nothing that seemed too out of the ordinary for an abandoned laboratory. Broken glass, dusty workstations, pipes…Nothing to accompany you and Spencer but silence.

Until a shot rang out. And you wince.

The bullet just barely grazed your upper arm but it was enough to make a crimson blotch bloom on your white button up.

Spencer pulled you behind a corner before you could get hurt even worse and presses his hand over your wound.

He wrapped a hand around your wrist to hold your arm still and assessed your arm. "Does it hurt badly?"

"It's fine. Focus on the UnSub." You scowled, pushing against his shoulders with your free hand. Spencer didn't budge. "Reid, I'm so serious—"

"No, I'm serious," he said your name sternly. "Answer my ques—"

Another shot rang out before he could finish repeating himself, but it thankfully didn't hit anyone.

You gave him a look that says see? I fucking told you so. and pushed him away to glance around the corner to fire some shots at the guy.

"The suspect is in the upper level." You said into the microphone. "He's wearing a black bomber. Brown hair. I can't tell much. He's armed and shooting." You listed off.

"Copy that." Answered JJ's voice back to you.

"Get," Spencer grumbled, "behind the wall."

"You almost sound worried." You grinned and taunted him by doing the direct opposite of his command, leaning further around the corner.

"That's because I am. It doesn't look great on my report if I just let you die." He bitt out, pulling you back by your wrist that he still hasn't let go of.

Unfortunately, he ended up slamming your back against the wall in the process.

You made a noise that could only be described as a grunt. "Oh, and manhandling does?"

Both of you were now pressed against the wall, with Spencer's arms caging you in so you couldn't make a run for it and do something even more reckless.

"I'll just put it down as keeping you from sabotaging the mission." He was panting, and for a moment the thought of just how attractive he was crossed your mind. Until you shook it off.

Just as you opened your mouth to taunt him some more, you ear piece crackles and Hotch's voice was heard saying yours and Spencer's names, "—what is your position?"

"We're still—fuck!" Another shot rang out before you could finish the sentence, hitting a pipe on the opposing wall and causing you to flinch. Steam hissed from the hole. Spencer shushed you and you were tempted to snap at him, but you lowered your voice instead. Staying quiet was in your best interest, to make the shooter believe you were hit and the danger passed.

"Still on the third floor. He's got us cornered." You continued quietly.

And because Spencer just couldn't leave it at that, he added into the mic, "She's hurt, we will need an ambulance when we're out of here."

Glaring, you retorted, "I'm fine, a bullet just grazed my arm."

"It's still important to get it checked out!" Spencer replied in a harsh whisper. He was really pushing your buttons now.

"We're on our way up. Try to get him into the stairwell." Is the only response you get from Hotch.

You breathe out. "Okay, let's try to get to the stairwell."

Spencer nods, gesturing for you to take the lead and finally stepped back to free you from the cage of his arms. (And the suffocating urge to kiss him.)

With your gun stretched out in front of of you, you carefully take step after step along the eerily quiet hallway.

"You go right," Spencer murmured, "I'll take the left."

"What? No—" But it was an impossible task, stopping Spencer Reid once he was set on doing something. He had already disappeared into another hallway.

"Does he learn nothing from his mistakes?" You mumbled to yourself, but do as he demanded nonetheless.

You placed one foot in front of the other with caution, rounding the corners not before listening into the silence.

Suddenly there was a noise. You didn't know if it was Spencer, your imagination or the UnSub, but all of your body was braced for battle.

Taking a deep breath, you rounded the corner. The hallway ended with a wall adorned with two doors. One lead to the stairwell, spiralling down into the second floor.

The other door was open. It looked like a lab to you, but you didn't have a good enough angle to see what was inside. The walls specked with dust and grime, mold forming in the crevices.

You caught movement in the room and walked slowly towards it. You had a half formed though to signal to Spencer through the mic, but before you could execute it, you had already entered the room.

A man stood with his back to you at one of the work stations. You took another step towards him, but your boot crushed a shard of glass under its heel. You froze.

Theodore spun around in panic, picking his gun up from the counter. "You—You should be—I shot you."

You breathed in deep to steady your voice. Theo's choice of words struck a match of hope in you. Maybe he didn't know that Spencer and the rest of the team were in the building, too. Maybe he just saw you.

"The bullet graced my arm." You confirmed, taking a step closer to him.

"Get back. Get back!" He screamed, forcing you to walk deeper into the room with his gun, so his back was to the door. "If you shoot, I'll go down pressing the trigger and you will go down, too."

His hand was shaking around the gun, he looked like he might drop it every moment. The room was dark, just a little sliver of light coming through the small window.

You watched it flicker and tried to come up with something to say, but your brain blanked on the profile.

Being a profiler had taught you a lot, but in this moment all you could focus on was that Spencer was somewhere in this building and you had no idea if he was safe.

"Theo, I know what your father did to you, how he would train you to take every hit without flinching, the burning." You said carefully.

"Don't—don't talk about my father like you know anything! Because you don't—you don't know anything!Lower you gun!" He spit out.

Just as you were trying to find a way to tell him that there was no way you would lower your gun, you saw Spencer through the doorframe behind Theo, gun pointed at him, too. You tried not to look at him as you continued.

"I won't shoot if you don't give me a reason to, Theo. I—I talked to your mother." You tried in a last desperate attempt to deescalate the situation.

That seemed to get his attention, he lowered his gun a little, before taking a step closer to you pointing it at you again. "Leave my mother out of this." He growled.

You continued anyway. "She told me that she was sorry, about your fight before you left. She is so, so proud of you, Theo. Told me to tell you that she loves you. Nothing could make her stay mad at you forever, she just wants you in her life again." You tried not to look at Spencer as you spoke the words to Theo that were really meant for him.

Tears formed in Theo's eyes. A sight that you had seen just forty minutes earlier, in his mother's. "Stop! It doesn't matter if she's proud. I lied to her! I lied."

"Of course it matters, if you put the weapon down and come back with us to the station, you could see her again. You could be her son again."

His laugh is hollow as he said, "Do you think I'm stupid? You're trying to get me to surrender. What do you called it? A talk down? Making false promises just to get me locked up. You never end up keeping them." His grip on the trigger tightened.

Another thing you learned as a profiler was not to get attached to victims or UnSubs. And while most of the team had failed at that, you had always considered yourself lucky—or heartless, for that matter.

But as you watched the pain on Theo's face, you understood. Maybe not everything he did, but you understood the cause. Understood that all of his life was set up for him to end here, in this lab, two guns pointed at him.

Behind him, Spencer nodded towards the stairs and you tried to signal to him that you didn't understand without exposing his location. He just gestured towards them again, frowning at you to just do as he said.

He took a few steps deeper into the room to clear the doorway, somehow managing not to get caught by Theo. It was a gamble he gladly took if it meant you were safe. "Theo, you don't have to do this."

Spencer's voice startled Theo and for a second you were terrified that he was going to shoot. But instead, he just turned around quickly, panicked pointing the gun at Spencer.

Your moment to run. Just to get help and come back to him. You sprinted out of the room, past Theo and Spencer. Theo shouted "No!" but it was too late, you were already half down the stairs.

You silently begged Spencer to hold on for a little longer. But just as you practically jumped of the last step in a hurry, you heard a gunshot.

Freezing on the bottom of the steps for the fraction of a second, you tried not to panic, but just as you turned to sprint back up the stairs, an arm wrapped around your middle, the other covering your mouth.

"Shh," came Rossi's voice from behind you. You struggled as he dragged you out of the building.

Fresh air hit your face as you were forced to exit, but all you could think about was the fact that Spencer's dead body might be lying on the third level of an abandoned laboratory.

You tried to pull back from him but he wouldn't let you. "No—Spencer. Spence is still—Spencer!" You struggled against his grip.

"You can't go back in there—" Rossi said your name. "The kid is smart, you know that. He—"

Before he could finish, there was another gunshot, this one closer. You almost sank to your knees as everyone around you prepared to take down the UnSub.

And were rebuild when Spencer emerged from the building a few seconds later, hands raised, "Don't shoot, he is injured, but breathing." He gestured behind him somewhere.

Rossi finally let you go when Spencer was far enough away from danger.

Not wasting a minute, you ran towards Spencer, almost crashing into him in the process.

Emily, JJ and an EMT passed you in a blur as they went into the laboratory to secure Theo. You barely registered them.

"What happened?" You didn't know whether to push him or to kiss him. You opted for the first, pushing against his shoulders. "Why would you tell me to leave? I—We had it handled. Together. I—I—You fucking scared me."

Spencer just pulled you to him by your good arm and wrapped you in a tight embrace. He didn't say anything for a while, just letting you process your feelings.

The fear of loosing Spencer for good, the pain of the break up, the conflicting feelings of having to work with your ex (that you're still very much in love with). You clung to him as your emotions overtake you. And, fuck, your arm hurt!

"Shh, it's okay. I'm okay. Here—" he pulled back with some difficulty, given that you had quite a firm grip on him, and took your hand in his, placing it on the side of his neck. "Can you feel that? I'm okay."

You nodded. "You're okay." You breathed out, looking from your hand on his pulse point, to his eyes. "Why would you do that?" Tears pricked at your eyes.

"I didn't think rationally. All I could think about was that there was a gun pointed at you and all my brain would come up with was stupid ideas to make him point it at me. Please forgive me."

He looked at you with his big, sad, brown puppy eyes, while his thumb brushed softly against the skin under your eye to catch your tears before they could fall.

You would have said something flirty like, you might have to make it up to me some more, if you weren't so terribly mad at him. "Maybe. I can't promise anything."

He smiled softly despite your answer. Maybe even because of it. It was a silly thought, you not forgiving him. "I can work with maybe."

An EMT whisked you away shortly after, but Spencer's hand stayed in yours until they slipped apart and his arm fell to his side.

He wasn't sure if he could just follow, he stayed away and watched you get checked out by the EMTs.

All of it—the story of you and him—reminded him of Cassandra witnessing the fall of Troy. It was stupid to compare two people who were so insignificant to history to two of histories most known tragedies, but it fit like he still did into the palm of your hand.

He had known that he would never be able to get over you. No one had believed him, telling him that time heals all wounds and that he couldn’t see the bigger picture yet, because he was still in it.

But he had known, and it still rang true. You were it for him and he would never find anyone that made him feel more like himself. It was foolish to think he could survive the break up, foolish to think he would get over it.

Hell, he had taken being on the receiving end of your spite over being your friend because it meant you'd look at him and feel something.

Taking all of his courage together, Spencer decided to approach you after the EMT finished patching you up.

"Hey," he said gently. This was the first time you talked without snarling at each other outside of work since the break up and it felt like finally breathing fresh air again after living purely off of carbon dioxide. "Doing good? How is your arm?"

You looked up at him from the steps on the back of the ambulance. You looked rough, exhausted. The sleeves of your shirt were rolled up to allow the EMT to bandage your wound.

It felt different now, talking to you. The moment of adrenaline had passed and he had no idea how to talk to you. The times of snarling seemed to be over, but the ones of kissing and I love you's were long gone, too.

"I'm okay. All patched up. I don't think I will ever take my reflexes for granted ever again." You tried to smile, but it didn't reach your eyes. "How are you?"

He wanted to deflect, to twist it back to you, but he humoured you. "Exhausted, but I'm good. I'm just glad you're safe."

What he actually wanted to say was: I love you, I'm glad you're speaking to me again. Let's never split up again. Please. And: I miss you, I don't know what to do with myself. I feel like everyone is running laps around me for the first time in my life.

Of course, he said none of it, this wasn't the time to dig that hole. Instead he just looked at you.

The blue of the sirens flickered on your face and even though you looked exhausted, he could't help but think you were the most beautiful thing Mother Earth has sculpted. The Grand Canyon was nothing in comparison to the frown lines on your face, the stars nothing compared to your freckles and birthmarks.

You looked back at him then, but thankfully didn't question the look on his face that without a doubt read, I love you.

Instead, you rested your head on his shoulder in a silent, I love you, too.

There was so much to talk about, so much to tell him, but when he insisted on taking you home, because he wouldn't let you drive home alone after the events of today, all you cared about was that he was there again. Fully. Without snapping, without pretend hate. Just the old you and the old him again.

You fell into your bed that night, the glaring blue light of your digital clock telling you that it was 3am. Earlier than a lot of other late nights at the BAU.

Spencer didn't hesitate to take off your work clothes, didn't ask where your pyjamas were, didn't stop to think what this all meant for you now. He didn't need to, all of this was an Obvious.

You didn't tell him to lay down next to you, to climb under the covers and flip the light off, to let you rest your head on his chest. He just did all of it. Because it was a routine, the known in all the unknown that was your relationship now. A Constant.

In the morning, you would talk about it. While he was changing your bandage with careful fingers. But right now, the sound of Spencer's heart beating your name lulled you to sleep.

In the end, fear and worry had been the best matchmakers.

──────────── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

PART TWO

thank you so much for reading! please remember reblogging, commenting and liking if you enjoyed the fic. feedback is appreciated!! 𝜗𝜚

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p0orbaby · 16 days ago

Note

Hi ,

May i request a cute short blurb of alexia putellas x reader where the reader is pregnant but she doesn't like anyone to hover and alexia is trying to hover quietly so that the reader doesnt notice or else the reader will bite her head off

“You’re breathing on me.”

You don’t look up. Your hand stays suspended an inch above the polished quartz island you had imported from Valencia last spring, poised carefully over the final, meticulous flick of buttercream on the Victoria sponge you didn’t even want to bake but decided on after a week-long craving that you blamed squarely on homesickness, the hormonal kind. Somewhere between your third and fourth trip to El Corte Inglés in one afternoon, you realised nostalgia tastes faintly of strawberry jam and bitter disappointment.

“I’m not,” Alexia says. She is, obviously. You can feel it—the faintest mist of her breath, close enough that if you turned, your reading glasses would fig up with a single exhale.

You straighten slowly, with the exact measured indifference of a Michelin inspector dissecting an amuse-bouche. You catch her reflection in the brushed steel of the Miele coffee machine she insisted on buying after a two-hour row in a Sant Cugat appliance showroom. She’s standing exactly 1.3 metres away—you’ve measured it with your eyes because you’re the sort of person who knows the circumference of a football (68–70cm), the exact sugar content of a Mercadona tarta de queso (approximately 32%), and the London to Barcelona flight time down to the minute (2 hours 5 minutes).

Alexia is pretending to check her phone.

It’s upside down.

The screen is blank.

The effort is almost insulting.

“You’re hovering,” you inform her, conversationally, like announcing the weather.

“No I’m not,” she replies, voice high, too fast, guilty.

