#just having sort of difficult time with various things

[canisalbus]

Hi there!

It's great to see you posting again. I noticed you weren't around and was worried. As a fellow person with depression and anxiety, I hope you're in a stable place and taking the time you need.

.

[atlabeth]

(please) spare me indignity

masterlist

pairing: spencer reid x fem gideon!reader

summary: you and spencer spend more time together. it's bad, then it's good, then it's something else altogether.

a/n: continuing the gideon!reader series! a whole lot of this is arguing because they love each other fr. sorry this took so long, for some reason i had a really hard time finding my footing here but i hope you enjoy!! reader is a victim of the sassy man apocalypse bc this may be s1/2 spencer but he is not going to not be standing up for himself!! have this new banner that i made to try and help with my inspiration. title is from nothing new by rio romero

wc: 5k

warning(s): r and spence argue some more. angst, hurt w/o comfort, then hurt with comfort! idk theyre kinda sweet

You and Spencer spend the next six and a half hours watching movies. 

You make it through Goodfellas and you only tell him to be quiet twelve times. You take a break to get water and make popcorn, which was so generously provided in your grocery supply, and while you’re doing it, Spencer insists on picking the next one. You end up watching Psycho, and you don’t think he lets a single scene go by without explaining the meaning behind it. 

You choose Notting Hill after, and he knows just as much. He picks Halloween—it doesn’t really help your stalker anxieties, and Spencer apologizes profusely when you bring it up, but you still end up finishing it. Next you go for Pointe Grosse Blank, then Spencer picks Kolya, a Russian film that he specifically put into the box. 

There are subtitles, but he spends half the time translating for you anyway—apparently there are nuances to the script that an English translation doesn’t get compared to the original Russian, and that would be a tragedy. 

He’s in the middle of his third rant going on seven minutes when you finally break. 

“Okay,” you say as you reach for the remote, “I can’t do this anymore.”

You do a double take when your hand meets another instead of hard plastic, and you see Spencer beat you to it. You pull your hand away as soon as possible, feeling your face heat from annoyance.

“What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” he echoes. “The movie’s not over yet.”

“I can’t take any more of your rambling,” you say. “I’m cutting you off.”

He frowns. “We have to finish the movie first.” 

“What are you, a broken record?”

“I couldn’t be a broken record because I said two different things,” he protests. “Besides, what else are you going to do?” 

“Unpack my things? Read a book? Sit in silence staring at the wall in my room?” You shrug as you stand up and walk over to the kitchen. “I’ve got a lot of options.” 

“Gideon told me not to let you out of my sight,” Spencer says, standing up as well. 

“You can see me pretty well from there,” you say. “You don’t have to invade every bit of my privacy.” 

“I— I kind of do,” he says. “The whole point of a safe house is to keep you safe. If you’re off doing your own thing, it’s not really safe.”

“It’s not like I’m leaving!” You throw up your hands in exasperation. “What, are you going to sleep with me too? Make sure I don’t go anywhere in the middle of the night?” 

It’s almost funny how fast his face flushes bright red. You’ve got a feeling he doesn’t have a lot of experience with this sort of thing. 

“That’s what I thought,” you say. “Keep watching your movie if you want. Just leave me alone.” 

You feel his eyes on your back as you storm off to your room. The childish part of you wants to slam the door, but you decide to throw Spencer the smallest bone and leave it open. 

It’s not his fault that you hate him, and that just makes you hate him even more. He gets to come out of this the bigger person, a saint for putting up with your various deficiencies while keeping you safe from a stalker. You’re just the difficult, ungrateful, estranged bastard daughter of the most deified man in the Behavioral Analysis Unit who can’t set her personal grudges aside for her own good. 

You shove your duffel bag into the bed with a little too much force. You unzip it, deciding to try and occupy yourself with unpacking. You’re here for the indefinite future, so you might as well make yourself at home. 

You can’t help the dry laugh that comes at the thought. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt at home anywhere. 

This might be the worst thing about this whole situation. You’ve got a stalker out there, and it’s making you do all this bullshit introspection against your will. It’s got you thinking about your dad and your relationship with him, and thinking about Spencer Reid and how he’s replaced you in your father’s life without even really knowing about it because he didn’t know about you until he walked into your dad’s office a month ago.

Ten minutes pass in a blur before you’re knocked out of it by a rapping on your door. You turn to see Spencer standing in the doorway, expression unreadable.

“What?” you ask.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says. “I’m just checking in.”

“I’m still alive,” you say. “Nothing exciting happened in the five seconds I was gone.”

“It was ten minutes and thirty two seconds, actually,” he says. “But— but good.”

Again, more silence passes between you. You look up at him from your pile of clothes after thirty seconds. 

“Are you just going to stand there?”

“I— I don’t know what else to do,” he stammers.

“Didn’t you say you did something like this before?” you ask. “Guarded some girl from her stalker?”

Spencer nods. “She was a lot easier to get along with.”

You roll your eyes. “Somebody out there wants to kill me to get back at my dad. Sorry that I’m not the pinnacle of happiness.” You make a point to avoid his gaze. “But what I’m trying to say is that you’ve done this all before. You should have some kind of idea of what to do besides bothering me.”

“How am I bothering you?” Spencer asks in exasperation. “I’ve said three sentences to you!”

“Everything you do bothers me, boy genius,” you say. “I thought you would have figured that out by now.” 

“I—” He looks like he wants to say more, but instead he just clamps his mouth shut and shakes his head before he walks away. 

You stare down at your pile of clothes, largely unfolded and scattered around the bed. The silence doesn’t give you the satisfaction you thought it would. 

It only lasts for all of thirty seconds though, and you don’t have time to linger in the discomfort—you hear footsteps, heavier ones this time, and you look up to see Spencer round the corner once again. 

“What is your problem with me?” he blurts out. 

You frown. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me,” Spencer nods. “You hate your dad, fine— but he’s not here for you to fight with, so you’re taking it out on me. It’s classic displacement, and you don’t get to take it out on me.”

“Why not?” you ask. 

“Because it— it’s not fair!” he sputters. “I didn’t do anything to you— I didn’t even know you existed until a month ago!” 

“Well, gosh, boy genius,” you say, “I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure it out yourself.”

“Stop calling me boy genius!” he exclaims. “We’re the same age!”

“Then stop acting like one,” you retort. “I know you’ve got a psychology degree, but you don’t need to use them on me whenever you can.” 

He frowns, his mouth opening for a second before he closes it. 

“Were you going to ask how I knew that before you realized the obvious answer?” you ask. 

“No,” he says. 

“Yes, you were.” You continue folding your clothes. “You went to Caltech, MIT, and Yale, even though it was your safety school. You’ve got three PhDs, two BAs, and you’re working on a philosophy degree, but you’re not done with it yet.” You shrug. “A little difficult to make it to classes with all the FBI stuff.” 

“…Does he really talk about me that much?” Spencer’s voice is quieter than it was before. 

“Oh, yeah,” you say. You set a finished pair of jeans to the side then look at him. “I graduated from college too. Granted, it was a couple years ago, not when I was 17, but I think it still warrants a little support.”

“You went to George Mason,” Spencer says. 

Your movements stutter. You weren’t expecting him to actually know.

“Yeah,” you say. Your heart skips a beat. “How do you know?”

Has he talked about you to the team before? Sure, they didn’t know you existed before you showed up out of the blue, but maybe he showed them a picture after it happened. Your mom carries one of you in your cap and gown in her wallet—maybe he got a hold of one and Spencer caught a glimpse of that. Maybe you just missed it and he does have a picture of you on his desk. Maybe—

“You have a sweatshirt for it,” he says with a gesture. You look where his finger is pointing, and sure enough, your GMU sweatshirt is tangled up with a couple of other crewnecks.

“…Of course,” you say. You don’t know why you even dared to hope. “Because it’s more likely that you’d notice something like that than it is for my dad to talk about me.”

Spencer says your name, and you hate the sympathy in it. 

“No.” You cut him off before he can get any further. “Don’t try to defend him. You know,” you huff a cold, humorless laugh, “he missed my graduation, too. Two separate dates for commencement and my actual school’s ceremony, one 45 minute car ride, and he couldn’t make it to either one.”

“You don’t know how busy we are,” Spencer tries again. “We work weekends and holidays and around the clock— sometimes we get called in at 3am to stay in some random town for weeks at a time, and there’s nothing we can do about it! I— I mean, we’ve had three days off in the past 47 days and—”

“That’s why I have a problem with you!” you cry out, throwing the shirt in your hand onto your bed as you turn to face him. “Because I’m twenty-four years old, and I’ve lived an hour away from my dad for the past six years, but his team that he spends all his time with didn’t even know I existed until I showed up at your office.” You take a step forward, anger resurging inside of you. “Because I threw away a chance at an Ivy to get to see him more, just to deal with the same bullshit as usual. Because I worry about him dying every single day he’s in the field, and he can’t even give me a phone call at the end of it all—” another step forward— “and even in the middle of this shitshow, you think you have a right to defend him— to- to tell me how to feel about him!”

You move even closer, close enough to see his wrinkled button-up is partially untucked, his lips are slightly parted, and his stupid doe eyes—that haven’t left yours—with his stupid dilated pupils, and you jab your finger in his chest. 

“Because all I ever wanted is my father’s affection,” your voice breaks, and you hate the way it makes you feel, “and he’d rather build an entirely new life with an entirely new kid than give it to me.” 

You push your way past him, making sure to shoulder-check him on your way out. You don’t look back as you forge your way to the bathroom (that you unfortunately have to share), even though his gaze burns into your back. 

You close and lock the door. It’s childish, you know, but you need to be alone right now. You can’t stand to be around him.

Spencer just— he irritates you in a way that no one else ever has. He’s your age and more accomplished than you could ever dream to be, with almost six times the degrees and a much better job, and probably a family that loves him. Who wouldn’t love him with everything he’s done?

You, apparently.  

You plant your hands on the countertop as you stare into the mirror. Your usual dark circles have become more pronounced over the past month, and you can’t help a wry laugh at the thought. All that trouble sleeping and it was for the wrong damn reason. 

If you knew someone was watching you, you would have moved out of Virginia months ago. But maybe this bastard would have found you anyway. If Spencer’s profiling is right and he’s going after you because of your dad, you don’t think much could really dissuade him. 

Tears pool at your waterline, and you wipe them away with a rough hand before they can manifest into something more. You slump back against the opposing wall as you continue to stare at yourself. 

You’re pathetic and you can’t even find it in yourself to care. 

You hear the sound of footsteps once more and you wrap your arms around your midsection. This chill won’t go away. 

“…Are you still alive?” a hesitant voice calls. 

You bite back a remark. “I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?” 

“No.” You don’t know what makes you answer honestly. 

A beat of silence passes. You really do feel like a kid. You’re talking to him through the door because you just yelled at him and Spencer is still being the bigger person. 

“Can I help at all?”

This answer comes a little quicker. “No.”

Again, more silence.

“Okay.” Spencer pauses, and the footsteps start again. His voice is a little closer the next time he speaks. “Just… let me know when you’re turning in. So I know you’re still alive.”

You huff. He can’t even stick to his guns and hate you like you hate him for ten minutes. “I don’t think I’ll be dying anytime soon.”

“You never know,” he says. “Spontaneous human combustion might not be proven beyond pseudoscientific concepts, but there’s a first time for everything.”

The laugh that comes out of you is unexpected, both in its lightness and occurrence at all. “Keep an ear out for the smoke alarm, then.”

“If you smell anything burning, stop, drop and roll,” he says. “Make sure you don’t run. All it’ll do is add to the oxygen and feed the fire.”

“Okay,” you say. “…I still don’t like you.”

You swear you can hear the smile in his words. “I know.” 

-

You wake up when the smoke alarm goes off. 

It’s a very rude awakening. It jolts you out of your very uneasy sleep to unfamiliar surroundings—in your disoriented state, you almost forget where you are. 

Right. You’re in a safe house in the middle of nowhere because someone is stalking you. How could you possibly forget?

You stumble out of bed, rubbing your eyes to try and assuage some of your exhaustion as you leave your room. 

“Is the place on fire?” you ask through a yawn. 

“No!” Spencer exclaims, sounding more panicked than usual. That straightens your back and speeds your pace. “No, everything’s fine—” 

You smell smoke, and as you come around the corner, you see him waving his hands overtop the toaster trying to dispel said smoke. You can’t help but laugh, and you actually smile when he gives you the most helpless look. 

“I’m so good at so many other things.”

“What are you trying to do?” you ask wryly. “Burn this house down to try and get a better one?” 

“This wouldn’t have started a fire,” Spencer says. “Toaster fires usually spread because they’re below wooden cupboards, which catch easily and spread everywhere else.” He gestures at the toaster, which he has plugged in to an outlet on the side of the island. “No cupboards, no house fire.”

“You started this because you were making toast?” you ask. 

He flushes. “I’m used to the toaster I have at home. I have the settings worked out perfectly there. This one is all wrong.” 

You sigh and shake your head. “Just… hit the reset button, and open the door. It’ll be fine.” 

“I can’t open the door,” he says. “It goes against the safety thing.”

“Then open a window.”

“Making it easier to get in here in any way goes against the safety thing,” he says. 

“So we have to just deal with the smoke?” you ask in exasperation. 

Spencer hits the vent button on the microwave, and the fan whirs into action. “No?”

You shake your head in disbelief as he then reaches up to hit the button on the smoke alarm. His t-shirt lifts with the movement—your eyes drift to the bare strip of skin, and you immediately look away when you realize. 

“Where’s the coffee in here?” you ask, clearing your throat as you start sifting through drawers. “I’ll be even worse to deal with if I don’t have caffeine.” 

“I already brewed a fresh pot,” Spencer says, gesturing with his head. “Half and half is in the fridge, and sugar is in the cabinet.” 

“Oh,” you say. You stop what you’re doing, your hands lingering above the drawer handle. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

You see him shrug out of your peripherals. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Because I was a total asshole to you last night, you want to say. Because I’ve been awful to you since I met you and you refuse to fight back and give me a better reason to hate you. 

“Because you didn’t need to,” you finally say. Good one. 

“I did. So you’re going to have to deal with it.” Spencer takes the burnt toast out and throws them in the trash can, talking while he does it. “You know, it’s actually a rumor that burnt toast contains carcinogens and can increase the chance of cancer. Acrylamide forms when you burn food, but researchers haven’t found a link between starchy foods with high amounts of acrylamide and cancer.” 

You hum in some form of acknowledgement as you take a mug out of the cabinet and fill it from the pot. You take a sip and grimace—it’s not the best, but it’s caffeinated. After three years of shitty gas station coffee throughout college, you can deal with it. 

“How did you sleep?” Spencer asks. 

“Fine,” you say. 

He frowns. “Really?”��

“Yes,” you say, a little rougher. “The dark circles come with the model.” 

“There are a lot of causes other than sleep deprivation,” Spencer says. “Contact dermatitis, hyperpigmentation, dehydration, alcoholism, stress—” 

“Got plenty of that,” you interrupt. 

“Even genetics can play a part in it,” he says. 

You huff. “I think this is one thing I can’t blame my dad for. I haven’t slept since the nineties.”

“Well, you should try,” Spencer says. “The blood vessels around your eyes don’t constrict like they should when you’re sleep deprived, which means your blood vessels dilate, which increases blood in the area, and that gives you dark circles.”

“Wow,” you say wryly. “I really look that bad with them?” 

“I— that—” Spencer’s face flushes red as he stutters, and you hide the slightest smile with your mug— “that’s not what I mean! I’m just trying to give advice to help—” 

“I know.” You set your mug back down, not able to fully bite back your amusement. “I was joking, Spencer.” 

“Oh,” he says. “That’s… new.” 

“Am I not allowed to joke?” 

“It just doesn’t seem like you,” Spencer says. “Especially after last night.” 

“I’m too tired to fight with you right now,” you sigh. “Enjoy your break.” 

He clears his throat as he takes two fresh pieces of bread out, then looks at your mug. “You drink it black?” 

“It’s not coffee if you don’t,” you say. “It— it’s a sugary mess.” 

“It is not!” he exclaims. “It still has the same amount of caffeine, and it’s still coffee—” 

“No it isn’t!” you laugh, and you nod at his mug. “How much sugar did you put in there?” 

“A couple spoonfuls but—” 

“Spoonfuls?”

“But it’s how I like it!” Spencer defends. 

