#or how hard it is to actually accurately manage

[sizebrained]

I'm not sure if this is *supposed* to be a pair of giant legs the way the telephone pole and line make it look.

But I love this so much I had a little story idea pop up in my head I couldn't get rid of so I had to write it down.

Also great glow up from the last version, love tofupixel's stuff.

Whoops new g/t universe... CW: None, SFW

Word Count: 2,000

*** The town siren's crying wail filled the air. Easily heard over the increasingly louder and louder wind, even all the way out here. As if the angry sky wasn't enough of a warning of what was heading their way. The cows and horses on Jane's farm knew long before the siren had confirmed it. There was a tornado coming. First one of the season. Jane hadn't wanted to grow bigger before the storms, but the animals had panicked. They kept pulling out of Jane and her mother's grips. Desperate to follow their instinct to run away from the oncoming twister.

At her normal size of exactly 5 feet tall, Jane could never have managed to get them to the barn when they were this agitated. Even with her mother and ten year old littler brother Bobby helping.

Bobby's normally annoying demeanor disappeared in these kinds of situations. He was trying very hard to actually help. But one twist of the cow's head sent the poor boy flying sideways every time.

So she focused, held her breath, and grew. When she was done, she was four times her normal size.

It had been several years since Jane had discovered that her body had this "compunction" to grow bigger. She didn't know if it was nature, or magic, or what. She could just grow bigger. A few, mostly random, townfolk knew about Jane’s compunction too but they promised to keep it secret.

When she was big, Jane provided manual labor for them sometimes that would have either been impossible or very expensive otherwise. It helped ensure their silence.

It started shortly after her father died. Also right after she began puberty, like that wasn't hard enough without this complication. At first there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason as to what set Jane to growing, how big she would get, or how long it would last.

For lack of a better word, the family doctor had settled on what happened to Jane as a "compunction." There was nothing in any medical text that he had come across to explain it. Other than being a danger to low ceilings and tight places, he said Jane was otherwise a pretty typical, healthy teenager.

When their family doctor made the first house call after her first growth, he found a 20 foot, very embarrassed looking girl in pigtails looking down at him in the barn. He took it rather well. "Not the strangest thing I've seen to be honest," he told Jane's mother. It always made Jane wonder just what he had seen that her being bigger than an elephant didn't register at the top of his list.

When she first started getting her compunctions, she made the animals nervous in their stables. Even though Jane had cared and fed some of them for years, most were unnerved by her newfound size.

Eventually, the animals got used to Jane's bigger version. Now, most of them didn't seem to think it was unusual to be moved around as easily as a child's favorite stuffed toy.

Jane was currently walking with two cows under her arms towards the barn like they needed to be tucked in for bedtime.

Thankfully, Jane's clothes, and anything else that happened to be touching her body at the time, grew along with her when she did. They couldn't afford to go through clothes at the rate of her body's "compunction spells" otherwise.

One time she grew while she was brushing her hair. It ended up being 10 feet long. Jane had never timed it right to be holding it again when she shrank back down. So the 10 foot brush was hidden up in the barn's haystacks till she did.

Over the past several years she had learned to control it. Somewhat.

Better at directing it was more accurate. She couldn't really control it that much or for that long. It was like tensing a muscle or holding her breath. Trying to hold her breath seemed to slow it down sometimes. But sometimes holding her breath also made her grow.

Jane's body would do what it wanted to do whether her mind agreed or not. She felt like her body betrayed her. Sometimes in more ways than just getting bigger.

And getting back down to her usual size could sometimes take days. Jane was thankful to have finally graduated high school. She got tired of coming up with new excuses for missing so much school, waiting to shrink back down to her normal five foot nothing self. Jane's eyes passed by her bedroom's second story window as she made her way to the barn with the cows. Jane's mother had taken Bobby by his hand, heading as fast as she could manage across the open field between the barn and their modest farmhouse.

They passed each other heading in opposite directions. Jane with cows and her mother with Bobby. Jane's mother yelled over her shoulder at her first born. "Jane! Get those two in the barn now! And if you're not fixing to shrink down in the next 5 minutes to fit in the shelter then you need to make sure you're nowhere near that twister!" "Yes mama. Don't worry about me, just get safe in the shelter with the ankle biter."

At this size, Jane only had to speak in her normal voice to be heard over the increasingly louder wind. Her enormous red converse sneakers were making big oblong imprints in the grass with every step. It felt like she was just going outside in a light rain storm at this size. Bobby wasn't quite small enough to be a literal ankle biter.

Jane smirked about that while walking into the barn door. She was glad she didn't have to duck to fit. Jane carried the cows in like house cats, instead of several thousand pounds of beef. She set the cows down in a big pen in the corner with the three others she had wrangled inside. Jane shushed the animals, scattering some feed like spilt table salt in her enormous fingertips. She offered more calming reassurances down at them in her deep booming voice. Jane felt an overwhelming relief that they hadn't lost any of them. While she was distracted by that fleeting thought of gratitude, like she had jinxed it, their old mare Midnight got her stable door open.

The horse made a run for it out of the barn trying to get away from the coming storm. "Midnight! No!" Jane cried and stomped out of the barn after her. Unfortunately, Bobby also saw Midnight emerge from the open barn door. And while his mother was occupied getting the shelter door open with both hands, Bobby also ran after Midnight.

He started towards Midnight in a straight line as his sister emerged out of the barn shaking the earth in pursuit. Jane glared at the boy for his recklessness. "Bobby get your scrawny ass in the basement! I'll get her!" Jane boomed across the field at her little brother.

She grew noticeably bigger while she yelled. The ten year boy old froze in place at the sound of his big sister's much bigger voice giving him orders. Their mother rushed over to Bobby dragging him, slack jawed and staring at his huge sister, back and down into the basement shelter. Jane caught up to Midnight in a few rushed steps. She slid to a stop and scooped the scared horsed up with one hand. Her kicking hooves lifted up into the air frantically searching for the ground. Jane heard the clattering of the shelter's steel door. Her mother was having a hard time getting the shelter door shut. She looked over to the horizon. The tornado was in sight and it was getting closer.

It was a big one. She felt scared.

Then Jane felt the wrong thing.

"Aw crap," she thought to herself. Jane quickly set Midnight down on the ground again. The horse whinnied but stayed put, agitated but loyal. Jane didn't need to deal with an overgrown horse trampling everything on top of what she knew was coming.

Jane looked down at her shoes. She saw the ground racing away around them while the shoes stayed put.

Jane's mother and Bobby stared up at Jane for one long moment before shutting the shelter door and locking it from the inside. Jane felt queasy as the ground swirled below. Except that wasn't what was happening. Jane was getting bigger. And bigger. Jane looked at the 50 foot telephone pole on the side of the road in front of her house on the long dirt road leading into town. At first she was looking up at it. Then she could stare at the top at eye level without having to crane her neck at all.

In a few heartbeats more, Jane was looking down at it.

And down. And down. It got smaller and smaller as she went up and up.

She could feel her feet sinking into the ground as she got heavier and heavier with every passing moment. Midnight trotted around the growing set of shoes. The horse decided the safest place was in the gap between them. She settled there while they continued to get bigger.

Jane could tell this was going to be a bad one. She closed her eyes and grimaced feeling sick to her stomach like she was on one of the state fair's carnival rides. Jane didn't notice the old blue truck rushing into her driveway. It came to an abrupt stop at an odd angle next to the telephone pole. Another girl, the same age as Jane, stepped out of the truck and looked up at the towering figure filling the sky. "JANE?!" the girl yelled up towards the black clouds where Jane’s head seemed to be going, making Jane's name into two syllables instead of one.

To the girl, it looked like Jane was trying to have a grow off with the approaching tornado. It looked like Jane was fixing to win. She'd never seen her this huge before. The girl yelled again cupping her hands around her mouth, hoping it helped. Jane heard her own name like a whisper. She ventured to open one eye and slowly tilt her head down. She didn't feel like she was going to throw up anymore. That meant it was over.

But everything was tinier than it had ever been. Much, much tinier.

That meant she was big. Really big. Jane didn't want to hazard a guess at just how big. Seeing the 50 foot telephone pole barely reach her ankle told her enough. "Uh...Hi Bets..." Jane said looking down at the ground. She saw the girl cover her ears and cower as Jane's few words shook everything.

Her normal speaking voice at this size was as loud as the town siren.

Jane was suddenly thankful there was a tornado to help cover up her compunction. Jane looked over at how much closer the tornado had gotten and sighed.

She recognized her girlfriend's parked truck. It looked like one of Bobby's toy tin cars next to her huge shoe. "What are you...nevermind...there's no time..." Jane apologized while bending down. One huge finger extended from Jane's hand and gently pushed her girlfriend back into her truck's still open driver side door. Then she pushed the car door shut as delicately as she could manage with her finger tip.

Jane picked up her girlfriend's truck between two fingers, with her safely back inside of it, and lifted it. Up and up and up. Betsy screamed, holding on for dear life inside the truck cabin.

Jane reached down with her other hand and also, very delicately, picked up Midnight with just two fingers like she was picking up a house spider to take outside. Jane turned her head to look at the tornado. Luckily, it would pass harmlessly across the field between the barn and house. She got worked up and huge for nothing.

Mom, Bobby, the animals, and all of their earthly possessions were safe.

Jane lifted the truck up to her face and gave her girlfriend Betsy an awkward smile. Jane’s freckled face filled the smaller girl's windshield like the morning sunrise. Betsy waved back, still a little frightened at seeing Jane this enormous.

Then Jane carefully, and slowly, stepped over the telephone lines and dirt road parallel to her house. The enormous 19 year old took a few steps to the side and watched the tornado pass by her.

At this vantage, she could admire just how beautiful it was and was thankful that the tornado would help cover her enormous sneaker tracks a bit. ***

look at my forever wip

[fjordfolk]

My two greatest character flaws are that I'm cranky and lazy.

My third greatest character flaw is the acute lack of compassion for people who smuggle exotic animals (like a serval) into a country where they are illegal (like norway) because keeping one as a pet is 'their dream' and then throw a pity party when said animal is seized and at risk of euthanasia. I'm sorry pal but you did that.