You glance at her sideways. “You’re hovering like a fucking Guardia Urbana drone.”

She flushes.

You return to the cake, smoothing the top with the flat of your palette knife—a heavy Sabatier you brought over from England because Spanish knives, in your experience, are either dangerously blunt or designed exclusively for stabbing jamón. You’ve developed a twitch lately: an overwhelming need for everything to be perfectly symmetrical. The chaos of pregnancy—skin stretching, organs rearranging, blood pumping like a dodgy plumbing system—has made you obsessed with control over the insignificant.

Matching mugs. Alphabetised spice rack. Towels folded exactly to hotel standards: tri-fold, not half.

Alexia’s presence thrums in the background like tinnitus.

You can feel her trying not to fuss. Trying and failing.

“I’m blending,” she says, without conviction.

“You’re about as subtle as Sagrada Família,” you mutter.

She shifts awkwardly, the rubber soles of her Nike P-6000’s squeaking faintly on the hand-tiled floor you both spent a month arguing over—Catalan mosaic or modern minimalism. Modern minimalism won. You told yourself it was because of practicality but secretly it was because you could imagine this child, this squalling hypothetical mass, vomiting spectacularly over terrazzo.

Alexia folds her arms, a little too tightly. She’s wearing the navy Barça hoodie she stole from the kit room last season, the one with the crest embroidered so neatly you sometimes stare at it just to feel calmer.

“I just…” she starts, then trails off.

You wipe the knife clean on a damp tea towel—Liberty print, an import because Spanish ones are too short, too thin, too prone to shrivelling like old men in the sun.

“You just… what?” you prompt, tone sharp enough to draw blood.

She shrugs, helpless. “I’m being nearby.”

“Congratulations,” you deadpan. “Shall I fetch you a medal?”

Alexia pouts, an expression that would probably have got her punched if she weren’t spectacularly, unfairly beautiful.

There’s a bottle of Solán de Cabras water on the island, the blue one you’ve been craving like it’s holy water, and you take a slow, careful sip, just for something to do. You can see Alexia itching to offer you something—toast, fruit, the moon on a plate—and you brace yourself for the inevitable.

“Are you hungry?” she blurts, like a sneeze.

You don’t answer immediately. You let the silence unfurl between you like a long, slow exhale. Barcelona silence: interrupted only by the distant yapping of a terrier somewhere on Carrer d’Aragó, the low hum of a Vespa struggling uphill.

“I’m fine,” you say eventually, with the kind of icy politeness that would make Buckingham Palace staff nod in approval.

Alexia shifts her weight from one foot to the other, chewing her bottom lip like it’s rationed. You notice she’s wearing her fitness tracker again—a WHOOP with a Tundra Superknit bisep band—obsessively monitoring her sleep, her steps, her heart rate. You imagine it buzzing quietly under her hoodie, flashing an alert: STRESS DETECTED. BREATHE, IDIOT.

You almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

“Do you want to feel it kick?” you offer, with all the grace of a trapdoor opening.

Her face lights up like Plaça de Catalunya at Christmas.

She’s across the room in two strides, hands out, reverent, like you’re a relic.

She places her palm gently over the slight swell of your stomach—warm, steady, the faint scent of her vanilla hand cream ghosting up to you. You remember buying it with her in a cramped Gràcia pharmacy two months ago. She spent fifteen minutes comparing brands while you sat on a plastic stool and calculated, clinically, whether divorce paperwork could be filed in Catalan.

You both wait.

And wait.

The baby remains stubbornly, impressively still.

“I swear,” Alexia says, whispering like the baby might overhear and feel insulted, “it moved earlier.”

You nod slowly, gravely. “Maybe it’s allergic to hovering.”

#alexia putellas #alessia russo x reader #woso #woso x reader

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eicsferrari · 2 months ago

Text

good graces - ln4 smau

summary: when yn and her bf go to watch f1, lando develops a crush. so when they break up, he's the first in line

a/n: there's a good chance I won't stop until i write an au for every sabrina song lol

masterlist

taglist: @justaf1girl @anamiad00msday @readtoooomuch @2bormaybenot

જ ♡ જ

ynupdates yn with her boyfriend at the australian grand prix

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user1 yn and f1??? yasss we won

user2 random ? but i'm not complaining

user3 i wonder which team she's rooting for

user4 probably mclaren bc he's a well known mclaren fan

user3 we need a picture of her and lando🙏🏼

user5 OH MY GOD SHE LOOKS SO GOOD

user6 and he's just ...there

user7 i need a driver to wife her up she would DEVOUR as a wag

user8 she is literally there with her boyfriend?? don't be disrespectful

user7 never let your boyfriend stop you from finding your husband 😔👊🏼 ♡liked by lando

user9 STOP WHY DID LANDO LIKE THAT COMMENT THAT'S HILARIOUS

જ ♡ જ

f1rumors inside sources claim lando was "captivated" with singer yn after meeting her in australia, despite the rumors going around of him dating a model

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user10 oh so he's a cheater

user11 lmao where did you get to that conclusion?

user10 can't you read? it says he liked another girl while already dating someone

user11 "dating" when they shared ONE coffee one time and they don't even follow each other on any social media ok !!

user12 also we don't know if they were exclusive?? she was seen at dinner with another guy last week and no one cared. yall trust the media too much. let them be

user13 and we still didn't get a yn x lando picture💔

user14 NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO don't steal my wife norris

user15 why is everyone making a big deal? she has a boyfriend anyways

જ ♡ જ

two months later

yn in my single era

♡liked by lando and others

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user16 THEY BROKE UP

user17 we cheer🤝🏼

user18 lando in the likes this is your moment champ

user19 taylor posted she was single while celebrating 4th of july and got a boyfriend. selena released single soon and got a boyfriend. yn posted this...

user20 i volunteer as tribute!

iamrebeccad 😍😍 ♡liked by yn

જ ♡ જ

yn posted a story

💽 sports car - tate mcrae

↪lando replied to your story

lando you know... if you ever want to piss off your ex by dating the driver of the team he supports i think i could help you with that

yn hi lando

yn lol is mclaren not paying you enough that you need a side job?

lando nah, just being a good samaritan

yn i see

yn and what makes you think you are qualified for it?

lando for starters, you saw me win. for his favorite team. so there's that

yn mmm i dont remember sorry i was too busy staring into charles eyes he's really dreamy...maybe i could ask him to annoy my ex!

yn or if i need a mclaren driver there's always oscar

lando ok but i won the race👊🏼

yn yeah, we already established i don't recall that

lando i could refresh your memory if you're free to come to the next race

yn hypothetically, i could arrange that

yn but is that enough to make him mad?

lando you going to cheer for a hot f1 driver who happens to like you and will treat you the way he couldn't while he has to wonder how he was such an idiot for losing you?

lando yes, i think it will

lando up for the experiment?

yn send me the details

જ ♡ જ

landoupdates lando seen this morning driving to the paddock

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user21 who is she?? is it that model he's been seeing?

user22 i don't think so, she just posted a story and she's in spain

user23 he looks so good😩

user24 there's like three pixels

user23 yes but he always looks good

user24 fair enough

user25 i literally couldn't care less who he dates BUT if he gets distracted from racing i will personally go to his house and end him. i need him to be champion

user26 that's insane (but same)

જ ♡ જ

yn posted a story

💽2 hands - tate mcrae

↪yourbestfriend replied to your story

yourbestfriend YN WHAT IS HAPPENING

yourbestfriend the internet is going wild, you are trending on twitter !!!! so spill the tea

yn remember lando?

yn ig we've kinda been talking

yourbestfriend ok

yourbestfriend define talking

yn we chat for hours every day, all the time

yn i send him random selfies and pictures of the things i'm doing and he does the same

yn he facetimes me when he can and i've fallen asleep while still on call cause we were on different time zones but we try to talk as much as possible. and no matter what, even on the busiest days, he makes sure to send me a text before i go to bed at night

yourbestfriend omg

yn now i'm at the paddock, shaking in my boots cause one, his job is fascinating but so scary i'm so afraid he might crash and two, i think i like him a lot but this is the second time i see him in person

yn i'm already writing songs about him!!!! i must be insane, out of my mind. they should send me away

yourbestfriend i don't think that's insane

yourbestfriend and i think after your ex you deserve to be in a relationship that makes you this giddy

yn the race is starting talk to you later ily❤️

જ ♡ જ

f1updates after his victory lando posted this photo to his stories with the caption "p1 baby" and deleted it almost immediately. fans are speculating it's a dig at singer yn's ex, who used to make a similar pose on pictures

yn was present at today's race

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user27 he went to the franco colapinto's school of deleting everything

user28 iconic behavior he should've kept it

user29 so petty ugh

જ ♡ જ

two months later

yn "break my heart and i swear i'm moving on with your favorite athlete"

just a little song i performed at coachella. good graces out now

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yourbestfriend SOTY

user30 THOSE LYRICS WITH THAT OUTFIT yn the pop queen you are

lando 🥵🥵

yn 🧡

user31 oh they are so together

user32 don't mind me i'm just enjoying the drama

user33 "shoot his shot every night" OMG😳

user34 she's just looking for attention 🙄🙄 annoying af

user35 if i was her ex i would be so embarrassed imagine fumbling yn ♡liked by lando

જ ♡ જ

ynupdates lando norris was in the audience tonight

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user36 yn dating someone supportive 🙏🏼 we used to pray for times like this

user37 lando and yn double dating with taylor and travis not even on my wildest fantasies

user38 i know a pr couple when i see one

user39 ???

જ ♡ જ

yn drawing hearts round our names

♡liked by taylorswift and others

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user39 girl we can tell that's lando

tatemcrae hottest couple ever

yn ilyy

user40 so not in your single era anymore?

yn no🥰

lando whoever wrote that note knows what he's talking about

user41 yea we all wonder who was it

user42 both of them are so desperate and want to be relevant so bad🙄🙄

user43 this is the dumbest take i ever read😭😭 he's fighting for the championship and she's the number 1 pop star at the moment, they are more relevant than your 15 followers account could ever dream of. what more attention could they need?

lando no it's true i'm desperate for yn's attention, i hate it when she ignores my texts😔😔

yn I WENT TO THE BATHROOM IT WAS TWO MINUTES

lando if you really loved me you would've taken the phone with you while you pee 😔 i knew you just wanted me for my fame and glory

yn and the cars!! don't forget the cars

જ ♡ જ

lando your lost, my gain

tagged yn

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yn this is all fake and for pr‼️ stop using me for my fame lando norris

yn i love you❤️

lando i love you more

#f1 smau #formula 1 smau #f1 x you #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 x reader #lando norris x y/n #lando norris smau #lando norris x you #ln4 smau #ln4 x you #ln4 x y/n #ln4 x reader #ln4 fanfic

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darlingdaisyfarm · 6 months ago

Text

texting Stan and Ford headcanons

smut version

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ Stan Pines

✧ Stan is the kinda guy who thinks emojis are a scam, but somehow, he figured out how to use the "thumbs up" and "money bag" emoji. so, expect a lot of those in your chats.

✧ his text tone is rough, a little misspelled, typed like he's yelling even when he isn’t. Half of his texts are in all caps, and he absolutely does not care about grammar. but he gets the point across, always.

✧ you’re getting messages at 3 am about some ‘brilliant’ scheme to make a quick buck. he’ll send, “LISTEN, doll, what if we made... GIANT… glitter-filled eggs for easter? Tourists'll go NUTS." you reply, half-asleep, with “Stan, ily but go to bed." and all you get back is a “🤬 YOU GOTTA THINK BIGGER!”

✧ Stan sends those weird chain messages he swears are from some “hotshot businessman” that’ll make you rich in a week. and when you don’t respond immediately, you get a: “Fine, Miss Doubtful, see you when I’m rolling in gold.”

✧ there are whole days where he just floods your phone with random, blurry photos of some new Mystery Shack "artifact" he found. It’s usually junk he picked up at a garage sale, like a “haunted” ashtray or some knock-off painting that’s “probably ancient.”

✧ If he’s feeling sappy (and tipsy): you might get a rare “thinking bout you, sweet thing” at 2 am. but if you try to call him on it the next day, he’ll just be like “Didn’t say that. You’re makin’ stuff up.”

✧ when he’s really riled up about something, though? then his messages are just. . . a stream of caps-lock curses, mixed with misspelled attempts to describe whatever nonsense he just got himself into. you just sit back and let him rant; he’ll cool off eventually.

✧ and the voice messages are something else. they sound like he’s talking through a fan half the time. one minute, he’s rambling about how tourists are “the dumbest suckers on the planet” and the next, he’s ranting about how “bigfoot definitely broke into the shack last night!"

types of messages Stan texts:

"So… whatcha wearin’? 😏"

“Hey doll, I just found a penny on the ground! Maybe today’s my lucky day… hint hint ;)"

"I’d say somethin’ romantic, but I think my brain just shorted out. You’re a little too cute for a guy like me."

"Just tried that new café downtown. Ordered coffee… tastes like they filtered it through someone’s laundry. You’d hate it. Wanna come mock it with me?"

"Not gonna lie, I miss that face of yours. So what’re we doin’ about it, huh?"

“Again missin’ that cute little smile of yours… maybe you could send me a pic to remind me?”

"Wanna help me scam the tourists today? I’ll split the loot with ya… maybe ;)”

"You wouldn’t believe what I caught Ford muttering in his sleep. Man’s like a walking encyclopedia, even when he’s unconscious."

“Got any plans later? Thought maybe we could… y’know… not have plans together."

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ Ford Pines

✧ hehehehe he’s like an old-school emailer who’s just now getting the hang of messaging apps. texts in complete sentences, full punctuation, like he’s drafting a dissertation.

✧ He sends you whole paragraphs at random hours, talking about some discovery he’s made, like he’s reporting directly to NASA. you’re like, “Ford, it's just a weird-looking squirrel." and he's already typing another essay about its "possible interdimensional origins."

✧ once in a while, he’ll send you a message that says, “Are you awake?” at, like 3 am followed by a string of thoughtful yet completely bonkers hypotheses. you find it cute, though, his mind never stops, not even for a second.

✧ If he’s feeling bold, you might even get a “hypothetical” confession out of him: “Hypothetically, if one were to develop... strong emotional attachment to a certain person... how would one proceed?" You tease him about it the next day, and he gets flustered, “It was purely scientific curiosity."

✧ Ford isn’t big on emojis, but he likes the brain and alien ones, using them poetically. he’ll sign off texts with a single brain emoji, like it’s his version of a little goodbye wave.