“Don’t you have some facts about how harmful excessive sugar consumption is?” you ask. 

“Of course I do,” he says. “I also have some about the benefits of black coffee, but I’m not going to tell you now.”

“Wow,” you say. “I’m so hurt.” 

He shakes his head as he slots two more pieces of bread into the toaster. “And to think, I was trying to make breakfast for you.” 

Again, that gives you pause. Why does he keep trying to do nice things for you?” 

“Don’t bother.” You pick up your mug and go into the living room. “I don’t really eat breakfast anyways.” 

“That’s not healthy,” he calls after you. 

“Most things I do aren’t,” you respond. “What’s on the agenda today?” 

“Skipping breakfast puts you at a higher chance of heart disease,” he says. 

“Then I guess we won’t have to worry about the spontaneous combustion, will we?” You look back at him. “What’s on the agenda?” 

Spencer sighs. He’s given up momentarily, it seems. “Gideon’s going to call me in thirty-two minutes for an update. The whole team has been focusing solely on your case.” 

You perk up. The coffee warms your hands through the mug but it doesn’t fully assuage the chill down your spine. 

“Do they have any leads?” 

“I don’t know,” Spencer says. “Gideon hasn’t called me yet.” 

You roll your eyes. “Do you think they have any leads?” 

“Maybe.” The toaster pops and he pulls the bread out, then starts buttering it—or trying to. His brow knots in annoyance at the stick of butter, still hard, and he pushes his glasses up with his free hand. You have to look away. “Like I said, Gideon helped start the BAU. He’s solved more cases than anyone else, and,” you feel his eyes on you, “it’s personal this time. He’s probably working around the clock.” 

“Just have to hope they get somewhere,” you murmur. Your coffee tastes even more bitter than  usual, but you drink it anyway. 

“They will,” Spencer says. “I promise.” 

“Y’know, people keep making promises they can’t keep,” you say. “I’m getting real tired of it.” 

“Well, I’m not leaving your side until they do,” he says. “And I’m going to keep you safe. So consider that promise kept.” 

“Great,” you say. “I’m stuck with you until I die or this is solved.” 

“You’re not going to die.” 

“You don’t have to take everything I say so seriously.” 

“Then don’t say everything so seriously.” 

You huff a laugh and shake your head. Spencer comes over with his plate of messily buttered toast—not very easy with fully solid sticks of butter—and sits down across from you. He holds the plate out. 

“Want one?” 

“I told you, I don’t eat breakfast.” 

“You should.” 

“Because one piece of toast will make so much of a difference,” you mock. 

“It will,” he says. “Maybe it’ll even make you happier.” 

You roll your eyes and drink more of your coffee. “Are you going to bother me all day like this?” 

Spencer took a bite of toast then shrugged. “If you’re this blase about everything relating to your health, then yes.” 

You groan as you stand up. “It’s too early to deal with you. See you in a few hours.” 

“And good morning to you too,” Spencer says wryly. You make a parting gesture with your hand in response. 

It’s been a day and a half, and not only have you argued with him twice, but he still refuses to give you anything to work with, still insists on trying to be there for you. It’s as infuriating as it is gratingly admirable. Anyone else probably would have tried to kill you by now. 

Well, you’ve already got a stalker trying to do that. 

You sigh and down half your coffee. You’ve got a long day ahead of you. 

-

Spencer doesn’t know why you not liking him bothers him so much. 

It’s illogical, but it makes sense for you. Your dad spends more time with him than he does with you, and you’re projecting your hatred for Gideon onto Spencer. Whatever. 

But it’s not just whatever, and that irks him. 

This is an assignment, simple as that. Gideon trusted him enough to put you under his protection, even if it’s for your mental health more so than your physical. It should be a point of pride, being chosen for something like this by someone like Gideon.

Spencer presses his fingers against his temple. You’re a lot, there’s no way around it. But you also claim to hate him, and he knows that’s not true. 

Yes, you argue with him. Yes, you’re short with him. Yes, he lost his temper momentarily because not even Spencer is capable of endless grace. 

But he also sees your moments of lightness throughout it all. Your brief smiles, the quips that lean towards jokes more than insults—and he notices your eyes, and the brightness that breaks through on occasion. 

He always notices your eyes.

Spencer’s phone rings in his pocket, jolting him out of whatever reverie he found himself in. He pulls it out and flips it open, then presses it to his ear. “Gideon?” 

“Reid,” he greets. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” he says. “You’re calling twenty-four minutes early.”

“We just finished a briefing,” Gideon says. “I wanted to get word to you as soon as possible.” 

Spencer sits up. “What is it?” 

“Morgan, Hotch, and Garcia have been working together to comb through my past cases and see what they’re up to now. They finally found a potential unsub,” he says. “Someone I put away a decade ago was released last year, and recent records indicate he’s back in the area.” 

“Who is it?” he asks. 

“Adam Hernandez. Also known as—” 

“The Stafford Strangler,” Spencer finishes. “He killed three people in two weeks in the 90s—classic spree killer. You caught him with David Rossi’s help.” 

“Released on good behavior, despite the victims’ families campaigning against it,” Gideon says. “You know it?” 

“Obviously,” he says. “I’ve read all of your old case files.”

Gideon chuckles, and he can almost imagine him shaking his head. “Of course you have.”

“Do you think Hernandez is your guy?” Spencer asks. 

“I’m not sure yet,” Gideon says. “We applied for a warrant—as soon as we get it, Morgan and Elle are heading his way to ask a few questions.” 

“You think he’d do something like this?” Spencer shifts his position as he frowns. “Hernandez got fired, lost his house, then went off the deep end. He killed because he didn’t see any other solution. The guy going after your daughter is a lot more emotional about all this, and—” his throat feels dry all of a sudden— “and it’s like he’s got some kind of attraction to her.” 

“You don’t need to remind me,” Gideon says roughly. “We’re going for leads where we can, and we’re still working every other angle. It doesn’t end with Hernandez.”

“...Good,” Spencer says. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help from here.” 

“You’re already doing everything I need you to do.” Gideon pauses, and he hears the creak of the chair in his office as he adjusts how he’s sitting. “How is my daughter doing?” 

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Her mood changes with the wind. One second she’s trying to start a fight with me, the next she’s trying to joke around with me. It— it’s a lot, I won’t lie.” 

“But how is she handling all of this?” he asks. “Staying in the safe house, dealing with a stalker, feeling like a sitting duck.”

“Very cynically,” Spencer says. “She keeps talking about dying or getting killed.”

Gideon sighs. “That sounds like her.” 

“She’s… she’s mad at you, mostly.” Spencer picks at a hangnail, ignoring the sharp, temporary pain. “Every time I bring you up, it lights a fuse. You’re the one thing she hates to talk about.” 

There’s nothing but silence on the other end. 

“Gideon?” he asks. “Did I lose—” 

“I’m here,” he interrupts. “Just… thinking.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Spencer says. “She’s—” 

“It is my fault,” Gideon interrupts again. “Has she told you much about her younger life?” 

“...Some,” Spencer says. 

“Like?” 

Spencer doesn’t really know what to say. He doesn’t want to just tell Gideon that you’ve told him he’s been an awful dad. That it’s really all you’ve told him. 

“You can say it, Reid,” Gideon says. “I won’t get mad.” 

“...She says you’ve missed out on her whole life,” Spencer finally says, notably quieter. “Her high school graduation, her college graduation— most of the stuff that happened in college, actually.” 

Gideon lets out a rough sigh. “I’ll always regret it.” 

“So it’s true?” Spencer asks. He’s surprised at the sharpness of his voice.  

“I don’t get to control when cases come in,” he says. 

“We’re a whole team of qualified agents,” Spencer says. “We— we always have been. Especially when you and Rossi were together. It was like the golden age of profilers.” 

“Spencer—” 

“You made it to my graduation!” he interrupts. “You were there for my chemistry PhD, and you said you would be there when I get my philosophy degree, but you couldn’t make it for your only child’s high school and college graduations?” 

“I already told you I regret it,” Gideon says. His voice is as calm as ever, and for some reason, that irks Spencer even more. “What more can I say? It’s in the past now. I can’t change what I did.”

Spencer stares at the wall. He doesn’t know why this is such a damning thing to him. 

His own dad has missed all of his graduations. He’s missed almost every part of his life. But his dad walked out—he wanted nothing to do with Spencer or his mom. 

Your dad is right here. Gideon is still around, working every day to save lives and change the world and take down monsters—but he’s still not there for you. 

He’s so close and yet he always steps out of your reach. 

“Spencer.” Gideon’s voice is tinny through the speaker, and he presses his phone back against his ear. 

“Call me back the second you get another lead,” Spencer mutters. 

He hangs up without another word. 

[qqueenofhades]

hi I hope you don't mind but I would love to hear your long tired historian rant you mentioned in your tags on that one post, if you feel in the mood to share? (no pressure!)

(also thank you for existing, you do wonderful work and the world is a better place for you being in it)

Aha. Well. For context, the mention of said rant was in relation to this post:

Basically, this post struck a nerve because of how it exactly encapsulates the anti-intellectual, anti-academia, anti-historical, anti-reality thinking that is absolutely rampant in social media spaces, even and especially spaces that identify as leftist, liberal, or otherwise "superior" to the right wing when it comes to identifying fake news or misinformation. (Example A: anything ever written by a self-proclaimed leftist on Twitter.) We all know that there are huge problems with the American public school system (and the people writing this are almost always American) and the American practice of education in general, and that yes, there are many things that happened in the past (or y'know, the present!) that are not taught very well, or at all. But because the American public school system is so decentralized and largely autonomous, incredibly dependent on the temperament of local superintendents and/or school boards, taxation and funding, availability of teachers, requirement of useless standardized tests, etc., it is very difficult (if not outright impossible) to claim that this is the result of a Unified Grand Conspiracy To Not Teach Real History To The Youth In Order To Make Them Mindlessly Support Capitalism. That is the exact sort of deranged conspiratorial thinking that the right wing does and fits everything into a sinister narrative about how "They" are planning to keep you ignorant and therefore nothing harmful that you ever think or do is really your fault. It's not good.

(Whoosh. That was very calm and reasonable of me. For the rest of this post, please just picture Captain Holt "apparently that's a trigger for me" dot gif.)

Also: even in public school, and despite the Republicans' best efforts, there are plenty of opportunities to study complex or "controversial" subjects. For example, I spend a week every June grading AP Euro History exams with a lot of other educators in a giant windowless steel box (woo-hoo, fun times!) Every year, there are questions on the exam about women's rights, imperialism and exploitation, slavery/race relations, the development of capitalism and the current economic model, religion and science, the history of labor, and other topics that would be considered "controversial" if you're an idiot. This is an exam taken by high school students in all grades from across the country, and there are also AP World History and APUSH (US history) exams every year which are doubtless making an effort to address similar themes. This is an advanced program, yes, but it's widely available to many schools and is not a result of a sinister plot to keep the youth from discovering the truth. Also: you live in an era of absolutely unprecedented access to information. Put down the ChatGPT bullshit generator and visit a goddamn public library. Or even open Wikipedia. The tools are there for you to start educating yourself and they are so easy to find!!!!!

The "Historians Are Hiding The Truth!!!" narrative becomes even more ridiculous in university-level or professional academic historical-study spaces, especially when historical educators and associations (such as the American Historical Association) have been at the forefront of pushing back against right-wing efforts to censor history, punish teachers, and remove culture-war subjects from classrooms. Also as someone who has advanced degrees in history, has taught/worked in several universities in different countries, writes and publishes historical research, and otherwise participates professionally in the field: trust me, we aren't "hiding" shit. There are vigorous debates and disagreements on various bogglingly obscure subjects and points of clarification and so forth, but that doesn't mean we're not talking about them (trust me, we're often talking about them too much). If you're issuing confident blanket statements about how "historians are conspiring to hide x," you're an idiot.

This also has dangerous repercussions in the field of, say, politics and civics, where a lot of absolutely braindead Online Leftists have spent the last four years posting deranged nonsense on social media and then, whenever they're called out on it for that not actually being how anything works at all, whining that "I was never taught this!!!" (And yet, it somehow never actually changes their perspective or their theories....) They whine about how "they didn't know this" and it was someone else's fault, they make up total fantasy about what the Biden administration did or should have done and now are still happy about Trump coming back because "It will teach the Democrats a lesson!!!" and otherwise accelerating us oh-so-quickly down that slippery slippery fascism slope. Their weaponized ignorance and their magical fantasies about what "should" have happened often come back to this same learned helplessness, where it's everyone else's fault (especially Capitalism's) that they're total wankers. Look: I'm not a goddamn fan of capitalism either. But we all grew up in this same system, and some of us aren't raving idiots, so at some point, you have to take the tiniest modicum of personal responsibility for the information you seek out, the content you consume, the opinions you propagate, and the people you surround yourself with. Shocking.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, Online Leftists are actively and unrepentantly enabling American fascism and should be treated in the same way as we treat MAGA when it comes to deciding what is good or worthwhile information. This is because their entire political philosophy (insofar as their beliefs can be dignified with the term) is based on the "make shit up and remove it from any basic empirical references, grounding in reality, or 'should I run the most basic Google search and see if I'm completely talking out of my ass in a distorted social media echo chamber? Nah I'm good' " technique. This is, as the original tweet above references, trying to retcon sheer malicious laziness and stupidity into grand ideological theories about how it's actually "better" that they don't know a damn thing and won't shut up. It's your evil history teacher's fault, or "academics are all rich and elitist" (ask any academic-precariat person like me and we will laugh hollowly and then throw monkey poop at you), or "They" wouldn't let you learn this, or on and on. Even in our terrible, awful, no-good very-bad timeline, there are still ample tools to educate yourself, to learn how to filter out bad information and junk news, and otherwise gird yourself even a little for the even-more-massive assault on empirical reality that we are about to experience in the next four years (ugh). I suggest you take advantage of them.

[lavenderprose]

Emmrich is a morning person and Rook is only a morning person under duress, which becomes only a minor issue after the gods are finally dead because Rook's ideal wake up time is roughly noon, and Emmrich's up at the asscrack of dawn every day whether he works or not.

It's six thirty AM and Rook's face-down on the bed, titties out and hair splayed across three pillows, and Elgar'nan breathed this last breath less than a week ago. Emmrich gave the various factions of Thedas exactly three days to demand Rook's attention and, on the morning of the fourth day, grabbed Rook with one hand and Manfred with the other and asked the Caretaker if there was an Eluvian that might deposit one anywhere in the area of the Cumberland countryside.

Emmrich apparently maintains a small country house here, for 'Whatever occassion might arise' (demented) and it's modest but pretty. Manfred trampled straight into the rose garden when they got here and hasn't emerged since, but Emmrich claims that's normal for him. Rook personally believes that Manfred, even, is still processing their mutual ordeal, but she's content to let him do it with the caterpillars and the rose petals. Not like a skeleton can be pricked by a thorn.

The moment they arrived, Emmrich sought out the housekeeper and told her that her services would not be required for the coming week, and to stand by on the subject of next week as well.

"Go celebrate the world not ending, Helga!" he'd said, maybe a bit too loud and manic, as he closed what was surely much more than a week's salary into her hand. Knowing Emmrich, there was already a very robust system in place to assure that his housekeeper received her generous salary every week--this was merely some sort of consolation pay for the very difficult task of being given a week of vacation.

Helga was Elven, at least as old as Emmrich and blinked at him like a vaguely surprised cat. She swept her gaze over Rook as well before leaving. She'd been smirking, Rook thought, as the door closed behind her.

Thus, they've been alone in the house, and Rook has been sleeping, staring vaguely into the distance, sleeping, reading from Emmrich's extensive collection, looking at the ceiling while trying to forget the sight of Bellara's blighted eyes, sleeping, bouncing on Emmrich's dick like it's her job, and sleeping sleeping sleeping.

They've been here for two days, more or less 48 hours, and many of those hours were spent in his lap. Fucking him, yes, but also just clinging onto him like an extra limb because right now, she feels like she might disintegrate if he isn't touching her. He reads to her. Smiles and laughs through so many stories from his life. She thinks about Solas disappearing into the Fade, maybe never to be seen again. The last God of her people.