[felidthing]

staring at applestrike's toyhouse gallery

[pencil-n-pen]

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

��

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)

[dmitriene]

Bear price part 3 with how he acts with his pregnant wife and then later the cubs? Please 🙏 I actually love your stufff so much 🦅

cw: hybrids, pregnancy, motherhood, giving birth, nothing here is really accurate.

despite the fact that there is no greater joy for john price than knowing that you are pregnant with his cubs, he knows very little about what it is like to carry a child, and even more so he does not know much about the process of childbirth, all his actions are only instinctive, driven by the churning pull of a gnawing need to protect you and make your every will come out real, should you ask for anything at all.

a devoted mate, he is always concerned about your comfort, especially now, knowing how sensitive and vulnerable you are during this period, when all your energy is spent on growing the one who is in your belly, making the child healthy, stronger, so you have to rest more often, take care of your well being and eat as much as possible, which john takes upon himself, walking restlessly around the house every day, from dawn to dusk, assisting you at any given moment.

the bear inside of him, innate, animalistic habit, teases his senses with a growl of a need to keep you hidden, tangled in his arms for till the birthing comes, trapped, having to go through your pregnancy in this same cabin you live in together, in this same furs you sleep beneath every night, in john's pawing, possessive hold, but the nature can be unforgiving, the pregnancy a process he has no say in, and he won't risk your health, no matter how hard the animal in him claws.

john makes sure to find you a gynecologist, the one that would visit you, without needing for you to step outside, let other predators sniff out a pretty thing with her baby bump for anyone to try and court, even though you're long mated, thus, he makes sure that the person that steps through the doorway of your house is a woman, and one that not even close to being a hybrid, to make sure that your pregnancy proceeds smoothly and without possible health problems, once every few weeks.

what bothers you both, is that your baby bump is really, really huge and heavy, you sway around the cabin with breathy grunts and little steps, in which, john has to assist you later, large, calloused warm palms cupping underneath your tummy and lifting, thumbs stroking over the stretched skin and dark line that runs through and down your belly button, easing the tension and the strain you feel all over your body, slumping back against the full, brawny expanse of his chest, sighing in immediate relief, while your husband wonders just how many there are.

the other issue, is how horny you are, and john as well, but your tummy ain't giving much choices on how to treat this problem, so while he can pleasure you, his jaw open wide to drink the slick from between your quivering, parted thighs, suffocatingly plush around his head as you squeeze, too sensitive to the sensation of his curling, thrusting tongue and rasping beard, hiccuping and moaning each time his swollen, glistening lips close around your twitching clit, all while he's bought to hump his hips into the air.

the birth day comes with your hand clawing at john's with a force that leaves bleeding scratches at his hair dappled skin, and yet, he stays close, holds your curling fingers in his own, kissing over your sharp knuckles, whispering sweet, soothing reassurances while you gasp and push to get command of doctor's voice, sobbing in pain and exhaustion, skin all clammy with sweat, and even the loose nightie you wear feels too much on your overstimulated, itching body, but you make your best to keep pushing, legs feeling numb.

when the fog of pain clears, there's a light weight at either side of your armpits, cradled by the intuitive curl of your arms, two babies, a sweet girl and a boy, looking so similar, bodies swaddled and tiny as they sleep against you, john is here, talking with the doctor, glancing over when you manage some quiet, weak murmur, and he reaches out to smooth over your disheveled, damp hair, leaning down with a lingering kiss against your still warm forehead, before whispering at you to sleep, tone low and rumbling, your eyelids growing heavy, knowing that he has everything under control.

your body does needs time to recover, and so, john fusses over you, making sure you sleep and eat enough, feed babies from time to time and hold them close when you feel rested enough, all the rest is on his shoulders, to watch over your little boy and girl, make sure there's no any issues, he rocks them in his massive hands and hums some silly, old melody he knows, baby blues watching how they babble up at him and twist their little fingers in the hairs on his chest or beard.

talking with them while he goes around the house on chores, making sure they play with some sensory toys, and not only his round, beary ears and furred features, john takes on all the responsibilities of raising children until your body is recovered enough, and when you finally join him, parenting swallows the two of you into a flurry of endless worries, practically missing the moment of growth of your adorable cubs, already walking around the house with tapping feet's and shrieking giggles, running from their dad's catching hands as you watch them wide grinning from the couch.

john learns quick how being a dad feels and what requires, and he's never been happier, every early morning starting with your supple body tucked against his side, and your babies peeking politely through the door before rushing in and jumping on the bed to greet you in another day with too much enthusiasm, as he ushers them to go and brush their teeth, stealing a moment to feel you a little bit more, squeeze greedily at your curves and peck your pouty lips, before he'd need to raise up and cook a big breakfast.

and if he get's too pussy drunk in recent months, it's not because of how much he missed feeling the pulsing tightness of your gummy cunt around his engorged, dripping cock, but because he's forever grateful for the gift you gave him in the face of your precious babies, and the primal need to be surrounded by more of them, if he's succeeded to be a father, then he can build a big, big family as well, and you can't object, not with the way your hips roll to meet the rutting of his girth, not with john's enraptured gaze on you, so more it is, then.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[teaandspite]

The Great Goodreads Diss List (Part 1)

Context: For many years now, I have been collecting funny lines from Goodreads reviews to share with my coworkers. (I do collection development, reader's advisory, and weeding at a public library, so I read a LOT of reviews)

Are some of these, perhaps, rather mean? Yes, but they are also very funny, and come from a place of honest frustration. In the tradition of Bargepole threads and lists everywhere, names and titles have been censored.

"First, I want to say that I understand how hard it is to write a book and how amazing it is when it is actually published. Congrats to the author for that accomplishment. That said--"

"Warning: This review will be lengthy due to pure hatred."

"I found myself feeling really, really annoyed with the world that this book is allowed to exist. We live in a universe where the passenger pigeon is extinct but this book goes along merrily being read by unsuspecting lovers of words and ideas and stories? It just seems like too much, you know?"

"Don't do it. Don't spring the cash for the hardcover. Instead, eat an entire bag of Twizzlers, spend some money you don't have at a high-end department store, look up on Facebook the shady college boyfriend that made you cry, research the current value of your home or 401K and then read all about how the big hedge fund managers are faring during the economic crisis. You'll feel about the same stomach pain if you waste your time reading this book."

"This wretched novel begins with the mugging of an old lady and it appears I may be in the process of repeating that loathsome crime as [author] was 78 when she wrote it. It is not nice to put the boot into such a poor defenseless old creature lying there with only a damehood, a Booker Prize and a few million quid. It’s a nasty job but somebody has to do it."

"I think this is the way dead people would write, if they could."

"I am considering setting up SPABB: Society for the Protection of Accurate Book Blurb. This blurb appears to have been written by someone from the publishers who met [the author] the night before, got very drunk, lost his notes and then constructed something in a fug of hangover the next morning."

"I congratulate [the author] on the early half of his book, which was thoroughly fun and made me laugh and think. I congratulate [the author] on the second half of his book, for finishing it. It reads like that was difficult."

"…a woman whose taste in contemporary literature has roughly the same batting average as a pitcher in the National League."

"The author is a pompous windbag."

"Recommends it for: No one. Recommended to me by: A friend who apparently wished to cause me great suffering."

"Makes me wonder: is it possible to obtain similes at a volume discount?"

"The repeated phrases made me want to mail a thesaurus to the author."

"I'm disappointed in myself for finishing this book."

"if the author described [character's] eyes as "obsidian" one more time I was tempted to write her and ask if her thesaurus broke."

"They say that an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters would, if given infinite time, eventually produce the complete works of William Shakespeare. [This book], on the other hand, would probably take the average monkey just under two hours."

"I can't imagine what the author had to do to get this nadir of Western literature printed on innocent trees, but he does seem to know a LOT about being well-connected in New York."

"This book is so bad it is almost worth reading just to make you appreciate the other books you are reading."

"Reads like it was written by a brilliant author, the night before it was due."

"raises interesting questions, like: can a book be so bad as to constitute an act of terrorism"

"has this author ever spoken to a human woman"

"This acorn has fallen so far from the tree that it can’t even see the forest."

"I’m guessing they are touted as ‘beach reads’ because no one will care if they get dropped into the ocean."

"This book begins with all the energy of a hand vacuum near the end of its battery life, and the pace doesn't quicken much from there."

"At least everybody’s eyes stayed the same color this time around.”

Part 2

Part 3

[inseobts]

heyyy! so i loved the monster trio reacting to pregnancy so would you be able to make one with reader going into labor? thank you!!

🫵 into Labor

after the pregnancy let's see their reaction to you going into labor?

a/n: sorry if it's not accurate, I never gave birth to anything and pregnancy actually scares me lmao

characters: luffy, zoro, sanji

words count: around 1.0k - 1.4k each

next part: 🫵 made him a dad

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Monkey D. Luffy:

The sun hangs high over the Thousand Sunny, casting shimmering reflections on the vast expanse of the sea. The crew bustles about, each member attending to their duties, laughter and chatter filling the air.

You stand by the railing, one hand resting gently on your swollen belly, the other gripping the wooden edge for support. A sudden, sharp pain courses through your abdomen, forcing you to gasp and double over. Sweat beads on your forehead as you try to steady your breathing.

The time has come. Your baby is ready to enter the world.

“Luffy!” you call out, your voice strained.

Luffy, perched atop the figurehead munching on a piece of meat, immediately perks up. His eyes widen when he notices your condition.

“Huh? What’s wrong?”

In an instant, he stretches his arm, grabs onto the mast, and propels himself to your side “Are you okay?”

You manage a weak smile, clutching his hand tightly “I think… the baby’s coming.”

Panic flashes across Luffy’s face... a rare sight. He turns toward the rest of the crew, his voice louder than necessary.

“Chopper! Robin! We need help!”

Chopper, who has been sorting his medical supplies, immediately drops everything and dashes toward you, shifting into his larger form for better support. Robin follows closely, her usual calm demeanor bringing a sense of reassurance to the growing chaos.

“We need to get her to the infirmary—now!” Chopper orders, already assessing you with a critical eye “Luffy, carry her gently.”

Luffy doesn’t hesitate. He scoops you into his arms as if you weigh nothing, holding you with the utmost care. His grip is firm but gentle, his face tense with concentration, so unlike his usual carefree self.

The crew watches in silent worry as Luffy carries you inside. Nami follows closely, her lips pressed into a thin line, while Sanji and Usopp exchange nervous glances. Even Zoro, usually indifferent to most things, watches with unspoken concern.

Inside the infirmary, Chopper rushes to prepare the necessary equipment, while Robin helps set up a comfortable space for you. Luffy kneels beside you, still holding your hand, his thumb gently rubbing circles against your skin.