✧ on really rare occasions, he’ll send a voice message. they’re always way too long, and it’s usually him whispering so he doesn’t wake Stan up. he goes on about cosmic rays or “gravity anomalies,” his voice dropping lower when he gets excited. you live for those moments

✧ and if he ever texts you a “good night,” you just know he’s been up thinking about it for hours, trying to figure out if it’s “appropriate.”

types of messages Ford texts:

“It’s been approximately 3 hours, 12 minutes, and 23 seconds since our last conversation… not that I’m counting or anything. Just… miss you."

sends a meme about science nerds “Us. But mostly me.”

“My hands ache from writing… though perhaps if it were writing about you, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Do you think about me too, or am I the only one utterly ruined by this… whatever this is?”

“I’ve been thinking about that book you lent me... 🤔 It’s honestly so much more interesting than I expected, thank you for recommending it."

"I don’t know how to work this... But I managed to send a meme! It’s not the worst thing I’ve done, I suppose?

“I did it. I fixed the telescope. Finally. Now we can actually look at the stars like we’ve talked about. :)"

"I hope you’re feeling okay today. I noticed you seemed a little stressed the other day. Don’t forget to take care of yourself. :) It’s important."

"If I could rearrange the periodic table, I’d put U and I together. :( Sorry, nerdy joke... :’D)”

ps - I CANT THEYRE SO CUTE BOTH I WANT TO SMASH THEM AGAINST THE WALL

lmao if someone wants, i can write some spicy types of chatting with them :)))

#gravity falls x reader #gravity falls x you #x reader #gravity falls #gravity falls smut #ford pines x reader #ford pines smut #stan pines smut #stan pines x reader #stan pines x oc #stan pines x you #ford pines x you #stanford pines x you #stanford pines x reader #gravity falls headcanons

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palinecrosis · 2 months ago

Text

reed800 > reed900 and the mischaracterization of connor

I never understood people’s affinity for reed900 over reed800, and all the reasonings I’ve heard for it never make sense to me. Just to be clear, this post isnt meant to attack anybody who ships reed900, I’ve watched Detroit evolution alright. I fucked with it heavy. I’ve got a solid three Reed900 fics in my ao3 bookmarks. I have credentials. Don’t come for me.

Anyway, I will always prefer Connor and Gavin’s dynamic over a Nines and Gavin hypothetical one. I feel like the reason people don’t like covnin is because they often misinterpret Connor’s character, I see this amongst convin shippers too, not just people who dislike the ship.

I keep hearing the argument that “Gavin hates Connor, and Connor doesn’t stand up for himself. Nines would be more cold, which matches Gavin’s personality.” This is probably the shittiest take I’ve ever heard. The DBH fandom tends to see Connor as meek. Because of this, they think he’s vulnerable to Gavin’s hostility, which is just not true. When we’re introduced to Gavin, he’s antagonistic towards Connor right of the bat. Connor, in order to keep the peace, remains professional. This is because initially, it’s not in Connor’s interest/programming to disobey or disrupt humans. He prefers to move along, focus on the mission and ignore unnecessary distractions. However, when Gavin persists, when the android being interrogated is about to self destruct, Connor has the choice to physically stop the officer from restraining it and he does, defying Gavin in the process as well. Connor does not care about Gavin’s human authority in this case, he only cares about what he knows to be true and sticking to his objective.

Now you may bring up the breakroom scene in which Gavin punches Connor, Connor just seems to let it happen despite it being a direct physical attack and not just an offhand comment. I hate when people bring this up because at this time, Connor was not deviant yet. He did not develop enough consciousness/deviancy to actively choose to defend himself. Again, in order to move things along and cause the least ruckus possible, he takes it. I’ve also heard arguments that Connor “pretends” to be hurt in order to seem subservient to Gavin to make it seem like he’s not fighting back against a human. I like that theory!

People also seem to forget that when things directly misalign with his mission, Connor is quick to go against anybody, even humans, who stand in the way. Have people forgotten what Connor did to Gavin in the archive room? He beat the living shit out of him, incapacitated him, and walked off with a final tie adjustment as if it was nothing. This is the Connor who you’re calling meek, the one who pretended to be the Traci’s dead girlfriend to get to Jericho. The one who sampled Markus’ voice to take advantage of beaten down Simon’s loyalty. The one who nagged Hank to rent Traci’s until the lieutenant humiliatedly obliged. The one who chased Kara and a child down a highway. The one who gets himself killed multiple times just to accomplish his mission. The one who sarcastically told Gavin he’d “miss their bromance.” PLEASE.

All of this is to make a point for a romantic/sexual dynamic between Connor and Gavin that actually puts them as equals. Where we get the good ending with deviant Connor, androids having rights, Gavin being forced into sensitivity training and actually learn to see androids as people (we love the Gavin Reed Redemption tag). None of that degrading convin bullshit where Connor puts up with Gavin’s bigotry and thinks “I can fix him!” Where Gavin actually takes responsibility for his own behavior and slowly learns to change his outlook.

Connor would not shut up to Gavin’s insults. He’d push back just as hard, sarcastic and sardonic in his own way. He’d spit some sort of off putting logical roast at Gavin to hurt his feelings, psychoanalyzing him to a T. They’d have amazing back and forth, banter fuelled with sexual tension, actual physical fights, prolonged angry eye contact, pinning down and grabbing dangerously close to certain areas. Connor beginning to warm up to Gavin’s hostility, being smart, seeing past it, knowing it’s a cover up for something more raw and vulnerable. Gavin starting to think “Maybe he’s not so bad” to “he’s funny” to “he’s pretty fucking hot” to “shit maybe I like him”. DO WE NOT SEE THE VISION!!

anyways I need to convert more people to like convin. yeah you can make your case for reed900 but they will never have as much chemistry as convin and not nearly as much hatefuck potential. thank you for reading.

#convin #gavin reed #detroit become human #reed800 #reed900 #connor dbh #dbh nines #rant post #analysis #ive been waiting to put this into words for ages #fucking finally

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cellophanejpeg · 1 year ago

Text

im a mess (but im the mess that you wanted)

s.: you've been with nanami for few months, but he never stays the night. could he be lying to you? (or: the one where you find out about nanami's secret) (nanami kento x f!reader

w.c.: 5.6k (i got carried away srry)

t.: suggestive at the beginning, developing relationship, hurt/comfort, smut at the end! see spoiler tags on ao3

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

His lips trace your neck in gentle kisses, body still glued to yours, sweat glistening on his skin. The sheets on your bed are soaked, but you don’t mind as his body is on top of yours and he looks down at you with his beautiful brown eyes and smiles softly.

“You okay?” he asks, stroking his thumb on your cheek, looking into your eyes. You lean in and kiss him, the dizziness from your pleasure fading away.

“Yes,” you answer, smiling, “that was amazing, as always.”

Nanami laughs softly, a light shade of pink painting his cheekbones.

“Come on, let's clean up.”

It's been five months since you've been seeing your coworker, Kento Nanami.

It's easy to be with Nanami, you found out. He doesn't mind your unorganized self. He doesn't care if your makeup is smudged or if your hair is tangled. He even told you he liked it. Although you have to pretend nothing is happening between you and him at work, he often gives you rides back home at the end of the day. He invites you out often, and takes you to the fanciest restaurants in the city, usually at night.

“Will you stay the night?” You ask as he pulls you up by the wrists.

He looks at you and seems to think for a moment.

“I can't. Sorry.”

You can see his shoulders sag a little as your heart sinks.

“Okay.” You whisper and stand up, walking towards your bathroom. Then, he calls your name, making you turn around to face him. His brown eyes meet yours, almost taking your breath away.

Nanami opens his mouth, then closes it. It's clear that he's nervous, that he wants to say something, but he just sighs quietly.

“Are you okay?” He asks again.

A smile spreads across your lips, even though you want to cry. “Of course.”

You watch as he nods and then enters the bathroom.

He never stays the night. He never invites you to his apartment either. He never asks you out during the week, or on your days off.

I wouldn't be surprised if he had a wife.

The thought makes you gasp out loud, the sound covered by the water of the shower. But what if he had a wife and you're just his mistress? What if he had a family, someone waiting for him every night while he fucks you into oblivion in your bed?

You suddenly feel sick. You have to ask him, you have to know. It makes too much sense. It would explain why he never takes you to a picnic, or invites you to lunch.

When you leave the bathroom, hair up in a bun and a soft towel wrapped around you, you see that he changed the sheets and made your bed while you were in the shower. He's dressing his clothes in a hurry, phone in hand.

“You're not gonna shower?” you ask, watching as he hastily buttons his shirt.

“No, sorry. Something came up.” He says, looking up at you.

You look at the clock on your nightstand. It's two in the morning. What does he mean something came up? Your heart only sinks further. No words are exchanged while he finishes dressing and gives you a kiss, before leaving.

“I'll call you tomorrow, alright?” he says at your doorstep. Tomorrow is Saturday.

You nod, “Take care.”

After he leaves, you put on the massive t-shirt you call pajamas and hop into your bed.

It's only when you rest your head on the pillow, that the tears come.

…

He doesn't call you all weekend. And doesn't show up at work on Monday.

You resist the urge to text him. Part of you doesn't want him to be in trouble with his hypothetical wife, even though he's the one who's allegedly cheating. The thoughts drown you and you can’t focus on your work.

On Tuesday, he shows up looking like death. Dark, deep, bags are under his eyes and an exhausted look on his face. He doesn’t meet your eyes, not right away. It doesn’t soothe your anxieties when a coworker teases you about wearing mismatched shoes to work – your head was so jumbled in the morning that you didn’t realize you grabbed two similar shoes that belonged to different pairs – and he interrupts the interaction, telling them to go back to work.

Later, near your usual smoke break, you get a text message from him.

You okay?

Swallowing, you take a deep breath, trying to push away all doubts and questions, you type an answer:

Yeah. Meet me at the roof in 10?

Of course.

When you push the door to the roof open, he’s already there. The sunlight momentarily blinds you, a contrast to the artificial lights of the office. You walk towards him, hands shaking. He looks at you, once you’re near enough, and smiles, letting out a relieved breath. His hands reach for you, pulling into a tight embrace. It’s like he’s relieved to finally get a moment alone with you. It warms your heart and it makes you forget about your worries for a second.

“You didn’t call,” you say, wrapping your arm around his neck.

“I’m sorry.” He buries his face on your neck, inhaling your scent. The scent of your deodorant and something he can’t describe, but it smells like you , “Had a family emergency. This weekend was crazy.”

“Oh.”

A family emergency.

That could mean anything. Maybe his brother was in an accident, or his grandmother tripped and fell, or his cousin got sick, or… Or he has a family, and you’re just a secret. Just a way for Nanami to release his stress from work and then go back to the family waiting for him, lie in bed with the woman he actually loves.

Your eyes sting with unshed tears and you hear your own voice asking,

“Are you married?”

Nanami’s body tenses before he releases you, searching your eyes.

“What?”

“Are you married?” You repeat, vision going blurry now. When he doesn't respond, you continue, “I mean, you– you never stay the night,” great, now you’re sobbing, “and you never invite me to come over, and– and–” your eyes are like an open faucet, “and you didn’t call me on Sunday and didn’t come yesterday, so, please, if I’m just your mistress, please tell me.” You sob, wiping your nose with the sleeve of your cardigan, “Please.”

Kento cups your cheek and wipes your tears, looking into your eyes.

“I’m not married,” he responds and then pulls you in a hug, kissing your hair and tucking your head under his chin, “I’m sorry my actions made you believe I was.”

You sniffle, feeling stupid now, “Okay.”

After a brief pause, he speaks again, “Would you like to come over tonight? For dinner?”

You look at him, pulling away from his embrace, “Kento, I didn’t mean��”

“I know.” He interrupts you, “I still want you to come.”

Nanami’s eyes are warm and he doesn’t care that you’re a snotty mess right now. So you nod, looking away from his perfect face. He pinches your chin gently, bringing your gaze back to him and then presses his lips against yours. Your heart leaps.

He’s never kissed you in the office before. Well, technically, you’re outside, but he never showed a sign of affection like this out of fear someone would catch the both of you. Somehow, you’re not worried about that.

“Meet me at the garage floor when you clock out.”

…

“I’d like you to meet someone,” Nanami says, as you click your seatbelt off.

The ride to his apartment was filled with soft conversation, but when you entered the apartment complex garage, he spoke with a careful voice, as if he was afraid of your reaction.

“Oh?” You wonder what's this about, since he said he wasn't married.

He leads you to the elevator and presses the button to the second to last floor, placing a hand on your lower back. Your heart is hammering inside your chest, as you get closer to his apartment. Then he guides you to the door, inserting a key and opening it.

“Papa!” a flash of pink hair runs towards Kento and hugs his legs.

“You're home early– oh.” A second voice makes you look up from the little boy attached to Nanami.

A teenage boy with dark hair stares at you. Then, Nanami calls your name.

“This is Yuuji, my son,” he says, “and that's Choso, his brother.”

You don't know where to look. To the little boy in Kento’s arms, or to the grumpy teenager that's staring with suspicious eyes at you. Nanami then introduces you to the boys. Yuuji smiles politely, but you can tell he's a bit shy.

“Um… hi,” you say, looking at them.

Choso scoffs, “That explains a lot.”

“Choso–” Nanami starts but the boy just waves a hand at him.

“Yeah, I know. I have to go, though. Got too much homework to do and this little devil kept me busy.” He ruffles his brother's hair who giggles. Then he looks at you, “Nice to meet you. Your shoes are mismatched.”

You look down at your feet, even though you know you have different shoes.

“Choso.” Nanami sighs, “Be nice to your mother.”

The boy just waves a hand at him. You look back at Nanami and Yuuji.

“Do you want to come in?” He asks, smiling. Yuuji looks at you curiously, but still apprehensive, clinging to his dad's shirt and tilting his head until it rests on Nanami’s shoulder.

Oh, fuck.

You feel so stupid right now. He clearly has a family, but he doesn't have… a wife? Choso has a mother, so he’s only Nanami’s? Then why is he leaving?

Sensing your confusion, Nanami touches your arm. “I'll explain everything. Come inside.”

For some reason, you oblige. His apartment is big as you enter the foyer and observe the living room.

“You have to take your shoes off.” Yuuji’s voice stops you from taking another step into the apartment. You look at him, surprised.

“Of course,” you answer, toeing off your – mismatched – heels, revealing the chipped black nail polish on your toenails.

Should you have dressed better for this? Maybe if he told you beforehand…

No, this isn't fair on him. You're the one who cornered him and asked about his personal life.

“Are you feeling better?” Nanami's voice is soft as he talks to his son, walking inside the apartment. It hardly seems like the man who talks obscenities to you in bed.

