#Plucky Answers Things

[plucky-belmondo]

God damn it your url is haunting me I'll be cooking an egg and all of a sudden my brain goes 'hm. Plucky belmondo' and I don't even know what it means. Good choice, its reconfiguring how my brain works as we speak

my plan for world domination is working!!

[luveline]

What about a lil fic of the first time bombshell reader gets mad at Spencer? Like it can be while they r dating or before and May be r is giving Spencer quiet treatment?

ty for requesting! ♡ fem, 1.3k

Spencer waits for Morgan to get up for a coffee before he gets up himself, tailing his teasing teammate to the microwave. He's hoping Morgan's in a sympathetic mood today, because Spencer is in dire need of some sympathy. 

"Loverboy," Morgan says, his voice steeped in suspicion. "Can I help you with something?"

"Do you know why Y/N's upset?" 

"You don't? You're the expert." 

Spencer rubs at his nose, the beginning of another migraine brewing between his eyes. The gesture draws a little more empathy than his misguided question. 

"You're gonna have to ask her yourself. I don't want her angry at me too, she's gonna fix my computer before Garcia finds out I fell for her phishing email test." 

"I've been asking her. It's making it worse. She won't answer my questions anymore. She just hums." 

"Silent treatment. Yikes." Morgan sips his tea through a grimace. "I mean, you must've done something bad. She's usually so–" 

"Lovely?" 

"–in love with you." Morgan laughs as he wanders off in the direction of the stairs up to Hotch's office. "Same thing."

Spencer decides to make a cup of bribery tea for you. He microwaves a mug of hot water and plunks a bag of your favourite blend in without ceremony, bobbing it up and down as he watches you from over his shoulder. You've moved desks upon request to sit with the rest of the team and opposite Spencer (against Hotch's self-proclaimed better judgement), your things set carefully in contrast to his books, a library's worth teeming on every spare inch. Some have even made their way onto your desk, pristinely stacked in wait of his perusal. It's one small gesture among the hundreds of kind things you do for him. 

"Here," he says, setting the mug down next to your mouse carefully. 

Your anger strikes him. Eyes frosted with an uneasiness he's not partial to, lips, so perfectly painted, screwed into a frown. It's not nice seeing someone he cares about upset with him, worse when he has no idea what it is he's done. 

"You're annoyed at me," he says. You wait for him to continue. "I don't know what I did." 

"That makes it worse." You frown at him. After a few seconds of this—your frowning, his looking sorry and confused— you sigh wretchedly (as in, he's never heard you sound that sad, ever, and he hates it). "Spencer, you stood me up." 

Everything in him goes cold. "No I didn't." 

Your sad frown melds again to anger. "Yes you did! I– I got my hair done at a salon, I bought a new dress, I bragged to all of my friends that my cute coworker was gonna be my date, and none of that mattered because you didn't text me back so I was worried sick all night that you were," —your voice drops to a private whisper— "in trouble somewhere, and then you come into work like nothing happened? Not even a hint of an apology? I thought you wanted to come."  

Your voice burns with embarrassment. Spencer can feel it in his throat, that plucky ache of someone letting you down. 

"That was last night?" he asks quietly. A friend asked you to their charity ball, not as ridiculously fancy as it sounds but an occasion of esteem and important to you nonetheless. "Y/N, I thought that was– I have it in my phone as next month. As November. I'm so sorry." 

"Why didn't you answer my texts?" 

He winces. "I had a migraine… Screens make it worse, and I haven't charged the battery yet because I was coming to work anyways I'm sorry, Y/N, really. I mixed it up. I should've asked you." 

You seem less disheartened at his admission. You cross your arms over your abdomen and lean back a touch in your chair, as if deciding whether he's being truthful. Spencer isn't in the habit of lying to you and anybody could tell you that, so after a few seconds you look away. "I asked you if you were excited yesterday morning. I told you my dress came."  

"I know." He can't believe he's gotten it wrong like this. Anyone can make a mistake, but he imagines you in your new dress with your hair done waiting for him in the cold weather that descended on Virginia last night and his guts twist into a knot. "I didn't piece it together. I didn't… I didn't…" 

Spencer can't remember the last time he let someone he loves down like this. His migraine spikes again like a needle in the eye, fiery agony that has him closing his eyes to cope. 

"Spencer," you say, softly admonishing. "Hey, it's okay." Your chair creaks.

"I'm so sorry," he says through his teeth. 

"I thought you were being a jerk, but I guess I should've known you wouldn't do something like that." You stand up and take his elbow into a very gentle hand. "I'm sorry for giving you the cold shoulder. It was childish. I was just hurt thinking you did it on purpose." 

"Sorry," he says again. "Migraine." 

Your hand rises to his cheek. "Yeah? Sit down, Spence. Take a breather." 

The doctors say that Spencer's migraines are psychosomatic. He doesn't get how something so odious can start from nothing. 

You seem twice as upset but in a different light, ushering him down into your chair. "Don't worry," you say softly, your hand falling into his hair, "I took a great picture. You can still see me in my nice dress." 

You're kidding but he's genuinely glad. Then the pain takes over and he can't see the other side of it for years. 

It only feels like years. 

When he can open his eyes, you've knelt by his chair. He hates to see you getting your pants dirty like that, hates worse that your eyebrows have pinched and the soft plane of your forehead has etched deep with concern. 

"You can still be mad at me," he says under his breath. 

"I'm a little upset," you confess, putting an uncharacteristically tentative hand on his knee. "It sucked, but not as much as this seems to suck for you." You're like an angel, all pretty and wide-eyed at his feet, your hand beginning a short path up his leg, a soft back and forth. "I'm sorry Spencer. I was punishing you for something that wasn't your fault." 

"You didn't know. How could you, I–" He winces as another wave of pain flares behind his eye, blurring your small smile. "I should've charged my phone." 

"Maybe. I can't imagine you had the capacity, Spence. Not if you're like this." 

"Don't just forgive me because I'm in pain." 

"I'm not, I'm forgiving you because even though it really hurt my feelings turning up alone, I'm not cruel enough to blame you now." You squeeze his knee. It's an instant balm, the chronic ache behind his eyes easing ever so slightly. Your forgiveness makes the rest bearable. "Can you forgive me for being so heartless?" you ask lightly. 

Your lips curve demurely around each word. Spencer scrambles to cover your hand with both of his, his neck craned forward. "Of course I forgive you." 

"Thank you." Spencer could collapse. "Drink some of this tea, okay? Maybe drinking something will help."  

Nothing ever helps, but he does it because it's your hands bringing the cup to his lips. 

"I know you looked beautiful," he says between sips. 

"I would've looked better on your arm. Too bad you're getting grievously attacked by your own brain. This is what happens when it gets too big, babe, it's trying to come out of your ears." He's a little sorry to have won you back this way, but mostly so, so relieved. "Anymore of this'll and you'll start messing up the months. Oh, wait!" You laugh as he laughs but soon scramble to apologise when the sound makes his head hurt. "Sorry, I'm sorry! Drink some more tea, sweetheart." 

[the-library-alcove]

An updated Antizionist Bingo Card

Came up with this after reading the "debate" between Hen Mazzig and Kei Pritsker.

Explanations under the cut

Settler Colonialism Canard: Portraying Israelis as White Europeans who can just "go back to [their country of origin]", and stating that no matter where within the region they live, even if far inside the 1947 Green Line, they're "settlers" and thus deserving of death. Even if they're babies.

Blood Libel Canard: "Israelis deliberately target children to kill them", or anything to do with calling Israelis bloodthirsty, killing people to harvest them, depicting them as vampires, bathing in blood, or otherwise engaging in ritualistic slaughter of human beings, especially children.

Celebrating the deaths of Israeli citizens: Straightforward and very popular. It should be especially apparent when said Israelis, or Jews in general, are living outside of Israel, and people are pleased to see them dead. There have been multiple examples in just the last few weeks--a car accident in NYC killed several Jews, including children, and was celebrated, and there were two brutal murders in California, also celebrated.

"We have Token Good Jews!": Tokenization in the classic sense, being used to hold up as a shield against accusations of bias. (Very often these individuals turn out not to be Jewish as well)

Historical Revisionism of Israel's founding: Fairly straightforward, in terms of misrepresenting or distorting (or straight up lying) about the events of the Arab-Israeli War of 1948 and the founding of Israel.

Inflating the death toll, or other disregard for actual Palestinian lives: according to the official count by Hamas' own governmental apparatus, approximately 50,000 people have died in the Gaza Strip between October 2023 and April 2025, including of natural causes. Anyone claiming that the death toll is an extreme undercount or citing higher numbers essentially wants there to be more dead Palestinians in order to blame Israel. Also qualifying are those who dismiss or demean the anti-Hamas protests happening in Gaza.

Historical Revisionism, 1948-2006: Covers lying about or distorting the Six Day War, The Yom Kippur War, the First and Second Intifadas, the return of the Sinai Desert to Egypt, the status of the West Bank, the peace accords during the 1990s, or the Gaza pullout, among other topics.

American-centric view of the conflict: Covers, among other things, "Palestinians are like the Natives in the US being kept on reservations, or like Latinos trying to enter the US being kept behind a border wall, and the Israeli government is like the Republicans, only Jews!", or other such comparisons where the speaker is trying to impose their own outsider perspective onto the conflict.

Genocide Canard: Any accusation that Israel is genociding the Palestinians. Quite simply, if Israel was genociding the Palestinians, none of them would still be alive.

"But Israel/Zionism!" in unrelated topics: Discussing antisemitism in the US or elsewhere in the world? Discussing Jewish history, traditions, culture, theology, or other aspects of Judaism? Just existing as a Jew? And someone brings up Israel or Zionism in an effort to derail or force an answer? Here.

"Israel killed its own people on purpose.": Comes in two general flavors--either claiming that 7/10 was a false flag attack, or accusing Israel of deliberately targeting the hostages in order to kill them.

Celebrating or mythologizing Hamas, Hezbollah, or the Houthis: They're terrorist groups backed by Iran to stir the pot and instigate conflict; they're responsible for incredible amounts of death and misery, and are not plucky freedom fighters, much less La Resistance.

"I'm antizionist, not antisemitic": The universal clarion call, usually invoked right before saying something incredibly Jew-hating.

Historical Revisionism, Pre-1948: The largest historical revisionism category, but breaking it down could be its own bingo card. Anything from "There were never any Jews in Palestine before 1948" to appropriating British Palestine Jewish culture and innovations for the Arabs, to the Happy Dhimmi myth, to claiming that the Jews did not originate in the Levant... all of it qualifies.