“You’re strong,” he murmurs, his voice softer than usual “We’ve been through way worse. You got this.”

A sharp contraction cuts through your body, making you squeeze his hand with all your strength. Luffy winces but doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in closer.

“Okay, okay! Breathe!” he urges, panicking slightly before mimicking exaggerated breaths “Like this! Hooo—haaa! Hooo—haaa!”

Despite the pain, you let out a breathless laugh “Luffy, I know how to breathe.”

Chopper, now fully in doctor mode, glances up “It’s progressing fast. We don’t have much time.” He turns to Luffy “You have to stay calm. She’s going to need you.”

Luffy swallows hard and nods. His grip on your hand tightens as he plants a determined kiss on your knuckles “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Hours pass in a blur of pain and determination. The contractions come faster, each one hitting like a tidal wave, leaving you gasping for air. Chopper stays focused, giving you instructions and encouragement, while Robin remains steady by your side, helping when needed.

Luffy never lets go of your hand. Every time a contraction rips through you, he flinches like he feels it too, his brows furrowed in deep concentration. Sweat clings to his forehead, but he doesn’t wipe it away. His entire world is you and the baby.

“You’re doing great,” he reassures you, voice softer than usual “You’re the strongest person I know.”

Another contraction hits, and you cry out, squeezing his hand hard enough that even his rubbery skin stretches unnaturally. He winces but only grins through the pain.

“Damn, you’re strong,” he chuckles, trying to lighten the mood “Are you sure our kid’s not gonna come out with haki already?”

You let out a weak laugh between ragged breaths “If they do… it’s your fault.”

Chopper suddenly straightens, ears twitching with excitement “It’s almost time! Just a little more—one big push!”

Luffy tenses beside you, practically vibrating with anticipation. His grip on your hand tightens “You got this! Just one more!”

With every ounce of strength left in your body, you give one final push and then, suddenly, the room is filled with the sharp, piercing cry of a newborn.

Everything else fades. The pain, the exhaustion, the tension in the room all melts away as you hear your baby’s first cry.

Chopper gently catches the tiny, wriggling life in his hands, his face lighting up with joy “It’s a healthy baby girl!”

Luffy’s jaw drops. His eyes are wide, glistening with unspoken emotion “Wait… that’s our kid?” His voice is barely above a whisper, filled with awe.

Chopper carefully wraps the baby in a soft blanket before placing them in your arms. Your heart clenches as you look down at the tiny, perfect face, so small, so fragile, and yet so full of life.

Tears well in your eyes “Luffy… we did it.”

Luffy leans in, staring at the baby like they hold the entire universe in their little hands. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reaches out and gently pokes their tiny cheek with his rubbery finger.

“She's so small…” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion.

The baby lets out a tiny noise, squirming slightly, and Luffy grins, his eyes shimmering “Hey there, little one. Welcome to the crew.”

The door bursts open as the rest of the crew piles in. Nami wipes at her eyes, pretending not to be crying, while Sanji immediately offers to cook a feast in celebration. Franky wipes an exaggerated tear, calling the moment “SUPER emotional”. Even Zoro, who normally avoids sentimental moments, gives an approving nod.

“What’s her name?” Usopp asks eagerly.

Luffy looks at you, a grin spreading across his face “How about… Dawn? ‘Cause they’re the start of something new.” (Sorry for the random name, I didn’t know how to put it)

You smile, looking down at your baby, your child, your future “Dawn,” you whisper “I love it.”

The crew erupts in cheers, the room filling with laughter and celebration. And in that moment, surrounded by your family, you know, no matter what the seas bring, as long as you have Luffy and the crew, everything will be okay.

── .✦ Roronoa Zoro:

The sun is just beginning to set over the ocean, casting a golden glow over the Thousand Sunny. The waves rock the ship gently, the rhythmic motion usually comforting, but not today.

You grip the infirmary bed tightly, a sharp pain tearing through your body. A cry escapes your lips, sweat dripping down your temple. The baby is coming.

Zoro stands by your side, his jaw clenched, hands balled into fists. He’s faced enemies stronger than mountains, but nothing has ever made him this nervous.

“Breathe,” he mutters, voice gruff but laced with concern. His calloused hand finds yours, gripping it tightly “You’re strong. You got this.”

Another contraction crashes over you like a tidal wave, and you squeeze his hand hard enough that a lesser man would break. Zoro barely flinches. Instead, he moves closer, letting you use him as an anchor.

Chopper scrambles around the room, gathering supplies “It’s happening fast! We have to be ready!”

Robin, ever calm, wipes your forehead with a damp cloth “Just focus on your breathing” she soothes.

Zoro stays silent, but his grip on you never wavers. His usual stoic expression is gone, replaced with something intense, determination, worry, and something else, something deeper.

“Almost there,” Chopper encourages “Just a little longer.”

Zoro exhales sharply, shifting closer “You’re not doing this alone,” he says firmly, his voice steady even as his heart pounds “I’m right here.”

Time feels like it’s stretching and collapsing all at once. The pain is relentless, each contraction stronger than the last, leaving you gasping for air. Your grip on Zoro’s hand is crushing, but he doesn’t complain. If anything, he shifts even closer, his other hand resting on your back, steadying you.

“You’re almost there,” Chopper reassures, his voice both urgent and gentle “The baby’s coming any moment now.”

Zoro swallows hard. He’s fought through hell, survived battles that should have killed him, but this—watching you struggle, watching you in pain is the hardest thing he’s ever endured. He can’t fight this for you. All he can do is stay by your side.

Robin wipes your forehead again, her presence steady and reassuring “Just a little more,” she murmurs “You’re doing incredibly well.”

Your body tenses as another contraction rips through you. A cry of pain escapes your lips, and Zoro’s grip tightens.

“Come on,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. His voice is low, but the urgency is there “You can do this.”

You let out a sharp breath, forcing yourself to focus. The pain is unbearable, but you’re not alone. You have him.

And then Chopper’s ears perk up “One more push!” he exclaims.

Zoro’s hand moves to cradle the back of your head, his forehead nearly touching yours “You’ve got this,” he murmurs “One last push.”

Summoning every last ounce of strength, you bear down, pushing through the pain, through the exhaustion...

And then, suddenly, the sound of a newborn’s cry fills the room.

The world stills. The pain, the exhaustion, the fear, it all fades into the background as relief crashes over you.

Chopper carefully lifts the tiny, wriggling baby, his face breaking into a wide smile “It’s a healthy baby! It's a cute little girl!!”

For the first time since this all started, Zoro breathes. His shoulders sag, his grip on you loosens just slightly, like the weight of the entire world has just been lifted from him.

Chopper swaddles the baby before carefully placing her in your arms. You look down at the tiny, perfect face, tears welling in your eyes.

Zoro doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, he just stares. His hands, hands that have held swords for as long as he can remember, hands that have fought and bled and killed, now tremble as he reaches forward.

He brushes the back of one finger gently against the baby’s cheek “Tch,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to his words, only wonder “So small…”

The baby lets out a tiny noise, her little fist clenching and unclenching. Zoro’s breath catches as one of those tiny fingers latches onto his. His throat bobs as he swallows, and for the briefest moment, his expression is completely open, raw, unguarded.

“…You did good” he murmurs, looking at you now, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

Tears slip down your cheeks as you smile at him “We did good.”

The door bursts open, and the rest of the crew floods in. Nami gasps, Usopp cheers, and Franky dramatically wipes away tears. Sanji doesn’t even tease Zoro, too caught up in the moment. Even Luffy, normally chaotic, is quiet for once, just grinning from ear to ear.

“What’s the name?” Brook asks, leaning in with a bright smile.

Zoro glances at you. You already know what he’s thinking.

“We decided it's Kazuki,” you say softly “Like the wind, right? Strong, steady, always moving forward.”

Zoro’s lips quirk into a small, rare smile “Kazuki,” he repeats, like he’s testing it out. Then, looking down at the baby in your arms, he nods “Yeah. We got a good name.”

The crew erupts into cheers, celebrating the newest member of the Strawhat family.

Zoro stays close, his hand still wrapped around your own. He may not say much, but his presence, the way he looks at you, at Kazuki... it says everything.

He would protect you both with his life.

As the crew celebrates, their cheers and laughter filling the room, you take a moment just to look at Zoro. Really look at him.

He’s still gripping your hand, his other resting protectively near Kazuki. His usual scowl is gone, replaced with something softer, something you’ve rarely, if ever, seen from him.

Zoro has always been a pillar of strength, a warrior who faces death without flinching, who speaks through actions rather than words. He’s never been the type to show vulnerability, never been one for soft gestures or whispered reassurances.

But tonight, he hasn’t left your side. He hasn’t barked about training or brushed things off with a grunt. Instead, he’s held your hand through the worst pain of your life, wiped the sweat from your brow with surprising gentleness, and looked at your child like they’re the most precious thing in the world.

It’s so unlike him, so wildly out of character for the swordsman you’ve always known. And yet, it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels right. Natural, even.

Seeing him like this, seeing this new side of him, makes your heart ache in a way you never expected.

“Zoro” you whisper, drawing his attention.

His gaze snaps to yours, and for once, he doesn’t look away. He just watches you, something unreadable in his expression.

“You’re different,” you murmur, your voice quiet enough that only he can hear over the noise of the crew “Not in a bad way. Just… different.”

Zoro exhales through his nose, his grip tightening ever so slightly around your hand. He glances at Kazuki, still sleeping peacefully in your arms, then back at you.

“Yeah,” he finally admits, voice barely above a whisper “Guess I am.”

You smile, squeezing his hand “I like it.”

A soft grunt leaves him, almost like he doesn’t know how to respond. Then, after a moment, he looks at you again and murmurs, “Don’t get used to it.”

But you can tell, it’s just for show. Because the way he stays close, the way his fingers never stop brushing against Kazuki’s tiny hand, the way he watches over you both like you’re his whole world…

You already know. He’s changed. And deep down, you think he knows it too.

── .✦ Vinsmoke Sanji:

You sit at the dining table, hands resting on your swollen belly, feeling the familiar discomfort of late pregnancy but… nothing more. The baby is due any day now, but despite the occasional cramp and pressure, there’s no real sign of labor starting.

Sanji notices, of course. He always does.

Standing by the stove, he watches you carefully, concern flickering in his sharp blue eyes as he kneads dough absentmindedly “You’re quiet today, ma chérie.”

You sigh, shifting uncomfortably in your seat “The baby’s taking their sweet time. I feel like I’m going to be pregnant forever.”