Suddenly, you feel like an intruder. His home is clean, neat, save from a few toys on the living room floor. The open kitchen is pristine, it seems like the counters and stove were cleaned with one of those expensive products your mom used to use at home. The massive TV is turned on, on some children's program.

Panic sets in your throat. He has a son, a family. And you’ve… you've never wanted kids. You're not good with them, they don't smile at you when you talk to them, always hiding behind their parents. You're too serious, too stiff, for them.

Kento calls your name and you look up at him, blurry vision. He's got a concerned look on his face.

“Yuuji, why don't you go get your new shoes to show our guest?” He sets the kid down, who nods and runs to another room – his bedroom, you suppose. Kento approaches you, gently taking your hand and maintaining eye contact with you.

“I'm sorry,” he says, “I should've told you.”

“No, no!” You're quick to say, “I– I shouldn't have…”

“Asked?” he finishes the sentence for you, “Sweet girl, it’s perfectly understandable why you asked.”

Your heart skips a beat at the endearing name. He cups your cheek, pressing his lips on your forehead.

“Kento… I’m not good with kids…”

He smiles at you, “Don’t worry. You’ll find out that Yuuji is easy to impress.”

As if on cue, Yuuji runs back to the living room and ends up tripping on his own feet, falling to the ground. You gasp, expecting tears, but he just stands up and resumes his run to you.

“Look!” He stomps on the floor and his shoes light up, colorful lights blinking.

You raise your brows, actually impressed by them.

“Oh, wow. That's… actually kinda cool.”

Nanami smiles softly at you, even though you're not looking. You didn't force a baby voice, or crouched down to meet Yuuji's eyes, but the sincerity in your voice is real.

“What do you want to eat?” Kento asks you, carefully.

“Ramen!” Yuuji says, giving you a toothy grin.

Nanami snorts, scooping him up quickly. “I didn't ask you !”

Yuuji giggles loudly as his father holds him upside down, Nanami smiling at the sound. You've never seen him smile like that.

“Ramen is fine, actually,” you say and they stop, looking at you for a second before Kento puts Yuuji down.

“Go put your toys away, Yuuji.” He commands, voice soft and calm. Looking back at you, the man approaches, hesitantly takes your hands, and pulls you further inside the apartment, “He got sick on the weekend. I had Choso take care of him, but he got worse on Saturday night and we had to rush him to urgent care.”

You feel your eyes widening, eyeing the kid gathering his toys in the living room.

“His fever broke yesterday morning, but I decided to take the day off just to be sure.” Nanami continued.

“Oh.” If you felt stupid before, now you feel like an idiot. The guilt blooms inside your chest, making you swallow hard and look away. And, with a tiny voice, one you don’t expect him to hear, you say, “I’m such an idiot.”

To your surprise, he laughs softly, cupping your cheeks and kissing your eyebrow.

“You aren’t.” He pulls you in an embrace, “You couldn’t have known.”

“I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions, though.” Your voice is muffled against the fabric of his suit. Nanami’s fingers intertwine in your hair, so, so gently. So different from what you’ve experienced with him. The action makes a soft, fuzzy feeling jump inside you.

“It’s alright.” He then pulls away from you and smiles. “I would’ve too.”

You blink at him as he turns around and enters the open kitchen, leaving you to think about his words. If the situation was reversed, if you had a kid that the man you were hooking up with didn’t know about it, you’d be sure he wouldn’t bat an eyelash about it.

But you’re talking about Kento Nanami here.

The stoic, cold faced, man that is your coworker. The man who always focuses on the tasks that need to be done. The man that’s showing you he cares, that he’s soft, a totally different side of him, and, little by little, tearing down the walls around your heart, making you feel… special.

A little hand pulling on yours interrupts your train of thought and you look down to see Yuuji pulling you to the living room.

“Do you want to see my new toys?” He asks, already urging you to sit down in front of the coffee table.

“S-sure.” You look back at Nanami, but his back is turned to the living room.

There are a bunch of plastic toys scattered on the table: little trucks and cars, plastic bugs and dinosaurs and a few superhero figurines. He looks very proud of his collection, smiling and looking at your reaction as he shows you the things his dad and big brother gave to him.

Then, he hands you a toy phone. You reluctantly pick it up.

“Nanamis’ office, how can I help you?” You say into the fake phone, making Yuuji laugh, “oh, he’s not available right now, his schedule is pretty tight– Sir, please calm down, no need to yell.” Yuuji laughs more, but your face is so serious that Kento wonders how you do it, “Alright, sir, I’ll ask, just a moment.” You place a hand on the ‘receiver’ and look back at Yuuji, “Sorry, Yuuji, but Mark from sales wants to speak with you, do you have time?” he has a toothy grin plastered on his face. You resume your fake conversation, “Uh, he’s really busy, doing important things, you’ll have to call later. Would you like to leave a message?”

A deep laugh interrupts your play and you look up to see Kento smiling at you. Your cheeks burn as you put the fake phone down.

“You’re funny.” Yuuji says, leaning on your side. You look back at him.

“Thank you.”

Kento, then, places a sousplat on the coffee table, following with a bowl of ramen in front of you. He does the same for him and Yuuji, warning the boy about the temperature. The little boy sits between you and Kento, happily grabbing the spoon and scooping the warm liquid. You watch as he brings the spoon to Kento and waits for him to blow on the food.

Your heart does that funny thing again.

Deciding to ignore it, you take the spoon and bring the soup from the ramen to your lips. The high temperature burns your mouth, making you drop the spoon, clattering on the ceramic bowl.

“Shit” You mumble, bringing your hand to your lips.

“Shit!” Yuuji exclaims, with a toothy grin.

Widening your eyes and looking at him, then at Nanami, you feel your heart drop. You did not just teach a little kid to curse, did you?

“Shit!” The boy repeats. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!”

“Oh, no.” As your heart beats faster, Nanami smiles at you, laughing softly.

“Choso taught him how to curse last week.” He explains, reaching to the jar of water on the center of the table and pouring you a glass.

“Shit, fuck!” Yuuji continues.

Surprised, you let out a nervous laugh.

“Yuuji.” Nanami scolds, gently. “We have a guest tonight. Be polite.”

Yuuji giggles and takes a bite of his food, like nothing had happened. Nanami is still smiling softly at you, lingering his stare. His brown eyes are soft, as if he holds a certain admiration for you.

The rest of the night goes with conversations with a kid, helping Kento to tie up the kitchen and putting Yuuji to bed.

Nanami sighs as he closes his son's bedroom door and walks over to you, back in the living room. You stare at each other with soft smiles for a moment, prolonging the time; you avoid saying that you have to leave, wanting to stay longer in his company, in his home.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” He asks, and your heart warms.

“It's a weekday,” you argue.

“I know.”

Then you nod, feeling the heat creep on your cheekbones. Nanami pours you a glass of red wine and guides you back to the couch. He crosses his leg, supporting an ankle on a knee, and stretching his arm on the top of the couch. He turns to face you, taking a sip of his red wine. Accepting his invitation, you approach him and snuggle on his body, his warmth radiates to you.

“How old is he?” You ask, after a moment of silence.

“Four,” he answers, rubbing circles with his thumb on your shoulder. When you don't say anything, he continues, “his… his mother is not in the picture.”

“Oh.” Your heart breaks a little to think of him and Yuuji abandoned by a faceless woman.

You feel him swallow hard and pull away to look into his eyes, “You don't have to tell me if you don't want…”

Nanami smiles softly, brushing a strand of your hair away from your face.

“It's alright.” He whispers. “I want to.”

You sit with your legs crossed on the couch as he tells you all about it. He tells you how he met Yuuji's mother at a bar and had a one night stand that resulted in her getting pregnant. He tells you how she wanted to get rid of it, and how he even drove her to the clinic, but felt an urge to convince her to keep it.

“I told her it was her choice, and hers only,” he says, “but if she wanted to, I'd support her in any way possible. She already had Choso and being a single mother is very hard. In the end, we decided I'd get the baby and she'd pay for child support. I told her it wasn't necessary, but she insisted.”

A valid reason, you think. Maybe this woman was so hurt in the past that another kid wouldn't do well for her.

“It's been Yuuji and I, ever since. At least until Choso found us last month.”

A smile creeps on your face, “He seems… nice.”

Nanami almost barks a laugh, holding himself to not wake Yuuji up.

“He’s a teenager. But he's very protective of Yuuji. I guess he's always wanted a brother, that's why he looked for us.”

You nod, reflecting on what he said. You can't help but feel compassion for Nanami, imagining it must have been hard for him in the first moments. Taking care of a newborn, on his own, and still going to work… you feel your heart squeeze.

“I know it's a bit overwhelming,” he says, interrupting your thoughts, “I-I… I won't blame you if you don't want this anymore…”

There. The insecurity is clear in his eyes, that avoid yours, in his stuttered words – have you ever heard him stutter before? –, in the way he leans his elbows on his knees. You can't help but feel sorry for him, but a deeper feeling takes over you.

Something strange, unfamiliar, but comforting. You don't know what it is yet, but you'll soon find out.

But it's something that drives you to uncross your legs and lean forward, against him. Gently, you take his chin and guide him to look at you. Without saying a word, you bring your lips to his, in a soft kiss.

“I don’t know how to deal with children,” you say, touching your forehead with his and closing your eyes, “but you can teach me. I know I’m clumsy and I have problems paying attention to what I wear to work, but if you… if you both give me a chance to let me in, I’ll do my best.”

Nanami cups your cheeks and leans forward to kiss you, before murmuring on your lips,

“You’re already in, sweet girl.”

Tears pool in your eyes as you kiss him back, not paying attention to the half empty glass of wine in your hands, only when it spills all over your blouse and on the couch.

“Fuck,” you whisper, quickly catching the – now empty – glass and standing up, “I’m so sorry!”

He stands up as well, never minding the stain on the couch, “I think that’s on me this time, darling.” Looking at your blouse, wet and stained, he inhales deeply. “You uh… That’s gonna stain if you don’t wash it soon.”

You look at him, knowing damn well the blouse is gone, the white fabric forever stained red. There’s a blush on Nanami’s cheekbones that makes you snicker.

“Should I take it off, then?” You ask, feigning innocence.

“Yes.” He answers too fast and you know what’s to come.

Untucking the blouse from your skirt, you cross your arms at your front and pull it over your head. Nanami’s breath hitches and he closes his hands in fists when he sees your black bra. It’s simple, not even lacy or anything, but the sight of your breasts in them makes him want to lose control.

You hand him the blouse with a smirk on your face. He says something under his breath that you can’t understand and takes it from you, “This will probably take all night.”

“I can stay as long as it takes,” you reply, “if that’s okay–”

“It’s okay.” Again with the quick answers, “There’s a shirt in my bedroom. It’s at the end of the hallway. I’ll throw this in the washing machine and be right there.”

You can tell he’s holding himself by the strain on his voice, but you put that aside, because now you’re excited to see his room. Walking through the corridor, you pass Yuuji’s bedroom and what looks to be Nanami’s office. His bedroom is neat, organized, which reflects on the kind of person he is. It’s bigger than yours, with floor to ceiling windows, and a king sized bed – that looks so soft you’re afraid to sit on it–, a walk-in closet, and a big mirror leaned on the wall.

The windows are what catches your attention. You’ve never seen a city like that, lit up in the dark, you can only see the lights of other buildings and the cars down there. It’s beautiful.

Two hands snake on your waist, making you jump. Nanami’s lips brush on your shoulders from behind as he pulls you closer, your back against his chest. Relaxing your muscles, you lean back on him, touching his arms.

“The view is beautiful.” You tell him as he peppers wet kisses from your shoulders to your neck.

“Hmm, this one too.” he says softly and you smile.

He starts to run his hands on your body, squeezing the flesh of your hips, cupping your breasts and hiking your skirt up to caress your inner thighs. Nanami moans in your ear.

“These damn lacy thigh highs.”

“Kento…” You sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder, “What about Yuuji…”

“I guess you’ll have to be quiet tonight.” He caresses your back and your neck until his hands are in your hair, giving it a tug that makes you whine quietly, desire coursing in your veins.

His mouth finds yours in a desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue, and it’s like he doesn’t kiss you in years . Nanami unzips your skirt from behind and pulls it down, turning your head, making you look at your reflection on the window.

“Do you know how hot you are?” He whispers, a feral look on his face. You don’t have to look into his eyes to know his pupils are dilated with lust.

“No…” You sigh. “Tell me… Show me.”

A hand dips between your thighs, pulling your underwear to the side, and wasting no time in coating his fingers with your wetness. You hear him groan and say something, but your mind goes blank when he messily rubs your clit. A moan escapes your lips and he lets go of your hair to cover them.

“Shh…” Nanami says, “Be a good girl and I’ll let you come tonight.”

Oh, god. You love when he takes control like this. It’s how you know he’s going to fuck you good.

Without warning, Nanami sinks two fingers inside you. You’re so wet that they glide in easily, making him chuckle.

“Kento…” you mumble, voice muffled by his hand. “Please…”

He moves his hand from your lip to your neck, “What’s that, sweet girl?”

“Please…” you repeat.

“Please what? Use your words, princess.”

Your breath hitches at the endearing name, “Please, fuck me.”

Nanami smiles and it takes a second until he guides you to bed.

“Take these off,” he says while unbuttoning his shirt, “keep the thighs on.”

You know he loves when you wear high thighs, especially the lacy ones. Reaching behind you, and unclasping your bra, a smile graces your features when he takes his shirt and pants off.

It never gets boring.

Nanami grows impatient and helps you pull down your underwear, spreading your legs after. The anticipation and excitement make you lose your breath, as he softly runs the back of his fingers on your inner thighs, tracing the lace and the soft skin of your upper thigh, getting closer and closer to where you want him to touch you the most.

“Kento…” your breath hitches when one of his fingers barely touches your center, “don’t tease.”

He laughs, smiling at you. “Now you want to tell me what to do?”

“No!” You shake your head, closing your eyes, “I just… Need you.”

Without warning, he kneels between your legs and latches at you. You whine, falling on the mattress and tangling your fingers on his soft hair. Nanami eats you like a starved man, like if you're someone he’s been missing for a long time. Your breath gets heavier by the second and, particularly, when he inserts two fingers inside you again, using his thumb to circle the most sensitive part of you.

“Love the way you taste,” he says, eyes hooded and cheeks flushed. You don’t answer as you feel your orgasm building up slowly on your lower stomach.

“Hmm, don’t stop.” You manage to say.

“Anything for my good girl.” He mumbles, putting his mouth on you one more time.

The compliment is what makes you come, your hand over your lips to muffle your moans and whimpers. Eye rolling to the back of your head, you try to close your legs but Nanami doesn’t stop, riding out your orgasm like he does so many times.