Israel is solely culpable for Gaza's standard of living: In 2006, when Israel pulled out of Gaza by treaty, there were three dozen hospitals, a power plant, a desalination plant, and lots of other infrastructure present. Now, water and power are rare, and the reason the pipes are gone is not Israelis--it's Hamas digging them up to use as rockets. And the hospitals, schools, and other civilian infrastructure were used to launch rockets out of, making them valid targets. But apparently it's just easier to blame Israel than Hamas for violating the rules of war.

"My acts of violence are free speech, your speech is violence.": An extremely popular double standard, where Antizionists will excuse any and all hateful rhetoric, hostile environments, or actual physical violence against Jews as "acts of free speech", but Jews protesting these behaviors are engaging in violence.

Ethnostate/Jewish Supremacy Canard: There is no definition of Ethnostate that fits Israel that doesn't fit a majority of other nations in the world, rendering the fixation on Israel to be a clear case of double standards, and the accusation of Jewish supremacy is just projection.

Apartheid Canard: Non-Jewish citizens of Israel have full equal rights; this is not equivalent to South African apartheid in the slightest, unless the accusers are saying that the Palestinians are actually Israeli citizens instead of being foreign nationals--and if that is the case, then I would ask them if they have the same rights in another nation that they're not citizens of.

Jews don't get to define antisemitism: Fairly straightforward; any attempt or effort by a non-Jew to claim that something isn't "really" antisemitism falls here.

ZOG Canard: "Israel/Jews/AIPAC/etc own/control the US government/media/economy/banks/etc". I.e "Jews run the world from behind the scenes" accusations.

Historical revisionism, 2006-Present: Anything that tries to rewrite history regarding Gaza, the stalled peace process, the conflicts, the rockets, the Iron Dome, or even Netanyahu's corruption all fall here.

Dual Loyalty Canard/Diaspora Jews are valid targets: "All Jews, aside from our Good Tokens are Evil Zionists beholden to Israel and thus valid to harass or kill".

Accusations of Indiscriminate/Wanton/Cartoonish Cruelty: To hear some antizionists talk about Israelis, they're so evil and sadistic that they by all rights should be in some Game of Thrones-style narrative, where kicking puppies is just part of the morning routine. Israel bombs hospitals/universities/schools/daycares/mosques/etc, apparently just for the chance to be evil and cruel, instead of the reality of "Hamas deliberately puts its weapons and fighters there to use civilians as human shields". This is tied to the Blood Libel narratives--especially when claims come of Israel deliberately targeting children--but is distinct enough on its own to merit its own box.

"No True Pro-Palestinian Activist would...": Just a No True Scotsman claim, and yes, yes they would. We have citations. And please don't try to claim that they're mentally ill, either.

Redefining Words, NewSpeak-style: A lot of words get redefined in this conflict; Genocide, Apartheid, Zionism, and Settler-Colonialism are all major enough to get their own boxes, but they're not alone. Pulling from another post of mine, here are some examples:

Humanitarian Aid becomes Manufactured Famine.

Borders become Concentration camp walls.

Suicide bombers become heroes.

Rape becomes Resistance.

Civilian Evacuation becomes Ethnic Cleansing

Unwilling Human Shields become Brave Martyrs

Indoctrinated Child Soldiers become Adorable Spirit Of Resistance or Murder

People returning to their native homeland become Colonizers

Hostages become Prisoners of War

Anti-Rocket Defense becomes a Tool of Genocide

Surrender becomes Ceasefire

Civilians become Acceptable Targets

[ao3-rex1223]

𝓣𝔀𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓒𝓱𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓶𝓪𝓼

Pairing: Professor Leon x Fem Reader

Tags: Lactation kink, breeding kink, p in v, creampie, orgasms, Leon being dominant but also soft, Leon being a dad.

Summary: You and Leon have a six months old daughter. Winter break at the university is just starting and Leon discovers how much he likes your milk...

“More applesauce, sweetie?” You coo to your six month old daughter, Danielle. You carefully guide the little baby spoon to her mouth. She greedily opens wide for more delicious food. “Such a good eater!” you praise, nuzzling her little forehead. “Mommy is so proud of you, Dani.” You continue feeding her as you sit in the university cafeteria, glad that winter break is starting. 

“There’s my girls,” Leon purrs as he approaches. He drops a loving kiss to Dani’s head - she giggles and smiles - then kisses your lips, his mouth lingering for a moment. “Hey there, baby.”

“Hey,” you reply, your cheeks flushing as they always do when he kisses you. “How was class?”

He smirks. “Oh, you know, teaching students to think critically and use their head…it’s a tough job but someone has to do it.”

“Tell me you’re going easy on them, at least,” you reply while scooping another tiny spoonful of applesauce. Dani eagerly watches as it nears her hungry mouth. 

“I can’t. I swear, the average exam scores get lower and lower every semester.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. When you were his student, he seemed mean and unapproachable, but now you can tell he genuinely wants his students to learn, even if he is a little rough around the edges. Of course, when you were his student, you only aced his class because you let him fuck you over and over in his office. But one thing led to another and now you are the mother to his daughter.

“Aww,” you reply with a teasing expression. “No extra credit for your class this semester?” Your eyes burn with a sensual heat as you gaze at him. 

He smirks wickedly and kisses your neck. “Only for my favorite student,” he retorts with a gruff chuckle. You giggle as his warm breath tickles your skin, an adorable laugh that mirrors your little daughter. 

Your intimate moment is interrupted by a plucky, young female student clearing her throat. “Um, Professor Kennedy…Could I have a word-”

Leon cuts her off. “Ms. Jones, you may send me an email and I will answer it on my next working day, or you can visit me during office hours. What you may not do is intrude when I am out of my office while I am tending to my girlfriend and our daughter,” he reprimands gently but firmly. 

The young student blushes and nods, then quickly turns to run away. You smirk and gently smack Leon’s shoulder. “You didn’t need to be so harsh, Leon.”

Leon steals a kiss from you before he answers. “Yes, I did. I’m clearly spending time with my family. I will not be interrupted.” 

You give him one last disapproving glance before returning to feed your daughter. 

After lunch, you both head home to give your daughter a nap. You each press a featherlight kiss to her forehead, then quietly exit and close the door. Leon gives you a sultry look, lifting you into his arms and carrying you to the bedroom. He lays you on the bed and crawls over you, supporting himself with one arm and traversing your curves with the other. You reward his sensual ministrations with soft moans and whimpers, wordlessly begging for more. 

“My girl, always so needy for her professor’s cock,” Leon coos, still playfully referring to himself as merely your educator and you just his pupil, as he occasionally does during your more intimate moments. His hardening member begins pressing against your hip over your clothes, causing your cunt to stir. Creamy slick leaks into your panties, making the thin cotton fabric stick to your folds. His hand slides up underneath your shirt, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

As he inches under your bra, he massages your swollen breast and tweaks your nipple. When he feels a few drops of milk, he freezes, his cock hardening even further. “Baby,” he purrs, roughly pulling your top off and ridding you of your bra just as fast. He attacks your neck with a wet kiss, sucking and groaning. He works his lips down; his target: your leaking breasts. His lips pepper kisses up one of your plush mounds then finally take your nipple inside his mouth. He moans appreciatively, sucking and drinking your milk - now free flowing. His hand cups your breast, squeezing gently as if to keep the flow strong. “Mmm, you taste amazing baby girl. Why is this the first time I’ve drank from your perfect tits!?” He smirks wide and returns to his feast like a man starved. Determined to bring you to euphoria with him, he slips a hand under your panties and rubs your slick folds. 

Your soft moans fill the air like music serenading him while he devours you. The combination of his mouth sucking firmly on your tits and his fingers rubbing your cunt is nearly burning you up. “Ohhhh…Leon…”

With a growl, he pulls his mouth off your tit with a pop, licking his lips as he looks into your eyes. “Hands and knees, sweetheart,” he commands gruffly and, without waiting for you, grabs your hips and flips you over, then pulls your ass in the air. It all happens so fast, you’re nearly dizzy from the transition. The erotic sound of his belt buckle being undone and his zipper sliding down drives more slick to gush from your cunt. You clutch your pillow, eagerly awaiting the feel of your lover inside you. He shoves your skirt up and pulls your panties to one side. 

Finally, the heavenly stretch of your walls around his cock floods your senses, a cavalcade of pleasure surrounding your body. He wraps his hands around your plush hips, still holding onto some baby weight. “You’re so fucking perfect,” Leon purrs. “Think I might have to breed this pussy again. Give Danielle a little brother or sister. Whad’ya say, baby?”

Your answer is a guttural moan as he drives his cock deep into your soft pussy, grinding against your g-spot. Your milky tits rub on the blanket beneath you, your sensitive nipples sending sparks all over. 

Leon’s pace increases, thrusting into you harder and faster. He reaches around to stroke your clit, smearing your slippery essence all around your cunt. “Cum for me, my good little slut,” he commands. 

His dirty words and pressure on your clit are enough to send you over the edge. You rock your hips back hard, taking his cock deep as your walls tighten around him like a vice. You bury your face in your pillow and cry out, not wanting to be too loud and wake your daughter. Seconds later, a punched out groan leaves Leon’s throat as he cums inside you. He collapses on the bed next to you, pulling you securely in his arms while he softly strokes your hair. “God, I fucking love you so much, baby,” he coos. 

After lying together for a while, you hear Danielle’s cries through the baby monitor. Leon kisses your forehead. “You rest, sweetheart. I got it. Barely got to see my little princess at all, today.” He rises from the bed, dresses quickly, then pads down to the nursery to spend time with his precious daughter. Meanwhile, you drift off to sleep into a light nap. 

[yandere-wishes]

A thought for you, Diluc meeting his darling when they were knights together when they were younger but when his dad dies and he leaves but only comes back to see his darling is now a high ranking offical and he panics, what if she gets hurt? She isn’t cut out for this sort of thing. So now he is torn, he can’t let her get hurt but it’s not like he can just pull her out of the knights, can he?

He plays hero in the dark.

Maybe cause the dark obscures beauty and beauty is the last thing he needs right now.

Maybe he's a bit too scared to see too clearly.

Besides everything looks better in the dark.

Diluc doesn't thrive in order, he prefers solitude. The quiet of the estate away from town. The calm of the tavern during closing hours.

The solitude is safe.

Away from fickle lovers and family secrets.

He sees you in the dead of day. Standing outside the tavern with your brigade. Dressed in that loathsome armor with the sun's rays bouncing off the silver metal.

Gleaming.

Bright.

A beacon of hope in every way.

Diluc swallows his anger, his astound. There really shouldn't be room for surprise, it was to be expected. You had trained with him, fought alongside him. Captain is the lowest rank you should have by now

Still, you are not ready for such duty, such burdens.