Sanji chuckles, setting the dough aside before walking over to you. He kneels beside your chair, his warm hands smoothing over your belly “Tch. Who would’ve thought our little one would be as much of a tease as their mother?” He presses a kiss to your hand, but you can tell he’s thinking.

Then, suddenly, his eyes light up with an idea.

“Wait here, mon amour.” He shoots up and moves to the stove with renewed energy, rummaging through his ingredients.

You frown, watching as he pulls out chili peppers, cayenne, and a few other spices “Sanji… what are you doing?”

He flashes you a grin, already chopping away “I once read in a culinary book that spicy food can help jumpstart labor. It’s worth a shot, no?”

You raise a skeptical brow “You really think food is going to make the baby come?”

Sanji winks “You doubt my cooking? I’m offended... truly.”

Within minutes, he places a beautifully plated dish in front of you, noodles tossed in a rich, red sauce, garnished with fresh herbs. The aroma alone is enough to make your mouth water, though you can practically see the heat radiating off it.

You hesitate “That looks like it might kill me before labor even starts.”

Sanji smirks, twirling a forkful of noodles before holding it up to your lips “Trust me, amore mio. If nothing else, you’ll have the most flavorful pre-labor meal in history.”

With a sigh, you take the bite.

Instantly, your mouth ignites with heat. It’s delicious, complex, bursting with flavor... but dear god, it’s spicy. Your eyes widen as you grab Sanji’s wrist “Water. Now.”

He laughs but hands you a glass of milk instead, watching in amusement as you gulp it down “Spicy enough?”

“I think that instead of the baby it's my soul that left my body” you gasp.

Sanji leans down, brushing a kiss against your temple “Then let’s hope it wakes the baby up too, hm?”

You roll your eyes, but just as you’re about to tease him, a sharp pain suddenly shoots through your abdomen. You stiffen, gripping the edge of the table.

Sanji immediately notices the change in your expression. His amusement vanishes, replaced with instant concern “What is it? Did it work?”

Another pain follows, stronger than the last. Your breath catches “Oh my god.”

Sanji blinks “Oh my god?”

Your grip tightens on his sleeve as a wave of pressure builds “Sanji... I think it actually worked.”

For a moment, Sanji is completely still. Then, realization dawns on his face.

His eyes widen “Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” He whips off his suit jacket in panic “Are you serious?”

You groan, clutching your belly “Do I look like I’m joking?!”

Sanji curses under his breath before springing into action “Chopper! Robin! Someone get the infirmary ready!”

His usual grace is replaced with frantic movements as he scoops you into his arms, muttering a mixture of apologies, reassurances, and panicked swears “Okay, okay, deep breaths, mon amour. I didn’t think it’d work that fast.”

As he rushes you to the infirmary, you can’t help but huff out a laugh between contractions “Remind me never to doubt your cooking again.”

Sanji presses a firm kiss to your forehead “Damn right. Now let’s go meet our little firecracker.”

Sanji carries you through the ship with a speed and urgency you’ve never seen before. His usual graceful movements are hurried, his grip on you firm yet gentle, as if he’s afraid you’ll break but also desperate to get you to safety.

“Hold on, mon amour,” he mutters, his voice tight with emotion “We’re almost there.”

Your breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps as another contraction crashes over you. You bury your face in his shoulder, gripping onto his shirt as the pain intensifies “Sanji—ahh—if I survive this, I’m making you eat that damn spicy food.”

Despite the situation, he lets out a choked laugh “Fair deal, sweetheart. You can cook me the deadliest meal you want after this.”

The moment he reaches the infirmary, Chopper is already there, scrambling to prepare. Robin stands beside him, her usual composed expression unshaken as she moves to assist.

Sanji carefully lowers you onto the infirmary bed, but even after you’re settled, he doesn’t let go of your hand. His fingers lace through yours, his thumb brushing gentle circles over your skin.

Chopper glances between you both “It’s happening fast. The baby’s ready to come.”

Sanji tenses beside you. He’s used to being in control, handling any situation with confidence, but this... watching you in pain, knowing there’s nothing he can do but be here, is pure agony for him. If it was for him he would take all the pain and give birth to your baby instead.

You squeeze his hand, grounding him “Stay with me?”

His eyes soften instantly. He kneels beside the bed, bringing your hand to his lips “Always, ma belle. I’m not going anywhere.”

The contractions grow stronger, each one sending a wave of pain through your body. Chopper gives you instructions, Robin assists where she can, but your world has narrowed down to one thing, bringing this baby into the world.

Sanji is right there through it all. When the pain becomes unbearable, he whispers sweet reassurances in your ear. When you cry out, he winces like he feels it too, but he never falters. He wipes the sweat from your forehead, murmuring praises between gentle kisses on your knuckles.

“You’re incredible” he whispers, voice thick with emotion “The strongest person I know”.

Tears sting your eyes as you push through another contraction “Sanji—”

“I know, mon amour.” His grip on your hand tightens “You can do this. Just a little more.”

Then a sharp, piercing cry fills the room.

Your whole body sags in relief as the sound washes over you.

Chopper beams, carefully lifting the tiny, wriggling baby “It’s a girl!” (yes they're all girls because I see all of them being so good and cute as baby girls)

Sanji lets out a shaky breath. His free hand moves to cover his mouth, his eyes wide—stunned, overwhelmed “Mon dieu…”

The moment Chopper places the baby in your arms, your heart clenches. She's so small, so warm, her little fingers curling and uncurling as she squirms against your chest.

Tears slip down your cheeks as you gaze at your child “Sanji…”

Sanji is frozen, his usual charm and composure completely gone. Slowly, hesitantly, he reaches out and brushes a gentle hand over the baby’s soft cheek. His fingers tremble.

Sanji stares at her, completely transfixed. He leans down slowly, his voice thick with emotion “She’s perfect.”

The baby shifts, making a tiny noise, and Sanji inhales sharply, like the moment is too much for him to handle. His hand moves to cradle the back of your head, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple “You did it, ma belle. You brought her into the world.”

“She’s so tiny,” he murmurs, his voice soft and uncharacteristically fragile “Our little girl.”

The baby’s little hand reaches up, grasping his finger with surprising strength. Sanji’s breath catches.

The door bursts open, and the crew floods in, Luffy cheering, Nami wiping away tears, Usopp practically shaking with excitement. Even Zoro looks mildly impressed.

“What’s her name?” Franky asks, grinning.

Sanji looks at you, his expression unguarded, raw with love. You already know what he wants to say.

“Isabelle,” you whisper, your heart swelling as you look down at your daughter “It means ‘God’s promise’, because she’s our promise, Sanji.”

Sanji exhales a soft laugh, his eyes never leaving his daughter’s tiny face “Isabelle…” he repeats, his voice full of wonder.

You smile at him, your heart overflowing. This moment, with Sanji by your side, with Isabelle in your arms... it feels like everything in the world has finally fallen into place.

Sanji leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead “You did it, ma belle. Our little girl is here...”

Tears well in your eyes as you gaze at your family, knowing with certainty that this is just the beginning of your beautiful, messy, and love-filled journey together.

[lazy-ahh]

Hello darling 😘. Hope you don't the request but I wanted to ask if u could write on a male reader who has a powerful shape-shifting ability. Like he can shapeshift into people , objects and animals(normal and mythical) while mimicking their sounds and powers . He really likes to prank mark by turning into monsters/objects to scare him . Male reader also specializes in undercover missions so he's not always around alot but when he is , his out causing touble for the Cecil and the guardians by shape-shifting into them and doing pranks out in public . So they gotta always call mark cause his the only one who can rail him in .

CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT (I'LL CALL IT LOVE)

pairing mark grayson x (shape-shifter) male reader

mark grayson has a problem: you. specifically, the way you laugh at your own pranks, the way your hands always find their way to him, the way you call him 'pretty boy' like it doesn't ruin him every single time. (he wishes it meant something. he wishes you'd mean it.)

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

you’re bored. like, mind-numbingly bored. the kind of boredom that makes shapeshifting into inanimate objects—just to see how long you can stay perfectly still before someone notices—sound like a decent way to kill time. and when you’re bored, two things always happen: 1) you start shifting into increasingly ridiculous things just to entertain yourself (seriously, you’ve been a toaster, a literal dumpster, and a disturbingly accurate replica of cecil’s coffee mug—with the chip and everything), and 2) mark grayson ends up with a new gray hair because of you. today, option 1 lost its charm after the fifth consecutive transformation (seriously, how many times can you turn into a lamp before even you get tired of it?), so that leaves you with option 2: terrorizing your favorite superhero.

most of the time, you don’t even pretend to consider option 1—you just skip straight to hunting mark down like some kind of overexcited, shapeshifting bloodhound. poor guy. you do pity him, really. but pity has never stopped you before, and it sure as hell isn’t gonna start now. you try to keep it light—when he tells you to stop, you stop. when he’s not laughing (or at least fighting a smile), you back off. because at the end of the day, that’s the whole point. ever since you were kids, you’ve been pulling this crap just to hear him laugh, to see that stupid, fond look he gets when he’s trying so hard to be annoyed but can’t quite manage it.

and okay, fine, maybe it’s also your go-to excuse when you miss him. which is… a lot. more than you’d ever admit out loud. you’ll just shrug, smirk, and say "eh, was bored," like you haven’t been watching him from across the room for the past ten minutes, cataloging every reaction, every half-suppressed chuckle, every exasperated "dude, seriously?" that sounds way too affectionate to actually be annoyed.

you’ll admit it—you try way too hard. but can you blame yourself? mark’s mark. your best friend, the guy who somehow puts up with your nonsense, the idiot who still jumps every time you sneak up on him as some eldritch horror (even though he knows it’s you). and yeah, maybe you have feelings for him. ugh. screw that—of course you have feelings for him. it’s not like you spend your undercover missions thinking about what ridiculous stunt will make him lose it next. it’s not like the thought of his laugh is the only thing keeping you going when the mission goes to hell.