When she goes too quiet, sometimes he tells her a joke or puts a little chocolate in her mouth. Once, he ate her out while humming the Nevarran national anthem and she laughed as she came. Sometimes he joins her in melancholy and they lay together and cope. Sometimes she cries, mostly from exhaustion and relief and grief, and he kisses her face. Sometimes he cries. From exhaustion and relief and grief, probably. She tucks her head under his chin and rubs her small hand up and down his broad back, and then she swipes the snot and tears out of his mustache with her very own thumb because she loves him, she loves him.

This morning, she flutters her eyes open and enjoys the texture of the silk sheets against her bare body (Last night, and for lack of a better term, Emmrich fucked her to sleep--apparently, when the world isn't in active peril, he's very into the whole tantric thing. Hours of crazy hot, dragging sex that destroys braincells, but only the ones she's better off not having.) and she does that for about thirty seconds before she realizes it's just barely light outside, blue and cool. Then she starts wondering why the fuck she's awake right now.

The answer becomes apparent immediately: Emmrich is in the ensuite bath, running water and making the weirdest, loudest noises. She thinks at first that he's managed to gag himself with his own toothbrush, but then he sneezes, blows his nose with a honking noise like a malfunctioning horn, and clears his throat so thunderously that Rook thinks he must somehow be drowning.

She rolls out of bed and wobbles into the bathroom, birthday suit and all, because clearly he's become sick in the night and it's now up to her to guide him back to bed and care for him. She's surprised, then, to find him looking hale and healthy in front of the sink. He's wearing nothing but silk pajama pants and down slippers. He's making an absurd clicking sound and swirling a finger inside his ear.

"Are you okay?" Rook demands, propped on the doorjamb.

Emmrich jumps a foot on the air, winces as he jabs his own eardrum, and says, "Ow! Darling, please don't sneak up on--"

"You are being so loud," she says, because the polite section of her brain hasn't woken up. "Are you choking? Are you sick?"

"No," Emmrich says slowly. "I just--oh, the door must have fallen open. The floor isn't terribly even here. I'm sorry, darling--sound does carry in this old house." He twirls a finger behind his ear and clinks again. "I fear I suffer seasonal allergies, dearest, and it's been a long while since I slept more than a night or two outside of the Necropolis or the Fade. There's quite a bit of...mucus..." He clears his throat.

"Gross," says Rook, and then, "It's dawn, Emmrich."

"Mm-hm." Emmrich is now leaning across the counter, two inches from the mirror and examining his mustache like a jewel appraiser.

"Why are you making heinous old man noises at dawn?"

His eyes veer towards her reflection in the mirror, and they make eye contact in the glass. Very neatly, and with a raised eyebrow, he says, "Heinous old man noises."

Rook starts making hawking, gutteral noises in the back of her throat. It's a pretty faithful imitation.

"Dearest," he yells over the sound. "I apologize for waking you--"

"I cannot believe," says Rook, "that I'm going to spend the rest of my life being woken up at dawn by the hacks and sneezes of a man who wears wing tip shoes."

She's halfway through a half-asleep snicker at the hilarity of her own statement when Emmrich fixes her with a surprised look in his wet eyes and she realizes she's never actually voiced the idea that has become an unspoken certainty in her mind: That he's the love of her life, and her life may not be as short as she was thinking it might be this time last week, and that she wants nothing more than to spend the rest of her ambiguously-numbered mornings waking up to him.

She also realizes the truth of the situation. The baths in the Lighthouse were communal, and one never knew which companion they might encounter during their morning routine. Emmrich is fastidious and spends a great deal of his energy in broadcasting the image of a man who is utterly put together in everything he does. Never a hair out of place or a thread loose. It's a privilege of the highest order to witness him this way. Sleep-mused hair, shadow on his jaw. The bleariness of sleep in his eyes and, yes, even the throat-clearing and nose blowing.

Emmrich clears his throat and whispers, "Forgive me. I've...lived alone. For a very long time."

Rook's eyes water as she croaks, "Not anymore. I don't...want you to."

A smile spreads his face. It is wobbly, boyish, and so so beautiful. The absurdity of the situation finally reaches her--she is very naked and he's only slightly more dressed and there is a perfectly warm, perfectly comfortable bed steps away.

"Come back to bed," Rook says. "Please?"

He does.

[itsbenedict]

so in an effort to be slightly less out-of-touch, i went and watched all of Skibidi Toilet the other day. (at present, the whole series is about the length of a feature film, so this wasn't too big a lift.)

what surprised me is just... how totally normal it was. like, it's not at all difficult to describe. people big it up as this incomprehensible thing that's emblematic of a generation gap, but it's. not.

the plot is: there's toilets with human heads in them that go "skibidi dom dom dom yes yes, skibidi dabbadul neef neef". they can move despite a lack of ambulatory appendages. this is wacky and unsettling, but the chief question is: Do They Win In A Fight Against Some Robots With Cameras For Heads?

it's an action movie about a war against an alien invasion. that's it. less than the first thirty seconds of it are anarchic GMod YTP insanity- it develops a plot almost immediately. the plot is paper-thin and conveyed almost entirely without dialogue, existing to set up giant robot fights and zombie apocalypse jumpscares.

who are these factions? why are they fighting? you aren't failing to get it because the kids these days are on some totally different psychic wavelength. the show simply does not give a shit about this question. here are some bad guys! here are some good guys! they're going to do explosions and punches at each other for roughly two minutes until the perspective camera is abruptly destroyed in the crossfire somehow.

it is a remarkably competently-shot action movie. the fight scenes are weighty and satisfying and have lots of exciting little twists and turns as the two sides pull increasingly bigger weapons and gadgets out of their asses. the production gets more elaborate over time, and it's a pretty stellar example of what machinima is capable of. genuinely good at the things it's trying to do.

it does kinda fall down a little later, as it attempts to develop Characters and Deepest Lore after kind of not caring about that for most of its runtime. the decision to have "dialogue" almost exclusively in the form of incomprehensible heavily-filtered backwards speech with no subtitles is probably rewarding for die-hard Skibidi-heads who have the time on their hands to mess with the audio and uncover all the hidden messages, but it means you are not going to understand anything anyone is saying on a normal watch.

the action suffers from this decision a little bit towards the end, as for reasons that completely fail to come across, the toilets appear to have broken into their own factions and start fighting each other and forming various alliances, which disrupts the simplicity of the setup and makes it hard to determine who's winning a fight at any given time. a giant scary toilet man just exploded! was that bad, or good? listen, don't worry about it. all you need to know is that these things are going to keep happening until DaFuqBoom gets bored.

it's like a... 7/10, shallow but enjoyable. easy to see why kids like it. not going to give you any deeper insights into the Kids These Days, but there's worse ways to spend a couple hours.

(the most confusing thing to me is how something this straightforward got a reputation for crossing some sort of rubicon of cultural alienation. did everyone born in the 20th century who talks about this show just watch eighteen seconds of it and give up???)

[hippiegoth97]

Random Spencer Reid Thought #2

A/N: Fucking FINALLY got something written for once. Enjoy some crumbs, lovely readers <3

Content Warning 18+ Only, Minors DNI: swearing, smut, virgin!Spencer Reid, fem!reader, no use of Y/N, fingering, groping, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, dirty talk, rough sex, fluff

Some tags: @rafeyscurtainbangs @loserboysandlithium @hotwritergf @bloodibambiidoll

"Are you sure you're ready for this, Spence?" You ask Reid as you're straddling his thighs, the two of you naked in his bed as you have been so many times before. Although, it's different this time, because he's just asked you to take his virginity from him.

"Yes. I'm ready." He replies softly, sitting up against the headboard, his hands resting at your waist. He's brought you here on many occasions, though up until recently the most you'd do is make out until your lips were sore.

He'd met you at a book shop a few months ago, reaching for the same first edition of some dusty old classic. Sherlock Holmes, maybe, or perhaps even Moby Dick. He doesn't quite remember (and his unmatched memory captures everything), as he was far too focused on the gorgeous, soft hand that brushed against his own in grabbing for the book. A shared laugh soon followed, light and airy, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Your beauty enraptured him instantly, and he nearly tripped over himself to give you his number and await your call to plan a date of some sort. It was so unlike him to do so, it made him seriously question his sanity for an hour or two. But after a conversation with you that lasted hours into the night when he returned home that evening, he was pleased to find he'd made a very wise decision.

Fast forward to the last month or so, and things have rapidly progressed from hand-holding and passionate kisses to touching various naked areas with your hands and mouths. You've been patient, guiding Spencer along each stepping stone towards intercourse, encouraging him, exploring him in every way imaginable. Despite your insistence (and multiple comments he receives from certain coworkers of his), he's never exactly found himself to be attractive. Not really.

He's spent most of his life a full step ahead of everyone else in terms of education and career, leaving him considerably younger than most of his peers. That fact alone has made it rather difficult to experience a lot of 'firsts' in regards to intimacy. He's been kissed before you came along, maybe even felt up a little bit, but nothing beyond that. In all honesty, a part of him is glad to have been spared the awkward adolescent groping and vulgar attempts at playing grown-up, because now he's been able to share all of these amatory encounters with you.

"I want this. I want you." Spencer reiterates as you haven't made any next moves yet.

"I want you too, baby. I just have one more question." You say softly, brushing a wispy hair out of his face before cupping his cheek.

"And what's that?" Reid asks, unable to help smiling as you gaze at him adoringly.

"Do you want me to put a condom on you, or are you okay without one?" You ask, the words sounding a bit more clinical than you'd like. But it's a fair question.

"I-I dunno. Should I?" His brow furrows, unsure how to go about this. He's aware you're on the pill, though that statistically isn't 100% effective. And he may be a virgin, but he's aware of the mess sex can make, and it might spare a bit of cleanup afterwards. He's getting stuck on it now, pondering inside his head as you play with the foil wrapper between your fingers.

You giggle at his momentary trance, shaking your head. "It's only if you want to, Spence. It's not exactly a life-altering decision."

"That's not true. You could still end up pregnant." Spencer retorts, about to rattle off statistics at you about just how many children were born to parents who assumed oral contraceptives were enough. You put a finger over his mouth to stop him, and he sighs when he realizes how intense he's getting about this. He gently moves your hand away, speaking again. "I'm sorry, I'm being silly."

"No, you're not. It's sweet that you're so concerned." You reassure him, giving him a soft kiss. He hums into you, allowing your tongue to slip into his mouth for a moment. You pull away shortly after, taking his breath with you. With your lips still brushing against his, you meet his dizzied gaze. "I only ask, because I want your first time to be extra special. And it'll feel so much better if you fuck me without a condom on." You say seductively, making his pupils dilate with lust.

"Actually, studies show that there's little to no difference in sensat-" Reid's gargantuan mind starts up again, leaving you no choice but to cut him off by taking his cock in your grasp. "-fuck." He mutters, losing his train of thought entirely, his eyes flicking down to look at the scene between his legs. His stiff, ample length throbs in your hand, pearly beads of precum dripping down the side as you lazily stroke him.

"Baby, look at me..." You purr, drawing his gaze to you. "I'm gonna ask you again. All I need is a 'yes; or 'no', okay?" You wait for him to give an understanding nod. He does, as well as letting out one of the filthiest little moans you've ever heard. "Do you want to wear a condom?" You ask, letting his dick fall from your hand for a moment. He whines at the loss, the sound sending a flare of arousal between your legs.

"No. I want to feel you. All of you. Please." Spencer begs, and you could just about melt at the pitchy whimper in his voice. You've noticed he grows rather needy in bed, and it doesn't take much to rile him up. The way he takes everything you give him like a precious gift is so goddamn intoxicating.

"So do I, Spence." You say with a smile, one he mirrors. "Is this position okay? We can do it any way you want."

"This is fine, makes me feel close to you." Reid says sweetly, squeezing your hips a little.

"You wanna warm me up a little bit first?" You ask, longing to feel his touch.

"Of course." He nods, leaning in to press his lips to yours. Spencer always starts with a kiss, no matter what it is you end up doing. It's really romantic, and makes your knees weak every time. You let him lead, allowing his tongue to dominate yours in a fervent dance. His hand leaves your waist, trailing along your supple skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake. His long fingers brush past your inner thighs, reaching their intended destination without him having to look. He rubs slow circles on your clit, making you moan against his mouth. It doesn't take long for him to venture further, slipping two fingers inside your drenched cunt.

"Fuck, Spence." You moan aloud, the way his fingertips can reach your g-spot so quickly and easily takes you by surprise every time. You grab hold of his cock again, mainly holding it to keep him ready. Although, the sounds you're making and how wet you are seem to be doing that job just fine. The air of the room heats up, growing thinner as the seconds pass. Unabashed moans escape the two of you as you work each other up, building towards the one thing you've both desired for so long. "I'm ready when you are." You say breathlessly, eager to finally feel Spencer inside of you.

"O-Okay." He stutters, nodding his head enthusiastically. He pulls his fingers out of your cunt, bringing them to his lips. He sucks them clean, moaning at the taste of you. "Mm."

"Dirty boy." You tease, making a deep blush bloom wildly across his cheeks. You start to stroke him again, very slowly. You get up on your knees to position yourself over him.

He watches your every move, unable to say a word. It's finally happening. He's going to have sex. With you. Reid feels like a silly teenager with all these thoughts running through his head, but they all fall away the second you bring the tip of his cock to glide through your folds. You share a moan at the sensation, gazing at one another with parted mouths. Hearts pounding in anticipation, breath stolen from your lungs, arousal leaking from you both and mixing together in the indescribable friction. Spencer could cum just like this if he isn't careful.

"Ready?" You ask one final time, just to be absolutely sure that he wants this.

"Yes." Reid nods, trying to keep himself from squirming. You feel so good, and he's not even inside you yet. He's certain he won't last long, but you've already told him a hundred times that it won't be a problem.

You don't waste anymore time, holding his cock at your entrance and gradually sinking down onto him. "Fuck, Spence. You're so big." You moan as he splits you open. He's a bit larger than you've had before, and it's been quite some time since you've done this, so every inch is deliciously stuffing you full.

Reid, on the other hand, has gone completely mute. His mind has stopped working, and all he can do is grip onto your hips with all the strength he has without hurting you. You're absolute heaven inside, if he believed in such a thing. So hot, and slick, and snug, squeezing around his dick perfectly. He finally understands what all the fuss is about. He could just about cry from happiness in this moment. Once you're fully seated on him, your walls constrict out of reflex, which appears to get Spencer's sex-addled brain working again. "Oh, my...fuck- I, um, wow..." He babbles, unsure what to do with himself. His hands fidget at your sides aimlessly, and his expression twists and bends in all manner of ways as he attempts to get a grip on one singular thought.

"Shh, look at me, Spencer." You coo to him, leading his chin with your finger. He meets your eyes, though his own desperately want to roll back into his fucking skull. "That's it, baby. Just breathe, alright? Nice and slow, 'kay?" You guide him through the initial shock, nodding together slowly as he takes deep breaths. "There you go. I'm gonna start moving now, okay? Don't worry if you cum early, and just tell me if you need me to stop." You say softly, keeping things light and low-pressure. The last thing you need is him worrying about his performance.

"Okay." He breathes, chest shuddering as you start to ride him. You lift yourself up, almost letting him fall out altogether, and come back down at the same pace. You do this a few more times, gradually picking up a bit of speed.

"That feel good, baby?" You ask him, rolling your hips as you set a steady rhythm.

"Yeah, so fucking good." Spencer huffs, feeling close already. But he puts that out of his mind, focusing instead on enjoying this with you. "Do you feel good?" He asks, needing more than your vulgar moans as confirmation.

"So good, Spence. You fill me up so well, I'm so fucking wet for you." You admit these lewd thoughts to him, no stranger to being vocal during intimacy with him. Reid enjoys it immensely, adding words to the actions just makes everything astoundingly better. "Tell me how it feels to fuck me, Spencer." You say through a moan, riding him a little bit faster now.

Spencer groans at your increased speed, doing his best to hold back his orgasm. "I-It's exactly what I'd always hoped it would be." He starts. "I can hardly find the words to describe how much I'm enjoying this right now. You've blown my mind to pieces with this perfect fucking pussy." His grip on your waist grows rougher, taking you by surprise. He's following his instincts, leading you with his hands as you bounce on his cock. His assistance punctuates every landing you make, your noises growing louder as pleasure builds inside you. "I can feel you making a mess all over me, fucking soaked." He says, marveling at the drenched patch on his crotch. Your arousal glistens in the light as it's caught on his coarse hair and pale skin. "It drives me crazy to know you're loving this just as much as I am."