You must taste experience, bite it, and let the crumbs mar the corners of your lips. You can not simply know by hearing tales of others' endeavors. They are as pointlessly purposeful as the stars. Distant lights you can never understand.

And Diluc refuses to see you as anything more than the little girl who'd drag him to the lake to hunt turtles.

Jejune in every way.

Diluc is not careless, he is not reckless.

The young boy who used to rush headfirst into everything be it battles or turtle hunts, died the same night his father did. The man born of his ashes, is scrupulous, vigilant. He calculates every mistake before attacking.

He lets you see him in the dark. Masked vigilante stalking the streets while you do your patrols. He leads you through the streets, weaving through the nooks and crannies of the cramped port city.

He wonders if this is how the turtles by the lake felt all so many years ago.

"Halt" You're voice holds authority now, no longer airy and melodic. It makes him discomfited.

He leaps past the high walls of the city, disappearing amongst the threes. He sees you cease at the threshold of the bridge. Defeat painted across your tender lips.

The game has ended.

At least for tonight.

He plays hero in the dark.

Dancing as he blocks your attacks.

Metal sings metal as sword and claymore clash.

The nostalgia seeps through no matter how hard he struggles, the familiar hyms of weapons clashing. Your taut frown of concentration. He's drowning in his crush again.

But is such a fickle thing really capable of throttling a man such as he?

Maybe this is truly love?

It's a sparse moment. He's too caught up in you, how tall you've gotten, how astute your stance has become. You've grown. But he still hears your sweet voice ringing across the north winds.

He doesn't notice the hilt of your sword until it's pounded against his skull. Since when have you learned such dirty tricks? His head buzzes on impact, the mask clashing violently on the ground.

The night is still.

But the beating of his heart is far too loud.

"Dily?

You're sword falls, face torn between shock and laughter. "You're the Darknight hero?"

He doesn't answer right away. He lets you laugh and ponder. Lets you come up with your own answers. He's about to interject. Throw some comment about being on opposite sides. But you beat him to the punchline. "Well, I guess I still got to take you in..."

"That's unfortunate, I can't say I'm particularly fond of being arrested by a Favonius knight."

"Captain" You correct and the pride flashing across your face makes him burn in anger. No, no you're not.

You approach him, carless and intrepid. Plucky steps as you reach for the cuffs on your belt. Diluc can't help but roll his eyes. Really? Has being made a captain taught you nothing?

Shouldn't you be more jaded? Wry of any potential threats.

Well, he guesses it must be hard to think of the boy who talks to his pet turtle as a threat.

The blaze from his vision washes over you, painting the night into a faux dawn. The fire melts through your body, peeling the flesh of your arm.

The Darknight hero stands tall amidst the inferno. Eyes aflame with the delicate sight of you.

Diluc licks the embers from his fingers as you cradle your burnt hand.

He didn't mean to do this, but he needs to stun you, he needs you to submit. Gingerly he picks you up, cradling your body close. He can't wait to get you home and burn away that dreaded armor. To dress you in soft silks and precious jewels.

"You're really not cut out for this knight thing. But it's fine I'll keep you safe"

He's only met with soft whimpers as he scales the back walls and dashes towards the winery.

Diluc plays hero in the dark.

And he still believes that.

Even as he opens the door to his mansion.

With you sobbing from pain in his arms.

He is a hero.

And heroes are meant to keep people safe.

Especially helpless little girls who try to play knight.

[ramp-it-up]

Sugar, Cubed II:

Simple Sugar

Summary: I revisited Sugar and the boys from the Sugar is Sweet séries, and let me tell you. Bucky and Steve sure have grown up from their college days. They are no longer playing around. And they are coming for you. You're forced to be roommates with Steve again. But you can establish boundaries. It'll be simple, right?

Word Count: 3K

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader; mention of Bucky Barnes x Reader; boss Tony Stark x reader

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Not Beta’d. SMUT. Read at your own risk. Roommate/Co-worker au, S MUT! Angst, Tony is a shit boss, massive debt. forced proximity. Tattoo talk, Steve apologizes, accidental, then purposeful voyeurism, reference to porn and sex toys, masturbation, talk of impotence, raw p in v, rough sex, dirty talk, lots of cum, eventual polyandry. Basically, you are doomed. Porn with plot.

A/N: This is related to the Sugar is Sweet au, but can be read alone. This is part two to Sugar, Cubed. The next part is soon come! I hope you like it. This is part of Falloween 2024.

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——

After three days of calling in sick, you were summoned for a sit down with Mr. Stark. 

This was not a, ”have a drink while Black Sabbath plays and you admire Tony’s t-shirt as he rambles” type of chat. This was, a “let’s review the terms of your contract in the boardroom with suits” type of meeting.

Tony’s eyes admired you in your silk blouse and pencil skirt as you arrived, then watched you pointedly at you as you reviewed the numbers on the page.

Half a million for your bachelor’s and masters degree at NYU. Almost as much for housing. Not to mention the penalty for breaking your contract early. Even if you were paid a pretty penny and you had a ton of savings, you’d still be digging yourself out of a hole for the rest of your life if you quit.

Tony Stark owned your ass.

But you were on the verge of not caring.

“I know, you are over your current working situation, Sugar. But I still believe in you. I believe in the team of BuckySugarSteve.”

You gave him a confused look.

“Still trying to find a hashtag, look that doesn’t matter. It’s come to my attention that a certain plucky Bucky took things a little too far the other night. I’m sorry you had to deal with that on my watch.”

Tony looked sincere. But you eyed him warily.

“Thinking back on what you said last week, I now agree that you need a break. So I’m sending you to the Tokyo lab. But only for a limited time.”

“How long?”

Tony stood and turned his back on you, looking out over the Hudson.

“Depends on the progress made on the project there.” 

You stared at his back and his jet black hair and chewed your lip. You wanted out from the tension between the three of you. But there had to be a catch.

“What does the work entail?”

Tony turned back around with a smirk and explained the research and answered a few more questions from you. It seemed right in your skill set. Tony sat back down and crossed his ankle over his leg while he templed his fingers. He stared at you over the conference table.

“So what do you say Sugar?”

“I’m in.”

—--

You should have asked more questions.

Rage boiled inside you as you put up the partition on your business class seat and you typed away angrily on your phone. You shouldn’t have been surprised that your seatmate was Steve Rogers, but you were.

You just cursed as he greeted you and pulled out your phone as the flight attendant gave you the stink eye. Steve arrived just at the doors were closing. And there was no escape.

You wanted to throw your phone after you saw Tony’s response.

“I said you needed a break from Barnes, not Rogers. Suck it up and enjoy your time in Japan. Check out the expense account and your digs in Asakusa. You have to share, because space is at a premium in Tokyo, but you’ll survive.”

You didn’t bother to click the links that Tony sent. The living arrangements were sure to be top notch and the money was probably going to be great, but living with and working next to Steve was not what you were looking forward to. 

You popped a sleeping pill and tried to sleep most of the 14 hour flight. After managing to get some rest, you were not as rude to Steve when you had to put down your partition. Luckily, he didn’t try to speak to you and you deboarded the plane and got your luggage and to your driver without incident.

When you got to your place, you were impressed, but anxious. 

The place was modern and well placed within walking distance of the trains, but Tony was right. Your apartment in New York was twice the size of this place, and it was only you. 

You went to investigate the sleeping situation. There were two small bedrooms and they were right next to each other. Only one had an en-suite.

You were chewing your lip, deep in thought when Steve interrupted reverie. His voice was hoarse from half a day of not being used.

“It’s close quarters, but I will make it so you don’t even know I’m here.”

You turned around to see Steve standing in the doorway of the room you’d silently called dibs on.

He looked like a kid, in his rumpled t-shirt and hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. You almost felt something.

But not quite.

“Look, Sugar. I’m sorry. I really am. What happened in the elevator was… Bucky’s got a lot going on–”

He stopped once he noticed that you had stiffened up at Bucky’s name.

“Don’t make excuses for him. If you want to apologize, take responsibility for what you’ve done. Or not done. On. Your. Own.”

You sat on the ground and opened up your suitcase. Steve watched you as you started to unpack, thoughtful.

“You’re right. I’m sorry I didn’t punch him in the mouth to shut the jerk up.”

You just shook your head, refusing to smile, even though you thought about it.

“And I am so very sorry for lying to you. No matter what the reason. I should not have done that.”

You looked up at him and you could see Steve’s adam’s apple bob in his throat multiple times. His nervous tell. But you continued to look him in the eye.

“You were right to react the way you did. And you’re right to want to be as far away from u- me as you want to be. I’ve lost the best thing that ever happened to me and it was entirely my fault.”

You had to break eye contact then. You didn’t want to cave. You turned the sweater you were folding over and over in your hands. You could hear Steve take a deep breath.

“I just want–”

He cleared his throat again.

“Shit, I want a lot of things, Sugar, but I hope we can be cordial, friends even? We used to be friends. We're in a new city, a new country, a new continent. We can have a lot of fun together.”

You looked back up at him.

“Like we used to?”

“A lot has happened since ‘we used to,’ Steven.”

His shoulders slumped.

“Well, I will stay out of your way.”

He turned around to get out of your space and you felt a pang of some kind of emotion that you did not want to name.

“Hey.”

Steve stopped and turned around, his face guarded.

“I’ve been on a plane for an entire day, and I just want breakfast even though it’s 4pm here. I think I’m hangry. Let me think about it.” That smile. Oh, if you still had a heart, he might do something to it.

“I think I saw some eggs and American breakfast fixins in the fridge. I’ll make you an omelet.”

Steve knew you were a slut for breakfast. Among other things.

—--

After eating and chatting, you conceded that you did want a shopping partner; you planned to hit up all the thrift stores and you wanted someone to take day trips with on the weekend. You decided on a truce. It may have been food induced, but you thought that you could set good boundaries with Steve, so you lay down some ground rules.

Steve agreed to everything you said.

After trying to stay up as long as you could, you were ready to turn in for the night. You had a couple of days before you needed to report to the lab, so you and Steve decided to explore your neighborhood and maybe do some touristy things, since Tokyo Tower and the Asahi brewery were right outside your window.

And then it happened. 

You were minding your own business after your shower, in your thin cotton tank and sleep shorts, going to the kitchen to fill your water bottle. Suddenly, the hallway door opened and you ran into Steve coming out of the bathroom, naked except for a towel slung low on his waist and beads of water running down the planes of his extremely well made torso.

He almost ran into you.

“Oh, shit Sugar, I’m sorry….”

You’d stopped short and were staring at his left pectoral. There was new ink on the golden boy’s body. 