…okay, maybe it is.

whatever. point is, you’re bored, and mark’s about to have a really bad day.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

mark’s sprawled across his bed like a starfish that’s given up on life, one hand lazily scratching out physics equations while the other flips pages of seance dog with way more enthusiasm than his homework deserves. he’s technically studying—or at least, that’s what he’ll tell his mom later when she asks why his grades are "consistently mediocre"—but really, he’s just pretending to care about velocity formulas while mentally cheering on a comic book dog that barks at ghosts. priorities, right?

his phone buzzes against the mattress, and he grabs it without looking, already grinning because maybe it’s you. maybe you’re finally back from that undercover mission, texting him some ridiculous story about how you impersonated a villain’s pet hellhound just to steal classified files (again), or how you tricked an entire squad of guards by shifting into a vending machine and then spitting out snacks at them when they tried to buy something. the thought makes his chest do this dumb little squeeze thing, equal parts excitement and "god, i missed this idiot."

instead, he gets:

"mark."

oh. cecil.

mark blinks, still half-distracted by a panel of seance dog howling at a particularly dramatic specter. "uh. hey. what’s up?" he asks, like he isn’t already mentally calculating how fast he can hang up if this is another "emergency briefing" that could’ve been an email.

cecil’s voice is as dry as ever. "i need you to retrieve something from [y/n]’s house. mission-critical intel he recovered."

mark's gaze automatically flicks to your window—because of course your rooms face each other, of course your houses have been side-by-side since you were both in diapers, and of course this whole setup feels like something straight out of one of those dumb rom-coms you pretend not to watch together (even though you totally do). he's already moving before he realizes it, one leg swinging off the bed while his free hand fumbles for his hoodie. the key to your place hangs from his nightstand, right next to yours that he keeps "for emergencies" (read: when he wants to steal your snacks).

but he pauses, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder as he wrestles with the hoodie sleeve. "uh, wait—why can't, y'know... he just bring it?" his voice goes a little higher at the end, the way it always does when he's trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly.

"he's already on another assignment."

mark's fingers tighten around his phone just a little too much—not enough to crack it (probably), but enough that his knuckles go white. "oh. uh. that's just—i mean, he just got back? like, two weeks? i-i mean from like, a two-week mission? and you're already—" he cuts himself off, realizing he sounds way too invested, and backpedals hard. "not that it's any of my business! or—i mean, it kind of is? since i'm the one you're making go over there? but also maybe he should, like... rest? or something?"

there's a long pause where mark can feel cecil judging him through the phone. when the sigh finally comes, it's the kind of world-weary exhale that makes mark feel like he's twelve again and getting scolded for tracking mud through the guardians HQ. "just get the drive from his desk. it's urgent."

"yeah, yeah," mark mutters under his breath, already thumping down the stairs two at a time like an overexcited golden retriever. the wooden steps creak in protest under his socked feet (because of course he forgot shoes again), and he barely remembers to grab your spare key from its usual hiding spot under the ceramic frog by the back door. the grass is cool and slightly damp between his toes as he cuts across the lawn, the late afternoon air carrying that familiar mix of freshly-cut grass and whatever weird chemical smell the grayson's neighbor insists on spraying on their roses.

he doesn't bother knocking—after fifteen years of friendship, walking into your house feels as natural as breathing. the front door groans its usual complaint when he pushes it open, that same squeaky hinge you've both promised to fix a hundred times but never actually gotten around to. "okay, so where's this—" he starts, already stepping into the dim hallway when he realizes the phone's gone quiet.

mark freezes mid-step, one sock half-off from where he's been dragging his feet. "...cecil?" he tries again, holding the phone away from his face to check if he accidentally hung up. the screen mocks him with its blank indifference.

nothing.

just the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall and the distant sound of a car passing by outside.

weird.

he gives a half-hearted shrug, creeping further into your room like he's walking through a minefield. the place looks like a tornado hit it—as usual. one of your hoodies is dangling precariously off the bed frame, socks litter the floor like sad little landmines, and there's a half-eaten bag of chips on the nightstand that's probably been there since before your last mission (seriously dude, that's just nasty). but what really catches his eye is the faint glow from your desk—your phone, screen lit up with an active call. to mark.

mark's stomach does this weird flip-flop thing that has nothing to do with the stale chip smell wafting through the room.

then—

creak.

that unmistakable sound of old wood protesting under weight. from directly behind him.

every muscle in mark's body locks up tighter than the time he accidentally super-glued his fingers together during arts and crafts day in third grade. okay. okayokayokay. he's invincible. he's literally a viltrumite. he's punched through alien warships and survived getting thrown through buildings and once fought a guy made entirely of bees (that last one was way grosser than scary, but still). this is fine. he's fine.

(he is not fine.)

mark sucks in a shaky breath that does absolutely nothing to calm his racing heart before spinning around so fast he almost trips over his own feet, fist coming up in what he hopes looks like a cool superhero pose and not like he's about to start crying.

empty room.

just shadows stretching long across the floor and his own dumb reflection in your slightly crooked mirror. just shadows. just the faint hum of the AC that always sounds vaguely like someone whispering his name when he's trying to sleep. just his own heartbeat pounding in his ears like some overenthusiastic drummer at a battle of the bands.

he exhales, shaky. "okay. okay. you're being paranoid. it's fine. it's totally—"

something grabs his ankle.

"HOLY SHIT—MOM! MOOOOM! [Y/N]! SOMEONE! OHGODOHGOD—"

mark's scream cracks embarrassingly high as skeletal fingers—way too long, way too pointy, what the actual fuck—clamp around his ankle like icy manacles. he's yanked backward so hard his chin smacks the floor (that's gonna bruise tomorrow), his flailing limbs doing absolutely nothing to stop his slide toward the nightmare void under your bed. the shadows twist and bubble like boiling tar, forming a face—no, not a face, a horrible parody of one—all jagged teeth and glowing eyes that seem to look right into his soul.

"nononono—[Y/N] HELP! I'LL NEVER MISS OUT ON FLYING TIME AGAIN I SWEAR! MOM! ANYBODY!" he babbles, voice jumping an octave with each word as he claws at the carpet like a cat being shoved into a carrier. his fingers leave little streaks in the fibers (sorry about your carpet) as whatever-the-hell-this-is drags him closer. tears are absolutely streaming down his face now, because screw dignity, he's about to be monster chow. "OH COME ON I DIDN'T EVEN GET TO FINISH SEANCE DOG! THIS IS SO UNFAIR! [Y/N] YOU ASSHOLE WHERE ARE YOU WHEN I—"

then—

laughter.

not just any laughter—that bright, obnoxious, infuriatingly familiar sound that's been the soundtrack to mark's life since you were both in diapers. the kind of laughter that starts in your chest and comes bursting out like you just can't contain it, loud and unapologetic and so fucking pleased with yourself.

the shadows dissolve like smoke in sunlight, and there you are—half-sprawled under the bed with your hair sticking up in every direction, eyes crinkled with amusement, grinning like you just pulled off the world's greatest heist. "oh my god," you wheeze, wiping at your eyes, "your face—i wish you could see yourself right now—"

mark just collapses onto his back, chest heaving like he just ran a marathon, elbows digging into the carpet as he glares up at you with the most betrayed expression imaginable. it's a perfect mix of "i'm going to strangle you with my bare hands" and "why do you have to look so pretty when you're being the actual worst?"

your laughter stutters to a stop when you see the tear tracks glistening on his cheeks. "…oh." your voice goes soft, all the mischief draining away in an instant. "oh, shit, mark—" you're moving before you even finish the sentence, crawling across the carpet to cradle his face in your hands. your thumbs brush away the tears with a gentleness that makes his breath hitch, your forehead pressing against his like you're trying to physically transfer an apology through skin contact. "hey, hey, i'm so sorry, okay? i didn't think you'd actually—i mean, you're invincible, i didn't think—"

"you're the actual worst," mark croaks, his voice still shaky from adrenaline, but he's already tilting his head into your palms like a cat begging for scratches. because despite everything—despite you being a complete menace to society—your hands are always so warm, your stupid smirk always so unfairly charming even when you've just traumatized him for life. "i hope you know i'm never forgiving you for this. like, ever. we're done."

you grin, already knowing he doesn't mean a word of it, and yank him forward into a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of him. "awww, but you love me~" you sing-song directly into his ear, your voice dripping with playful smugness as you feel him immediately melt against you despite his protests. one hand slides up to ruffle his already-messy hair while the other rubs comforting circles between his shoulder blades—the exact spot you know makes him go all soft and pliant.

mark groans, but it's half-hearted at best, his face now buried in the crook of your neck where he can secretly inhale that familiar scent of your stupidly expensive cologne mixed with whatever shampoo you stole from him last week. "i hate you," he mumbles directly against your skin, the words vibrating through you as his arms finally wind around your waist to pull you even closer. "you're a monster. a demon. i'm telling cecil to send you to space jail. i'm sure he has one somewhere up there."

you laugh, pressing a teasing kiss to his temple—just quick enough that he can't protest, but slow enough to make his heart stutter. he wishes you'd do it more often. wishes that it meant more. wishes that you'd do more when he finally musters up the courage to ask to be yours forever.

"sure, sure," you murmur, lips still brushing his skin as you speak. "but first..." you suddenly shift, flipping both of you over until mark's sprawled on his back with you grinning down at him, his wide-eyed blush absolutely precious. "...gotta make it up to you, right?" your voice drops to that low, dangerous tone that always makes his brain short-circuit, your fingers now gently tracing the tear tracks on his cheeks. "maybe... ice cream? cuddles? that new comic you've been eyeing?"

mark's pout is almost convincing. "...with extra sprinkles?" he mutters, already knowing he's lost this battle the moment your lips touched his skin.

"whatever you want, pretty boy," you whisper, watching with delight as his entire face turns scarlet at the nickname—the same one that’s been reducing him to a flustered mess since you were fifteen. and god, fifteen-year-old mark had been a disaster—tripping over his own feet every time you got too close, face burning whenever you slung an arm around his shoulders, heart pounding so loud he was sure you could hear it.

some things never change.

he swallows hard, throat suddenly tight as his skin burns where you touch him—your knee pressed against his thigh, your fingers absently playing with the hair at his nape, your breath warm and sweet when you laugh just inches from his mouth. it's unfair, the way you do this—all easy affection and teasing touches, like this closeness between you doesn't mean anything more than best friends messing around. like your hands don't linger just a second too long, like your hugs don't hold him tighter than necessary, like your voice doesn't drop to that soft, private tone reserved only for him.