"I am, baby. You're so deep, hitting all the right places inside me." You say, speeding up a bit more. Spencer's hands migrate to your ass, squeezing your flesh roughly as he continues to keep up with you. You're surprised he's lasted this long, oddly proud of him for doing so.

"Fuck, you're incredible." Spencer groans, getting dangerously close to the edge again. He'd tell you to slow down, but everything feels too good to stop. Instead, he tries to drag you down with him, starting with diving face first into your tits. His mouth nips and sucks at your flesh wildly, struggling to land where he wants with your ceaseless bouncing. The noises he makes are borderline animalistic, groaning and grunting against your chest.

"Jesus, Spence!" You can't help letting out a breathless laugh at his urgency, picking up on the fact that his end is closer than your own. "You wanna try to help me out?" You offer, eager to feel him take some of the control. He doesn't say anything, just nods and makes an unintelligible sound at you. He thrusts his hips up, following what his primal urges are telling him to do. It appears to be working, given the shocked gasp that leaves your lungs at his effort. He keeps doing it, his mind turning to mush more and more as he fucks into your cunt to meet you halfway. "Oh my god! Yeah, keep doing that." You pant the words out, clinging to him by the shoulders.

Reid grins against your flesh, still biting and suckling while he pounds into you over and over. He's doing it, he's really doing it. He's keeping control of himself, he's going to make it. "Feel so fuckin' good, gonna make you cum, gonna make you scream, I promise...promise, promise..." Spencer murmurs to you, vowing to not give up, even though his balls are screaming for release right now. He has to get you there, if it's the last thing he'll ever do. "Such a perfect pussy, so good for me, so, so wet, fuck-" He groans when your walls constrict around him a bit, almost making him blow his load entirely.

"Don't stop, baby, you can do it, fuck me, make me cum, please, Spence..." You plead as your orgasm builds near the point of toppling over. His filthy mouth and feral actions have set you on fire from the inside out. You knew sleeping with Spencer would be special, and intense. But this is an entirely new level. His craving of you has blocked out all else, leaving him only with the mission to chase release. His, and your own.

"Oh, god, lay down, lay down, I'm gonna cum, gonna cum..." Spencer babbles, attempting to push you over onto your back. You follow his lead, his cock still sheathed inside you as you let him lead you where he wants. As soon as your body hits the mattress, he proceeds to ram himself into you as hard and as fast as he can.

"Fuck! Spencer!" You cry out as he hits an entirely new angle inside you, your ass resting over his knees as he thrusts forward. His hands grip your hips so hard, sure to leave dark bruises once he's through with you.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, gonna fill you up, gonna cum deep inside this pussy..." Reid grunts, sweat slicking him down, stomach clenching as he's about lose it.

"Keep going, baby. Don't stop, I'm almost there. Cum for me." You whine as his cock slams into you again and again.

"Fuck!" He nearly shouts when he finally feels it, his balls tightening, bliss washing over him, his hips stuttering as he fills you with thick ropes of white.

All you can do is bear witness as Spencer cums, harder than he ever has in his life. His brows knit together, mouth falling open as he moans so fucking loud. He keeps slamming his cock into you, hoping to pull you down alongside him. Feeling his load spill inside of you, as well as his desperate thrusts sends you tumbling over the edge. "Oh, god! Spencer!" You cry as your orgasm rips through you mercilessly. Your pussy clenches down on Reid's spent length, making him gasp as he keeps thrusting to get you off. You thighs shake violently, stars blurring your vision, hands clawing at the sheets beneath you. It's the most beautiful thing Spencer has ever seen.

You both slowly come down from your high, soaked in sweat and totally spent. Spencer carefully pulls out of you, though you still wince a little. "You okay?" He asks, noting your discomfort.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just a bit worn out." You laugh lightly, crawling over to the right end of the bed to lie down. Spencer joins you, pulling the covers over you both and taking you into his arms.

"Sorry about that, I don't know what came over me." He says, a little embarrassed for losing control the way he did.

"It's okay, baby. More than okay, actually." You reassure him once again, stroking his damp face with your thumb. "I'm surprised you had it in you." You chuckle, and he does, too.

"So am I. I guess you...bring it out in me." He explains, and you nod in understanding.

"And I take that as a compliment." You say with a sleepy smile. "Did you have enjoy yourself?" You ask.

"Very much. Even more than I thought I would." Spencer says earnestly, making your heart skip a beat.

"Me too, Spence. And I'm so happy you chose me to enjoy this with." You reply, leaning in to give him a tender kiss. This night has been the best one of your lives (so far), and you look forward to sharing many more moments just like this one in the future. Together.

[lakefu]

A Perfect Warmth 🕯️

Summary: Astarion and Tav take a well deserved break away form the chaos of their adventures at an inn inside Baldur's Gate. They need to clean up and get back on the road but they keep getting distracted. Perhaps plans could be delayed for a night of passion...

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Tags: 18+, Explicit, fluffy smut, brief Astarion trauma response, PIV, erogenous elf ears, scent kink, blood + biting, a bit of praise, a bit of edging... a sprinkle of cockwarming...., these guys are in love...

Word count: 3.5k Note: This was my first fic originally uploaded on Ao3 on 11/27/23, inspired by the patch #4 dev note mentioning adding sponges to clean your companions. I've made edits from the Ao3 post.

“Remind me to sell this junk next time we pass by a merchant, would you dear?” Astarion was seated at the edge of the bed and rummaging through his traveler’s pack, placing various items on the nightstand for further examination. Two silver forks, an old necklace, and a handful of various polished stones ended up on the table before he plucked out an intricate sapphire ring and held it up to the sunlight peeking through the window.

“Good taste,” he muttered to himself. He placed the ring on his pinky finger in amusement and resumed the scavenge. 

“It’s going to get difficult sneaking up on people if I have to lug this heavy thing around you know.” He threw over a glance at Tav, who was preoccupied with gathering laundry together in preparation for the next day.

“It wouldn’t be so heavy if you didn’t pocket nearly every shiny thing we came across,” she teased, without even looking over at him.

He gasped dramatically. “Framed by my own lover? Quite the scandal. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the near dozen times you’ve asked me to hold onto your things because your own pack was too full.”

“Hmm. Maybe. I guess that might sound sort of familiar…” She giggled to herself and walked into the bedroom to catch his eye, meeting him with a mischievous grin. 

“Why are you such a- oh! Now, what’s this you’re wearing?” Astarion blinked and scanned her up and down, clearly enthralled by the wardrobe change. She stood there in an old linen robe that was yellowed with age, definitely unlike anything he had ever seen her in before.

“Just some old thing I found in the dresser here, isn’t it just fabulous?” Tav's words were dripping in sarcasm and yet she smiled, performing a grandiose little spin in the middle of the room as if she was wearing the most beautiful ball gown in the world.

“I… it’s just so different from your usual armor or that drow nightwear you fancy so much. You look so… domestic.” His eyes were locked onto Tav intensely, with brow furrowed as he seemed to be confused by his own words.

She felt her heart skip a beat and a flush run to her face.

“And you think that’s a good look for me?”

His eyes softened and he paused a moment before quietly answering.

“Yes… I do.”

Tav watched as his smile faded and the gaze of his eyes became increasingly more distant. The atmosphere seemed to shift and a slight panic ran through her body. Did she do something wrong? No... and it didn’t require a tadpole connection to get an understanding for what had brought down his spirits.

Astarion hadn’t considered a comfortable domestic life was possible for someone like him. Even the slightest concept of such a thing had been buried for over a hundred years, and he never expected it to resurface. Was he worthy of such a thing, and was it even possible? 

Oh, it was possible. The evidence was standing right in front of him, spinning circles in an ugly bathrobe. He could see glimpses of a happy future that was so close to being a reality he nearly felt nauseous. Not because he was unsure of himself, but because there were still too many unresolved matters they had a duty to attend to. Too many missions and stupid little quests that could now go wrong and threaten this idea of a happy ending he never even knew was possible.

Everything was different now that he realized what was possible, and he suddenly felt an unknown and uncomfortable pressure. All he knew was that he couldn’t afford to lose in the upcoming battles. Battles that some would say were impossible, suicidal even. The thought of loss at this point was beyond unbearable. It was sickening just to think about.

“Hey!!” Tav ran up to where he was sitting on the bed and took his head in her hands. She placed a delicate kiss on his forehead, knowing she had to get him focused on something else.

“Why don’t we go to the shop right now and get rid of that stuff,” she motioned to the collection of items that had been gathered on the nightstand.

“Wouldn’t hurt to get some more coin in our pockets, right?” She looked at him expectantly and felt a huge relief as a light seemed to return to his eye and meet her view.

“Please tell me you aren’t going to wear that horrid robe to see the merchant,” he sighed and looked up at her pleadingly.

“Of course not!! I’ll change and- oh gods!!! We’ve got to get this blood off your face, the merchant is going to think we are trying to kill him!” Tav exclaimed as she lightly shook his shoulders, and quickly began examining his body to see how much cleaning would have to get done before they could leave.

“Blood… on my face?” He raised an eyebrow and brought a finger to his cheek.

“Yeah!! Well, it’s all over you really, dontcha remember earlier today, fighting those cultists?? You sneaked up behind one of ‘em and BAM!!! Just obliterated with a single strike, it was amazing!! You’re so strong…you know.” Her pulse was racing at the mere memory of the event as she delicately traced the side of his face with her fingers and ventured down to his chest. 

“Ah of course. That was all so terribly easy I’d nearly forgotten,” he said proudly, adjusting his posture and keeping his eyes on Tav’s hand movements sliding across his chest. Her soft touch was becoming more firm as her fingers made their way toward his arms, giving his biceps a teasing squeeze before leaning her face into his and teasing a kiss.

Before their lips could touch, Astarion wags a finger in between their faces as if to remind Tav of the task at hand.

“Alright my sweet, let’s clean up shall we? You’re my mirror after all. So, go on then.” He took her hands into his own and gave them a kiss before placing them back at her side, encouraging her to go and gather whatever it was she needed to get him cleaned up.

Right, the supplies. It was nearly impossible to remain focused after moments of intimacy with him, no matter how brief they were. She quickly moved into the other room to acquire the washcloths and bucket of soapy water that she was using for herself not too long ago. Hands full, she scurried back to the bedroom to meet her lover, who hadn’t moved an inch.

As she approached him, Tav could feel the tie on her robe becoming increasingly more loose with each step that was taken across the floor. The embarrassment hit her as she realized she didn't have any hands free to do anything about it. She quickly tried to put the bucket down by the bedside, but the bending movement only resulted in the robe slipping off one of her shoulders, exposing a bare breast.

“Oh? You haven’t got anything on underneath?” Astarion cocked his head in amusement, eyes unmoving from the newly exposed skin.

“Ye-yeah that’s the whole point of robes isn’t it? I was doing laundry earlier ya know and umm,” She laughed nervously and started to fix the wardrobe malfunction but was quickly stopped by a hand over her own. Astarion reached out toward her until both hands were around her waist and pulled her in close to his body. Fangs were peeking through his devious smile while determined eyes looked her up and down. With a singular finger he crept over to the loose knot of the robe’s tie and flicked it completely undone with one swift movement.

Tav shuddered and felt her body starting to run warm despite now being suddenly exposed to the cool air of the inn. She was completely revealed to him now, the robe only just clinging to her arms and draped across her backside.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he sighed and began kissing her stomach and caressing the curves of her waist. “Come here.”

Tav gasped as she felt his cold grip around her waist tighten as he expertly lifted her up onto his lap with ease. Pleased at the new angle, Astarion shifted his attention to kissing the crook of her neck and started moving down her chest. He delightfully found her nipple with his mouth in no time, and teased it in circles with his tongue just as he knew she liked it. His gentle sucking continued for only a few brief moments before he suddenly withdrew and cleared his throat.

“Ah, well. You can reach my face better up here I’m sure. For the cleaning of course,” he said smugly. The elf leaned back and admired the view of his lover, nude and flustered, perched oh-so perfectly on top of him.

“The cleaning…” Tav nodded and remembered she still had a warm and soapy washcloth in her hand. The urge to throw the stupid cloth into some unknown corner of the room was nearly undeniable. All she wanted in this moment was for him to take her completely, in any way he wanted, it didn’t matter as long as she ended up getting fucked into oblivion. So fine. On with the cleaning.

She raised the washcloth to his temple and slowly began to wipe away the dried blood by working down his face. His cheeks were a bit sunken as usual but flushed adorably in this moment, clearly enjoying the tender rubs of cloth on his skin. She continued rubbing down toward his chiseled jawline, across to his lips, and back up the other side to repeat the process once more. She ran her fingers through his silver curls and noticed his ears would need cleaning too. 

One hand caressed the pointy ear to keep it in place and the other brought the washcloth in for a gentle scrub. A quiet moan suddenly escaped the vampire’s lips.

Oh? She had seemingly discovered a sensitive spot and noted that she would have to continue her work carefully. The scrubbing continued but Tav couldn’t keep her eyes off his face now. His eyes were closed but still noticeably moving behind their lids, and his lips were slightly parted with his breathing becoming increasingly heavier and more noticeable. 

Astarion was in his own world of pleasure. What in the hells had he been doing these past weeks, aimlessly scrubbing himself clean alone in the river when they could have been doing this the whole time instead?

He opened his eyes just to make sure it wasn’t all a dream. She was still there of course, diligently and lovingly taking such good care of his body. A wave of maddening lust rushed through his core and he needed her closer. He needed her as close as physically possible and even more so after that.

Their eyes met, revealing intense desires. Tav lowered her hands and she spoke slowly, “Can you take your shirt off? There’s a spot I can’t get to with it on…” 

She wasn’t fooling anybody, but he obeyed without hesitation. The shirt was gone in seconds, revealing his pale and perfectly sculpted chest. It was a sight that Tav never tired of admiring, and was in fact the subject of distracting daydreams on the daily. She shifted her body closer to his and continued scrubbing his neck and chest, despite it becoming increasingly more difficult to focus. Deep breaths.

She had always been fond of his cologne that he was quite proud of concocting himself. The scent of aged brandy, bergamot, and rosemary was now forever an Astarion specialty that she could never forget. Even during times of battle or travel, a gust of wind could carry his essence to her and bring along with it a sense of reassuring familiarity. As she continued to wipe him down, however, a different scent began to come to the forefront.

It was something that did not seem completely foreign, but it wasn't immediately identifiable either. There was something about taking it all in that felt forbidden. Tav tried to pinpoint what she was experiencing. He smelled earthy… raw… unnatural… it was without a doubt, the undeath.

An undeniable heat rose through her body as she engulfed herself with this pure scent from her lover. The washcloth, the bed, the entire room seemed miles away, and nothing felt coherent except for a craving to be even closer to him. Nothing else existed except their bodies and her overwhelming desire to-

“Eager, are we?” A sultry voice snapped her back into reality, where piercing red eyes amusingly greeted her return. She suddenly became aware of a presence between her thighs and glanced down, realizing she was sitting atop a clothed bulge. His hands had a firm grip on her backside and his encouraging movements made it clear she had been absentmindedly grinding on him during her trance. 

“Shit, I got carried away…” She hadn’t taken her eyes off his crotch and began to notice that her excitement had left a dampness on his clothes. Embarrassment nearly overtook her, but a gentle yet confident hand grabbed her chin and brought it up to meet his gaze. He leaned into her with a grinning open mouth and kissed her passionately, tongues intertwining.

She felt his fangs briefly scrape against her tongue every so often until a metallic taste became increasingly noticeable. She didn't mind the blood, especially since it seemed to enhance his arousal as noted by his hips continuously jolting faster up into her exposed crotch. Tav was soon pleasantly overwhelmed between his deep kisses and desperate hands groping her at every curve of her body. She longed to give him everything; her blood for his hunger, her body for his pleasure. 

Tav released herself from the kiss they had been locked into and tilted her head so that her neck became exposed as an undeniable gift. His mouth lunged at the presented spot as soon as it was noticed, fangs immediately sinking in deep. Tav cried out at the initial impact but soon was reveling in the experience. It was a perfect mixture of pain and pleasure that she was only capable of experiencing from him.

He remained on her neck for a while, still tightly holding on to her body and keeping one hand free to reassuringly caress the back of her head. It was only after the blood flow slowed to a near stop did he cease his medley of licking and sucking at the wound. Blood dripped down his chin and onto his exposed chest, but he was ultimately unfazed. He leaned back, clearly happy and mostly satisfied, but there was still a different type of satisfaction he had left to chase.