And you couldn’t believe it.

Among the beads of water diving down his body to disappear under the towel, because why wouldn’t they, there was a chemical formula. And you couldn’t believe which one it was.

“How long have you had that?”

You were staring, and your hand reached out to touch it, but you pulled back before you made contact. You looked up into his eyes and then back down at the tattoo because you didn’t want to drown in his eyes like you used to. 

But it seemed kind of inevitable now.

Sometime in the six months that you’d been broken up, Steve had gotten the compound for simple sugar tattooed on his body, (CH2O)x

“Sugar–”

“How long?”

You whispered it. And then dove into the blue depths of his eyes again.

“Two weeks after we broke up.”

His voice was impossibly deep, and threatened to reach places that you wanted to be unreachable. But you didn’t ask why.

“What was the thought process behind that decision, Steve?”

You didn’t ask why. But you needed to know the reason.

“Because it’s pretty simple, Sugar. You just wanted honesty. And if I had been honest, maybe we’d still be together. So I got this tattoo to remind myself that this is all I have left of the girl I loved the most. So maybe when I fall in love again, I won’t be such an idiot.”

“Wow.”

You reached out again and touched the tattoo. It had been right over his heart, without you knowing, for the better part of half a year.

Steve’s eyes stuttered closed and he drew in a sharp breath when you touched him.

“Sugar. You gotta know how…

You shook your head, blown away and rocked by what he said. Mostly the “when I fall in love again” part. You don’t know why that phrase echoed around your head.

“I’ve got to tell it all. Sugar, I thought in the back of my head that if you knew Bucky was hurt, that you’d go back to him.”

You closed your eyes, not wanting to sympathize with this grown ass man who lied to you so hard about someone you both loved, but you understood.

“So I lied, partly because he asked me to. But mostly because I was trying to keep you to myself.”

You sagged against the wall, still touching him, fingers grazing the mark that he’d made on his body for you. Steve followed you, not wanting the contact to end, and stood before you in the narrow hallway, naked except for a towel. He was closer than you’d allowed him to be in a while.

Finally, you looked up at him.

“You’re right, It is simple. I just wanted honesty. I wouldn’t have abandoned you for Bucky, Steve.”

Steve moved impossibly closer as his eyes flicked down your body. You remembered he had it memorized. Your chemistry was amazing. Not just the formula tattooed on his skin, but the draw of you to him, and him to you. You weren’t over that.

But you wanted to be.

One of Steve’s hands was on his towel, and the other was above your head. You were looking up at him and he down at you, and it was the perfect moment to kiss. But he didn’t make another move. You looked down and noticed that his towel had changed shape.

“Sugar…”

You looked him in the eyes again. It was all up to you.Your breathing was erratic and your panties were damp. Reaching up, you put your hands up on his pecs again. 

This time to push him back. 

“I think we need some rest.”

Steve backed up, toward his bedroom.

“Right. We need…”

Your need was mighty. But you weren’t giving in. You took a deep breath.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Night, Sugar.”

—-

You breathed a sigh of relief at your narrow escape and went in the kitchen to drink water and cool down. You mindlessly scrolled your phone for a few minutes and decided that you were calm enough to go to sleep. You glanced at Steve’s door as you opened yours, and you just had to stop.

His door was cracked just enough so you could see Steve sprawled on his bed, towel still on, still tented, and he was scrolling on his phone. He looked delicious, from the tattoo on his pec to his tiny tan nipples to his amazing abs and the trail of hair pointing to the large cock that you had memorized, and which was standing at attention under his towel. 

He looked good enough to eat. And you had plenty of times. But those days were over.

You bit your lip as he rubbed his erection over the towel, and moved closer as he groaned a little bit.

Was he looking at porn?

You totally understood his frustration after what happened, and he was in the privacy of his own room, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. You felt guilty but you continued to watch him touch himself. 

And as you wanted to touch yourself.

You stared at his open door as suddenly, the towel came off, and he was naked, and stunningly aroused, his face pure lust.

Steve Roger’s cock was gorgeous. 

Your memories were nothing like the reality of him, thick and curved against his abs. He gripped the shaft, stroking it. Your hands found one of your nipples in the now-dark hallway, imagining kneeling for him.

You dreamed of his cock in your mouth and could practically feel yourself swirling tongue over his head and worshiping him as he told you what to do. The sensation him deep in your throat and letting him use it took over you.

You pinched your nipple tighter as he casually jerked himself off. You felt dirty, thinking how he’d feel knowing that you were watching him like this. 

Would he be mad?

Or…

Stifling a whimper, you slid a hand into your shorts, smearing your wetness over your clit to trace fast, tight circles there. You hadn’t had anyone but electronic lovers and plastic since you broke up with Steve. And here he was, giving you a show. 

You needed to see it. You wanted to see Steve cum, erupt, spill over his large, veiny hand, cream all over those abs. You moaned slightly as you imagined sucking it off those places.

His hand blurred on his shaft. Your clit hardened as you remembered his thick dick penetrating you, him fucking you well, calling you beautiful…

“Christ, Sugar, make me so hard. Take me so well. Cum with me Sweetheart…”

You were almost there and suddenly, Steve stopped. He got up, let go of his dick, walked to the light switch, give yon a look, and then plunged the room into darkness. 

Then he closed the door.

You practically jumped into your room, pacing, shocked and excited, thoughts in a jumble.

Your phone buzzed in the pocket of your shorts.

It was a text from Steve.

“If you want more, just open my door. It’s unlocked. You can have anything you want. I want you. What do you want, Sugar?”

You are propelled into the hallway, to his door, hesitating only a moment. You’re just going to talk to him. Apologize. Tell him you would never do it again. 

You were in his room now and the Tokyo moon cast shadows over his sleek torso. He was covered by the comforter, but you knew he was still hard.

“I always loved you in just tank tops. Those nipples are just begging to be sucked.” 

His deep baritone made you launch yourself toward him. Steve caught you in his arms, both of you bouncing on the bed from the impact.

“What it’s gonna be, Sugar? What do you want?”

You are taking his hands and molding them to your breasts, throwing the covers off and straddling his thighs. You pulled your shorts and panties to the side so you could feel the slide and ridge of his cock catch on your clit as you slipped over him.

It felt electric.

“I want you Steve. Fuck it all. I want you.”

You’ve lost your mind. You’re creaming on his dick as his big, strong arms held you steady and you humped him like a mad woman. 

“Fuck, it’s been so fucking difficult being hard as a rock all day working next to you in the lab, you ignoring me, and then not being able to get it up for anyone else…”

You were irrationally angry.

“Mine.”

You grabbed Steve’s cock and moved your thighs, lifting up and pushing his fat head into your cunt. You glared at him as you slowly sunk down on him, his thick shaft slowly opening you up.

It hurt so good. 

Your head lolled back on your neck as Steve pulled your tank top down and started brutally sucking your nipples. 

“Fuck yeah, it’s yours. Fit me like a fucking glove.”

Steve held you down for a few seconds as he pushed up into you as if he was going to lock on on his cock, then he lifted you up by your waist and started pounding you from beneath.

He stared up at you in the moonlight and you could feel his cock jump inside you.

“Didn’t matter what I did, who it was. Couldn’t fuck anyone else. Had to come home and pull up pictures of you.”

Steve was moving you now, just like a fleshlight, thumb at your clit.

“I’m about to fucking bust, and you better fucking cum around my cock before I do. Been too godamn long, Sugar.”

You moaned erotically at the thought of Steve impotent with everyone else but you.

He groaned in response and squeezed your nipple brutally. You quaked with your orgasm and Steve erupted mid pump, his spend spurting out as he moved in and out of you. 

“Fuuuuu-uuuck!” 

You collapsed backward on the bed as Steve continued to pump, impossibly still hard even after he came. You reached down into the copious wetness and circled your clit, wanting to prolong the sensation, and Steve groaned/laughed as you convulsed around him again.

You were a tangle of limbs, fluid, sweat and wet cloth as you came down.

Steve pulled you up, you got out of his bed and walked back to your bedroom, turning on the shower.

As you climbed into your bed, Steve was already there, re-showered himself. You fell asleep in Asakusa, Tokyo, Japan, tracing his tattoo, and wondering if it really was that  simple, Sugar.

——

Did you like it? Let me know!

Read Sugar High

[argylegrows]

May 29 at the garden! Stopped by to see how things fared after another all day rain—and to answer: quite nicely. And so far the only thing with a lot of visible bug nosh is the Swiss chard; red lettuce is otoh looking plucky.

[toy-dragon]

Part of my New Years Resolutions involves trying to play more of the ttrpgs in my collection, and tonight I just finished running the first session of @anim-ttrpgs 's Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy.

Now, looking at this book (October public beta for most I bet) it looks intimidating. 600+ pages with a lot of rules.

I read through it in chunks during my work hours, small bits at a time with a few big reads on my computer. I read through certain sections again, trying to figure out how all the rules slot together in the abstract.

Then, a hilarious opportunity happened in their patreon server, people wanting to play Eureka, so I volunteered. I figured, hey why not. This could be a good time. I got an older converted module they run in their public book club and spent the time setting up and asking a handful of questions about certain bits.

Admittedly, I was a bit nervous to run it. It has been a while since I ran a game for people I didn't know well, and I felt a bit under prepared despite my preparations and note-taking.

Eased my worries a bit that a few of my players had run it before, and was getting really excited about all their characters as they were sending me their ideas and thoughts about them.

After tonight, I am shaking everyone by the shoulders to go play it, oh my god. Not only was it really easy to run, I had such a good time despite my stuttering start to the game. While I was a bit disorganized in the initial start, trying to get my legs under to set up the first scene, it was wonderful watching everyone start having their characters interact with the funeral and each other and it felt very natural. Setting up Roll20 so that everyone was using GM rolls, so only I saw all their results, but would talk about rolls required and would hurriedly whisper them their info or answers to their question if it was a bit more complicated than a yes/no. And if you're like "Hey, what about their rules about Splitting the party? That seems incredibly weird?" At first, yes, I thought that too initially, but knew what they were emulating, but it didn't quite click reading it. We played in Discord, so I set a time limit of about maximum 10 minutes each separate group just to try to give enough breathing room and still keep it snappy. I had players deafen themselves as needed and then would ping people if their turn was up. I see posts from players saying how wonderfully helpful this is to keep track of things and stay in the session, and how it leads to relationships developing wonderfully. As the Narrator, it was actually super helpful for me! Because it would help both with breaking up the scenes neatly, but also helped to get into the heads of the NPCs around the investigators in different scenes, especially when time had passed. One scene had some of the investigators running off on their own while the rest stayed behind at a funeral to talk to an NPC to try and figure out more things, and then later on two of the investigators accepted her invitation to the after funeral dinner and it was so helpful to be like "Okay, so she's at dinner with family and a friend of the deceased. How is her mood now and how willing is she to talk about certain things vs how willing she was while at the graveyard." So so so helpful in my opinion. Beautifully well done. The investigators ended up at a Denny's and it was such a fun scene because someone brought up the possibility of haunted houses and started a wild argument. Afterwards, we ended just after the investigators made plans on splitting up for next time. Wonderfully made game. Please go play or even just read it. I had such a grand old time and can't wait to see what happens to this plucky and oddball group of investigators

[the-kr8tor]

Okay LAST REQUEST!!