When he’s done, he leaves a trail of kisses up on your stomach until he reaches your face, hoovering above you.

“You look so pretty when you come.”

Laughing, you try to hide your face, but when Nanami pries your fingers apart, he kisses you softly. Your moans, muffled by his lips, are quiet when he sinks in you, starting a slow pace; he buries his face on your shoulder and you wrap your legs around his hips, hugging him closer – as if it was possible – to you.

It’s not enough.

“Kento,” you whisper in his ear, “fuck me harder.”

Nanami grunts and pulls away from you, slipping out and roughly flipping you on your stomach.

“Ass up.” His voice is commanding and you oblige, moving to stay on all fours, “you asked for this, sweet girl,” he thrusts into you hard, “now take it like the good girl you are.”

He hits a spot inside you that makes you see stars; you can’t help to think how full you are, how complete you feel with him inside.

“ Shit .” Nanami’s voice is a hoarse, breathy, mumble. His fingers dig on the skin of your hips. You can feel the pressure of his blunt nails and it only makes you shudder. Your eyes rolling back, a strangled moan leaves your lips.

“I-” you try to speak, but Nanami grabs your hair by the roots, pulling you up so your sweaty back meets his hard chest. “Fuck, Kento!”

His mouth finds your ear, breathing hard as his hips meet your behind, “You like it when I pull your hair like this?”

Words escape you when he hits that spot inside you again, taking your breath away. It only makes Nanami pull harder on your hair, your scalp stinging pleasantly. The all too familiar sensation on your lower stomach starts to emerge.

“Do you?” he insists, his pace becoming slower, teasing you.

“Yes, fuck-” you gasp.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Mr. Nanami ! I love it when you pull my hair!”

He hums satisfied, “Good girl.”

Nanami lets go of your hair too soon, pushing your face against the mattress, but you don't have time to whine as he starts thrusting faster and harder inside you. Your knees almost give in and your legs shake. Trying to warn him, mumbling as he pistols his hips with no mercy. It’s only when the pad of his thumb presses against the tight ring of muscles behind you that you let out a raspy moan, letting it all out.

“Fuck, you little slut ,” he groans, coming together with you, releasing his spill inside you, “look at the fucking mess you’d made.”

Your senses are out of control, you’re seeing double and you barely register the soaked sheets as Nanami rides your and his orgasms out. When he finally stops his pace, you let out a shaky breath. You feel him pull out of you with a groan, leaning against your back once more, planting kisses on your face. The sigh that leaves your lips in relief is replaced by a yelp when he turns you on your back, pressing his lips on yours.

“Make up your mind, am I a good girl or am I a slut?” you smile on his lips.

He lets out a laugh, his smile making his eyes wrinkle at the corners.

“You’re wonderful,” he replies, out of breath, “You okay?”

“Yes.” you nod. “Sorry about the mess.”

Nanami shakes his head, “I love your mess.”

Lips parted, you pause at his words and absorb its meaning.

“Do you want to shower?” He asks, as if nothing has happened.

“Yes, please.”

Nanami guides you to the bathroom and gives you toiletries, kissing you one last time before you enter the shower. You use his soap, so uniquely him , and the extra toothbrush he gave you to brush your teeth. Then, when you leave the bathroom, he’s wearing his previous boxers and has already changed the sheets. As usual.

When he looks up at you, he smiles, “Will you stay the night?”

Warmth blooms in your heart. You nod quickly, not saying a word, afraid you’ll tear up.

Then he hands you a pair of pajamas. “Sorry, I only have men’s pajamas.”

“It’s okay.” You whisper. “Thank you.”

Nanami presses his lips against yours in a short sweet kiss, “You go ahead and lie down. I’ll take a quick shower.”

Nodding again, you smile to yourself as you dress the blue pajama he gave you and get on bed. Everything about this night was perfect. Meeting Yuuji and having dinner with both of them. Learning more about Nanami’s life, him showing an important part of him.

And you can’t wait to wake up next to him tomorrow.

#nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #kento nanami x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #nanami smut #nanami kento smut #jjk smut #gabiwrites.txt

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anthurak · 2 months ago

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So here’s an interesting through that came to me thanks to the discussion on a recent ask:

We still don’t actually KNOW where or who Cinder picked up archery from, do we?

And this feels particularly significant given Cinder’s now very consistent trend of basing her weapons, fighting style, dress, mannerisms, really ALL aspect of her identity on mimicking others. Either those who have molded or hurt her, or those she has fought and killed.

Cinder’s use of swords, either single or paired, is clearly based on the swords she got from Rhodes. To the point where her weapon ‘Midnight’ that she used pre-Maiden powers may have simply been modified versions OF those swords, while the flaming/glass swords she’s been using post-V3 are just straight up copies of Rhodes’ swords.

Meanwhile, post-V3 Cinder has also started making use of a spear, just like PYRRHA used.

And of course, Cinder’s choice of dress and overall mannerisms are very much a mix of Salem and the Madame of the hotel.

So with all that in mind, I think it makes this question all the more curious:

Where, or more likely, WHO did Cinder pick up her use of archery from?

This really feels like it ties into a ‘missing piece’ of Cinder’s backstory that we haven’t seen yet. After all, we still don’t know how exactly Cinder was taken in by Salem. So I have to imagine Cinder picking up archery is somehow tied into whatever was happening when or shortly before she first met Salem.

Given Cinder’s trend of taking aspects of people she’s known or killed, it feels like a safe bet she picked up archery the same way. Perhaps a huntsman that was pursuing Cinder who she ended up killing. Or perhaps this huntsman wound up cornering her, only to be killed by Salem as she suddenly appeared to ‘rescue’ Cinder. Given everything we’ve seen, and the fairy tale allusions, I think it’s easy to imagine Salem appearing suddenly before Cinder to ‘help’ or ‘rescue’ her in a scene darkly reminiscent of Cinderella meeting her Fairy Godmother.

Alternatively, for a really dark scenario; what if this hypothetical bow-wielding huntsman didn’t actually mean Cinder and just wanted to help this clearly lost and scared girl on the run from something. Only for Cinder to kill this huntsman anyway out of the overwhelming fear and paranoia she’d developed towards huntsmen after what happened with Rhodes.

All in all, I’m feeling pretty confident that where/who Cinder picked up archery from represents, if not a core piece of her character, at least an important part of her story and development that we haven’t seen yet. Particularly given, as @kkglinka pointed out here, Cinder has some very notable potential allusions to Paris of Troy. Not just in Cinder’s use of a bow and being the one to shoot Pyrrha, our Achilles, in the heel, but also in how Cinder’s fire motif and bringing destruction to Atlas parallels Paris having been prophesized to bring destruction to Troy via his mother dreaming of him as a torch setting fire to Troy. Or how Cinder’s fixation on the maiden powers parallels Paris setting off the Trojan War by kidnapping the maiden Helen.

Basically, I wouldn’t be surprised at all if us finally learning where/who Cinder picked up archery from happens to coincide with at least a few references to the Iliad. Say, whoever Cinder picks up archery from happening to be a sheep farmer. Or perhaps a sheep faunus.

#rwby #rwby theory #Cinder Fall #rwby rhodes #Salem #rwby allusions #the iliad #greek mythology

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 13 days ago

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Hey miss Raven! I hope your recovery is going well. Make sure to not over exert yourself. Wishing you good health and fortune!

I wanted to ask about your honest feelings regarding Grim and more then often obnoxious behaviour especially during events. This is coming from someone who loves cats and one of the things that got me into Twst was the fact that there was a talking cat in it (I still love the little shi* and look forward to his new outfits. I'm basically the meme " i still love them but sometimes i just want to get in a car and run them over".) For me it was annoying but a little cute like the first few times but now that we are done with 7 books of main story and a buckload of events his obnoxiousness is starting to feel really annoying. His character feels like it had no development at all. I know events are not canon nor take main story progress in to consideration but come on! Yuu's motivation to rescue Grim in book 6 didn't felt genuine either. Even now his antics in eternity float didn't come across adorable but exasperating instead. How do you feel about Grim?

Also, curiously if you ,as in you the author not your OC, were in yuu's shoes what would you do? How would you interact with grim? Do you think you can handle him realistically? I know you don't self insert yourself but just hypothetically speaking how would you feel about him?

Hihi ^^ Thank you for the well wishes! I think I've made a full recovery (or close to it?) at this point, but there's some lifestyle changes I made in the aftermath. Thankfully, it's nothing too bad!

Before I give my thoughts on Grim, I want to preface by disclosing my biases so you can understand where I'm coming from. While I definitely prefer cats to dogs, I've realized recently that I don't actually like cats?? I just tolerate them better than dogs. This is mostly on account of the fur, which I generally find very gross and messy. (One of my friends jokes this is because I'm just a Mammal Hater 💀) I do happen to be a pet owner and my (non-specific) pet very much has Grim's personality. They're loud, they're needy, they love to eat, they cause trouble, they act like they're the boss around here--so I'm sort of used to and desensitized to most of Grim's behaviors.

Now, about Grim! I generally like him (mostly because he basically acts like my own nonspecific pet and has cute ribbons). He's unfortunately always going to be my annoying little fur baby, but I totally understand why some people don't like Grim. His voice is admittedly kind of grating, and he always seems to be causing Yuu/the player grief. I disagree with those who dislike Grim for "stealing" screentime from Yuu; I think he's a suitable stand-in for them, since the game has to take measures to keep Yuu vague for self-insert purposes. Grim did nothing wrong, he is just serving his function. I also disagree with those who find it demeaning when Grim calls us "minion". To me, it doesn't feel any different than a friend ironically calling another friend "idiot" or something of the sort. Additionally, several other characters in the Twst cast have derogatory or arrogant nicknames for Yuu/the player or for their peers, but for some reason those have largely been adopted and interpreted as signs of affection by the fandom??? Which has always been super odd to me. I do see a point to be made about being annoyed at Grim for not taking responsibility for his actions (Yuu is often demanded to control him), but I’d say that’s intentional to move the plot along, clunky as it is. This doesn’t feel different to me than your pet, child, or sibling is being a nuisance and you having to get them under control in public. It’s also difficult for me to stay mad at Grim for this when other NRC students arguably act similar (causing trouble but not apologizing or taking accountability) + are ruder to Yuu but they get excused or adored for it while Grim catches flack. Why is there this bias? Is it because Grim isn’t a conventionally attractive anime boy?? 😭 Is it because we are forced to spend more time with Grim so he has more opportunities to be pointed out? I don’t get it.

That being said, that doesn't mean I think Grim is necessarily a well-written character, especially not for most of the main story. As much as I love book 6, the kidnapping + tearful reunion ring hollow if the player isn't already invested in Grim before then. The issue is that the prologue, plus books 1-5 do very little to show moments of Yuu and Grim genuinely bonding. Most interactions between the two involve Grim making trouble, his skipping responsibilities, or generally being cocky, and Yuu having to clean up after his messes. That doesn't endear him to us. We don't really get moments of Yuu and Grim seriously getting to know each other or points where we get to see his good traits. Book 6 would have worked a lot better if there had been moments dedicated to Yuu and Grim being more intimate beforehand. You don't have to make Grim a completely new character; work off of his existing traits and give him scenarios where he is allowed to shine and support Yuu.

Maybe in the prologue or book 1, Yuu is having trouble falling asleep because they're so anxious about being in a new world and Grim tries to act all tough to reassure them they're safe by his side, and this finally helps Yuu drift off. In book 2, maybe Leona's picking on Yuu a little too hard during their practice game and Grim feels he must stand up for his minion against a bully. For book 3, there could be a scene where Yuu scolds Grim for trying to take the easy way out and Grim confides in them about not wanting to flunk out because being a great mage is all he has ever wanted. Then when Yuu asks why this is his dream, Grim can't come up with an answer (which calls attention to Grim not really knowing much about himself or his past). As for book 4, expand more on Grim trying to break them out of Scarabia with a spoon. Play up Grim acting like he has to be the hero and do what he can to help his minion out of a tight spot! In book 5, have Grim help Yuu with coaching everyone or maybe getting a little jealous that there's so many people he has to share his living space with. Then Yuu can reassure him he's irreplaceable!! And sprinkle in more scenes where Yuu and Grim just connect over being outcasts, alone and unsure in this world but able to find solace in one another. By the time book 6 comes around, we'll have all these moments to look back fondly on and motivate us to rescue Grim, who cared so much for Yuu. Grim, whom we've developed a friendship with over the main story... Grim, who is now locked away in an unfamiliar face with no friends around...

For events, I'm willing to be a little more patient with him since 1) they're not canon to the main story and 2) Grim is obviously used just to shoehorn Yuu's presence into several events, especially the hometowns (through his whining about wanting to do something fun/to eat lots of tasty food). I can't recall a specific instance of Grim being super annoying in events... but I will say that I do find Grim annoying in Eternity Float. Grim seems a little overwritten here, if that makes sense??? He's acting more cartoonish and childish than usual... Like, Grim comedically chomps onto a large ham hanging from the ceiling with ZERO understanding that he needs to pay for it first?? And he wants a bigger slice of pizza (but Riddle tells him it's rude to reach across the table), so he tries spinning the plate instead, only for the pizza to go SPLAT on Malleus's face??? Then he hoses people down with a water gun... SORRY, did Grim mentally regress a few years???? OTL

Mmm... If I were in Yuu's shoes, I think I'd deal with Grim similarly with how I deal with my irl (non-specific) pet: sternly yet fairly? I'd try to train Grim, make sure he eats a balanced diet, gets exercise, and keeps stimulated, bathe him, take him out on walks, give him treats and toys if he's well-behaved, put him in the corner and have him think about what he did if he doesn't, always keep a first aid kit on hand... Oh, and I'd carry him everywhere either by the scruff or in a carrier bag. One hand on him at all times, or else he might wander off and cause trouble. I think it'd be hard dealing with his fire magic and rashness but 💦 I've been told I'm pretty patient, so I think I could handle it if I had to. Whether I'd LIKE it or not is another matter entirely. Grim is basically a little kid or a toddler, and I'm honestly not a fan of children. An animal being feisty is... fine, even cute. But the instant the animal starts giving me lip in complete sentences, it's a lot less charming. I still feel like Grim has the potential to grow on me over time though... There's a weird charm to his attitude, haha.

P.S. My (non-specific) pet says hi.

#disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst #twisted wonderland #Grim #Yuu #notes from the writing raven #question #eternity float spoilers #Riddle Rosehearts #Leona Kingscholar #Malleus Draconia #book 6 spoilers #book 2 spoilers #book 3 spoilers #book 4 spoilers #book 5 spoilers

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themothwhisperer · 1 month ago

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Shauna Shipman is dealing with an immense amount of loss and failure that never stops spreading. Her coping mechanisms are a direct reflection of the only thing she was good at back to a (rare) time where she actually felt valuable: Violent acts.