Astarion's throbbing erection was begging to be released from its clothed restraints. He quickly untied his pants and shifted his underwear to finally free it. He moaned a few incomprehensible words of relief and stroked himself a few times before looking up at Tav for approval.

Tav had been staring at his length from the moment it was exposed, an impressive size for an elf, no doubt. Her eyes fixated on his perfectly pink tip, glistening with precum just for her. She immediately fantasized of shoving him down her throat until she choked and cried, but that was a fantasy for another day. In their current position, they both knew there was only one simple way of how to continue.

“Astarion,” she whimpered. “Fuck me.”

Tav sat up on her knees and positioned herself so that her entrance was just nearly grazing the head of his dick, ready to take him in completely at any moment. She grabbed ahold of his shaft and guided the tip back and forth through her folds until he was covered in her slick. The new sensation of the friction between them left them both gasping and desperate for more.

Suddenly, finally, his arms wrapped around her body as he pulled her down onto him with one firm motion. Astarion grunted through his teeth while Tav moaned unapologetically, focusing on relaxing enough to allow her body to adjust to his length inside of her. 

The temperature differences between their bodies only heightened the feelings of pleasure whenever they became one. Her warmness was intoxicating to him, granting a sense of safety and bliss that was impossible to achieve anywhere else. He was already so close to the edge in this moment, but was not ready to give in just yet. He wanted this moment of heaven to last as long as possible.

Meanwhile, Tav was having the time of her life riding her man like there was no tomorrow. She had no intent to slow down until a pair of large hands suddenly gripped her hips in a way that prevented any further movement.

“I’m not done with you yet, love. Didn’t you notice the mess I’ve made after feasting on you?” Astarion took a finger to his chin and smeared a bit of Tav’s fresh blood down his neck.

It was true, he had made a mess. Quite uncharacteristically of him in fact. Tav had assumed he had simply gotten careless in his horny and feral craze but no- it was clearly all calculated. 

“Just be still and sit nice and pretty on my cock. Finish the cleaning, then I’ll take care of you myself. How does that sound?” 

How does that sound? His words echoed in her head, which was already spinning plenty enough as it was. She was unsure if it was from the blood loss or her seemingly never ending carnal desires, but perhaps it was both. One thing was certain, however, he could convince her to do damn near anything speaking in that low and lustful tone of his. Without uttering a word she slowly brought the washcloth up to his chest. 

“Good girl,” he whispered. He felt her body twitch around him in response to the praise, and he leaned back to relax and enjoy these final few moments of intimacy. 

It had taken everything in Tav's power to remain still while she worked. It wasn't exactly easy to focus- she was being split in half by a whimpering vampire beneath her after all. Astarion’s skilled fingers had been dancing around her swollen clit the whole time, just enough to keep her stimulated but never enough to let her come.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the blood was all cleaned up. She hadn't even realized when it happened or how he did it, but his pants were completely gone now. She reached over to place the cloth down and awaited her reward of sweet release.

Astarion’s hands moved to the knees that were straddling him and slowly pushed them farther apart, spreading Tav’s legs open bit by bit. She inhaled sharply as she took him in deeper. He opened her up more and more until she lost her balance and fell backwards onto his expectant embrace. 

“Relax darling, I’ve got you,” He purred in reassurance. 

Astarion took her entire weight in his arms with ease and laid her down amongst the soft pillows of the bed. He nestled himself comfortably between her legs, making sure their bodies were flush with one another. Nearly smothered by his body now, all Tav could do was claw at his back and arch her hips into his powerful thrusts. His mouth frantically traveled across her lips and neck with desperately wet kisses until he settled near her ear with a playful nibble.

“You’re so beautiful…” He whispered tenderly, while the rhythm of his lovemaking became increasingly sporadic. “So fucking perfect… Gods…just for me… I love you… so much...”

“Star, I- ah!” Her words cut short as she felt something snap within her. Pure ecstasy- she was falling and flying somewhere a million galaxies away and never wanted to come back. Obscene noises and curses filled the room as they rode out each other’s high in tight embrace. The smell of sex lingered in the air as their bodies heaved with labored breaths, finally collapsing on each other in exhaustion. 

They laid together a while longer, exchanging soft kisses and enjoying the short moment in time where nothing else in the world mattered. Eventually, Astarion rolled out of the bed and stood up to stretch. 

“Tsk, looks like it’s my turn to clean you up my dear,” He said with an accomplished grin, eying how her thighs were dripping with his sticky mess.

“I’ll be right back, don’t move an inch. Actually, I doubt you can move at all after that, ahaha!” He laughed and leaned over to brush aside a strand of Tav’s sweaty hair that was stuck to her forehead before walking over to the other room. 

“Shut up… dummy…” she smiled to herself and rolled over, feeling at ease enough that the weight of sleep was starting to overtake her.

“I love you too, Astarion.” Her eyes closed as she drifted off into a peaceful slumber, knowing that her lover would soon come back to her side like he always did, and always would.

[amiaenn]

Habits

Harumasa × reader

Note:I was so deeply imbued with this character that I was inspired to pour out my thoughts here a little bit. (+I myself have problems with my lungs and heart, so I understand this bro as much as possible).I apologize in advance for my mistakes, this is my first experience in writing (⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;⁠)

genre/warnings: nope.It's just fluff, don't worry.

wc: ~800 words

Ever since you started dating Harumasa, it has seemed to you that your apartment is slowly turning into a medical office and new habits have appeared in your life. An abundance of various pills, ointments, saline solutions and many other things, the names of which you have not even heard of until recently, filled your shelves. Any pharmacy would envy such supplies of medicines.

And of course, your everyday life has changed too. No, of course you understood that it would change with the appearance of another person in your apartment, but you could not have imagined that Harumasa would bring new activities into your routine that you could not even think about until now.

First, maintaining order in the house. It cannot be said that you were completely dirty in this regard before, but sometimes you can put off sorting out some dusty shelf for later, right? Now forget about it. Asaba is the kind of person who starts a coughing fit from a single speck of dust, and you were sincerely sorry to see and hear him cough, and knowing about his lung problems, you immediately thought that now wet cleaning will be daily, no matter what it costs you, even despite Harumasa's eternal words that he is not a weak guy who can get sick from such household trifles (although his body's reaction says otherwise).

Secondly, now you have increased knowledge about various diseases (especially those related to the heart and lungs). How and what affects this, what is a state of remission and how to maintain it. Well, of course, in connection with this, you began to go with Harumasa to pharmacies to buy the necessary medications. And going out on such shopping, you remembered more and more the names of these pills. You can even confidently say that you remembered this entire list as long as the Great Wall of China.

Third, this is cooking. Yeah, for people who get sick easily, a special diet is needed. A balance of proteins, fats and carbohydrates. It is unlikely that a weak body will tolerate an abundance of chemicals in food, so you need to be more careful with this issue of cooking and selecting ingredients, so you will have to exclude all this harmful food, or at least limit its consumption to a minimum. To support Harumasa in this difficult matter, you decided to give up all the harmful food that you had previously consumed and switch to a healthy diet. One day, you impulsively got rid of all the snacks and bought vegetables and fruits, creating real chaos in the kitchen. Soup is boiling in one corner, vegetables are baking in another, while fruits are being cut on the table and, seeing this picture, Asaba only chuckled and said "Need help?" To which you nodded aggressively, and the guy already went to put on his apron.

Well, and the most interesting thing. A bitter taste began to be felt on your lips more often. You couldn't say that you were a doomed lover of bitter, on the contrary, you tried to avoid bitterness. Once you tried espresso and the fact that it was not a very pleasant experience is to say nothing. But with the appearance of Harumasa, you began to feel the taste of bitterness on your lips. And, you guessed it, all because of his kisses. It's no secret that Harumasa takes pills more often than food and this leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. But he stopped noticing it a long time ago, because years of taking medications give an addiction to this taste and it becomes unnoticeable. But you feel it fully, but to your surprise it felt.. nice? Yes, that's right. Strangely nice, for a lover of sweets like you. When you felt this taste for the first time, your eyes widened and the question "How can he calmly consume such bitter medications?" was spinning in your head. He noticed your surprise and involuntarily wondered what he did that caused such a reaction. Harumasa decided not to hesitate with the question and casually asked, "Something wrong, baby?"

You just awkwardly shrug your shoulders at this question, as if you don't understand what he's talking about, "No...no, everything's fine, don't get hung up on it."

After this incident, you began to get used to it, and after some time, the taste of bitterness began to be associated with something good and familiar. Something that brings a smile. Even more, now you wanted to feel it more often and you began to kiss Asaba at every opportunity that was given to you. He came from a successfully completed mission? What a good boy, he deserved a kiss. Are you making breakfast together? How cute, you can kiss him. Is he just relaxing? A great reason for a kiss! To be honest, it bordered on addiction, but for now it was on a fine line, because you skillfully control yourself and if you are told to tone down your ardor, you will do it without question.

And yes, why did you start liking espresso? It's strange...

[moonstruckme]

Hi Mae!! I wanted to request a story where doctor!Remus and you are dating. You're out with James and Sirius whilst he's at work and you pass out/are sick/whatever you think fits the story and they freak out and take you to the hospital, where Remus sees you and loses his mind. He takes care of you and the guys are there for moral support. Also, reader is afraid of doctors in general but specially needles so putting that IV on is a hassle in itself hehe.

Thanks in advance!!!!

Hi, thanks for requesting!

cw: fear of hospitals and needles, somewhat angsty, mention of vomit (in the past tense, if that helps), this was sort of weird to write because I don't usually write reader arguing with their love interest like this but I hope it came out okay

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

You’re alerted to Remus’ arrival by Sirius’ shrill voice. 

“Finally! I’ve been texting you.” 

“We’re not really encouraged to be checking our phones during busy shifts,” says Remus. He sounds sharp and tired, and you look up from where your head rests on James’ shoulder just as he comes to a stop in front of your chair. A creased brow and gentle hands feeling at your forehead. “Hi, darling. Seems like that flu’s gotten a bit worse, hm?”

“You told us to check in on her,” Sirius goes on, “and we did, and we found her basically in a puddle of her own sick.” 

“She’d been sick in the toilet, and then fell asleep on the bathmat,” James clarifies. “But she seemed really very ill.” 

“Let’s go back,” Remus slides an arm around your waist, hoisting you up against his side and helping you walk towards the double doors that lead out of the waiting area. “What was her temp at when you found her?” 

“We don’t know.” Sirius trails behind, exasperated. “We couldn’t figure out where you kept your thermometer, and she was hardly in a state to say.” 

Remus makes a worried humming sound. “How are you feeling, dovey?”

“Tired,” you sigh, hoping you’re not leaning too hard against him but having a difficult time recalling what walking normally feels like, “‘nd my head hurts.” 

“She seems a bit better than when we first found her,” James says. You think you detect some worry in his tone as well. “She was just waking up then, and Sirius got her to drink some water in the car.” 

“Doesn’t sound like you’ve been taking very good care of yourself,” Remus murmurs, just for you. He kisses your head. “Poor love, I knew I shouldn’t have come to work today.” 

“M’alright,” you say, letting him help you onto a small cot in a curtained-off room. Sirius and James file in behind you, and Remus shuts the curtain once they’re inside. 

You look at him, and your surroundings, the machines and tools and the overwhelming harshness of it all, start to sink in for you. 

“Can you take me home?”

Remus’ expression is gentle. “Not yet, sweetheart. You should be feeling much better once I do, though, yeah?” He brushes a piece of hair away from your face, encouraging you to lie back on the pillow. “Would one of you want to hop up here with her?” he asks the other boys, then to you: “You don’t mind sharing your bed, do you?”

“No,” you say, somewhat bemusedly. Sirius grins at you, climbing over you to lie down by your side. 

“Thanks. I’m just gonna get your vitals now, dove.” 

You feel a bit silly, but your nerves worsen as Remus checks you over, sticking plasticy things in your ear and cold metal on your back and making his various concerned faces. He must notice something when he takes your pulse, because he thumbs over the skin of your forearm comfortingly. Sirius, noticing, works an arm under your shoulders and pulls you close to his side. 

“Alright,” Remus says in what you recognize to be his most soothing voice, “look at Sirius for me, please.” 

You, of course, look in the opposite direction of where he wants you, and he’s taking your arm, pushing up your sleeve. 

“Remus.” Betrayal sounds in your voice as you pull away from him, holding your arm close to your side. 

He sighs. “You need fluids and medicine to get better. You want to go home, yeah?” 

“I don’t want an IV,” you say in a tight voice. 

Remus softens. He rubs your leg through your pajama pants. “I know, babydove, but you need to have one. I’ll get it over with as quickly as I can.” 

“I had to have one last summer, when I got dehydrated,” James pipes up. He’s stolen a small stool likely meant for the doctor and is swiveling back and forth restlessly. “It wasn’t as bad as you might think. I hardly remembered it was there most of the time.” 

“I just don’t want to,” you say again, voice going quiet and frail. Your vision starts to blur. 

“Take a deep breath,” Remus coaches in that lulling voice. It’s half working, a familiar sort of comfort wrapping like a blanket around your frazzled nerves. You feel torn between your trust in your boyfriend and your absolute terror of everything that happens in a hospital. “You’re alright, yeah? This is the last thing you have to do for me. After, you can rest or have a nap, and when you’re well enough you can go home, okay? I might even be able to go with you.” 

You shake your head wordlessly, feeling ridiculous and childish but altogether petrified as you wipe tears from underneath your eyes. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” His brows pinch, and he leans over, kissing your temple. “You’ll be okay, I promise. Look over at Sirius, yeah?” 

You cry but don’t resist as Sirius uses the arm around your shoulders to turn your face away, feeling Remus take your arm in his grasp. His fingers press gently into the crook of your elbow. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Sirius says quietly. He touches his lips to your forehead. “You’ve got this, babe, it’ll be over before you know it.” 

Remus is obviously doing his best to make good on this promise. He ties the tourniquet quickly, and something cold and wet swipes over your skin. The bite of the needle doesn’t come as a surprise, but you take in a tiny, petrified breath anyway. It rasps wetly in your throat. 

“You’re alright,” Remus murmurs, undoing the tourniquet as he speaks. “You’re doing so well, almost done now.” 

You’re not in pain, necessarily, but the sensation of a foreign object in your arm is distinctly unsettling, and Sirius makes a soft sound of distress when your weeping worsens. None of this is helping your headache, either. Your sinuses throb. 

“There.” You hear tape ripping, and then Remus is pressing it carefully over the spot in your arm. “There, done.” 

Sirius lets go of your face. The moment you turn around Remus’ is on you, brushing away your tears and kissing your hairline apologetically. 

“That’s it, darling, you can relax now. You did so well. Do you feel alright?” 

“He means are you cross with him,” James translates helpfully. 

Remus gives his friend an exasperated look, but his smile is sheepish. “That too, I suppose.” 

“Honestly?” Your voice is pitchy. It scratches against your flu-torn throat. “A little, but not really. I’ll get past it.” 

Remus gives a little laugh. “Oh, my love.” He bends forward, wrapping you up in a hug. “Thank you. I can live with that.” He holds the back of your head, rubbing between your shoulder blades firmly. When he lets you go, it’s with a kiss to your brow. “Sirius, get out of her bed. She needs to rest.” 

“Excuse me?” Sirius is affronted. “I think I’ve just proven I make an excellent pillow. And where am I supposed to sit? James has taken the only stool.” 

“He can stay,” you tell Remus. 

“Thank you, gorgeous. See? Jamie, come over here so we can watch a film on your phone.” 

Remus rolls his eyes, stepping aside to let James scoot by on his stool. “Fine, but try to get some actual sleep. I want your temperature down when I come back to check on you, yeah?” 

“You’re the doctor,” Sirius points out, getting cozy on his side of the bed as you and James scroll through films. “What’s she supposed to do, will it down? Sod off.” 

Remus heaves a long-suffering sigh, pulling off his gloves and dropping them in the trash can. “So glad you’re here.” 

“And where would your girl be if we weren’t, Rem?” asks James, looking up from his phone to raise his brows. “She’s lucky to have us.” 

Remus rolls his eyes, leaving the room. “Aren’t we all.”

[sightseertrespasser]

Lore dump! Lore dump! Lore dump!

You! Anonymous asker! You shall be my excuse to infodump on the Mentor System.

So, Cybertronians do not have children.