(and maybe it doesn't mean more to you. that's the terrifying thought that keeps him awake at night. because you've always been like this—bold with everyone else but suddenly so careful with him, dancing right up to the line but never crossing it. too scared to put a name to the way your chest tightens when he smiles, to the years of stolen glances and almost-confessions that died on your tongue. too terrified to admit that sixth-grade you fell first, but eighteen-year-old you is still falling, harder every day.)

the worst part? he'd wait forever if you asked him to. he's already memorized the exact shade of your lips when you bite them to hide a smile, the way your eyes crinkle when you're trying not to laugh at him, the soft sigh you make when you think no one's listening. he knows you—all of you—and still wants you with an ache that never quite goes away.

because mark? mark is ruined. he’s spent years memorizing the exact shade of your smile, the way your voice dips when you’re sleepy, the stupid little snort you make when something catches you off guard. he knows you better than he knows himself, loves you more than he’ll ever admit out loud.

and yet here you are, curled around him like you belong there (you do), whispering sweet nothings like they don’t mean anything (they do, to him), calling him pretty boy like it doesn’t carve him open every single time (it does).

he should pull away. he won’t.

(he never pulls away. not even a little. in fact, his grip around you might have tightened just slightly.)

2.8k words of mark grayson and reader being a lovesick disaster (again)! sorry if this isn't exactly what you imagined and requested, anon—i went through four different versions before settling on this one because the others just didn't feel right. really hope you still like how it turned out though 🥹

[tannedalien]

HAZBIN HOTEL X READER HC #1

Head canon: what it would be like to date them.

characters: Alastor, angel dust, husk, vox

disclaimer: everything i write about these characters might not be accurate to the actual story, please take everything in the fic with a grain of salt, none of this is canon!!

Alastor

he hasnt been in an actual relationship in a while so being close and vulnerable with someone is quite hard for him, especially as someone who associates emotions with weakness.

First off, its safe to say he adores the ground you walk on. He's in love with everything about you, your clothes, the smell of your hair, your sickly sweet voice. his loves it all.

If there was ever a problem you needed fixing, a person you needed taken care of or even a errand you needed to run he would tend to it himself. he would not let you lift a finger.

PDA is a iffy thing for him, he wouldnt do grand big gestures but maybe a hand on the hip or a few words of affirmation.

everyone in the pride ring quickly learned of yours and radio demon's relationship. And no one dared to mess with you, ofcourse there was people who wanted to test their luck but they would have to pay the price later.

his love language is definitely words of affirmation, he will sweet talk the shit out of you. At night when it's just you two in bed, he will have his hands stroking through your hair whilst you rant to him about your day and he'll reply with sweet nothings

"oh darling, i've missed you all evening"

"you looked ravishing today my dear.."

"mm your hair smells amazing, my love"

Angel Dust

Angel is one of, if not, the horniest mother fuckers out there but somehow, he manages to somewhat make a healthy relationship with someone.

you two are seen as "the bad bitch" couple. you're always out together, always getting into dumb shit together. You'll get yelled at by vaggie at early hours in the morning because the two of you where playing a childish game of tag in the hotel halls.

his love language is definitely physical touch, he'll have his arms slung around your waist almost all the time. Kisses are a MUST every 5 minutes, like this boy will NOT part from you. especially in the mornings when you have to leave for work;

"mmnnnnoooooooo...stayyy for five minutes pleasseeeee"

"but sweets..you're soooo warm"

"sweetheart please, you feel so comfy"

yeah good luck with that.

nights with him are VERY eventful, if it wasn't obvious. You two would usually be at it late hours into the night but sometimes, when you two where too exhausted to fuck like rabbits, he would be sprawled across your lap whilst you stroked his fur.

Husk

Despite his harsh tone and uncompromising demeanor, you understood that Husk wasn't trying to be malicious towards you. It was simply his way of communicating, and you knew that his behavior wasn't personal. Even though he could be abrasive at times, you loved him for his rough edges and authentic personality

You and Husk's time together was mostly spent at the bar. You didn't like to drink much, but you loved seeing him work and make cocktails like a pro. You didn't mind that it wasn't considered a typical date, because you liked spending time with him in whatever way he felt most comfortable.

Husk is not used to receiving compliments, as he didn't often receive them in his past life. When you complimented him, it caught him off guard and he was surprised. But he eventually learned to appreciate it, and it even made him feel a little sentimental.

Despite the difficulty, you were able to help Husk realize that you genuinely cared about him. He had been used to being surrounded by dishonesty and hypocrisy, but you were always sincere and real. He held you in high regard, as you were the only source of light in his life, and he didn't want to lose you.

vox

You were known as a strong and independent person who didn't need assistance from others. You knew how to stand up for yourself, despite being harsh and tough at times. Despite your exterior, no one was aware of the soft spot in your heart that Vox's affection and touch alone could melt away your severity.

He appreciated seeing your affectionate side, as it felt special and intimate, like a shared secret between the two of you. He knew you valued your privacy, and he respected it by never sharing photos or other details on social media. He didn't want to betray your trust.

You were often feared and respected when you were with Vox. People found it hard to believe that someone as intimidating as yourself could have a tender, caring side that was kept hidden from most. Vox was glad that he was the only one who got to see that side of you. He didn't want to share something so special and personal with anyone else.

Quite often, he would call you on the phone, knowing that sweet words could be just as effective as a kiss. He enjoyed hearing how your voice softened from its usual seriousness to a more affectionate tone. He was aware that when he said loving phrases to you, you would blush and smile shyly, and sometimes he even regretted not being able to witness it in person.

"i've missed you today babe.."

"mhm look at my pretty girl/boy!"

[stvllioner]

I know you did somno headcannons but what about pro hero’s and villains fucking the reader to sleep. Like just a tired reader who feels so safe and good that they doze off during sex. (Twice, Aizawa, dealers choice)

                twice | aizawa | dabi x [fem]reader

warning(s): sexual content, semi-somnophilia (?), fingering, p in v penetration, groping, cuddling, side position, mating press, fingering cum back into you (🤭), pre-established relationship.

read more: masterlist | adult masterlist | drabble masterlist

a/n: ughhhhh i hope these werent redundant! i actually had a bit of a spark to get this done so here it is. 🥴 thank you, anon!

                     jin bubaigawara.

sweat breaks onto his forehead, but his pace slowly and surely comes to a rhythmic pace.

hard, accurate, but all so slow and gentle at the same time. the sounds that Jin's cock manages to draw out of you makes him want to speed up, but quite frankly you two had been at it since early this afternoon.

after spending time away from each other proved that not only does distance make the heart grow fond, it was everything in his right to prove that.

you mewl feeling his hand shift to grope your right tit as your languidly laid on your side, eyes fluttering and hips trying to fuck yourself on him. his moans and grunts are ever so present in your ear as its aggression softly lulls you to sleep, the type of lewdity that you missed from the days you two were separated for. he chuckles, breathlessly, as he looks at you trying so desperately to cling onto consciousness when everything in you was battling to do the opposite.

a soft 'shoo' slips it's way between your teeth and barely escapes your plump and bruised lips (from his kithes). once his hand that was once fondling your breast instead move to press it's large palm onto your lower abdomen, successfully making you painfully aware at how deep he reaches.

in a shameless bit to finish yourself as you were right there, your hand dj's your clit and does the job for you. it takes only but a few more thrusts for you to freeze and tighten up around his cock, a pathetic moan sounding from you as you finish. he wraps his arms around your waist and knocks his hips more ardently this time, wanting to finish, too. just the thought of you using him to get off was the kick-start to his own climax he was chasing.

soon enough in your now sleep state, the welcoming feel of his load paints your skin. he's biting, kissing, and muttering all sorts of praises of, 'i love you's' into your skin as you safely dose off into his arms.

you two would just do it again tomorrow if need be.

                     shouta aizawa.

with your thighs pressed so firmly to your chest, and hands firmly pressed to the back of your knees only from the strength of your lover's hands.

it was cozy the way he was sloppily fucking himself into you. there was a squelch from each impact that would've embarrassed you if you were new to this. your gummy walls were almost too tight for his comfort, but Aizawa was never one to complain much. a grunt is all he combats the frustrated energy with as he attempts to speed up pace.

his eyes are glued to where you two meet; eyes so entranced at how pretty your pussy looks when it expertly takes his cock that he has to remind himself to look up every once in awhile to check on you to see if you were okay. dont get him wrong, he didn't think you were fugly or anything, his mand simply wanders in lust if he can't help it.

as his eyes trace it's way to your face as it gets on its journey to search your eyes, he can't help but notice your pretty lashes seem to stare back at him instead. he gives your hands a reassuring squeeze to check on if you're still with him, delighted to hear a distinctive—very slumber like—hum in acknowledgement. he's quick to swoop down and plaster a kiss onto your parted lips, tongue finding its way to pry at yours.

the intrusion has your eyes fluttering open again and focus starting to align itself with him. it's as if you regaining attention brings you to a full stop, mouth falling open and hips bucking him as you squeeze your eyes shut.

"cumming, cumming...!" you whimper. the short notice dully noted as you take your hands from underneath his and pull him into your body instead. he abandons the pose from earlier to let you wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in with nowhere else to go.

tirelessly he emptied his spunk into your cunt, and shamelessly does he snuggle himself into you as he relaxed against your body.

he'd have to switch to a better position soon, but tonight you'll sleep being full of him.

                   touya todoroki.

"you tired?"

is heard through your sleep like state, body fueled with pleasure and drowsiness fighting tooth and nail to pull you under. you defiantly hum, "no", your brattiness bringing a smile to Dabi's lips.

he had just pulled out of you, wet length pressed against your bum and your half naked body snuggled into him. in an effort to entice him once more, you try grinding back into him, the gesture earning a playful spank from him. you whimper in protest.

"one more..." you lazily lift your head as you try reaching behind you to find his length. he half-heartedly chastises you with the call of your name, swatting your hand away despite your efforts.

he pulls you closer though (somehow it was possible) and he wraps his arms around your waist. he presses his face into your hair, inhaling your musk and closing his eyes in comfort at the familiarity of it all. his free right hand starts to roam your free skin, hand tracing the skin of your hip and thighs, surely taking it's time to get where it needs to.

unmistakenly you can still feel everything. his calming warmth, his calloused hands and his half-baked boner. you chuckle seemingly at the conclusion but quiet when his hand finally finds his way back between your thighs. you slightly open your thighs to help with his venture, softly humming at pressure of his digits palming your still slick folds.

your mouth drops open as he softly massages your pumpum, taking it's time with toying your nerves. he hums lowly when he withdraws to look at his digits glisten in the moon-lit room before taking them to his mouth and sucking on them for himself. it's sickening how his eyes roll back instinctively as he could never get tired of your taste, now wanting nothing more to fuck you again for the nth time tonight. instead he takes his hand back to insert two fingers into you, and smirking at the moist sound that comes from it.

some of his cum from the last round spilled out and it made no sense for it to go waste. he notes the way you slowly drift back into slumber and doesn't prolong the process. with utmost care, he stuffs the load back into your willing cunt. after a few pumps his hand finds itself wrapped around his abandoned cock and aligns his swollen tip to your hole. in the most gentle way possible, he thrusts himself in and reclaims his hold around your body again as Dabi drift off to sleep.

all rights reserved © do NOT steal, alter, translate or copy this work.