“This is what you do, Shauna. You create your own problems. You stir the pot just to feel alive.”

And it’s completely true.

Thing is Shauna had a very bright future ahead of her. She was doing extremely well at school, was performing great in her sport and was appreciated by her teammates/friends. Yeah, maybe Jackie would’ve been an obstacle at times. But also, maybe not? She was living into her shadow, but that’s very common in teenagers to develop this type of behaviour. She would’ve probably grown out of that or handled things differently with time. Maybe. Of course, this is just hypothetical. But one thing is certain; her future was promising. She would’ve actually matured.

But that’s not what happened. The chaos caused by the crash exposed very quickly how things would never be the same for any of them. Shauna was particularly affected by those traumatic events. Jackie died leaving an incredible amount of guilt, emptiness and shame in her. Her son died as well, inevitably generating a great deal of damage. And then, we don’t even have to talk about all the atrocities she is committing afterwards. She knew pretty early on that even if she was to ever go back home, her future was long gone. She was never going to reach her full potential.

So naturally, she doesn’t want to go back to civilization. She’s losing if she goes back. Again. Loss is a theme in her life. It’s the main actor even. It was something she could deal with in her pre-crash life, but now? No way. It’s too severe. The events took everything from her. She’s trying to build herself back up. She knows going back will be another failure she will need to carry. The only vehicle through which she can potentially find success and gratification is in leading. She needs a new identity anyways. Without Jackie as a guide, she needs to do it herself. And even if her authority is challenged, it’s not totally hopeless. They’re scared of her. Violence is her power. So not only she needs to stay in the wilderness, she also needs all of them to stay with her. Otherwise, who can she lead? How will she feel whole again?

But as we know, they will be rescued eventually. I however suspect the events taking place between now and the rescue won’t be pretty at all. And Shauna will most likely be horrible. Just like she is in the adult timeline, she will probably create her own problems to justify her actions. And this is a circle. What she will do will make it even harder to go back when she will ultimately be forced to.

“You stew and you seethe and you make it everyone else’s problem because you hate to be alone. You hate yourself. And you want everyone else to feel just as miserable as you are.”

We got a little glimpse of what going back means for Shauna with the grocery store scene. And with the entire adult timeline for that matter. She’s far from the woman she was meant to become. Her life is boring and on top of that, she has to endure herself. Everything she did, everything/everyone she lost and everything/everyone she failed.

What she’s feeling is very human. She feels like she can’t win. Never. It’s infuriating. She feels empty and alone. Helplessness is pretty much all her existence is at this point. She never really got a real shot at rebuilding herself up. She’s the result of being the butcher. What’s left of her? Fear and violence. They were her strengths then so they still must be now. Shauna never really got to mature normally. This is the only thing she knows. No wonder she’s so angry all the time. No wonder she can’t escape the life she had in the wilderness. Her source of fulfillment could only live deep into these woods.

Shauna Shipman will always be such an interesting and heartbreaking character tbh.

#shauna shipman #shauna yellowjackets #jackie x shauna #shauna sadecki #shaunahat #shaunajackie #yellowjackets #yellowjackets spoilers #yj spoilers #shauna x melissa #yellowjackets thoughts 💭

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hms-no-fun · 6 months ago

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Hi! I just read your post about your opinion on "AI" and I really liked it. If it's no bother, what's your opinion on people who use it for studying? Like writing essays, solving problems and stuff like that?

I haven't been a fan of AI from the beginning and I've heard that you shouldn't ask it for anything because then you help it develop. But I don't know how to explain that to friends and classmates or even if it's true anymore. Because I've seen some of the prompts it can come up with and they're not bad and I've heard people say that the summaries AI makes are really good and I just... I dunno. I'm at a loss

Sorry if this is a lot or something you simply don't want to reply to. You made really good points when talking about AI and I really liked it and this has been weighing on me for a while :)

on a base level, i don't really have a strongly articulated opinion on the subject because i don't use AI, and i'm 35 so i'm not in school anymore and i don't have a ton of college-aged friends either. i have little exposure to the people who use AI in this way nor to the people who have to deal with AI being used in this way, so my perspective here is totally hypothetical and unscientific.

what i was getting at in my original AI post was a general macroeconomic point about how all of the supposed efficiency gains of AI are an extension of the tech CEO's dislike of paying and/or giving credit to anyone they deem less skilled or intelligent than them. that it's conspicuous how AI conveniently falls into place after many decades of devaluing and deskilling creative/artistic labor industries. historically, for a lot of artists the most frequently available & highest paying gigs were in advertising. i can't speak to the specifics when it comes to visual art or written copy, but i *can* say that when i worked in the oklahoma film industry, the most coveted jobs were always the commercials. great pay for relatively less work, with none of the complications that often arise working on amateur productions. not to mention they were union gigs, a rare enough thing in a right to work state, so anyone trying to make a career out of film work wanting to bank their union hours to qualify for IATSE membership always had their ears to the ground for an opening. which didn't come often because, as you might expect, anyone who *got* one of those jobs aimed to keep it as long as possible. who could blame em, either? one person i met who managed to get consistent ad work said they could afford to work all of two or three months a year, so they could spend the rest of their time doing low-budget productions and (occasionally) student films.

there was a time when this was the standard for the film industry, even in LA; you expected to work 3 to 5 shows a year (exact number's hard to estimate because production schedules vary wildly between ads, films, and tv shows) for six to eight months if not less, so you'd have your bills well covered through the lean periods and be able to recover from what is an enormously taxing job both physically and emotionally. this was never true for EVERYONE, film work's always been a hustle and making a career of it is often a luck-based crapshoot, but generally that was the model and for a lot of folks it worked. it meant more time to practice their skills on the job, sustainably building expertise and domain knowledge that they could then pass down to future newcomers. anything that removes such opportunities decreases the amount of practice workers get, and any increased demand on their time makes them significantly more likely to burn out of the industry early. lower pay, shorter shoots, busier schedules, these aren't just bad for individual workers but for the entire industry, and that includes the robust and well-funded advertising industry.

well, anyway, this year's coca-cola christmas ad was made with AI. they had maybe one person on quality control using an adobe aftereffects mask to add in the coke branding. this is the ultimate intended use-case for AI. it required the expertise of zero unionized labor, and worst of all the end result is largely indistinguishable from the alternative. you'll often see folks despair at this verisimilitude, particularly when a study comes out that shows (for instance) people can't tell the difference between real poetry and chat gpt generated poetry. i despair as well, but for different reasons. i despair that production of ads is a better source of income and experience for film workers than traditional movies or television. i despair that this technology is fulfilling an age-old promise about the disposability of artistic labor. poetry is not particularly valued by our society, is rarely taught to people beyond a beginner's gloss on meter and rhyme. "my name is sarah zedig and i'm here to say, i'm sick of this AI in a major way" type shit. end a post with the line "i so just wish that it would go away and never come back again!" and then the haiku bot swoops in and says, oh, 5/7/5 you say? that is technically a haiku! and then you put a haiku-making minigame in your crowd-pleasing japanese nationalist open world chanbara simulator, because making a haiku is basically a matter of selecting one from 27 possible phrase combinations. wait, what do you mean the actual rules of haiku are more elastic and subjective than that? that's not what my english teacher said in sixth grade!

AI is able to slip in and surprise us with its ability to mimic human-produced art because we already treat most human-produced art like mechanical surplus of little to no value. ours is a culture of wikipedia-level knowledge, where you have every incentive to learn a lot of facts about something so that you can sufficiently pretend to have actually experienced it. but this is not to say that humans would be better able to tell the difference between human produced and AI produced poetry if they were more educated about poetry! the primary disconnect here is economic. Poets already couldn't make a fucking living making poetry, and now any old schmuck can plug a prompt into chatgpt and say they wrote a sonnet. even though they always had the ability to sit down and write a sonnet!

boosters love to make hay about "deskilling" and "democratizing" and "making accessible" these supposedly gatekept realms of supposedly bourgeois expression, but what they're really saying (whether they know it or not) is that skill and training have no value anymore. and they have been saying this since long before AI as we know it now existed! creative labor is the backbone of so much of our world, and yet it is commonly accepted as a poverty profession. i grew up reading books and watching movies based on books and hearing endless conversation about books and yet when i told my family "i want to be a writer" they said "that's a great way to die homeless." like, this is where the conversation about AI's impact starts. we already have a culture that simultaneously NEEDS the products of artistic labor, yet vilifies and denigrates the workers who perform that labor. folks see a comic panel or a corporate logo or a modern art piece and say "my kid could do that," because they don't perceive the decades of training, practice, networking, and experimentation that resulted in the finished product. these folks do not understand that just because the labor of art is often invisible doesn't mean it isn't work.

i think this entire conversation is backwards. in an ideal world, none of this matters. human labor should not be valued over machine labor because it inherently possesses an aura of human-ness. art made by humans isn't better than AI generated art on qualitative grounds. art is subjective. you're not wrong to find beauty in an AI image if the image is beautiful. to my mind, the value of human artistic labor comes down to the simple fact that the world is better when human beings make art. the world is better when we have the time and freedom to experiment, to play, to practice, to develop and refine our skills to no particular end except whatever arbitrary goal we set for ourselves. the world is better when people collaborate on a film set to solve problems that arise organically out of the conditions of shooting on a live location. what i see AI being used for is removing as many opportunities for human creativity as possible and replacing them with statistical averages of prior human creativity. this passes muster because art is a product that exists to turn a profit. because publicly traded companies have a legal responsibility to their shareholders to take every opportunity to turn a profit regardless of how obviously bad for people those opportunities might be.

that common sense says writing poetry, writing prose, writing anything is primarily about reaching the end of the line, about having written something, IS the problem. i've been going through the many unfinished novels i wrote in high school lately, literally hundreds of thousands of words that i shared with maybe a dozen people and probably never will again. what value do those words have? was writing them a waste of time since i never posted them, never finished them, never turned a profit off them? no! what i've learned going back through those old drafts is that i'm only the writer i am today BECAUSE i put so many hours into writing generic grimdark fantasy stories and bizarrely complicated werewolf mythologies.

you know i used to do open mics? we had a poetry group that met once a month at a local cafe in college. each night we'd start by asking five words from the audience, then inviting everyone to compose a poem using those words in 10 to 15 minutes. whoever wanted to could read their poem, and whoever got the most applause won a free drink from the cafe. then we'd spend the rest of the night having folks sign up to come and read whatever. sometimes you'd get heartfelt poems about personal experiences, sometimes you'd get ambitious soundcloud rappers, sometimes you'd get a frat guy taking the piss, sometimes you'd get a mousy autist just doing their best. i don't know that any of the poetry i wrote back then has particular value today, but i don't really care. the point of it was the experience in that moment. the experience of composing something on the fly, or having something you wrote a couple days ago, then standing up and reading it. the value was in the performance itself, in the momentary synthesis between me and the audience. i found out then that i was pretty good at making people cry, and i could not have had that experience in any other venue. i could not have felt it so viscerally had i just posted it online. and i cannot wrap up that experience and give it to you, because it only existed then.

i think more people would write poetry if they had more hours in a day to spare for frivolities, if there existed more spaces where small groups could organize open mics, if transit made those spaces more widely accessible, if everyone made enough money that they weren't burned the fuck out and not in the mood to go to an open mic tonight, if we saw poetry as a mode of personal reflection which was as much about the experience of having written it as anything else. this is the case for all the arts. right now, the only people who can afford to make a living doing art are already wealthy, because art doesn't pay well. this leads to brain drain and overall lowering quality standards, because the suburban petty bouge middle class largely do not experience the world as it materially exists for the rest of us. i often feel that many tech CEOs want to be remembered the way andy warhol is remembered. they want to be loved and worshipped not just for business acumen but for aesthetic value, they want to get the kind of credit that artists get-- because despite the fact that artists don't get paid shit, they also frequently get told by people "your work changed my life." how is it that a working class person with little to no education can write a story that isn't just liked but celebrated, that hundreds or thousands of people imprint on, that leaves a mark on culture you can't quantify or predict or recreate? this is AI's primary use-case, to "democratize" art in such a way that hacks no longer have to work as hard to pretend to be good at what they do. i mean, hell, i have to imagine every rich person with an autobiography in the works is absolutely THRILLED that they no longer have to pay a ghost writer!

so, circling back around to the meat of your question. as far as telling people not to use AI because "you're just helping to train it," that ship has long since sailed. getting mad at individuals for using AI right now is about as futile as getting mad at individuals for not masking-- yes, obviously they should wear a mask and write their own essays, but to say this is simply a matter of millions of individuals making the same bad but unrelated choice over and over is neoliberal hogwash. people stopped masking because they were told to stop masking by a government in league with corporate interests which had every incentive to break every avenue of solidarity that emerged in 2020. they politicized masks, calling them "the scarlet letter of [the] pandemic". biden himself insisted this was "a pandemic of the unvaccinated", helpfully communicating to the public that if you're vaccinated, you don't need to mask. all those high case numbers and death counts? those only happen to the bad people.

now you have CEOs and politicians and credulous media outlets and droves of grift-hungry influencers hard selling the benefits of AI in everything everywhere all the time. companies have bent over backwards to incorporate AI despite ethics and security worries because they have a fiduciary responsibility to their shareholders, and everyone with money is calling this the next big thing. in short, companies are following the money, because that's what companies do. they, in turn, are telling their customers what tools to use and how. so of course lots of people are using AI for things they probably shouldn't. why wouldn't they? "the high school/college essay" as such has been quantized and stripmined by an education system dominated by test scores over comprehension. it is SUPPOSED to be an exercise in articulating ideas, to teach the student how to argue persuasively. the final work has little to no value, because the point is the process. but when you've got a system that lives and dies by its grades, within which teachers are given increasingly more work to do, less time to do it in, and a much worse paycheck for their trouble, the essay increasingly becomes a simple pass/fail gauntlet to match the expected pace set by the simple, clean, readily gradable multiple choice quiz. in an education system where the stakes for students are higher than they've ever been, within which you are increasingly expected to do more work in less time with lower-quality guidance from your overworked teachers, there is every incentive to get chatgpt to write your essay for you.