May I have some elder berries with cardamom in a star shaped bottle? ❤️

older!Hobie who's lovestruck by the way Reader dances, every dance, but specifically slow dance. Bitting his own words back after a slight feeling of jealousy crawl his neck after seeing you dance with someone else strikes him the courage to ask you to teach him, since all he knew of dances was a few hand moves and the good'ol headbang. Maybe Reader reassuring him in a way that he'd be their partner number one.

Can be either fem! or gn! Reader, your choice my love ❤️

Older! Hobie you say 🤔 thank you for requesting bleaky!

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except clothing), older! Hobie, established relationship, jealous! Hobie, CW alcohol, CW smoking, fluff!

Navigation

One year celebration 🎉

“Come on, Hobie!” You hold his hand, the warmth adding to the heat on your cheeks from the amber liquor you just had. “It'll be fun! Please?” The jaunty music plays in the background and the hoots and hollers of the bridal party adds to your enthusiasm. The dance floor is in full swing, people in their finest garbs milling around and dancing to the beat.

Hobie holds a cigar in one of his hands, courtesy of the groom and his groomsmen. ‘It’ll suit him,’ they said, and their big excited grins made you overlook the fact that they subtly called him old. He is older than you, you and Hobie never truly cared about it. And he doesn't show off the fact that he has a younger bird in his arms. You call him a gentleman and more experienced, and he calls you his sweetheart and his lovie. That's how you two like it, and it'll be like that until he's in a wheelchair, or how you usually joke whenever he complains about his lower back aching. Which of course, he answers with him heaving you over his shoulder with barely any strain on his part.

“I told you, love, I can't bloody dance.” He rubs a thumb behind your hand as you pout and walk closer to him until the satin fabric of your dress kisses the well tailored dark cloth of his trousers. “‘Sides, I don't even know this song.” He smiles up at you, cigar smoke still lingering in between his lips.

You tilt your head, almost making him balk. “Even if I say please and bat my lashes at you?”

He chuckles deeply, placing the cigar in between his grinning lips so he could hold your hands with both his rough palms. “It might get you a cuddle or two but not this.”

“Augh,” you feign an annoyed groan. “It was worth a shot.” Leaning down, he takes his hand off of yours to cover your chest when the top of your dress dips down as you kiss his cheek chastly. “Fine, just watch me have fun on my own, old man.”

“I'll watch alright, watch you fall down on your hard arse right on the dance floor.”

You poke your tongue out before you walk backwards to the dancing bodies as you gently sway. “That was back when disco was still a thing!”

That almost had Hobie bolting off after you and making you eat your own words. But he chuckles, inhaling smoke while the amber liquor in his glass lessens with every sip. He watches you on the sidelines, smiling with every plucky movement and sway of your hips. You laugh and giggle with the rest of the bridesmaids, dancing with each of them with the same enthusiasm.

Your eyes meet with his occasionally through the throngs of people and behind the curtain of smoke billowing from his lips. You send him a wink before you turn around and dance away. He shakes his head, eyes only set on you.

The song changes to a tune that he's more familiar with. And the party goers scream and jump excitedly as the cheery pop song echoes around the event's place. Of course, you turn to him again, beckoning him over with a simple gesture. He still shakes his head, pointing at his drink as an excuse. You mime a tear rolling down your cheeks as you dramatically frown before laughing and joining the forming conga line.

Hobie laughs above the sound and quickly grabs his phone to snap a picture of you in the line. As he zooms in, he sees a younger man saunter his way in, moving past a bridesmaid that was behind you to position himself right in her previous place. His hands gravitate towards your waist, and he grins at you while you look at him confusion as to where your friend went.

Hobie's not a very jealous man, and you know he isn't. Countless people hounding you at the pub whenever he's out or even right next to you with a smirk is the testament to that. He never yells or lets his fists do the talking. Sometimes even joining in on the flirting just to see who's the best at winning you over. Of course, it's always him that wins. He trusts you, and you trust him. But the way that the stranger has his claws right on your waist and the silk of your gown, it drives a spear right on his skull.

He can't hear your voice above the booming drums, but his jaw is already set, cigar left on the ashtray as he crosses the distance towards you. With the spotlights flickering in and out, the way he's walking towards the dance floor reminds you of an action movie you and Hobie watched just a few weeks ago. Like he's about to chase the would-be gangster that killed his dog. His gait and saunter almost has the conga line breaking apart to make way for him. Until he politely moves in-between you and the stranger, pushing him ‘gently’ or as gently as he could to join your side. The man briefly lets out a huff, he was about to tap Hobie on the shoulder, but a simple look from him was enough for the man to back off.

“Hobie!” You guffaw as the familiar warmth seeps through the silk of your dress, and the scent of whiskey and cigar smoke wafts over your nose as he nuzzles the side of your jaw. His leg kicks out, joining in with the dance without missing a beat. “And here I thought you can't dance!”

“I suddenly remembered how to do the conga.” You can feel the smirk against your heated cheeks.

“Well, it's from your time so—!” You yelp as he pinches your side.

[milliesfishes]

Alright listen hear me out…reader gets hurt in the arena bombing instead of Coriolanus. And like reader and Coryo have been best friends since like their early school years so Coryo cares so deeply about reader and is so so worried. He like stays by their bedside in the hospital and everything.

⋆౨ৎyou get hurt in the arena instead of coriolanus⋆౨ৎ fem reader x coriolanus snow

Silence, the rush of dust exploding.

The air was on fire. You were grasping for something, anything to hold onto, an anchor in the storm brewing within the walls of the arena. There were muffled screams puncturing the space around you, but all you could think to do was run.

Finally, something fell into your hand, something firm that was holding you back. Turning almost in slow motion, you saw Coriolanus beside you, curls already a mess across his forehead from running to you. "Hurry! Everything's falling!"

You gripped his palm, breaths heaving as you tried to squint into the distance. Every inhale sent the tiny particles in the atmosphere swirling into your lungs, and you choked on them, throwing your elbow to your mouth. Coriolanus pulled on your hand. "Come on!"

In front of you like this, he was practically your hero. Trying to get you out, seeing your weakness and encouraging you to claw your way out.

Your feet kicked into action as he started to run, dragging you behind him. There was a ring in your ears, and rubble was crumbling all around. A bombing...how could there have been a bombing...?

Feet clumsy, you nearly tripped over them several times, dodging the rubble raining down. Coriolanus kept a firm grasp on your hand, moving in a more agile way. His adrenaline would help him make it out, yours was slowing you down.

There was a creak behind you, nearly deafening. Whipping around, you watched in horror as the side of a middling structure snapped, falling and getting closer…closer… all you could do was watch, frozen in shock as Coriolanus tried to tug you away.

Black.

Pain.

Dark shadows taunted you behind your eyes, waving things and making gestures that you hardly understood. They were you and yet they were foreign. A shout echoed in your head over and over, a man’s shout. It sounded so familiar, and yet you couldn’t put your finger on it.

There were voices. Faint, hushed whispers rushing back and forth as you faded between worlds of consciousness. All that was real was just out of reach, and yet you made no hurry to lean in. It was cozy here, in the bounds of your mind. There were hardly any problems, and your thoughts kept you company.

A hand on yours drew you to the surface, making you realize you’d practically been underwater. You opened your eyes groggily, aware of a soft surface beneath you, of bare legs against crisp sheets. The lights were dim, and you appreciated that. Any brighter and you would have wanted to tear your eyes out.

Then there was that hand clasping your fingers again. It was…nice. Familiar. Comforting. You turned your head to the side, blinking once when you saw Coriolanus at the chair by your bed, searching your face like he was reading a map.

His voice was quiet. “How are you feeling?”

“Mmm,” you mumbled, shifting where you laid. “I’m tired.”

“You can go back to sleep,” he murmured, squeezing your fingers.

“The arena…how long have I been asleep?” You tried to sit up, but he shook his head, other hand going to your shoulder.

“Two days,” Coriolanus answered, eyes soft. “Your tribute didn’t make it.”

A dull thud of grief punctured your heart, and you looked away for a minute. It wasn’t just that you’d wanted to win- you’d actually liked Ginnee. She was plucky for coming from such a rough background, with a spirit you’d been perhaps overly fond of. You hoped morbidly that her death had been quick.

Coriolanus noticed your despair, and he half-smiled. “It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.” Your shoulders slumped. He’d been able to pick out your feelings too well, a gift he’d developed when you were still children.

You turned on your side, facing him fully. “Have you been here the whole time?”

He was quiet for a minute, almost like he was ashamed. “Yes.”

Your heart melted, butterflies springing from their dormant cocoons and fluttering in your stomach. He’d been your best friend since forever. But now something felt different.

Staring up at him, you saw care in his eyes that warmed you from the inside out like a candle lit in the dark. You were tethered to him, and you didn’t want your ropes to fray or unknot ever.

Coriolanus looked exhausted. He sat stiffly in the chair, and you knew he’d been sleeping in it from the way he was hunched over. His hair was a mess of blonde curls, and his azure eyes were tinged with a little red. He’d worn himself to the bone here, losing time with his beloved tribute to stay at your side. He must trust her. Or he cared more about you than you’d thought. Or both.

You moved over, making space in the bed and squeezing his hand. “Come here.”

“I shouldn’t,” he tried, but you shook your head, patting the space beside you.

“Please?”

There was a pause, but then he nodded, standing and stretching briefly, a few of his bones crackling. Coriolanus climbed into bed with you, settling at your side. It wasn’t the most comfortable fit, but you didn’t care, just wanting him close.

Huddling against his chest, you rested your hand there, quietly leaning against him. His other arm was wrapped around your torso, just holding you close. It was a moment of peace, the first one you’d had in months.

“Your mother’s downstairs,” he said quietly, fingers running up and down your arm.

“I’m glad,” you whispered, shifting comfortably against him. “I’m glad she’s here. And I’m glad you’re here.”

You could almost hear him smile, something he rarely did these days. “Yeah?”