[cherry-pop-elf]

Kiss it Better Pt:2

Curly x Reader

AN: Holy shit I did NOT expect all the love and support from the original like god damn! People begging for a part 2 and everything (I’ll make sure to tag those who asked for one at the bottom) Like oh my god thank you guys so much! This means the WORLD to me! As a disabled person trying to make his medical issues more accurate it means so much that yall love it and how I write in general! Thank you!

SUM: You and Anya were busy dealing with changing Curly’s wrappings together. Sharing stories, and just trying to stay positive. That’s when you just had to ask. What’s going on between her and Jimmy?

Warnings: Jimmy, sexual assault, Anya sharing her trauma so pls take care of yourself, medical gore, medical situations, light violence,

“Thank you again for handling Curly’s medication. I’m sorry I just-“ Anya would try to explain again how sorry she was that she was struggling to do her job. A job you could never blame her for. She’s been through a traumatic event of the ship crashing, and already had to try and save a near corpse. She deserves to breathe.

“Anya it’s fine, really. I’m his romantic partner as well. It be weird if I didn’t pick up some responsibility and tried to take care of him. You also deserve time to rest. You’ve done so much for him, and saved his life. Give yourself more credit. It’s not a sin to ask for help.” You would try and comfort her, as you would grab the fresh bandages for Curly.

He needed a lot of them, and they had to be changed out relatively often. He’s basically just exposed meat after all. The risk of infection was high, which you were wondering how he didn’t even catch any yet, so he needed alot of attention and care.

If only Pony Express had packed more, because the med bay was running out of them fast. Very very fast. Might be only able to maybe re wrap him a few more times now. Had you terrified because as much as you wanted to take care of him you had to leave some bandages for the rest of the crew. In case of another emergency.

You wish you could be doing more.

“We’re going to undress you. Is that alright?” Anya would ask Curly, who in return would give two blinks to indicate that he consented to being stripped. Was gonna have to be done but it was still so kind of Anya to still ask before hand.

The two of you would soon get to work on changing out his bandages. A very slow, careful, tedious job. One that normally took over a hour to do properly. So it’s time to kill some of that empty space.

“Ya know, this isn’t the first time over had to wrap up a certain someone because they got hurt. I remember a time when we were at a Ski resort with his family. Someone wanted to try a path that was meant for experts and before you know it someone’s returning to the lodge with his leg bone sticking out of his pants.”

Anya gave a little ‘oh my’ as you just laughed at the memory. Curly just adored sports. Especially the winter variety. You felt so blessed that he had a job that paid so well. Well enough that the two of you, and his own family sometimes, could go and enjoy vacations like that.

You wonder if the two of you will ever see the snow again.

“That sounds rather nice, minus the whole breaking his leg. To share a cabin together with someone. Cuddle for warmth together by the fire place. Sounds really nice.” She would speak dreamily. As if she knew it was simply that. A dream. Something that will never happen again. No matter how hard she tried.

Like something was wrong with her.

“I bet you’ll get that moment. When we escape here you’ll have a flooding of men and women coming your way. The brilliant woman who managed to fight death and win. Again and again. The most brilliant woman to ever live.” You would praise her, as you were very mindful of Curly’s catheter. As if that needed to be messed with.

“Yeah…..Maybe……” Anya didn’t really seem to actually respond. Was like she was just saying words for the sake of words. Had you wondering.

Even before the crash she had just started acting off one day. From being a cheerful woman who was gentle and full of smiles, to being so quiet and scared by the littlest of sounds. Like she expected someone to jump from around the corner and attack her. Any feeling of safety and comfort vanished.

You were worried.

“Say, Anya-“ You began to speak, while disposing the bandages safely into the bio hazard bag. “-Is everything ok? I mean duh we’re not doing to hot with being, ya know, crashed and all. But besides that. You just seem…..different.”

Anya seemed to not hear you. She simply worked on checking over Curly’s body. Hunting down any infections, looking for possible bed sores, monitoring his healing, and getting ready to do the ever so gentlest of sponge baths.

Anya did always get in the zone whenever someone was hurt. You figured she didn’t catch what you said because of it.

So repeated yourself, as you stood next to her. Impossible to miss what you were asking, as you would help Curly sit up and just move his joints to better reach with the sponge.

The only sounds in that room were Curly’s whines of discomfort. Whines to indicate truly how much pain he was in when even the pain killers can numb it.

“Anya….I know you can hear me. Is everything alright? Not to be rude but I’m kinda asking you a question.” You would be gentle, but she still couldn’t help but looked distressed.

“Anya what’s-“ You would reach a hand out, to comfort her, but the second it was raised towards her she would immediately flinch. Her startled reaction ended up even making her drop Curly’s leg on the table.

Oh that’s gotta hurt.

For a fleeting moment you put Anya on the back burner, and just focused your attention on comforting Curly. How he gave a weak sob from the intense pain.

“Shhhh I know Curly Fry. I know. It’s gonna be ok. It was an accident. You know she didn’t mean it. Shhh.” You would kiss his forehead, as Curly had a muscle spasm through his body from the intense shock to his system. So exhausted and in so much pain.

“It’s gonna be ok. I promise. I love you so much. Just think about our future. How we will get off this ship, and have that family. Have our own baby-“

The moment you said baby, that’s when Anya finally cracked.

Her hands were now covering her face, as she just broke down into sobs. Sobs that sounded so hoarse. Like she’s done it so many times that her body was just abused from it. Left you so worried and confused.

What the hell is going on here?

“Anya, what’s wrong? What did I say?” You would gently guide her to a chair, and worked on stroking her hair. Giving her as much comfort as you would to Curly. The same gentle love as he would get. Love she deserved.

It took a while for her to catch her breathe, and you didn’t rush it because it really seemed she needed it, but her own trembling body was finally able to quite down.

“I need to tell you something. I need to tell you something about Jimmy-“

You were quick to kneel down infront of her, and was ready to take in every last word she was going to say. Maybe what secrets she held could finally explain why the hell you all were crashed here. Why Jimmy crashed you all.

“Jimmy ra-“

That’s when the door opened.

As if that bastard had a sixth sense for whenever people were talking about him. That same annoyed expression, same sneer, same empty eyes.

All three of you kinda froze in time now. Looking at him, as he looked back at you all. Scanning you. As if judging to figure out what was being said before entering.

“Hey….Captain….” You swallowed, as you would return to standing. Anya herself remained in her chair, with her head down. Didn’t seem she trusted herself in showing any expressions right now.

“What were you guys talking about?” He asked, as he seemed slightly on edge. Like he hasn’t been sleeping well or had too much caffeine. Just this tension of paranoia was in the air. Like he was worried about something.

“Just about the bandages. We’re starting to run low, and Anya is just getting worried about having enough.” Wasn’t a complete lie. The best lies were the ones with truth sprinkled in.

“Of course he’s wasting our supplies.” He scoffed, before walking over to the table. You were trying to give Curly some respect with grabbing something to cover him up with, but it was like Jimmy wouldn’t let you. The stare he gave you, when you grabbed the clean hospital gown, made you just freeze in place.

It was just so full of hate.

It was just so full of disgust.

It was just cruelty in dark eyes.

It was just focused on you. As if Anya didn’t even exist right now. Like she meant nothing to him. Nothing but the wind in the air. Something you don’t even bother in registering every day. Like how you breathe in air in your lungs.

You don’t notice until it’s gone.

“Has he been given his medication?” He would ask you, as his hands would be firm on the bed side. Just seeming to assert his dominance with standing over the man. Like some got over the little people.

“Yes Jimmy. He’s been medicated. We are actually in the middle of washing him. It would be nice if there was some privacy-“ You tried to gently hint at, only for it yo fall on deaf ears.

"The crash really did do a number on you. You don’t even have a dick anymore. Just holes huh-?” Jimmy would scoff, as that was your final straw. You would give Jimmy a hard hip bump, and quickly covered Curly up. To give him dignity and respect.

“Hey-! Watch it! Don’t think because you are Curly’s little eye candy doesn’t mean you can go pushing people around-“ Jimmy would bark at you.

You didn’t feel fear.

Jimmy was messing with YOUR man now. Curly deserved dignity and respect. He doesn’t deserve to be called a ‘set of holes’ no way in hell. No one deserved that and ESPECIALLY not Curly.

“Will you just shut up?! What the hell are you even doing here?! Aren’t you the Captain now? Captains are suppose to be doing whatever it takes to help the crew. All you’ve been doing is walking around and insulting everyone! It’s like you don’t want us to be saved. Be a Captain and take some responsibility already-!”

The anger that he had for you was terrifying. You swore it was like a switch. He suddenly seemed taller, bigger, angrier, more intense. You felt like you were shrinking more and more. Like you would melt into a puddle under that heated stare.

But you refused to.

For Curly.

“Listen here you-“

SLAP

You smacked him across the face. Was like the world went mute. No one was so much as breathing. Just the stares of shock from Anya and Curly.

“Get. Back. To. WORK.”

You ordered, and he listened.

He would hold his red cheek, and walked away like a dog with its tail between its legs. As if he was all talk and no bite. That he couldn’t bring himself to be more than an angry voice.

Someone needed to keep him in his place.

“Can this damn ship get any more hectic?” You sighed with your fingers to the bridge of your nose. Just trying to think clearly.

That’s when Anya found her voice.

“I’m pregnant.”

You opened your eyes wide, and was frozen in place.

Did you hear that right? No no. No way. Why would she be pregnant? How would she get pregnant? Who would get her…

“Oh my god.”

You slowly turned around to Anya with the puzzle pieces falling into place. You finally realized what had happened.

Jimmy never was a responsible man.

@meheheasasa @letmebedelutional @trashcansally @balanahala562

Prev 2 Next

[talaok]

Like a Virgin

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader

summary: It's been a really long time since Joel has felt the feel of anything else besides his own fist, and once you remind him how good the real thing is... let's just say it's hard for him to live up to his full potential.

warnings: smut| unprotected p in v sex, premature ejaculation, very touch-starved Joel, and allusion to oral sex (f receiving)

a/n: I don't know what to say lmao this is a thing for me ok, don't judge (and also you can't tell me this isn't accurate, like this man hasn't gotten laid since the moon landing probably, and you expect him to last? no way babe). Also I'm sorry about the title it's funny to me lol

Now this wasn't like him.