do you see what i'm saying? we can argue all day about the shoulds here. of course i think it's better when people write their own essays, do their own research, personally read the assigned readings. but cheating has always been a problem. a lot of these same fears were aired over the rising popularity of cliffs notes in the 90s and 2000s! the real problem here is systemic. it's economic. i would have very little issue with the output of AI if existing conditions were not already so precarious. but then, if the conditions were different, AI as we know it likely would not exist. it emerges today as the last gasp of a tech industry that has been floundering for a reason to exist ever since the smart phone dominated the market. they tried crypto. they tried the metaverse. now they're going all-in on AI because it's a perfect storm of shareholder-friendly buzzwords and the unscientific technomythology that's been sold to laymen by credulous press sycophants for decades. It slots right into this niche where the last of our vestigial respect for "the artist" once existed. it is the ultimate expression of capitalist realism, finally at long last doing away with the notion that the suits at disney could never in their wildest dreams come up with something half as cool as the average queer fanfic writer. now they've got a program that can plagiarize that fanfic (along with a dozen others) for them, laundering the theft through a layer of transformation which perhaps mirrors how the tech industry often exploits open source software to the detriment of the open source community. the catastrophe of AI is that it's the fulfillment of a promise that certainly predates computers at the very least.

so, i don't really know what to tell someone who uses AI for their work. if i was talking to a student, i'd say that relying chatgpt is really gonna screw you over when it comes time take the SAT or ACT, and you have to write an essay from scratch by hand in a monitored environment-- but like, i also think the ACT and SAT and probably all the other standardized tests shouldn't exist? or at the very least ought to be severely devalued, since prep for those tests often sabotages the integrity of actual classroom education. although, i guess at this point the only way forward for education (that isn't getting on both knees and deep-throating big tech) is more real-time in-class monitored essay writing, which honestly might be better for all parties anyway. of course that does nothing to address research essays you can't write in a single class session. to someone who uses AI for research, i'd probably say the same thing as i would to someone who uses wikipedia: it's a fine enough place to start, but don't cite it. click through links, find sources, make sure what you're reading is real, don't rely on someone else's generalization. know that chatgpt is likely not pulling information from a discrete database of individual files that it compartmentalizes the way you might expect, but rather is a statistical average of a broad dataset about which it cannot have an opinion or interpretation. sometimes it will link you to real information, but just as often it will invent information from whole cloth. honestly, the more i talk it out, the more i realize all this advice is basically identical to the advice adults were giving me in the early 2000s.

which really does cement for me that the crisis AI is causing in education isn't new and did not come from nowhere. before chatgpt, students were hiring freelancers on fiverr. i already mentioned cliffs notes. i never used any of these in college, but i'll also freely admit that i rarely did all my assigned reading. i was the "always raises her hand" bitch, and every once in a while i'd get other students who were always dead silent in class asking me how i found the time to get the reading done. i'd tell them, i don't. i read the beginning, i read the ending, and then i skim the middle. whenever a word or phrase jumps out at me, i make a note of it. that way, when the professor asks a question in class, i have exactly enough specific pieces of information at hand to give the impression of having done the reading. and then i told them that i learned how to do this from the very same professor that was teaching that class. the thing is, it's not like i learned nothing from this process. i retained quite a lot of information from those readings! this is, broadly, a skill that emerges from years of writing and reading essays. but then you take a step back and remember that for most college students (who are not pursuing any kind of arts degree), this skillset is relevant to an astonishingly minimal proportion of their overall course load. college as it exists right now is treated as a jobs training program, within which "the essay" is a relic of an outdated institution that highly valued a generalist liberal education where today absolute specialization seems more the norm. so AI comes in as the coup de gras to that old institution. artists like myself may not have the constitution for the kind of work that colleges now exist to funnel you into, but those folks who've never put a day's thought into the work of making art can now have a computer generate something at least as good at a glance as basically anything i could make. as far as the market is concerned, that's all that matters. the contents of an artwork, what it means to its creator, the historic currents it emerges out of, these are all technicalities that the broad public has been well trained not to give a shit about most of the time. what matters is the commodity and the economic activity it exists to generate.

but i think at the end of the day, folks largely want to pay for art made by human beings. that it's so hard for a human being to make a living creating and selling art is a question far older than AI, and whose answer hasn't changed. pay workers more. drastically lower rents. build more affordable housing. make healthcare free. make education free. massively expand public transit. it is simply impossible to overstate how much these things alone would change the conversation about AI, because it would change the conversation about everything. SO MUCH of the dominance of capital in our lives comes down to our reliance on cars for transit (time to get a loan and pay for insurance), our reliance on jobs for health insurance (can't quit for moral reasons if it's paying for your insulin), etc etc etc. many of AI's uses are borne out of economic precarity and a ruling class desperate to vacuum up every loose penny they can find. all those billionaires running around making awful choices for the rest of us? they stole those billions. that is where our security went. that is why everything is falling apart, because the only option remaining to *every* institutional element of society is to go all-in on the profit motive. tax these motherfuckers and re-institute public arts funding. hey, did you know the us government used to give out grants to artists? did you know we used to have public broadcast networks where you could make programs that were shown to your local community? why the hell aren't there public youtube clones? why aren't there public transit apps? why aren't we CONSTANTLY talking about nationalizing these abusive fucking industries that are falling over themselves to integrate AI because their entire modus operandi is increasing profits regardless of product quality?

these are the questions i ask myself when i think about solutions to the AI problem. tech needs to be regulated, the monopolies need breaking up, but that's not enough. AI is a symptom of a much deeper illness whose treatment requires systemic solutions. and while i'm frustrated when i see people rely on AI for their work, or otherwise denigrate artists who feel AI has devalued their field, on some level i can't blame them. they are only doing what they've been told to do. all of which merely strengthens my belief in the necessity of an equitable socialist future (itself barely step zero in the long path towards a communist future, and even that would only be a few steps on the even longer path to a properly anarchist future). improve the material conditions and you weaken the dominance of capitalist realism, however minutely. and while there are plenty of reasons to despair at the likelihood of such a future given a second trump presidency, i always try to remember that socialist policies are very popular and a *lot* of that popularity emerged during the first trump administration. the only wrong answer here is to assume that losing an election is the same thing as losing a war, that our inability to put the genie back in its bottle means we can't see our own wishes granted.

i dunno if i answered your question but i sure did say a lot of stuff, didn't i?

#sarahposts #ai #ai art #chatgpt #llm #genai #capitalism #unions #labor #workers rights #capitalist realism #longpost #sarahAIposts

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posts-from-pluto · 4 months ago

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Humans are weird - life expectancy

Quinn always found the idea of figuring out how they would spend their time if they only had two-hundred years to live to be an interesting hypothetical. There were animals out there who lived such short lifespans after all, though none of the ones they had encountered had the mental capacity to develop long-term goals, but if they could what would they choose to do? It was one of their favorite questions to ask to get to know someone, what they prioritize.

Or at least it was until they met Edith, a researcher part of a species that had just barely begun their existence as space-faring creatures, more importantly: a species that struggled to even make it to a hundred, let alone two-hundred years old.

...The end of her first day was rather awkward, I mean how could they have possibly known that that species would just so happen to be the first ones with such a short lifespan that had managed to make it into space.

Lords it was awful, remembering it still makes them wish they had the same memory issues as the Soweps

----

After being shown around the Cultural-Exchange Station, (C.S. for short), Edith decided to go join Quinn in the Lounge. A good, casual chat to get to know one of the people she would be spending at least the next few years with seemed like a good way to spend her first day aboard. What could possibly go wrong? It wasn't like there was much else she could do, unfortunately. Quinn had made it quite clear that she didn't have to couldn't start work until the next week, something about giving her time to 'get settled before entrusting her with a position on the team'.

Under normal circumstances, that would've been great... but now? After she just spent a week trapped alone on a ship without the ability to do anything productive? She'd be damned if she was going to spend another minute of her day just sitting around alone in an unfamiliar bedroom with weird furniture. Fixing her room could wait until tomorrow. She just had to go do something, anything that wasn't using her sitting by herself in that room. She walked over to one of the terminals to pull up the way to the lounge, or at least what she assumed was the lounge given the fact that nothing was labelled, before heading off to find Quinn. Hoping that her horrible sense of direction wouldn't embarrass her on her very first day.

She made off towards the general direction of the area on the map, passing by numerous rooms with widely different appearances from one that seemed oddly... cave-like? to another that would fit in more in an aquarium than it does a space station, or atleast what you'd expect in a human one anyways. Turning the corner into the maze of long corridors, Edith continued straight, which luckily, was in fact the way to the main lounge area.

Edith: "Hi Quinn!" She shouted from halfway across the room as she walked towards the couch they were sitting on.

Quinn: Hey, did you need something?

*Carefully choosing her spot to not make them uncomfortable, Edith sat on the other side of the couch*

Edith: Nope, I just wanted to walk around a bit. Get to know everyone better and stretch my legs a bit more, you know?

Quinn: Oh okay that's cool.... How's setting up your room going?

Edith: I haven't started yet. I'm still thinking about where I'm going to put everything.

Quinn: Not at all because you're procrastinating???

Edith: *GASP* How could you accuse me of such a thing? I would never~~~

Quinn:... That reminds me I never got around to asking,

How would you spend your life if you only had 200 years to live?

Edith: where did that come from?

Quinn: We were talking about procrasination and that got me thinking about time which made me remember I didn't ask you about how'd you'd spend 200 years. It's just something I ask everyone.

Quinn:...sooo I know it 's a really short amount of time but how would you spend it?

Edith: short???

Quinn: Yeah??? Am I missing something here?

Edith: .... Humans generally only live 80ish years naturally. Like at most some people make it into their hundreds but that's extremely rare

Quinn: ....oh

Edith: .... yeaaah

Quinn: I just remembered I actually have to go work on some very long paperwork- *They rush to get up, nearly tripping over their own legs* -I'll see you later! *They continued as they started speed walking away, the look on their face told her that they'd probably be running if it wouldn't make things more awkward*

Edith could barely stop herself from bursting out laughing at the scene... She'd have to tease them about that later....

Hmmm.....Good ways to answer how'd she'd spend 200 years???

....Annoying them?

Well She'd have plently of time to think about it while she unpacked.

____

Side note: This was going to be an angsty conversation between the two of them but the second I started writing the first bit the idea of it being one of the first questions Quinn asked Edith popped into my head and it just took on it's own life so I hope you enjoyed this instead :)

#I had another draft I was planning to finish before this but writing this was more fun so-#I'm soo glad I finally had an excuse to include Edith's pov #sorry for how long the narration was I've been reading a lot of fanfics lately and it's apparently affecting how I write lol #also sorry if the pacing is weird this one took me awhile to figure out #my writing #humans are weird #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities

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melmedardaapologist · 4 months ago

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mel & silco as foils

(as an easter egg can we just appreciate how mel’s background is art deco and silco’s is art nouveau here in these images—)

i think i mentioned this in the notes of a post i reblogged, but i want to expound a little on what i mean about this:

mel and silco both carry a vision of the future for their respective cities, and both of their visions get compromised (mel realizes that trying to improve the lives of piltover’s people in the current flawed system has only prepared piltover to be taken by her mother, silco leveraging shimmer for power lets addiction and extortion run rampant among zaun’s vulnerable)

both act as “corrupting” influences on jayce and jinx respectively (and i say “corrupting” with quote marks because from their perspectives, they’re genuinely trying to teach them how to survive their hostile environments like how they have)

where they diverge is in their relationship with family—i actually think mel would have benefited immensely from seeing zaun’s widespread adoption and families of choice, but instead she’s in piltover where family clans rule the city and dictate power and thus she can never really escape ambessa’s shadow, though she did come very close at the end of season 1 with voting for peace (which should count as another tragedy, since from then on it’s the black rose and the wolf, when in a hypothetical no-fishbones universe mel could’ve attempted to distance herself from noxus even further)

then there’s silco, who in the latter half of season 1 seems to struggle a lot between treating jinx like a subordinate with the responsibility and autonomy that would allow and between treating her like a daughter with all the forgiveness and protection that is implied (i.e., she runs jobs for him and develops hextech for him, but he gives her leeway like to no other individual in his sphere), and in his dying moments, he choses family with all the terrible love that comes with it

(and in season 2, this role of mirroring silco falls more to ambessa, who even gets her own “don’t cry, you’re perfect” moment with mel (with “you are the wolf”))

and of course the parallelisms/foils don’t end there, as arcane season 1 was a masterclass in how to fit in an astounding amount of storytelling within just nine episodes via contrasts and foils and similar

but i still think it’s a shame that mel and silco never got to interact onscreen (the dialogue and snark would’ve been amazing)

there’s also the dimension of immigrant vs native experience but i’m running out of time rn so i might do a follow up later

#arcane #arcane meta #mel medarda #silco arcane #silco #mel rambles #arcane analysis

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bigmpregnm · 3 months ago

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Life Lessons - Part 2: The Anatomy of Fatherhood

[Story Collection] | [Part 1] [●] [Part 3]

Max waited for Alan in the parking lot the following morning with a smile across his face and a milkshake in hand. The tall, muscular young man looked excited and hotter than the day before as Alan stepped out of his car. Max’s eyes sparkled enthusiastically, and his grin widened as Alan approached.

“Good morning, Professor Reynolds. You’re looking stunning today,” Max said, handing Alan the milkshake. “I thought you might like this. It’s a special blend made for big guys like us. It’ll keep you active throughout the day.”

Alan looked surprised but accepted the milkshake gratefully, unaware of the high-calorie, high-protein, and high-carb contents specifically designed for weight gain. He took a long sip, appreciating the creamy, rich flavor. Max only observed, remembering all the secret ingredients he had added to the milkshake and hoping they would make Alan’s big body much bigger.

“Thanks, Max. This is really good. A great way to start my day,” Alan said, kindly smiling at Max.

“It’s the least I can do after what you did for me yesterday.” Max smiled, his eyes lingering on Alan’s big ass in his tight pants.

Alan shivered at the mention of their intense sex session from the day before, his body still carrying the effects of Max’s massive dick buried deep inside him. “Please don’t mention that. It was fantastic, but I told you it was a one-time thing,” Alan said, thinking about his still-sore hole and bloated midsection.

“I know, but I can’t forget about it. Your ass felt so good,” Max said, stepping closer to Alan and making the older man shiver even more. “Let me carry your books to the classroom, Professor Reynolds,” he offered, grabbing Alan’s bag before he could protest.

As they walked to the classroom, Max couldn’t help but notice that Alan’s midsection still looked distended, and his shirt was tight around it. His smile grew wider, imagining the potential changes if Alan drank more milkshakes. Max could barely contain his arousal as he observed Alan’s body up and down, his dick stirring in his pants. Meanwhile, Alan drank the whole milkshake, struggling to ignore Max’s stares. He knew they couldn’t repeat the events from the day before, but the soreness in his hole only made him long for another taste of Max’s massive dick.