A “newborn” mech emerged straight from the Hotspot has the body of a fully realized adult, the mental capacity of an adult and the base instincts of a feral raccoon.

A mech that’s existed for about two minutes has all the information it can possibly acquire within two minutes. Which mostly amounts to rolling around on the ground and becoming acquainted with such novel concepts as gravity, vision, sound and other forms of sensory input.

Eventually, the newly sparked Hot Spot mech will start putting two and two together and figure out that the ground isn’t moving around at random and that the changes in visual data is directly affected by how they’re flailing about.

After a couple days of this, most mechs have usually figured out “walking.”

A new spark only really has three guiding structures of information already in their heads: Pain is Bad, Energon is Fuel, Knowledge is Good.

They don’t know what the hell any of that means right away but it quickly falls under “you’ll know it when you see it.”

Hot Spot mechs start off with basically no knowledge at emergence and have to learn how to do everything. One thing that MASSIVELY speeds up the learning process is if the mech is lucky enough to find other, more experienced mechs.

At this sort of larval mental stage, the only form of communication that doesn’t need to be directly taught are EM fields. So, when a new spark runs into any mechs for the first time, if any of them send out any kind of Positive EMF, it’s going to cause that New Spark to latch on the that particular person pretty hard. From their grand perspective at a whopping total of three days old, this is literally the nicest thing that’s ever happened to them.

From there, whoever decided to be nice to the still feral mech that’s actively trying to lick any open wounds is now responsible for their well being.

Good news is that the newly appointed Mentor can get the new spark up to speed on things like language and basic survival pretty quickly, especially using stuff like data packets.

On modern day Cybertron, collecting newly formed mechs for education and socialization is a standardized process and a very well compensated one at that. A mech who places themselves in such positions are referred to as Mentors. It’s a very serious position since the mentor can have a significant impact on how a new spark develops as a person.

Within the totalitarian regime of the Functionalists, early developmental control is an even bigger deal, as Hotspots, or Forged mechs automatically have a higher social standing than Cold Constructed mechs. In turn, meaning they will have far more influence in society later on.

Some groups of mechs, such as various guilds or tower socialites will want those who show the most promise to join and bolster their ranks. Granting more allies in the long run without having to make peace with old enemies.

Most Hot Spots just end up joining general society however. Even with standardization, it’s extremely difficult for a mentor to have more ward than one at a time. Since they literally don’t know anything, but have the mental and physical capabilities of a fully developed mech, new sparks have to watched 24/7 and don’t do well without constant interaction.

You know how toddlers have a “Why?” Phase? It’s like that, except the toddler will become extremely distraught if you take a break, it can turn into a helicopter and it doesn’t know that flying into power lines is bad because you haven’t explained that concept to them yet.

Mentorship is not for everyone. Unlike humans who have a healthy dose of “aw, they’re so stupid!” happy brain chemicals that tell us this is Cute, and Cybertronians, Do Not Have That Benefit. Instead going “Oh god they’re so stupid.” Repeatedly. And without reward.

Basically, a good mentor has the patience of a saint.

So what’s mentorship like for Cold Constructs?

Pretty different!

For starters, Cold Constructs come online with a lot of pre-downloaded data packets. Mostly stuff like language packs, instructions on how not to accidentally blow themselves up and other commonly referenced information.

The Functionalists have three big W’s covered: Where are you, What are you and Why do you exist?

In the case of a CC Praxian Enforcer, everyone of them comes online knowing they were created in and for the city of Praxus. They are an Enforcer and what they were created to enforce was the law.

So! You’ve got fully functional Cold Construct with all the updates. They’re instantly ready to be released into society. Right?

Right?

Wishful thinking is a fools trade for sensibility.

As it happens, language packets can’t effectively cover culture. And no amount of instruction manuals is gonna replace practical experience. Any job you’ve ever worked, you’ve undoubtedly learned the difference between what you’re told to do, and what’s the best way to actually do it.

That’s not even touching on How To Interact With Other People. Society is constantly shifting, slang evolves and social dynamics shift. The rate of updates necessary would have to be constant and every mech made beforehand would be working with defunct data.

Not to mention, personalities are still random upon coming online. The Functionalists can try very hard to encourage or punish certain behaviors, but short of Shadowplay, there’s no real method of control that works beyond an individual scale.

Ultimately, the best solution to making sure their Cold Constructs are actually capable of interacting with society semi-normally is going back to the Mentor system. Depending on what they were built for, a new Cold Construct will be assigned to a mentor of the same function. So a construction-based mech gets assigned to a senior construction worker, a cargo mech goes to a more experienced cargo mech, and so on.

Because CC’s are built to order, there’s no social capital to get from mentoring them as they’ll be joining the given demographics rank’s regardless. So, mentoring CC’s is a lot more like showing the new guy the ropes.

Sometimes there’s a monetary bonus, sometimes a CC just gets randomly assigned to a senior enough mech without compensation. Volunteers are always welcome.

In the case of Prowl and Smokescreen, at their original precinct, there was effectively a hazard pay and special living quarters for anyone who signed up to be a mentor and Smokescreen figured “I see people mentor all the time. Looks easy and I get a bigger habsuite. I can deal with rooming with a temporary dumbass.”

And then he got Prowl. Who came with all of his Prowlness, and Prowled all over the place.

At first, Smokescreen thought he lucked the fuck out, because almost immediately after Prowl started up with the existential questions, Smokescreen sat him down and taught Prowl how to do research and figure out stuff on his own. The mentorship was effectively on autopilot. All Prowl had to do was follow Smokescreen around like a silent shadow at work and observe what wasn’t written in databases.

Job done.

And then Prowl had to talk to someone who wasn’t Smokescreen.

And that person did not like how Prowl spoke to them.

And Prowl got so confused and frustrated that Tac-net crashed for the first time.

Giving Smokescreen the very cold wake-up call that he was the only person who understood how Prowl communicated. Because he assumed Prowl would figure it out talking to other people on his own.

Throw in the health issues related to Tac-net and Smokescreen had the very real paradigm shift that he was now not only responsible for another persons wellbeing, but the single person who could support him anymore.

Ever since then, Smokescreen has tried fairly hard to teach Prowl how to be a person, which pretty much amounts to how to be like him. Life happens outside of work, most laws are hypocritical, and stop caring so much damnit.

But you can’t control someone’s baseline personality. So eventually, Smokescreen stopped trying to argue with Prowl, and just started working with how he was as a person.

Traditionally, mentors and their wards live in fairly close proximity, and the mentor is legally responsible for their ward until the dynamic is dissolved. Cybertronians are very social by nature, so it’s fairly common for mentors to remain apart of their former wards social circle for a long time.

In the case of Smokescreen and Prowl, due in part to the smaller age gap and general unpreparedness, their relationship is far less like a typical Teacher - Student relationship and far more like a Older Brother Who Knows How To Skip School To Go To The Club and Younger Brother Who Should Not Be Brought Along To The Club relationship.

Add in Bluestreak to the mix and you’ve got an almost functional person between the two of them Mentoring him.

Youngest Brother Who Was Clearly Raised By Their Older Brothers And Is Destroying At Darts In The Club.

[amaryllis-3]

Word count: 2.1k

Pairing: John Price × Reader

Infos: Pregnancy, afab reader, mild possessive behavior near the end, mature and slightly dark themes

Based on this idea

As a member of Task Force 141, you'd dedicated your whole life to your team, to the Crown, and to the protection of international security. Going from home to work and from work to home had become the normality you'd learnt to accept.

It was nothing too tragic, truly.

When you were on duty, you didn't have time to worry about your decadent social circle, and when you were off deployment, you could always hit a pub with one of the lads. None of them would ever turn down an opportunity for a little distraction. Hell, you'd even started spending more time in the barracks than in your flat, to the point where the landlord questioned whether you'd died in action and he merely hadn't been informed about it.

Everything had been fine until, well, it no longer was.

Shrouded in the silence of your one-room apartment on a grey autumn day, you'd wondered what would be left of you after you inevitably ceased to be useful to the military. You'd probably be discharged with a respectful handshake, a few medals, and a good amount of money to spend the rest of your life doing... what exactly? Rot in loneliness?

No, you couldn't stand it, not anymore at least.

Those same circumstances you had considered acceptable and fulfilling suddenly seemed not to be enough. Perhaps you could have borne it in your early years of service, when your sole concern was coming home in one piece and making sure your comrades did the same.

But at the moment you had other needs. You were aware of it.

You'd wandered for a while in the dark searching for something that could help you feel complete — a sort of homemade spiritual journey with more failures than successes and the revelation you were seeking at the end.

You wanted a baby, desperately.

You'd never thought about motherhood before, and yet it had only taken the slightest nudge to turn it into the entire centre of your attention. It was as if a switch had been flipped in your head, triggering that innate and basic instinct to bring another creature into this world.

Shit, you had nothing ready to welcome your little angel.

The house you lived in was too small and in a part of town not ideal for easy access to schools.

Not to mention your job.

You clearly had to take a leave of absence. No matter how accustomed you were to injury, you wouldn't have tolerated the slightest chance of jeopardising your pregnancy.

You absolutely had to notify the higher-ups, or things were bound to get ugly. Money wasn't an issue with all you had saved, but it was possibly worth looking for a part-time job to support yourself in the meantime. All in all, it was better to be safe than sorry

Maybe, just maybe, you were moving things a smidge too fast. No, starting to buy baby clothes and toys was not a good idea because in your euphoric frenzy you'd forgotten a rather important detail.

You weren't in a relationship.

Now, that could have been a problem.

Your lifestyle wasn't helpful in keeping anything steady in the romance department. You could go on a mission and disappear for the next few weeks, if not months. You'd tried in the past (albeit, you must admit, with not too much effort), but balancing your various obligations had proved so stressful that you'd proudly declared yourself out of the market. Your new-found desire to start a family, though, would have forced you to return.

As resourceful as you may have been, it was going to be difficult to conceive a baby without a man to, you know, knock you up.

At that point, instead of getting on some dating app or throwing yourself into a classic blind date like a normal person, what had you done? Obviously, you'd gone to your captain, the man who had saved your life more times than you could have counted, dropping the bombshell he wouldn't have expected.

⎯⎯⎯ 「 𖤓 」⎯⎯⎯

"I want a baby," you announced the minute you entered his office, barely giving the door time to close behind you before you placed yourself in front of his desk. John's hand, which had been working on paperwork, froze in its movement, and his sterling blue eyes lifted to give you his full attention.

"Pardon?" His voice came out gruff and deep, words slipping out in a rush, as if his mind was not quite ready to digest what you had told him.

"I want a baby, Cap," you repeated unperturbed, shoulders squared, legs slightly apart, and back straight as a board. You were almost as confident in your stance as you were in your conviction.

Price's eyebrows furrowed, lips curled into a grimace that bordered on mockery. "Yeah... I heard that."

He hesitated, absentmindedly drumming his fingers on the wooden surface of the desk. "I was just wonderin' why you felt the need to share the ... news with me."

The man struggled to follow on which train of thought your brain had derailed.

What was this nonsense?

As far as he knew, you weren't in a relationship and didn't seem interested in one. At least, that was the reply you had given Soap when the Scot had pointed out your dry romantic situation.

Going from 0 to 100 wasn't anything foreign for you; he had learnt to deal with it, but this... was excessive even by your standards.

Had you met some bloke who had made you fall at his feet with honeyed words and pretty promises? No, you wouldn't have been fooled by it. Not his soldier. You were too mature for that shit, but John couldn't help the feeling of jealousy growing in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm telling you this because..." Your statement was enough to snap him out of the tunnel vision his stubborn self had coerced itself into; "...I need your help, to get one I mean."

The silence that spread through the office following your declaration was suffocating. You had mentally prepared for every possible reaction from him, yet seeing it actually happen was in no way comparable.

It wasn't the first time you had stood under Price's intense glare, not with how your relationship was set up. As much as he was your superior, you hadn't failed to make your opinion heard if something didn't sit well with you. You had never come close to insubordination, never really questioned his authority, but you certainly hadn't simply responded with a mere "aye, Cap'n" and carried on with your day.

It was an odd partnership, but it worked for both of you.

If John had to be honest, he viewed it as refreshing and somewhat fascinating. He was aware of how deep your loyalty ran — you'd have followed him down to hell if it had been necessary — so he could overlook your more colourful comments. Still, that didn't mean that he would spare you any of his warning stares.

He wasn't sure if you were playing a nasty prank on him. It wasn't like you, not about such personal matters anyway.

You probably weren't, if the determination and sheer earnestness flashing in your eyes could serve as an indication. That, though, led him to another, bigger problem: seriously consider what you were asking of him.

To state that, after all the years you had spent working shoulder to shoulder, Price had never thought of moving things to another level with you would have been a lie. He clearly found you attractive, and the chemistry between you two was undeniable. But hell, you worked so well in his team that he didn't feel like fucking it up simply for some of his urges.

Blurring the lines between work and love life could prove to be a minefield, a dangerous territory where it was difficult to venture.

You, however? Seemed more than willing to dive in like a suicidal maniac.

"You sure are somethin'." He exhaled, with a hint of exasperation. He was way past the age to keep up with you; that much was clear.

John hadn't even entertained the idea that you might see him as more than a trusted friend (he refused to believe that your relationship was purely professional), and now you were begging him to impregnate you? A whiplash wouldn't hold a candle to what this whole affair had become.

He would have wanted to plant his hands on your shoulders and shake some sense into you, to bombard you with questions about how you came up with such a plan, to remind you, in a perhaps overly patronising way, that this was not a decision you could take lightly: it was one that would change your future in the long run, one that you appeared to be handling far too casually.

His tired and burdened body rose from the chair in all its might, strong legs leading him directly in front of you. You owed a lot of explanations to your Captain, who had no intention of letting the matter go without first securing the info he was seeking.

"Why are you proposin' this to me?"

There was no malice or accusation in that, only a curiosity that bordered nearly on morbid. John felt shameful in that moment. Of all the vastly more important issues he could have raised, that was the only one his mind had focused on.

In a twisted manner, you had chosen him.

The knowledge that you'd handpicked him of all people to 'help' you was enough to rub his ego in all the right places, but he needed to know why.

Did you realise who you were offering this to? The consequences that would have followed?

His gaze never left your face, refusing to miss any possible change in your mannerisms. He made you feel like a rare species under a microscope, as if you couldn't hide anything from him, not when he had already scoured the innermost depths of your being in search of answers.

"You're the first one I thought of," you mentioned, finding it almost difficult to get the words out. Your limbs had suddenly become tense, making your posture stiffer than it should be. "Besides, I couldn't trust anyone but you with this."

John regarded himself as a stable person, capable of maintaining a cool and detached mind even in the most absurd and stressful scenarios. Yet in that moment, you had really managed to catch him off guard.

For fuck's sake, he had enough.

Did you want his cock to bully your pussy so badly, to fill it with cum again and again until there was no doubt left about the life he had planted in your womb?

He wasn't going to stop you.

Noticing his impassive expression, you hastened to assure him that, should he accept, you would ask nothing in return: no support for the baby, no parental responsibility, and no emotional attachment.

At that he merely snorted, shaking his head as if trying to chase away an annoying bug.

If you thought he would leave both of you, you and YOUR child, you obviously had still not fully understood the kind of man he was.

John could already imagine it.

A small cottage surrounded by nature, his beautiful wife waiting for him at the door, open arms and sweet smile, the laughter of children in the distance, and a warmth to finally caress his tough skin.

He wouldn't have let you resume your military career after; it would have been too dangerous and pointless.

Not that you had to know.

You would have so much to think about that you wouldn't even notice it. Your little angels would need the steady presence of a mother, and you certainly wouldn't be the one to deprive them of that, would you?

Don't worry; he would take care of it, putting his life on the line for the safety of your little family.

Family.

He had struggled to believe he could ever have one of his own, and now you were offering it to him on a silver platter. How lucky.

"Alright." His calloused hand rose to meet your cheek, thick thumb being passed over the soft pad of your lower lip. His face lowered enough to be exactly before yours. "I'll help you, just... don't come cryin' later for bitin' off more than you could chew."

Tag list: @nova-willow-541

✎There will definitely be a part two in the future.

[drchucktingle]

Hi Dr. Tingle,

I just wanted to say, as someone who has been in the Homestuck fandom for a long time, that I'm so sorry people connected to the game and the comic have been so unnecessarily unkind to you, and that they've carried on this bit so far past the point of decency. Homestuck as a piece of media is deeply saturated with a very particular brand of early 2010s online irony, and there are some folks in the fandom who just refuse to let it go.