“I love you, Coryo,” you murmured. His heart under your ear stuttered, you swore you could hear it. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” He said it softly, but you heard it. The hospital was like a graveyard; silent and melancholy. But right now it was quiet in the way a chapel was quiet- there were patches of quiet good in each person present.

Coriolanus leaned his cheek against your head, pressing his lips there for a moment. “I love you too.”

The way he was saying it felt different than the way he had before. But it wasn’t in a bad way at all. You felt his implication bloom in your chest like a flower, a garden come to life that you hadn’t known existed. But now it was thriving under his touch, delighting in his voice, his care. He loved you.

For now you didn’t stop to wonder how. You didn’t question how long. He knew how you felt, you could see it in his eyes, feel it in the way he held you.

You would save worded confessions for another day. For now you were content in his arms, slipping into a tranquil sleep in a moment stolen in time.

[crosshairlovebot]

birthday revelations / crosshair x gn!reader

pairing: crosshair x gn!reader (no y/n). reader has a nickname.

description: crosshair discovers it's your birthday, and in an effort to try and understand birthdays, he gets you a gift.

word count: 3,793

warnings: none. crosshair ovethinks a lot

Another request! Maybe not technically a request, but @starrylothcat sent in an ask for an ask prompt and said it would be nice to see me write a fic where crosshair buys a gift for the reader for their birthday or christmas and it's been stuck in my head since! so here you go! i hope i did it justice!

also posted this on ao3. feedback is welcomed, reblogs are appreciated <3

Crosshair didn’t like crowds. He gritted his teeth as he walked alone through the market on Sorgan, sidestepping people as they entered his path. It was noisy, but that didn’t bother him so much. Vendors called out to passersby, promoting their various goods for purchase with enthusiasm. Voices chattered and laughed. The smell of food wafted through Crosshair’s nose and his stomach tightened with hunger. Rations were poor choices compared to the sizzling of flavourful meat on grills, but he didn’t have enough credits to buy himself something to eat.

He only had enough to buy something for you.

He had been helping Tech with cataloguing files when he saw one on their nat-born medic. You had joined Clone Force 99 just over half a standard cycle ago with your plucky yet kind attitude, falling into the group dynamic easier than Crosshair had thought. Sure, it had taken some adjustment for him and his brothers to become used to another presence they had not grown up with, but it was inevitable you would eventually find your place in the team. You were hardworking, strong and compassionate. You paid attention to each of his brothers, giving them your undivided focus during conversation and indulging them in questions about what they were doing or their chosen skill. He had watched you talk with Tech about data decryption, Wrecker about proton-based explosives, Hunter about tracking strategies, Echo about ARC trooper training, and of course, him about sharpshooting.

He recalled the way you sat next to him for the first time on his bunk during their time in Hyperspace. He had disassembled part of his Firepuncher rifle, readjusting the scope and the barrel after it had unexpectedly jammed on their previous mission. He’d been annoyed – his prized weapon never faltered, and he was trying to figure out why it had failed on him when the thin mattress dipped next to him, and you asked what he was doing. When he’d given a particularly surly response, you nodded and then just continued to watch him. His eyes had slid to you.

“Can I help you with anything else?” He hadn’t meant it to sound so icy, but he had been frustrated with this rifle, with himself.

“Can you…explain what you’re doing?” you had asked hopefully.

He had looked at you sceptically. “Why?”

You just shrugged. “It looks interesting.”

He had studied your expression, trying to discern if you were being genuine. But you were. You always were with things like this.

So, he explained what he was doing, answered your questions and by the time his weapon was fixed, he didn’t even really remember his initial annoyance. You had smiled at him, your mouth stretching in a way that made your eyes light up. He felt a little flicker of something in his stomach before it was promptly extinguished.

Since then, you have spent time with him like that more often. Not just when he was cleaning his rifle, but other things. Like throwing Lula back and forth across the bunks as you both talked, joking about things that happened on missions. Sharing looks over briefings. Stealing Wrecker’s snacks.

But his favourite time with you was drawing on your datapad and trying to guess what the other was drawing. He had learnt you liked to draw and enjoyed drawing out something other than a medical diagram. He felt a sense of pride in making you laugh so hard you cried with his silly caricatures during long hyperspace trips. Exaggerated doodles of his brothers, tookas and the like, a portrait of you with a funny expression. You liked to draw him with a smile too big for his face, chuckling as you drew and then collapsing into laughter when you showed him. It always made the thing in his stomach flicker.

He really liked having you around.

So, when he came across your file when helping Tech, he couldn’t help but open it. You had told them all any information they had asked for, and information they had not. There wasn’t really anything you kept secret. But when he saw your ID holo looking particularly embarrassing: with wide eyes and a half-formed expression – like you were taken off guard by the photo, the corner of his mouth twisted up in an impish smirk.

He had intended to tease you about it; set the holo to the show on every Marauder screen so it was everywhere.

He opened the file to take a copy of the holo when he spotted details about your age and date of birth.

He frowned at the date. “Tech, what is today’s galactic date?”

Tech looked up from his datapad, adjusting his goggles before rattling off the date. “Why?”

He said your name before telling him, “It’s their birthday tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Tech blinked.

Age and birthdays were almost foreign concepts to clones. With accelerated aging and growing in a capsule, they didn’t really matter to them. Awkward to calculate, they weren’t celebrated. Crosshair had no idea when he had been ‘birthed’ or decanted, and if the Kaminoans documented such dates, then it was classified information. He knew his chronological age, but his biological age was a little murky. He knew he was a “mature clone”, however with the accelerated aging, he didn’t know where exactly he stood. None of their brothers knew any of these details. It was normal for them.

He read the date and your age. What would it be like to be so sure of something like that? To be sure of the parts that made up who you were?

Crosshair cleared his throat and closed the file without even copying the ID holo. He frowned to himself. Maybe he should’ve asked you about it before, but birthdays weren’t a part of his world, so he hadn’t thought to. But they were important to nat-borns, weren’t they? At least that’s what they’d all been told during their training modules.

When he lay in his bunk that night, he circled his mind for all he knew about birthday traditions. Gatherings. Food. Gifts. Would you like all that? Did you like all that? You seemed like you would. He didn’t know if it was something he would enjoy if he had a birthday…it didn’t really seem like his thing, but maybe he would. He would never know. He thought that Wrecker might be the only one who would enjoy a birthday. Maybe Echo too if you did it right. Same with Hunter.

But you hadn’t said anything about your birthday.

He had tossed and turned. You were part of their squad. You cared. Listened. Laughed. Did you not feel you could share the date with them? He didn’t know, and a part of him felt a little hurt that you might not feel you could. Were you not friends? Crosshair didn’t have many friends, but he knew they were supposed to tell each other things.

He turned again, crossing his arms against his chest as he faced the wall. Why did he even care? If you didn’t want to tell him it was your birthday, fine. He wouldn’t mention it.

He squeezed his eyes shut before sitting up on his elbows and craned his head to see you sleeping in your bunk. Through the darkness, his enhanced eyes saw you curled in yourself, and your nose twitched as you breathed deep and evenly. Something in his chest pinched. He sighed before laying back down and pulling the thin blanket over his head.

Now, as he found himself in this market the next day, he wondered what he was even doing here.

Once they had landed on Sorgan, they completed their mission easily with no complications. But Crosshair was still distracted by your birthday. You hadn’t even said anything when everyone woke up this morning. Just acted like it was any other day. You had just smiled at him as you tucked into a ration bar, saying good morning before throwing one to him to eat.

It puzzled him.

When you all started walking back to the Marauder after the mission, Hunter could tell something was up with him, nudging his shoulder.

“You alright?”

Crosshair had scowled at his brother. “…Yes.”

“You look deep in thought,” Hunter pointed out, falling into step with him.

Crosshair broke his gaze and looked away, back towards where they came, to the village they had just liberated. The thought had barely formed before he said, “Do we have time before the next mission?”

Hunter’s surprise showed in his voice. “We have a couple of hours, why?”

“I’ll be back later,” Crosshair walked off in the direction of the village before Hunter could say anything. His long legs carried him to the marketplace, where he stood now amongst the bustling bodies.

He just couldn’t get your birthday out of his stupid head; that you hadn’t said anything because clones didn’t celebrate birthdays. Just because he didn’t understand them, doesn’t mean he couldn’t try…for you.

He started combing through the vendors, most of which were finishing up resetting their stands after they fled suddenly several days prior. He moved from stall to stall, gazing at the different items over people's heads. Kriff, what were you even supposed to buy people for birthdays? Something they needed? Something they wanted? It was all a little overwhelming. And Crosshair didn’t get overwhelmed.

“Looking for something in particular, my friend?”

Crosshair startled and looked up to see the vendor, a greying man with a wrinkled face, horns protruding from his forehead and curled up in an elegant spiral shape.

Crosshair frowned, clearing his throat. “It’s…my friend's birthday today.”

The man’s face lit up. “Wonderful! Birthdays are special.”

Crosshair’s mouth tightened as the man continued to speak. “What were you thinking of gifting them?”

The hairs on Crosshair’s neck stood up with nerves. “I…I don’t know.”

The man’s face lit up. “Perhaps I can help.”

The man then went through the different items at his stand. He held up scarves, strings of beads, and handmade pottery. Crosshair thought they were all nice enough, but he wasn’t swimming in credits. And none of the items really felt like you. The vendor was patient, more patient than he should’ve been. Either he really wanted to help or was desperate for a sale in a competitive marketplace.

After many minutes and many items, Crosshair felt himself gradually stiffening, becoming more and more on edge and uncomfortable. He felt so out of his depth. He was always so sure of everything, and trying to do this thing he had no experience in, made him more vulnerable than he had in a long time. It was not a feeling he felt comfortable with. Never had been.

And as much as he liked you, maybe this was all a stupid idea. You hadn’t mentioned your birthday for a reason. He shouldn’t bring it up. If he did, he’d have to explain how he found out…and he didn’t want to go through that awkwardness. He was about to open his mouth and tell the over-enthusiastic vendor: thank you, but he wouldn’t bother with a gift, when the vendor clapped his hands loudly, making Crosshair jump.

“I may have something back here, hold on,” he said as he turned away to rifle noisily through a crate behind him.

Crosshair felt his fist curl at his sides, and this should’ve been his opening to slide away unnoticed until he looked down and saw a brown leather book. Crosshair halted and lifted a gloved hand to the soft worn cover, running his fingers over the engravings in the bound leather. He opened the cover, seeing it was a blank notebook, and it had a writing implement tucked into the spine. Not many people recorded things the traditional way anymore; datapads were much more efficient and stored more information than the pages of a notebook. He flicked through the pages, fanning them with his thumb. The dust drifted up and it was a smell he didn’t recognise, but he supposed it was the smell of paper.