Alan started his lecture when they arrived at the classroom with the same enthusiasm as the day before. The students listened and asked several questions, making Alan smile. Then, one student raised his hand and asked about the homework Alan had left the day before, the one about male pregnancy. Alan chuckled and opened the space for the students to discuss the homework as they seemed eager to learn about the topic, even as a hypothetical lesson.

“Professor, I read something about a lawyer who supposedly got pregnant. He showed up at court with a huge belly, and at every court meeting, it was bigger. Then he missed a court meeting and showed up a few days later without the big belly and talking about babies. People thought he meant his wife had given birth, but some said he had the babies himself.”

Alan leaned against his desk thoughtfully, feeling the buttons of his shirt strain around his bloated middle. “Those are rumors. Unless you find something scientifically proven, this is only an interesting topic to discuss, not facts to study. If male pregnancy was possible, it would require significant biological and medical advancements, which we don’t have right now.”

Another student chimed in, “What about hormone treatments and uterus transplants? Could those make it possible?”

Alan grinned, appreciating their curiosity. “In theory, probably. Hormone treatments could prepare a man’s body for pregnancy, and a uterus transplant could provide the necessary environment for fetal development. However, I don’t think that the immune system of this man would accept the transplant and other physical changes required to support a pregnancy.”

After the conversation moved back to the regular anatomy lesson, Alan did his best to continue the lecture but found it difficult to concentrate with Max’s presence in the room. Max looked enormous among his classmates, and the sight only made Alan remember the young man’s massive dick rearranging his guts and the bull balls filling him up to the brim.

After the class ended, Max stayed behind, waiting until everyone else had left. He walked up to Alan and, with a playful smile, stole a quick kiss on his lips. Alan was left speechless, his heart racing as Max walked away. He couldn’t stop thinking about the massive muscle guy as something in his guts made him want to have more private anatomy lessons with him. Max had taught him that everything was possible. The massive dick had somehow fit into Alan’s guts, so everything was possible.

****

Over the next few weeks, Alan settled into a routine. He woke up and went to his job, and every morning, Max was at the parking lot with another delicious milkshake. Alan looked forward to those encounters despite the growing confusion about his feelings toward Max. A quick kiss after each class had become a part of their routine, a secret between them. As the days passed, Max added a soft caress to Alan’s belly to the quick kiss, which Alan loved.

Apart from his job and brief interactions with Max, Alan continued his regular life with his family. He was a dedicated husband and father who loved to spend quality time with his sons, James and Benjamin. Alan helped them with homework, played with them, and attended school events. He often surprised his wife with a romantic gift or a special dinner for the whole family. However, as the days passed, Alan felt somewhat tired most of the time, along with other changes.

As the weeks passed, Alan began to notice changes in his body. His midsection started to thicken even more, and his clothes grew tighter. It was initially subtle, but he knew he was getting thicker everywhere. His belt soon needed to be loosened a notch, and his shirts seemed to cling more than usual. He was somewhat concerned about gaining weight and feeling fatigued, but that didn’t stop him from drinking Max’s milkshake every morning and devouring everything his wife cooked for him in the evenings. The changes became more pronounced as the days passed, and everybody noticed.

Max was on cloud nine every time he saw Alan arrive in the morning. He was glad the milkshakes worked because Alan’s belly grew nicely while his whole body looked plumper. Max couldn’t stop looking at the Professor’s ample ass, which was growing fatter by the day and straining his pants. Their goodbye kiss after each class started getting more passionate as Max’s hand stayed on Alan’s belly for a little longer. Alan was concerned about growing a gut but loved it when Max touched his abdomen.

Alan’s once-chiseled abs were slowly being overshadowed by a layer of softness, giving his abdomen a rounder shape. His belly began to protrude, sticking a bit more every day, changing from a chiseled washboard to a soft pudge and, lately, taking on a firm bulge shape in a matter of weeks. His thighs and ass filled out, stretching the fabric of his pants. Even his arms and chest seemed to grow thicker, making Max lose his mind whenever he saw Alan’s newly developed body.

Alan couldn’t help but notice how his reflection had changed. His face looked slightly fuller, and his clothes strained against his growing frame everywhere. The weight gain was evident in his thicker waistline, but Alan couldn’t stop eating. His fatigue was still there, and he experienced some mild sickness a few times, but he was starving most of the time, so he ate more than ever. Max willingly upgraded the daily milkshake for a bigger one to see him getting thicker. Alan’s wife, Becca, cooked larger portions for her growing husband at home, loving his newly fuller frame.

Alan insisted he was going through bulking, but his wife insisted he looked fine with the off-season look. Alan finally got the courage to step on a scale on November 3rd, eight weeks after the first day of school—when Alan had the intimate encounter with Max—only to discover he had gained 20 pounds in eight weeks. Alan sighed at the numbers: 271.8 pounds, but he couldn’t help but smile.

As Alan playfully wrestled with his sons in the living room that evening, he was shirtless, enjoying the roughhousing and laughter. Alan lay on his back while the boys jumped and fought against his limbs. James tried to lift his dad’s leg, attempting to use a wrestling technique on him, but the leg was too heavy for the boy to move. Benjamin sat atop Alan’s pecs to fight the dad’s arms, but Alan playfully defeated them and pulled them into a bear hug.

“You still can’t defeat your old man,” Alan said, releasing the boys from the hug as they rested their heads on his body while catching their breaths.

“No fair, you’re sooooo big, Dad,” James said, smiling at his dad. “But one day, we’ll get bigger and stronger than you,” the boy added, and Alan smiled.

Then, Benjamin poked at Alan’s belly, his eyes wide with curiosity. “Dad, why is your belly getting so big?” he asked, looking at Alan while his hand rested on the round belly.

James giggled and also poked the firm roundness. “Yeah, Dad. It’s like a balloon, but harder,” he said, patting Alan’s round abdomen, which stuck out three or four inches from its former chiseled flatness.

Alan laughed, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Oh, you two. It’s just a little extra weight. It happens when you get older,” he said as he attempted to sit up with the boys in his arms, but he fell backward. He was used to doing that movement with the boys in his arms, his belly now representing an obstacle to his usual agility. “Okay, maybe a bit more than a little extra weight, but nothing to worry about. Your dad is still the strongest,” he added, lifting his arms to flex his biceps, which looked enormous with a layer of fat covering the muscles.

The boys continued to poke and prod, their innocent comments making Alan chuckle. But as the boys played with him, he couldn’t shake the concern about his recent weight gain. Alan had been eating too much for the last few weeks, but something inside him couldn’t help but think something else was happening. As Alan listened to his son’s jokes about his belly, he remembered the daily milkshake from Max, and he realized that everything had started on the day the massive guy had fucked him.

Later that night, as Alan lay in bed, his hands rested on his slightly rounded belly, feeling the firmness beneath his fingers. His mind raced with questions and possibilities, and his wife noticed something was bothering her man. She joined Alan’s hands to caress the growing belly, leaning in to kiss Alan’s lips. The big man smiled at her touch, feeling some of his concerns fade away.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Becca said, kissing Alan’s lips and caressing his belly. “You’re worried about getting fat, but... I think you look fantastic with this additional bulk on your big body. I love your big muscles, but this off-season look and this belly... it’s something else,” she added, lovingly rubbing Alan’s belly and making him feel better about his body.

****

The following morning, Alan was abruptly awakened by a sudden rush of nausea. He stumbled out of bed and barely made it to the bathroom before he started to throw up. The violent retching left him feeling weak and disoriented. He leaned against the cool tile wall, trying to gather his strength. After what felt like an eternity, Alan washed his face and returned to bed, but the dizziness lingered.

“Are you okay?” Becca asked as Alan lay in bed, sounding concerned.

Alan weakly smiled. “Just feeling a bit off. I might have caught a bug or probably ate too many portions of chicken parmesan last night.”

Becca stroked his hair gently and smiled at him. “That’s a possibility, but you’re a big man, and you need lots of food,” she added, caressing his belly. “Hold on, I’ll bring you a glass of water.”

Alan smiled as she left, closing his eyes to deal with the dizziness. Then, James and Benjamin entered the room and lay by Alan’s side, hugging him. The dad smiled when he felt his sons’ arms around his bloated middle, making him feel more comfortable.

“Dad, are you going to be okay?” James asked.

“You never get sick, Dad,” Benjamin added.

“I’ll be fine. I even feel better with you hugging me like this,” Alan said, and his sons hugged him tighter.

Becca brought him a glass of water and a cold compress for his forehead. Alan stayed in bed for a while, his family doing their best to make him comfortable. But the discomfort wouldn’t go away. Eventually, he decided that he needed to do something about it. Alan decided to go get some medicine for himself. Becca wasn’t sure if Alan could drive given his condition, but he insisted, saying he needed some fresh air.

Alan’s thoughts were a jumbled mess as he drove, and instead of heading to the pharmacy, he went to Max’s apartment. When he arrived, he knocked on the door, feeling nervous and somewhat dizzy. The door opened, revealing Max’s magnificent presence, fresh from the shower, wearing only a tiny towel around his waist. Water droplets still cling to his massive, muscular frame, glistening in the light. His broad chest and shoulders were slick with moisture, and his abs were like a sculpted landscape of muscle.

“Professor Reynolds? What are you doing here?” Max said, surprise evident in his voice, but his smile quickly returned as his dick stirred beneath his tiny towel.

Alan was momentarily speechless, his eyes roaming over Max’s magnificent physique as his dick hardened in his pants. He couldn’t help but feel a surge of desire and need, the sickness going away as his lust took over. Alan stepped forward without a word, pushing Max gently but firmly inside. Their lips met, passionately making out as the tiny towel fell to the ground, both men losing themselves in the heated moment. Max’s dick hardened against Alan’s plump body, and they couldn’t control themselves anymore.

Alan quickly took his clothes off, revealing his plump body in full glory to Max for the first time. Max’s dick throbbed hard when he saw how much thicker Alan’s body had become. He loved the round belly and softer pecs, but the Professor’s ample ass was driving Max crazy. They moved to Max’s bed, their hands exploring each other’s bodies. Alan felt a strange sense of comfort and belonging in Max’s arms despite the confusion in his mind. As he lay on his back and Max started kissing his round belly, Alan could only smile and long for more of Max’s attention.

Max continued kissing Alan’s thicker abdomen, giving the belly special attention but also playfully teasing the Professor’s nipples, which had been tender for the last few weeks. Then, Alan spread his legs and pulled Max into a passionate kiss. He immediately felt Max’s powerful arms lifting his legs and the enormous dick rubbing against his ass. Alan moaned in need and desperation for Max’s massive fuck tool.

Max smiled and pushed his hips forward, fitting half of his massive dick into Alan in a blink, making the Professor moan loud. Max pushed stronger and slid inch by inch into Alan’s tight hole, marveling at how stretchy it was. Once the 16 inches of dick were buried deep into Alan’s body, Max’s hips started bucking slowly, and both men moaned in pleasure. Max had loved their first time together, but since Alan’s body had grown so much, he was more turned on than ever. Meanwhile, Alan’s eyes rolled in his head, unable to talk or think clearly.

“You know,” Max said playfully, leaning in to feel Alan’s round belly against his chiseled abs. “You look like you’re pregnant, and I love it.”

Alan only responded with moans and groans of pleasure, his hands moving to his abdomen to rub it, feeling Max’s massive dick poking at his abdomen’s inner walls. Alan’s mind was blurry, but he rubbed his belly so passionately that it seemed like he believed he was indeed pregnant. This careful movement only turned Max on even more, making him pound even harder and faster and leaving Alan panting heavily. Max felt his balls getting incredibly full due to his arousal, and the idea of making Alan’s belly look rounder and bigger drove him crazy.

Max moaned loud, and his thrusts became erratic as his dick finally started shooting a tsunami of cum into Alan’s overstuffed midsection. The flow of cum was so strong that Alan could feel his skin getting tighter, struggling to accommodate the plump midsection. Alan’s own dick started shooting cum all over his belly, unable to contain the orgasm, as Max kept cumming buckets for a while longer. Both men were high on pleasure, and both wanted more, but they knew their situation was complicated.

Max slowly pulled his dick out of Alan and lay by his side in bed. Alan’s eyes were blank as he struggled to catch his breath, and his hands caressed his round midsection, which had grown an inch or two thicker due to Max’s cum. Both men were still panting, but Max wrapped his strong arms around Alan, their bodies perfectly fitting together. Alan rested his head on Max’s enormous chest, listening to the steady heartbeat while Max gently caressed his round belly.

Their breathing became steady again, and both enjoyed the loving embrace. Their naked bodies pressed tightly against each other, making both of them feel safe. They cuddled for what felt like an eternity, and Alan wanted to stay there forever. His sickness had gone away, and his hole still felt needy for Max’s massive dick.

Alan’s eyes wandered around the room as he lay in Max’s arms, and he noticed a camera on a tripod in the corner, surrounded by a ring light. “What’s that for?” he asked, nodding towards the camera setup.

Max blushed, a faint pink coloring his cheeks as he hugged Alan tighter. “Oh, that,” he said, chuckling. “I won’t lie to you. That’s for my OnlyFans page.”

Alan looked at Max’s blushing face and smiled at the big guy. “OnlyFans? Really? Isn’t that the page where people sell naked pictures and videos?” Alan said, playfully moving his hands over Max’s massive pecs.

Max shrugged with a shy smile on his face. “Yeah. That’s what I do. It’s how I pay for school, my apartment, food, and pretty much everything else,” he admitted. “People pay to see pictures and videos of me. I guess there’s a big market for guys with muscles like mine. And I know they would love to see my dick; many people have asked, but I have some limits.”

“And you earn a lot for that?” Alan’s playful interest grew. “Should I join even if I’m beyond the limits already?”

Max laughed and pulled Alan even tighter. “It pays really well. I mean, it’s not something I tell everyone, but it’s been a good way to make money and support myself,” he said, feeling Alan’s dick stirring between them. “You don’t need to join. You get the whole package for free.”

Alan smiled and kissed Max again, enjoying the embrace as they cuddled tighter. He closed his eyes, letting the comfort wash over him, ignoring the sickness and overall discomfort to focus on the strange, unexpected bond between them. Max’s hands never left Alan’s belly, making the Professor feel great about his growing body. He knew Becca liked it, and Max loved it, so everything would be great if his body kept getting even thicker.

However, as he drove back home a few hours later, his hand moving over his rounder abdomen, full of Max’s cum, Alan couldn’t stop thinking about his sickness and its relation to his weight gain. He decided to schedule an appointment with his doctor to discard anything serious. In the meantime, he preferred to focus on his family and the fantastic secret encounters with his massive, muscular student, Max.

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#mpreg #mpreg story

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