I think there are a lot of people out there who choose to take your sincerity as mockery, because to do otherwise would force them to confront their own cynicism and irony-poisoning and commit to self reflection in a way that they're not willing to do at this point in their lives. I'm not saying they're inherently bad people, because I don't believe that and (based only on the limited snapshot of yourself that you give to the world) I don't think you would either, only that they're making unkind decisions out of a fear of difference. Your work is both delightfully fun and incredibly meaningful, for me and a lot of others, and I just wanted to say that.

I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this, so I'll just say that I hope your day is going well if/when you're reading this.

Respectfully,

Ray/cultivating-saplings

P.S. I would classify Hussie as a light scoundrel, in a 'season 1 villain who you can tell is eventually going to move into the heroes' apartment later in the show and hang out eating all of their chips' sort of way.

P.P.S. I like your lab coat :]

i do not have a lot to respond with other than I LIKE THIS MESSAGE and i think you are correct not just with this way of a specific fandom but with a HUGE PORTION OF THE INTERNET and a certain age range who trotted up in online forums and various websites.

there is a deep deep deep irony poisoning going on with some of these buckaroos and i think my trot kind of short circuits that and it is difficult for these folks to grapple with it. i think when you are used to every single thing on the internet being drenched in irony and every big reveal of an online presence being some keyboard goofball 'trotting for the lulz' it can be very difficult to see chuck and just accept that i am sincere. i have empathy for this.

i should also add that, of course, not all irony is bad. too much can be very destructive though.

all i can do is keep creating my art and being sincere about it, and i think the longer that continues to more irony poisoning will drain from some of these veins. that is one way i can prove love is real i think.

[yandere-romanticaa]

Live, laugh, love Reinhard van Astrea Agenda™! There is a genuine demand for the man, and I am here to DELIVER! If anyone ever has any ideas to share - do not hesitate!

Even with his countless accolades, various achievements and plethora of skills, Reinhard van Astrea is still nothing but a man at the end of the day. He sits in a chair and admires the sunset, how the pretty colours all flow into one another in order to create a warm embrace of light, to which the knights heart cannot help but to sting a little.

When was the last time someone had embraced him? Reinhard thought to himself, his usually calm face suddenly turning sour.

The longer he allowed himself to linger at those thoughts, the more jealous he became of the sun, those same beautiful rays now mocking him in his cold, dark emptiness, with no one truly being there for him in his corner in his hour of need.

Does a hero like him even have an hour of need? Such a difficult question indeed...

Perhaps that was why Reinhard ended up gravitating towards you. He could not explain away the thrill of seeing you on the street and talking to you, nor could he keep count of how many times he felt his poor little belly rise in an uproar of nausea, a sensation which was otherwise completely foreign to him.

Frankly, part of him wondered if you were a member of the Witch Cult at the start. Why else would he be feeling this way? Reinhard's mind kept doing all sorts of mental gymnastics over and over, but it all fell flat whenever he would look into your eyes and the strongest knight in the world would suddenly turn into a starstruck little puppy.

It was humiliating how his heart nearly broke through his chest and fell straight onto the pavement beneath his boots, all because you had been a careless and sweet little thing by grabbing his strong hand into your own.

The way you held him so casually, it was horrifying but in the most dazzling way possible.

Reinhard recalled his grandfather saying something how you should never get into a way of a man who is blinded with love.

The redhead was finally beginning to grasp that sentiment in its entirety.

It was so easy to fall in love, so impossibly easy to fall into that sweet clutch and hold onto it. Reinhard fought it with all his might, he really and truly did. His sworn duty was to be proper and honorable, who was he to chase after his overbearing desires?

And all of those concerns and worries would melt away like snow in the heat whenever he was granted the blessing of being in your company.

Reinhard van Astrea was a lovesick fool. He hadn't even realized just how deep he was in, just how bad the situation had gotten.

Playing mind games with himself became a common occurrence as he came to the thought that if he took you, all would be well. He had the resources to take care of you and he was the strongest man in the kingdom.

It was definitely the right thing to do.

The Sword Saint held you in his embrace, his grip iron tight as you trashed in the darkness, spewing curses at him. It pained him to see you like this but he had no choice.

Reinhard hated being called a monster. But hearing that cursed word fall from your lips hurt like nothing before.

No divine protection, no amount of training, no mystical spell could have prepared him from the boiling, white hot pain he was in.

You had just called him a monster.

If he wasn't in such a rush, perhaps he would even cry.

He was going to make you see otherwise, thought Reinhard with determination. He was going to show you that all he wanted was the absolute best for you, nothing more. Reinhard was going to be your hero and there was no going back from that.

[trippinsorrows]

dreamland: the tik tok live

authors note: the brief convos we've had about the og's making themselves low key internet famous based off they mean ass daddy hilarious faces inspired this!

this is set before leya and solana are pregnant, btw.

words: 3.2k

warnings: none.

masterlist

Tama squints, adjusting the camera once more, before looking back at where the rest of his family sits. "Ya'll ready?"

His dad wears that infamous scowl, grunting, "let's just get this shit over with."

Solana rolls her eyes, reaching over to caress the back of his neck. "Honey, be nice."

"I don't know why we're doing this in the first damn place" he grumbles, hand on Solana's thigh, subtly moving back and forth in almost massaging motion.

Lina beams, reaching over and hugging her dad. "Because, you love us, daddy," she reminds, kissing his cheek and plopping back down on the sofa. "And, because you can't ever say no to us."

Roman makes a sound, warning, "that shit's about to change."

Lina ignores him. Her dad is always threatening to cut them off in some sort of capacity, only to be sending them texts confirming he's ordered all the items in their various carts a couple hours later. Predictable, to say the least. She gives Tama a thumbs up, as he fist pumps.

"We are live," he announces, a broad smile growing on Lina's face.

"Hi, everybody," she greets, going to stand up in the middle of the floor with Tama. "Welcome to our Live."

"I know we didn't really announce this one, because someone was being difficult in giving us an answer," Tama hints, thumb gesturing to his dad who's partially eclipsed by both himself and Lina. "But, today is a special one, because we're finally doing something ya'll have been begging us for for months."

Lina smiles, shoving Tama out of the way to reveal Solana and Roman, both of which are looking down at Solana's phone that she has out, fingers moving and indicating she's sending out a text or replying to an email. "We have our parents with us today!"

That announcement forces both husband and wife to look up, Solana offering a small wave and smile. Roman simply rolls his eyes, asking, "how long is this shit gonna take?"

"Dad, please," Tama feigns frustration, shaking his head. He looks to the camera. "Ya'll see how difficult he is? You have no idea how hard it was to make this happen."

"Seriously," Lina agrees, walking over to Solana. "This is our beautiful mommy." She introduces, hugging her from the side.

Tama points to Roman. "And, this is our mean ass dad."

"Tamasa."

"Sorry, mama." He quickly apologizes, clapping his hands together. "Well, we only got so much time before pops social meter dies—"

"It's already dead."

"So, let's get right into it," he ignores Roman's deadpanned comment. "A lot of ya'll ask us the same questions over and over again, so we'll address some of them today and get them out there once and for all."

"Not everything will be answered, just because some of it is really personal, some of it's too private, and also because our dad just doesn't want us putting some things out on the internet." Lina offers the disclaimer while walking to sit on the sofa adjacent to Roman. Tama takes the spot adjacent to Solana who locks and disposes of her phone.

Tama, however, pulls his out, navigating to the notes he made regarding the FAQ's they receive on a daily basis.

"Okay, first question we get a lot is what are we?" He announces, looking over at his parents. "Ya'll got this one."

Solana nods, her discomfort in being on camera a bit visible. "I'm Black and Mexican, and my husband is Samoan and Italian." She offers, already knowing Roman doesn't care too much to answer. Anything, really.

"So, we're all that," Lina chimes, also with her phone in hand to follow along with the questions. "Next one is, what languages do we speak?" She reads, going into her answer. "So, myself, Tama, and Leya, my twin sister, are all fluent in Spanish, English, Samoan, and Italian, because we were all taught that while growing up. Our middle sister is pretty fluent, our younger twin brothers are still learning, and so is our baby sister. But, we were all brought up hearing and being taught the different languages."

Roman nods to nothing in particular, reclined back in the sofa, legs spread a bit, hand still on Solana's lap.

"Next question," Tama bounces a little, lifting his phone. "How many brothers and sisters do we have?" With a knowing smirk, he looks at his dad. "OTC?"

Roman chuckles quietly, surprisingly going straight into his answer. "We have seven kids. Lina and Leya, who are twins. Tama. Another middle daughter. Twin boys, and our youngest is a little girl." No one is surprised by Roman leaving out names. He and Solana have always been very clear about no identifying information about the Littles being shared online. Names and faces, primarily.

Lina flashes a tight smile to the camera. "There's a lot of us." She takes a moment to read some of the comments on the Live.

Whew chile. Yo mama must really love yo daddy, cause SEVEN kids is wild.

Roman so damn fine. Mean as hell but fine. 🥵

To have seven kids, your mom looks amazing!

Lmaooo not your dad sitting there looking mad as hell. 🤣

Solana is so pretty omg 🥰🥰🥰 Lina and Leya look just like her.

That last one makes Lina smile genuinely. "Thank you," she voices, looking over at her mom. "Our mommy is very gorgeous."

Solana giggles, mouthing a 'thank you, sweetie."

"Alright," Tama announces. "Back to the questions. This is a little related to the last one, but they want to know how old we all are."

Solana nods, deciding to answer. "Lina and Leya are 16. Tama is 15. Our middle daughter is 12. The boys are 10, and our baby girl is 6, going on 7. They're all pretty close in age."

"Was that intentional?" Lina inquires, not looking at her phone. "That's kinda one of the questions anyway. Like, how did you all end up with so many kids? Were we all planned? That kinda thing."

Solana looks over at Roman, taking the lead. She places her hand over her chest. "I always wanted to be a mother. I wanted kids. I wanted a lot of kids. Your dad….he….I won't say he didn't—"

"I didn't," he interjects. "Your mother wouldn't get off me."

She blushes, slapping his chest. "Roman!"

"I mean, don't seem like you pushed her off, either," Tama mutters, earning a glare from his father, prompting him to start coughing to cover himself. "I mean….yeah."

LMAO. If looks could kill! 😂😂😂

The way Tama keep his foot on his daddy neck is hilarious asf.

What I'm hearing is someone got a breeding kink. 🙃

@/user I think they both do.

Them ages seem to indicate these kids were born back to back practically. Solana really God's strongest solider.

Not Roman basically saying this woman trapped him! 😩

"I thought three kids was enough. We had the girls, and we had Tama. That was more than enough for me, but she wanted more, and they just kept coming." Roman finally explains with a shrug.

"I mean, there are ways to prevent pregnancy, but okay," Lina murmurs, going back to the listed questions. "Oooh, this one gets asked a lot, out of the OG's which parent are we most like?"

"Leya's just like Sol," Roman answers, glancing at his wife.

"And ya'll are both just like your dad. To a T," Solana chuckles, shaking her head. She looks toward the camera. "Even when they were little, we could already see their personalities forming." She points between Tama and Lina. "These two had Roman's temper from day one."

Tama and Lina share small smiles, the oldest Reigns boy asking, "mama, what you trying to say?"

"The only difference between you and your dad is that you two are extroverted, while Roman is more introverted."

Tama sucks his teeth. "Mama, don't be lying to the people of TikTok. Dad ain't introverted. He just hate people."

At that, Roman shrugs, face indicating full agreement.

"He doesn't hate people, per se."

"Solana," Roman interjects, giving his wife that 'really' look. "Baby, you been saying that for years, and every time I give you the same response."

BABY??? EXCUSE ME????

Wait, that 'baby' did something to me. 😫

This my first time really hearing this man speak, and how is his voice even sexy??? 🤤🤤

It's the way he looks at her for me. 🥺

Ya'll see how his hand ain't left her leg. They're so cute together, it makes you almost forget this man a whole Mafia mob boss.

@/user he's a WHAT?????

"Anyway," Solana dismisses. "Those three are triplets, and Leya is my mini me."

"How were we as kids?" Tama asks, a question in his list but something that comes to mind given the topic they're currently on.

At that, Roman blows out a breath and runs a hand over his face. "Man…."

Solana laughs, looking over at him. "You wanna handle that one, babe?"

Roman shakes his head, eyes still closed. "Ya'll almost took me out when ya'll were little."

Lina and Tama fall out laughing, the oldest Reigns girl asking, "daddy, what do you mean? You make it sound like we were bad."

Roman drops his hand, an even gaze on his daughter. "Lina, you and Tama were fucking menaces."

"I wouldn't say all that," Solana giggles, offering her insight. "You two just….you were very active. Daredevils who were always getting into something. If we told Leya to sit down and color, she would do that. You two…."

"Ya'll would somehow end up sledding down the goddamn steps with pillows." Roman recalls, vividly remembering the day he was certain one or two of his children were going to end up in someone's ER. "Nothing scared ya'll. Nothing at all."

LMAOOO THE HORROR IN THIS MAN EYES AS HE'S RECALLING YA'LL AS KIDS OMG

now we know why he always look the way he do. it's because of ya'll!!!

Why is this not surprising? 😭😭😭

Leya being the unproblematic child makes all the sense in the world. You can tell from the few times we've seen her that she's super chill.

Roman must really love his family, because every time he's talking about ya'll, it's about ya'll stressing him tf OUT. It's a miracle he ain't left all ya'll asses.

@/user naw. as someone who lives in the same city as the reigns, it's common knowledge he's 1000% about his wife and family. he ain't going nowhere lol

Random, but it's crazy how much Tama looks like Roman and Lina/Leya look just like Solana. 😅

"These are false accusations!" Tama protests, adding for good measure. "Alternative facts."

"Boy, shut the hell up."

"Dad, that's no way to talk to your favorite child."

"Don't make me hurt your feelings on this video shit."

"Moving on!" Lina shouts, scrolling through the list. "Which of our parents is the strictest?"

Tama makes a face. "That's hard, cause it might seem like our dad is really strict, but he's not. He's got like basic rules we know not to cross, and he doesn't play about safety, but other than that…." Tama looks over at his sister, curious for her insight.

Lina nods. "Yeah, like daddy is a big grump, but he basically gives us whatever we want." She shrugs, pointing out as she remembers, "I do think when it comes to like, each other, he can be strict. For instance, he doesn't really tolerate us being like seriously mean to each other. We roast and joke, but as far as actual cruelty and shit, naw."

Tama covers his mouth, poorly hiding his laughter. "Yo. Lina. You remember when we told Roro she was adopted?"

At that, Lina falls out in laughter, a stark contrast to the stressed expressions on her parents faces. She looks toward the camera. "Oh my gosh, they were so mad at us. Especially daddy."

"Of course, we were upset," Solana says like it should be the most obvious thing in the world. It took Roman and Solana having to show Aroha pictures and some of the clips of Solana giving birth to Roro to help settle her.

"It took us a goddamn hour to calm your sister down," Roman scowls, remembering how inconsolable his little girl was. She just kept screaming and crying about how she wasn't a 'real Reigns.' "Shit wasn't funny."

"It was kinda funny," Tama mutters, also looking in the camera. "But, yeah, on to the next question." He makes a face, giving his parents a heads up. "Mama, you don't have to answer this if you don't want to, but the people wanna know how old you and dad are?"

Solana gives a bored shrug, glancing at Roman. "I don't mind answering. Do you?" He shakes his head, giving her the go-ahead. "So, I'm 45, and Roman is 55. He's ten years older than me."

"I told ya'll he old as hell," Tama sighs, making a sound when Solana slaps him upside the head. "Ow! Mama!"

"Be nice," she scolds.

LMAO. You can tell Solana got some black in her. She slapped the hell out of him.

Yo daddy may be old, but he could still get this pu—

They both look great for their ages. Solana easily looks like she could pass for mid thirties, and even with the gray hair, Roman fine as fuck.

Awwww. Your parents are so cute. The literal classic grump and sunshine pairing! 🥰

This might sound weird, but I would totally read a book about your parents love story. It seems so cute!

@/user same! I think either Tama or Lina accidentally let it slip one time that their marriage was arranged, and if that's true, it's even cuter that they truly fell in love and had such an adorable family!