“That’s a good choice.”

Crosshair retracted his hand as if he was a cadet being scolded, and looked up at the vendor, who held an oversized pot that would break the second it came aboard the Marauder.

“That would be a perfect gift,” the vendor continued, nodding at the notebook.

Crosshair looked at him before picking up the notebook – more surely this time, and turned it over in his hands. He imagined you in your bunk, scribbling in it at night with a torch in one hand. He imagined you keeping it under your pillow for safekeeping. He imagined you doodling in it, showing him your drawings with that smile on your face. He imagined drawing in it with you. The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“How much?” Crosshair asked.

“It’s yours.”

Crosshair’s head snapped towards the vendor. “What?”

The vendor waved him away. “Take it.”

Crosshair blinked, confused. “…I have to pay you.”

“No, you don’t. I’ve been trying to sell that for years. You’d be doing me a favour.”

Crosshair furrowed his brow. “…Isn’t the customer supposed to be right?”

The vendor barked out a laugh. “Not this time, my friend.”

Crosshair dug into his pocket anyway and pulled out half the credits. “For your patience…at least.”

The vendor chuckled and took them. “Thank you. I hope your friend likes it.”

Crosshair didn’t respond as the man turned away, placing the pot down before calling out to other marketgoers, trying to entice them.

Crosshair walked back through the market, the notebook feeling heavy in his hand. Leaving the village, he made his way back to the Marauder, thoughts swimming in his head.

Kriff, what if you hated it? Or thought it was stupid? What if all his knowledge on birthdays was completely inaccurate and you would think him strange for giving you something? Or what if you just thought he was weird for getting you something at all?

Crosshair’s grip on the notebook tightened. He just wanted to do something nice. Like you always did for them. But this is why he avoided it. It was so vulnerable being nice. Being nice left you open for hurt, open for aching. It was much easier to keep it at bay, to restrict it. To hide it behind actions inconspicuously where it wasn’t out in the open. Being so open with it for you…he wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it scared him. The doubt crept in. Crosshair had conviction and confidence, and he wasn’t used to it wavering like this.

He was just about ready to throw the notebook into a bush and never speak of it again when he heard your voice ring out from the steps of the Marauder.

“Crosshair!”

You placed your datapad down and ran over to him. He hid the notebook behind his back with both hands, gripping it so hard he knew his knuckles would be white as you approached him with a smile.

“Hey,” he said, hoping he sounded normal.

“Where’d you go? You disappeared after the mission.”

“I was just…looking for something,” he said carefully. Dank farrik, how was he supposed to do this? He thought he might just leave it on your bunk when you were distracted with a little note written inside the cover saying, ‘Happy Birthday’. That way he could avoid your reaction when you saw it. He didn’t even know how to get into the Marauder with it now that you were here in front of him.

You tilted your head with a quizzical smile. “Looking for something?”

Crosshair nodded. “I couldn’t find it,” he lied.

“Oh…okay,” you looked at him weirdly. Would you look at him like that when you saw his gift?

Crosshair nodded to the Marauder, desperate to get on board and stow the notebook away until he could leave it on your bunk. “Should we go inside?”

You looked at him, narrowing your eyes. “What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything, meshurok,” he lied, his grip tightening again.

“Yes, you are,” you sidestepped him to look behind him and he leapt out of the way. You grinned. “You are! What are you hiding, Cross? Why can’t I see?” you tried to chase him around, but Crosshair kept angling himself away. Kriff, he had never felt so stupid in his whole life.

“It’s nothing. Get your meddling hands away from me, you di’kut,” he walked backwards in a circle, his face and neck hot.

“Crosshair,” you chided, smiling at him. “Come on, is it really that bad?”

“Go away,” he grumbled, hands aching from holding the damned notebook so tight.

“Crosshair,” you said his name again, and your face was stretched in that playful grin that he’d unwillingly memorised. That thing in his stomach flickered again.

Then he remembered how you didn’t tell him about your birthday. And how you were friends, but you didn’t say anything about it. And how he had this unexplainable feeling he couldn’t name sitting in his stomach that compelled him to go to a village market and pick out a stupid gift for a birthday tradition he didn’t even understand just to do something nice for you the way you did for him and his brothers.

Crosshair’s expression flared and he shoved the notebook at your chest. You startled at your hand came up to grab it, sliding against his like a searing snake. He pulled his hand back and balled both at his sides as he gritted out, “Happy birthday.”

All he saw was your eyes were wide before he stalked off, almost stomping his way to the Marauder. His face burned, and embarrassment flooded his body. He felt so stupid, and he hated feeling stupid. He hated the feeling of being on the end of someone’s judgement. He hated knowing that he’d just been forced to make himself vulnerable. But mostly, he hated the feeling of you not trusting him with what was supposed to be the important parts of you.

“Crosshair!”

Your voice came from behind him, but he didn’t turn around. He was already planning different ways he could avoid you. He was going to lock himself in the ‘fresher until the next mission and make sure Hunter placed him on watch at opposite times to you. Whatever it took. His heart panged. You were one of the only people outside his brothers he liked. He would mourn the shared jokes and laughter, and time spent with you, knowing it couldn’t happen anymore.

“Crosshair, wait.”

He felt a hand on his arm pull him back. He swayed backwards, but he let you stop him. He avoided your gaze, scowl burning an outline in his brow as he stared off into the middle distance. Your hand stayed on his arm, and he felt it through the plastoid wrapped around his forearm, squeezing him there. It felt like part of him, and that made him feel both warm with content and spiked with anger simultaneously.

“Cross, please look at me,” your voice said quietly, and his heart squeezed. He slowly moved his gaze, looking down, then sliding his eyes to your bare hand on his arm before they lifted to your face. Your brows were slanted downwards, looking at him with such softness in your eyes he felt the flickering in his chest again.

“How did you…” your voice was soft and trailed off, notebook in your other hand.

“It doesn’t matter,” he dismissed with gritted words.

He felt your hand flex with your grip. “It does to me.”

He studied your face carefully before saying, “…I was helping Tech with cataloguing his files. I saw your birthday in yours.”

You continued looking at him with an indecipherable gaze and moved your hand slowly from his arm to his wrist, your bare fingertips brushing his gloves. You gently grazed his fingers as you let his hand drop softly. He watched you as you inspected the book, hands turning it over, fanning through the pages. He studied your expression, trying to discern what you thought, feeling anxiety grow in his stomach, his throat tightening. He felt something hot poke inside him as he watched your mouth turn up into a smile as you gazed at his gift.

“I’ve been so busy this year that I forgot about my birthday.”

Crosshair hoped he hid his surprise. You not telling him about your birthday…it was never about him. Of course, you had forgotten. The past six cycles had been a whirlwind for you trying to adjust to a soldier’s lifestyle, countless missions and trying to fit in with his brothers. His face burned again. He was a fool.

You looked up at him, a smirk itching the corners of your mouth. “Been too busy keeping you boys in line.”

Crosshair scoffed lightly, letting a puff of breath out of his nose. Your smile widened.

“This is a beautiful gift, Cross. Thank you for getting it for me,” you place your hand on his arm again, squeezing gently to show your appreciation He felt his heart lift and his cheeks redden, but this time, not in embarrassment.

He nodded at you. “I’m…glad you like it. I don’t have much experience with birthdays.”

Your smile touched the edges of your eyes. “That’s what makes it even more special.”

You reached up on your tip toes and wrapped your arms around his neck, embracing him. Crosshair stiffened in shock and surprise before he slowly wrapped his arms around your torso. His fingers grazed your sides, and there was something wildly comforting about holding you like this. He could feel the side of your face pressed into his neck, just below his ear, and your breath tickled the sliver of open skin not covered by his blacks. You were so warm. He felt you squeeze him gently and he didn’t stop himself from squeezing back.

You were his best friend, after all.

You pulled away, but not before you cupped his face and placed a kiss on his cheek. Crosshair flinched and his eyes widened as you lowered yourself back down on flat feet with one of the most joyful smiles he’d ever seen gracing your face. The action had surprised him more than anything else had.

“I’m going to show everyone what you got me,” you said before running off towards the Marauder.

“No, don’t, they’ll—” Crosshair started but you were already halfway up the gangplank. His brothers’ teasing was going to be ruthless.

He sighed, shaking his head before following you, that thing flickering in his chest. He didn’t understand it, but he didn’t try to extinguish it.

banner art by @vimse

mando'a / meshurok = gemstone thank you for reading! i did find this one slightly challenging bc it's very much crosshair in his head and i tried to write him how i thought he would react to a situation like this, but if it's a little OOC, i apologise! but i think he would react like this if someone he cared about didn't tell him something important about them; someone who was his friend and who he liked very much. i think he'd be kinda mad and hurt but he cares too much to not do anything at all. i have more gen requests on the way, so stay tuned if you're interested! <3

tags @starrylothcat @sinfulsalutations @moodymisty @nahoney22 @freesia-writes @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @bobaprint @crosshairsnose @jesseeka @thegalaxys-edge @snarky-mans-gf @chopper-base @wenalena @shredderwest @leavingkamino @rexamongthestars @r2d2staser @bluebird-dreams @pb-jellybeans @a-streakofblue @theawkwardartist12 @mylifeisactuallyamess @padawancat97 @littlecrowtime @jedipoodoo

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[plucky-belmondo]

1-UP Mushroom - Has your F/O ever saved you from dangerous situations?

[ Self Ship Asks: Mario Items Edition ]

1-UP Mushroom - Has your F/O ever saved you from dangerous situations?

Yes, several times. It's mostly because Summoner!Plucky tends to throw themselves into the fray, despite having little-to-no combat experience (at the time, anyway). A few of the scars on Plucky's body are reminders of these incidents.

You'd think that it's because of the Summoner's Contract (for some lore, when Heroes are summoned in FEH, they are legally bound to it, meaning they're obligated to protect the Summoner, regardless of moral alignment.)

It's not. Tibarn finds himself saving Summoner!Plucky out of concern and having feelings for them. Whenever Plucky's recovering, he's following them, helping them out on daily routines, etc....

[bethanydelleman]

Hello!

I rewatched Pride and Prejudice and it's surprising how my thoughts on it changed over the years 😃

When I was a teenager, Elizabeth Bennet was the plucky heroine that I wanted to be (lol) , now I'm older with a mortgage and responsibilities/bills, I'm like what was her plan in life?

Because she wasn't really educated per se (im thinking about how she answered lady Catherine about what she has to recommend her re:drawing, playing the piano etc) so I guess a 'career'(no matter how little it would be available at that time) was out of the question, but accepting marraige to the (admittedly obsequious) Mr Collins was also out of the question as well as Mr Darcys first proposal (which I get why sge turned it down!) ...I guess I'm asking what Elizabeth's plan for her future.