WOW! Def never would have guess their ages correctly. They look amazing.

Solana's black clearly didn't crack, and Roman is living proof how a nigga can age gracefully when he does right by his family and his queen. 🙃

@/user PERIODT!

5 years from sixty, and I'd still split on that dick like an extra from P-Valley.

Lina reads some of the comments and readies to share one aloud when they hear footsteps, all turning to see Roro pouting, dragging her blanket.

"Mommy," she whines. Tama quickly moves in front of the camera to block the view. "Will you play with me?"

Roro climbs herself into Solana's lap, holding onto her, her tone and expression clearly indicating that while she may want to play, she really needs sleep.

"In a little bit, baby. Mommy's doing something with Lina and Tama right now, okay?" Solana looks down at her, kissing her temple. Aroha continues to look dissatisfied, moving off her mother's lap and climbing right into Roman's.

Similar to Solana, he holds his youngest as she lays her head against his shoulder. Recognizing another possible alternative, he asks, "you want to go lay in our bed?" Aroha nods against him, prompting him to kiss the top of her head. She loves to play, but what she loves more is cuddling with her parents. Similar to how Lina and Leya were when her age, Roro seems to fall asleep easier if one, or both, of her parents lays down with her first.

"We'll be there in a couple minutes, alright?" Aroha seems visibly pleased by this, though still sleepy. She climbs off Roman's lap, rubbing her eyes as she walks off, dragging her blanket, clearly heading for the master.

With her out of view of the camera, Tama moves and quickly apologizes, "sorry about that, ya'll."

"We gotta wrap up soon," Roman says in Samoan to his teens. If Aroha comes down again, she won't be as calm. She'll be screaming and crying, because like Lina and Tama, she's not afraid to express when she's upset about something.

Especially when she's sleepy.

"Got it," Lina answers, already knowing as such. She and Tama have practice in about an hour anyway. She returns her focus to the list. "Oh, this one is good. How was it and is it for us having such a big family?"

Tama nods, looking at his big sis. "You wanna start?"

"Yeah," Lina answers, clearly taking a minute to think about her answer. "I mean, it's always a lot in one way or another, but like…we have a really big house, too, so if like, we need to get away. That's not a problem."

"That don't mean the Littles don't find us from time to time. More our middle and youngest sister. The boys pretty much keep to themselves," Tama explains. "But, Lina's right. It's a lot, but it never really feels like too much. Even if the house is like never quiet, we can always find a quiet spot."

"Agreed," Lina voices, moving so she's sitting cross legged on the sofa. "And even with us having so many siblings, I know Leya and Tama feel the same, cause we've talked about it before, but like, we never ever feel like neglected or like, our siblings get more attention. Yeah, sometimes our littlest sister does, but that makes sense, cause she's 6."

"Our parents make themselves available for us, no matter what." Tama shares, shrugging. "And maybe we gotta wait a bit, cause they're putting the Littles down for bed, but they'll find us afterwards. We can always talk to them if we need to. They're really good with that."

"Thanks," Roman says in a low voice, clearly mindful of the fact that he's currently being broadcast on the internet. As frustrating as it can be at points, his image and how open he is with his family is sometimes impacted by who is around.

But, if any of his kids know that, know it's always all love, it's definitely the OG's.

However, the case isn't the same for Solana who pouts, looking between her oldest son and daughter. "Thank you, guys. That means a lot to us."

Tama moves over to hug Solana from the side, cheesing into the camera. "I love my mama," he boasts, adding for clarity. "Ya'll wanna see me crash out? Mess with my siblings or my mama. Especially my mom."

"No, he's so for real," Lina chimes. "We both are like that. We'll crash out in a minute over our family." She chuckles, offering. "I might have to make a story time about when these bitches called themselves jumping Leya in the school bathroom when we were in like first grade or something. I was home sick. That's why they did it, but best believe when I got back, I whooped all their asses."

"Sure did," Tama nods, proudly reflecting on the beginning of their terror reign. "And this punk ass lil boy called himself interfering, so you know I had to whoop ass, too, cause don't ever touch my sister."

"Just like their dad," Solana sighs.

"Alright, enough of the sentimental shit," Tama moves to plop down on the sofa, grabbing his phone to select another question. "How did ya'll meet?" He then bypasses giving either parent a chance to respond. "I can answer that," he offers. "Our mom broke him out of the nursing home and hasn't let him go since."

"Tama!"

[aangelinakii]

SAFEHOUSE.

— at least you've got each other.

summary : daughter of the mayor, who'd had an attempt on her life, bruce has tasked his son with protecting her in one of his various safehouses around the city. he's never had to do this before, and it doesn't help that you're sort of cute...

note : fem reader if you cannt tell very sorry znd also they're both teenagers like 16 ish

note 2 : also possibly a little out of charscter ? i haven't consumed a lot of damian media 😪 but i also do think he would behave a little differently when he's older compared to when hés like 9

work for robin was changing.

damian wayne expected to be running across rooftops, kicking bad guys in the face and eavesdropping in vents. not sitting around in a safehouse, protecting the mayor's only child.

for the amount of lying around they did, damian wouldn't really call it protecting. it seemed more like just hanging out.

his knee bounced a mile a minute from where he sat at the empty table in your quite non-descript box of a safehouse, eyes flickering over constantly to your frame in front of the cuboid vhs-playing television — what an old thing it was.

it had been quite difficult trying to harbour a relationship with you; of course it would be, having to go into hiding with a random teenage boy your age after having your life threatened by the usual gotham terrorists.

with a sigh, he got to his feet, and you glanced up from your old black and white movie. he stepped up to the door, fingering the locks to make everything was in place, and then past the curtains, which swayed slightly with movement, but were thick enough to keep out the light from outside.

these days it was difficult to even tell what time it was.

he did this a lot, probably as a way to pass the time, probably cathartically; checking the locks, checking the curtains were still heavy in front of the windows, giving the small apartment you stayed in the impression of being empty.

when he was done he turned your way, stepping boredly toward the back of the couch, where you'd already redirected your attention back to the television.

this was an old hitchcock one from the forties — quite bland, actually, but it wasn't like you didn't have anything else better to do.

when you first got here, neither of you having seen a vhs player before, it took a good hour to figure it out, and, at the time, you'd thought you and damian would get along well, laughing along together when you finally managed to insert the tape. now, after almost two months, you'd found barely anything to share a laugh about.

the cushioning on the back of the couch beside you sunk, and you peered over to see damian leaning against it, eyes glued to the pixel-ridden screen. with a huff and a few more moments passing, he spoke, glancing down at you from the corner of his eye. "i'm sorry i'm... not much help. i'm not really used to this whole protecting thing."

he stepped away, and you craned your neck to follow him. he began to pace from behind the sofa, talking with his hands as he kept his eyes on his feet. "i'm used to protecting people outside, not confined in here. i'll be honest, i'm going a bit mad in here."

an involuntary chuckle brushed past your lips, and he glanced up. "i completely get it," you returned, resting your arm on the back of the couch. "i'm not used to this, either. usually i'd be with my friends, or something — but i'm not even allowed to reach out to them. they probably think i actually did get shot."

you don't miss the way the corner of his mouth turns up as he circles around and continues his pacing.

this might be the most conversation you've had in three weeks.

where you think he might speak again, you can only hear the tinny voices of laurence olivier and joan fontaine, but your eyes continue to follow his movements. he seemed antsy, nervous; all he seemed to be these days.

"hey," you said out of nowhere, grabbing his attention, but he doesn't stop walking or cracking his knuckles. "why don't we do something you'd usually do?"

he considered your words for a moment, but kept pacing. "like what?"

your eyes trailed off, glancing around the room. it consisted of a small kitchen area and a little two-seater table, but you mostly stayed on the couch, getting through the wicker basket of tapes beneath the television. in the corner was a door to the bathroom, and two other doors to each of your miniscule bedrooms.

but in all the limited space within the main room, between the table and the couch, it was empty enough for movement.

"you said you're used to protecting outside," you hummed, looking back at him. by now, he'd stopped his pacing and was eyeing you inquisitively. "what do you ususally do?"

damian gave a shrug. "hit... people?"

with a shrug of your own, you jumped up to your feet. "why don't we do that? hit each other?"

once again, the corner of his mouth perked up. "hit you? i'm supposed to be protecting you, don't you remember?"

a laugh passed your lips as they curved into a smile. "no, no." and you walked around the sofa to face him. "you can just pretend. like, show me your moves. or teach me something."

your teenage bodyguard sized you up for a moment, flesh sinking beneath his mouth as he chewed at his gum pensively. after a few beats, he began to nod slowly. "if you think that will help."

"sure it will," you smiled as you reached out for his hands, palms slightly rough in yours, and dragged him out into the little space between what was supposed to be the dinner table and couch.

once you were out of the way of anything too valuable — like the tv — you let go of his hands and took a few steps back. "so how do we start?"

it seemed when being prompted to do so in a safe environment, damian struggled to get in the headspace of a fight. he'd been raised by assassins, it usually came as second nature.

perhaps it was that he was being watched, where it was only him and you.

sheepishly, eyes focusing on a spot on the wall behind you as opposed to actually you, damian took on a wider stance and carefully bent his legs. he looked agile, lean, and when he brought his forearms up to the sides of his head, his hands didn't curl tightly.

like this, he seemed to morph; from that quiet, almost shy, awkward boy you'd spent the past month and a bit with in, to a viper ready to strike.

instinctively, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set, like he were really about to attack.

with less ease than him, you attempted to match damian's stance, bending your knees slightly and bringing your forearms up to shield the sides of your head. but this only caused damian to let out a huff of a laugh.

"what?" you hummed, unable to stop the corners of your mouth lifting.

before you, damian's shoulders fell lightly. "nothing, it's just... no, it's not funny." although you could still see that smile behind his shielding arms, he made an attempt to compose himself.

your previous casual stance returned, your arms falling to your sides and your back straightening. "hey, i'm trying my best here!" you retorted, but a laugh slipped out. "not everyone is batman's side-kick."

"i know," damian responded, watching as you resumed your mirroring of his stance. "i think i forget not everyone has trained like us sometimes, because i'm constantly immersed in it. usually."

testing the ease of your knees and the weight of your shoulders, you opened your mouth to speak again. "what next?"

after a few beats, damian gave his reply. "well... i suppose you'd attack."

with a gesture of your fingers, you beckoned your opponent forward. "attack, then. give me your worst."

despite his dismissive chuckle, damian edged forward, however uncertainly. "absolutely not," he joked in return.

useless in this position, all you could do was watch damian as he silently made to assess his next move; lid covering eye, your lashes fluttered past with your blink and damian appeared much closer, his slow attacks falling purposely short as he pretended to strike various areas of your torso and up.

after a false kick brushed off your side, you straightened up again. "how could i protect myself? if i ever needed to." and at this moment in your life, it seemed very much that this would be helpful information, just in case your life is tried again.

closer than you'd seen him, damian's hair had messed with his shadow boxing. he had dark hair, the colour he shared with his father, but its untidiness must've been inherited from his mother. he owned a perpetual tan, olive in undertone, darker contrasting freckles dotted once below his left eye and then a smaller one merging into the skin of his lip. he was both boyish and owning feminine qualities; the untidiness of a boy, but the sharpness of a woman you'd never want to cross.

with a soft cough in the back of his throat, he reached out an arm, extending it past your ear. "if i was going for an attack here, you would take your other arm and push me away."

as he spoke, you followed his instruction, bringing your arm up, forearm against forearm, to hit him back and dodge out the way.

"a lot of it is timing," damian spoke again, slowly bringing his other arm up to jab at you throat without actually making contact. "timing, reaction and reading. you need to anticipate the action of your opponent before they even make it; that's what makes a good combatant."

your hand came up to take damian's wrist, stopping it where it had stopped anyway, and pushed it up over your head. "i'm not very good at this," you chuckled sheepishly, feeling a little stupid at this slow-motion combat.

pulling his arm back to his side, twisting it just as carefully as he had been to lose your light grip. "you don't have to be. you're just learning now."

as your fingers fell from his skin, your eyes met.

for a moment, damian stumbled upon his words. "but i could teach you if you wanted; something we could work on while we're holed up in here."

[jjwolves]

The most recent Ena fic (the one where the reader transforms as they continue to be in this digital world) reminded me of a passing thought I had once: What do you think would happen if someone was isekai'd into her world AS an Ena? Like, a human in the real world who transformed into a member of Ena's species in this new dimension? Do you think BBQ Ena would be willing to take them under her wing? What about Webseries Ena?

You can take this as a request or not, it's your call. But if you do write about this idea, may I request you keep it platonic? Sort of like siblings? I feel a little odd about Ena dating Ena... I'd prefer if we didn't Onceler-ify the poor woman, ya know?

TUTORIAL LEVEL · · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·

What: ENA and ENA the Worker X ENA!Reader (Platonic)

Who: ENA and ENA the Worker from ENA and ENA Dream BBQ (Both by Joel G)

How Much: ~800 Words, ~4 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G

Warnings: None

A/N: HOW ABOUT BOTH MWAHAHA

ENA has lived many different lives as an anthology anomaly. One aeon she’s going on adventures with her moon friend, the other, she’s employed. Her existence was like a closed loop until you showed up, breaking into samsara. You had wandered across a world where every wondrous creature you met treated you like a pest. Your days were marked with confusion, until she found you and was… surprised. How could this be? Had she respawned incorrectly? She couldn’t compute what you were doing, being her. Having a face like hers. It shouldn’t be possible, but it was. And she was…

...Delighted! She had never, in all her travels, met someone who was like her! You two had so much to talk about! “Oh! How nice to meet a fellow conspirator! Your face… It’s just like mine!” ENA made sure to pull your suprisingly solid hair and experimentally pinch your polygonal cheeks. You were glad to meet a friendly face, but the head-touching was getting annoying and you waved her hands away. “Are you some kind of doppelganger?” A glitch-and-switch into blue. “If it’s true, just kill me and replace me already! I bet you’d do a better job than ME!” You weren’t startled by the sudden change—after all, you’d been a walking collection of emotional outbursts yourself. ENA chuckled nervously and returned to sunshine. “Ahem. Apologies. Would you like me to reveal to you the wonders of this land?” You would.

ENA gives you an enthusiastic tour of her strange world, occasionally interjecting with gentle advice when you would touch something that might be unsafe. Along the way, she gestures and dances excitedly as she talks about her favorite places. “This is Auction Hill. My good friend Moony and I come here to bet on various things. Oh, do be careful of the rainrocks. You’ll get squished!” ENA seems to take a great deal of delight in taking on a role which she usually doesn’t occupy: that of the mentor and guide. “Now, now. That banana is not to be touched! A man and his blue friend informed me that it is unsanitary.” She does little jumps and maneuvers to get into places which are difficult to reach, and then turns around, patiently waiting for you to do the same. When you eventually get it, she alternates between exclaiming “Joy!” and sobbing about how “You just got here and you’re better at it than I am!” When you part ways for the first time, you promise to come visit her again. “I look forward to your visitation. Thank you for letting me be your tutorial character!”

...Eager! ENA the Worker is a little bit different than her more carefree counterpart. She’s glad to meet someone who’s like her, and she’s happy to educate you on the ways of the world, but it’ll be filtered through her very business-oriented mindset. “Welcome, unsuspecting customer. Or should I say… employee?” She tacks a nametag onto you. “I am no longer the boss of myself, so I will be your boss today. Er, supervisor.” A switch. “GET TO WORK! SUPERVISOR’S ORDERS!” ENA is pretty busy, so she leaves sticky notes for things that you need to do and how to do them in a place you can easily see, but it’s ENA. It’s hardly comprehensible. Notes include ‘reach for the stars’, ‘sell stock’ and ‘try oil’. That last one left you more stumped than the others.

She sits you down to talk about your ‘job performance’. You’re pretty sure you haven’t been paid, so you’re not sure why you’re working for her. Smiling, and with a hint of sarcasm, she chirps, “Your performance has been terrible. Every time we talk to a customer, you end up crying on/screaming at/being apathetic towards/trying to kiss them! How unprofessional!” She passes the baton to her pale side. “ARE YOU TRYING TO STEAL MY JOB OR SOMETHING! YOU WANNA TRY BEING MANAGER?!” You point out that she said she was the supervisor. “IT’S BOTH!” You flip to one of your extremes and both start getting tangled in a chaotic emotional clash. Froggy can’t stand it. “Will you both shut the hell up?!”