I've heard this from a lot of people upon re-read, "Why isn't Elizabeth more worried about her future?" I think there are a few things to note.

Early 1800s or not, Elizabeth is 20 years old when the novel begins (the average age of first marriage for women was 23). 27 year old Charlotte is in more of a future panic, but Elizabeth is still young. She has done practical thing like learn to play piano, but like most young people, she's probably just hoping for the best. And it's not like there is much she can actually do, Elizabeth is putting herself out there, she's dancing, she's playing piano, but otherwise she can just hurry up and wait. Her mother's marriage schemes are seen as vulgar and mostly backfire, and we would hardly want Elizabeth to act like Caroline. We read across Austen's novel's that women are largely stationary and it is the men who move in and out of their lives.

Also, I think a big part of Austen's point is that women are in a position where they feel the need to accept any and every proposal, because as Mr. Collins says, they may never receive another, but that this leads to misery (just look at the older couples and how many of them are unhappy!). While somewhat foolish from a financial perspective, Elizabeth is thinking about her long term happiness. She has watched her father turn bitter in an unequal relationship, she does not want that for herself. Elizabeth is choosing possible spinsterhood over being married to a person she knows she could not respect. Marrying for love, or at least on a basis of respect, is a big theme in Austen's novels. Let me add this quote from Mansfield Park to illustrate this point:

“I should have thought,” said Fanny, after a pause of recollection and exertion, “that every woman must have felt the possibility of a man’s not being approved, not being loved by some one of her sex at least, let him be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the perfections in the world, I think it ought not to be set down as certain that a man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself.... And, and—we think very differently of the nature of women, if they can imagine a woman so very soon capable of returning an affection as this seems to imply.”

So yes, Elizabeth Bennet isn't being financially prudent but she is being sensible in preserving her happiness. And for realism, we know Austen made this decision herself! She turned down an eligible offer.

Next, Mrs. Bennet is somewhat exaggerating: they are very unlikely to starve or be destitute. While it is never explicitly stated, Mr. Gardiner seems to be doing very well, and would probably very happily take at least Jane and Elizabeth if Mr. Bennet died. Mr. Philips is also doing well for a country attorney, he could take in his sister-in-law and nieces. It is going to suck, the Bennets should have planned better, but it's not the end of the world. We also do not know Mr. Bennet's age, but he may well only be in his late forties. He's no Mr. Woodhouse who may die tomorrow in a stiff breeze.

So what is Elizabeth's plan? She doesn't have one, she's 20. She's hoping life will throw her a man with a decent income that she doesn't hate. It works out in the end, but I don't think she would live to regret either turned down proposal if she had never met Darcy again.

[avocado-writing]

Hello!!! :)

I live for your Starlight fics, and drabbles! And had a (smut) request for Male!Greaseball!

He and Reader have had a craazy Rivals, to Friends, to Lovers arc. And after many heated encounters, this is their first time being intimate. One problem, Reader was too embarrassed to tell him that they’ve NEVER been intimate. And it brings out a tender side of Greaseball’s usual dominance in the bedroom.

Thank you!!

oo my first smutty rq! I know you asked for fem!reader but I’d already written this before I got that ask 🙈 so it’s gender neutral, but I hope you enjoy! Still open for stex x reader and not opposed to writing smut 😌

He’d never dreamed about having you here, under him. The electric slide of your skin against his, chassis pressed to chassis. The way your hands tangle in his hair and you breathe his name as if you were a steamer chugging away, “Greaseball… Greaseball…”

A few months ago the two of you couldn’t have hated each other more if you tried. Him, the champion racer, you, the underdog with a name to make for yourself; you’d collided both on the track and off - butting each other as you speeded for first place and then throwing punches over it when you’d crossed the finish line. When he first met you he’d have been happy to see you as a steaming pile of scrap in the train yard, obliterated after coming off the rails.

He doesn’t remember when the angry words got less bite to them. When you stopped meaning your hatred, and his dissolved into admiration. You were a plucky little thing, yeah, but you were as committed to racing as he was. Constantly striving to improve yourself, pumping iron along with him. Soon the barbed insults became gentle banter and then genuine compliments… and the day he’d decided to bite the bullet and kiss you, you’d grabbed him and pulled him in like it was your last day alive.

It was subdued for a while. A kiss there, a brush of fingers there. Clanking your wheels against his playfully. Little signs of affection which had grown hotter and heavier the moment you two were alone, and now…

Now this.

Greaseball kisses a line along your throat and is almost swept up in the softness of your warm skin… but not enough that he doesn’t hear the little sound you make. It’s between anticipation and concern. Without hesitation he pulls back, looks you in your wide worried eyes.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“No! Just… hurry up…” you say, not meeting his gaze. He puts a finger under your chin and makes you look at him properly, cocking a brow; he doesn’t believe you for a second.

“We can stop.”

It’s true. He wouldn’t mind. Despite the machismo he oozes out of every pore, he adores you, wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Would rather give his life before that happened. He feels you squirm and backs off a bit, worrying that the heavy presence of his body is a cage.

“I don’t wanna stop, I’ve just… Greaseball, I’ve never… y’know.”

He doesn’t know, searching your face for answers for a moment before his eyes go wide.

“Oh! Damn, really?”

He can’t help the admission and you slap his arm lightly, playfully, scoffing under your breath.

“I just never found the right person, okay?! Not… not before you, Greaseball.”

He knows if he touched your face that your cheeks would be red hot. Instead of doing anything to make you feel more aware of that fact he kisses you again. You sigh into his mouth as he leads, lips moulding against yours and tongue reaching to taste you. His hand traces slowly down your stomach and you gasp when he presses inside of you, a new but not unwelcome intrusion.

“Well go slow. This is about you enjoyin’ yourself,” he says, matter-of-fact. By Starlight, he’d wait a thousand years for you if he had to.

“What about you?” you seem genuinely concerned. He laughs, not unkindly, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“I’m with you, baby. I’ll enjoy it.”

The soft, doe-eyed look you give him lets him know how much you trust him. He takes his time working you open with calloused but gentle fingers, and when he eventually slips inside of you it’s like fireworks go off behind his eyes. Like lightning arcing across his brain until every thought is you, you, you.

Your hands grab the muscles in his back and haul him closer. He growls.

“Greaseball…” you sigh as he moves.

Damn, he loves you. He listens to the rhythm of your breath and sinks into the moment.

[spacetimeaccordionfolder]

So in this post Red made in the technical terms for magic users necromancer is one of them

"Necromancer: a user of truename magic to temporarily recall fragments of shades of the dead, usually for consultations. No elemental magic involved. Inexact science."

And first it felt out of left field for me but then I remembered the importance of the dead souls of Vash still being connected to him. Their souls are part of the soul of the city until Vash removes that bit of soul energy right? (guys I'm working quick here I'll double check my work later) So there are spellcasters (using that word since no elemental magic involved) who can call the truename of a soul and talk to them? If one such necromancer happened to walk past Vash in it's current state and knew the name of someone in the city, could they call that name, and speak to that person?? They're using true names to talk to souls right? Like using an primordial's true name but on a person? [need to go reread the Collector's thing in ch 11 again] Are they doing magic with the soul? How do souls work in Aurora??? Soul energy what are you????? can't wait till we meet the soul shaper monks and I possibly get more answers and 85 more questions I need to go reread Erin's explanation about the soul shaper monks again and also soul channels and also the magic lore page on the website

also detective show about a necromancer soulcaster trying to solve murders (fun but kind of done before) or track something down. True name magic to bring back this historian's shade to ask where did you put that one document we need it for research. Perhaps both is going on here. Necromancer wants to track down something/ do some magic research but is traveling with someone who is trying to solve a mystery/ murders and it's just a Shade: Wha? what happened?

Channeler: *dramatic sad music* I'm sorry to disturb you, and that we weren't able to help you in life, but we need to know some things so we can help more people now.

Necromancer: *music cuts out on a bad note* yeah like when you said you'd write a paper on the eternal recurrence of the soul what did you mean? *plucky music*

Shade: I'm sorry, you called me back from the dead to ask about my research?

Channeler: No, I - that's not -*turns to necromancer* can you focus please *back to the shade* I'm sorry, but we need to know about how you died

Shade: it's just,*tearful music resumes, more hopeful* no one's really asked about that topic in a bit. I thought no one actually cared. It was all 'deadlines this' and 'hurry up with that manuscript that'

Channeler: oh

Necromancer: Oh I find your paper on [smart thing] fascinating! not as much as my friend here

Wizard: hi i'm a big fan can I have your autograph

Shade: oh I'd love to!

*shenanigans because shade can't hold a pen and the channeler is getting more worried about time limits or something*

[true-blue-sonic]

I have changed my mind on Marine: if we ever get a game that puts Blaze in a central role again, I want her to play a part too. The ending of Rush Adventure tugged at my heartstrings <3

I think it really helps that we see Marine develop, with a development that actually sticks on top. Over the course of the game, she realises that she's not the hotshot she's made herself out to be, and everyone encourages her that that is okay. She resolves to learn and do her best, and I appreciate that! On top of that, there's multiple moments wherein she's still pretty badass or helps the party along with some smart moves, even if those seem to be unintentional from her part. Though she definitely does a lot of things that make her The Load, over the whole and certainly at the end of the game, she's not! And most importantly: she's funny. The dialogue in this game had me chuckling a lot, and that really helps with me liking a character.

But what helps too is that the other characters are not amused by her antics and indicate so. They call Marine out and they express annoyance at how she acts. At the same time, they have a good reason not to ditch her immediately: they're staying over in her house, for example, but you can also tell that she just won't take a no for an answer at first. It makes for believable reasons to me why Sonic and Tails (are forced to) stick with her. And what I really appreciate too is that the characters also encourage her and express appreciation when she resolves to grow; you can really tell they've become fond of her. I also like how Blaze loses her temper at Marine while simultaneously feeling bad about it; it shows an interesting nuance in the situation (namely: Blaze could have said it more nicely, but she's right that Marine likely would not have listened to that, but simultaneously it's not nice that Marine's feelings were hurt so badly). Plus, I feel like it was a good first step to the wake-up call Marine undergoes (though I think the main and most important wake-up call is her being captured by Whisker).

Overall, I'd love to see a developed Marine in a new game; someone who's still got that plucky attitude and cheerful nature and insatiable urge to explore, but who also knows she's not the Very Skilled Captain who gets to boss everyone around. I wonder if we'll ever get a Rush 3!