He hadn't done this in a long time.

The last time he had sex with a woman he'd just met (or any woman to be completely honest) he was 25 years younger and the world hadn't gone to shit yet... so yeah, a long time indeed.

But you were so fucking beautiful, such a pretty face with such pretty eyes, and god but that mouth of yours-

And plus you were new to Jackson, you didn't know yet about all the scary stories folks liked to tell about him, and you were kind and funny, and... did he mention hot already?

Just one night of letting loose, that's what he'd told himself, and then he was gonna go back to his old closed-off self, but for now... for now, he was too busy throwing you on his bed to think about anything else.

You were getting rid of your clothes and he followed your lead more than willingly, almost ripping the buttons off his flannel in the rush.

He bent down to kiss your neck as his hands hurried to your tits.

God, he'd forgotten how good it felt to touch a woman.

And when you let out a little whimper, he swore he had ascended to another universe.

"Joel please"

Fuck him, but he wasn't inside of you yet, and he was already feeling far too close to coming.

Guess fucking his own fist for two decades really does something to a man.

"need something?"

He was acting wayy too smug for someone who was feeling like a virgin all over again.

"Please- I need you inside me, Joel"

fucking damnit- he shouldn't have asked that, his dick was now really suffering the consequences.

He didn't risk saying anything else as he got rid of his boxers, but of course, you just had to come out and say:

"oh wow, you're big" with the sexiest fucking voice he'd ever heard.

"want me to stop?"

For some reason, those words elicited a criminally hot smirk on your lips  

"Definitely not"

You were looking at him like a starving woman and he had to look down to where he was moving his tip to your entrance to get away from you and your dangerous, dangerous gaze

He pushed into you slowly and god fucking damnit but the sounds that you made... those sweet little moans and whines you let out as your warm pussy stretched around him and hugged him better than anything he'd felt in years... he had no words for it- no coherent sounds could make it out of his mouth except for a few groans coming deep from his chest.

"Good christ"

that's the only thing he managed to murmur as he bottomed out and had to take a break to try not to bust his load right there.

"fuck you feel so good" you moaned, as your hands gripped his sheets "please move" you begged, your voice breathy and pleading, and godfuck he should have really thought about it before doing this.

"Joel please-"

"I just need a moment darlin'" he explained, closing his eyes to try and remember how he used to manage to last and coming up completely empty.

He could feel your expectant eyes on him so even if he sure as hell didn't feel ready, he did as you asked and started to move.

The regret reached him extraordinarily fast as he felt your walls tightening around him and as you cried out for him like an angel sent straight from heaven.

"fuck-" you moaned, looking up at him with doe eyes that made him wonder if you really just knew what you were doing, if you actually enjoyed torturing him like this

"god you're so deep"

Yeah, you definitely knew

"and so big-" you cried

He gripped your waist to try and ground himself as he thrusted into your fucking perfect cunt.

"oh my god-yes!" you moaned, your back arching from the bed as his thrust got harsher in the hopes that that would make you talk less.

"just like that Joel- oh-" 

And Joel was tough in a lot of ways and he wasn't one to give up easily, but shit you were making it hard for him.

"Please don't stop- fuckfuckfuck" you begged, shutting your eyes close at the feeling.

And that was it, he couldn't do it anymore

"please stop talking" he breathed, his eyes resuming their tour of your eyes, mouth, and bouncing tits.

"why?" 

"nothing it's just-"

And before he could answer you had grabbed his shoulder and forced him to bend down to meet your mouth with his.

Goddamnit.

"you just feel too good Joel" 

"fuck." he groaned, not able to stop his hips from moving no matter how much he wanted to "shit"

"what is it?"

"Jesus Christ I-"

"is there something wrong?"

"n-no just- fuck I'm sorry sweetheart"

And that's all he could say as he abruptly pulled out of you, his spend covering your stomach not even a second after as he growled so loud his neighbors probably thought he was getting killed.

"shit" again, he sighed, his forehead falling to your shoulder.

"oh" you couldn't help but smile as everything came together

"I'm sorry darlin'" he breathed, leaning away and standing up as shame filled every inch of him.

"It's just- It's been a long time since I've done... this"

You sat up, your legs still dangling off the bed, as you admired his handy work on your belly.

"And you... you're just real fucking pretty" he huffed a half-laugh "I'm sorry"

You looked up at him then, meeting his mortified expression.

"No hey" you smiled, placing a hand on his torso "It's fine, I understand"

"god this is embarrassing, I feel like a sixteen-year-old all over again" he shook his head

"stop" you cooed, gently caressing his skin, as a mischievous spark lighted in your irides "It's fine, really" you promised, "and besides..." you bit your bottom lip as you slowly spread your legs "you could still make it up to me, y'know?"

He groaned again, falling to his knees between your thighs

"that I can do"

[theseinfernalangels]

Princess - Garrick Tavis

Synopsis: Sometimes, nicknames can be a little too accurate. 

A/N: FINALLY something for our man Garrick. This ties into my little OC universe, so give this a read first. I adore Garrick and Cosette’s dynamic, so I’ll definitely write some more for them soon. Happy reading!

Includes: Secrets, Garrick being cheeky, hurt-comfort. Takes place before Fourth Wing.

It, you decided, was much too bright in the sparring gym. The light beats against your eyes in a way that feels entirely too suffocating, starting from the back of your neck into the expanse of your scalp.

You’re concussed, most likely. You’d taken quite the beating on the mat, although you’d won in the end by virtue of threatening to — and almost actually — slitting another cadet’s throat. It was worth it in the end, but the pounding in the back of your brain made you really start to question if you should have just yielded for the sake of saving yourself.

You slump further into the corner of the gym, where the light just barely reached into the little crevice you’ve inserted yourself into. You felt dizzy and unfocused before, just barely managing to drag your way behind the other cadets to give yourself a moment to rest.

Stupid, you scold yourself. You look like a weak fool. 

It’s hard to watch the rest of the matches when you can barely look up without feeling nauseous. It’s loud, too; the whoops and cries of your classmates combined with the thuds and grunts of people hitting the ground was making you feel worse. You almost wish your father had dumped you with the Scribes instead. It would be boring, sure, but at least it would have been quiet.

You’re just about to drag yourself out of the gym to try and soothe your mind when the aching light is obstructed from your view, dimming the space around you just enough so that the pain isn’t searing. What the hell?

You squint. That’s most definitely a person standing with their back to you; their definition is broad and tall, but it’s a little hard to tell who’s saving you from a wicked migraine until something else catches your eye:

Cloudy, ink-like swirls stretching up an arm. Marked. From their sheer size, to the fact that they’re doing this act of kindness for you at all…

Ah. Your savior of the hour is Garrick Tavis.

You’re not sure how this little…arrangement of yours came about. Garrick, by all means, should probably hate you for a multitude of reasons. You thought he was going to kill you the first (and only) time you actually managed to pin him during a match. Instead, though, he’d just lazily grinned up at you, his (admittedly gorgeous) hazel eyes sparkling mischievously.

“Damn,” he’d said in a low voice. “Who knew a princess could have some bite to her?”

You weren’t even sure if he actually knew your secret. The man was smart, sure, but you thought you were smarter. If he knew who you actually were, he didn’t indicate it. The nickname, the one that pissed you off to new extremes, the one he’d defaulted to using every time he had to interact with you, just felt way too intentional. 

Maybe you were just paranoid.

Glancing back up at him, you smile weakly. “Playing my saving grace again, Tavis?” you tease, wincing as you rest your head against the wall.

He half-turns, keeping you in his peripherals. “No offense, Camden, but you look like you’re about to keel over. You went down pretty hard earlier, no?”

You sigh. You supposed you probably did look like shit. You certainly felt like it. “Fair. You, uh…don’t have to do that, you know. I was about to head over to the infirmary, anyway.”

He scoffs. “Not a chance, Princess. They’re not letting us out of here for another hour, tops. No exceptions.”

Your temper flares a little. You start to rise before another bout of dizziness hits you, sending you directly back on to the ground. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

Garrick turns fully, crouching in front of you and searching your eyes to see if you were actually about to faint. Luckily for you, though, he’s tall enough that him crouching is still enough to block out most of the irritating light of the gym. 

“A lot.” He smiles slyly. “But it suits you. You’re no damsel in distress, but if you weren’t here, you’d probably be up in some manor waiting for diplomat studies. You’re pretty enough for it, at least.”

Oh, the irony. You wish you were still in diplomatic studies.

“Well, still,” you say with a scowl. “Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Of course.”

A beat. His eyes sparkle.

“My Queen.”

Shit. You almost choke.

“How embarrassing,” you hear your dragon muse in the back of your mind. “Say something, Ríoga. The Wind-Wielder will capitalize on any moment he catches you off-guard, you know.”

You try to slow your racing heart (whether it’s from being flustered or panicked, you can’t tell) and just raise an eyebrow, although your fingers twitch. “That has to be some form of Navarrian blasphemy.”

Garrick’s head tilts back as he laughs. “Blasphemy?” he echoes. “Hardly. If anything, it’s a prophecy.”

He leans a little closer, leaving the two of you knee-to-knee. His tone lowers. “I’m serious, Camden. You’re fucking stunning, even when you’re sort of out of it. You hate being called a princess, but it really does suit you.”

You hate that. You despise it. You’ve gone your whole life being reminded time and time again that, even if you did have that Tauri blood running through your veins, you’d never be royal. Bastards, no matter how great, no matter the good they did, no matter the legends they conceived, could never be truly royal. Not in ways that mattered.

Coming from Garrick, though…

Huh. The title felt different. Perhaps because he didn’t spit it the way other, more aware people did. He never taunted you with it, never sneered it, never looked down on you. You weren’t considered a real princess, but you could be a princess to him.

Your lips twitch. “Please. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

His expression falls into one of incredulity. “You’re kidding. Look in a damn mirror.” 

He looks as if he’s about to go on a whole rant before he’s cut off by a sharp, “Tavis! Get your ass back on the mat!”

The both of you falter for a second before you grin. “I guess that’s your cue.”

You think you catch Garrick looking slightly…disappointed before he schools his face into a teasing mask.

“Guess so,” he says before leaning a little closer. His lips brush against your temple, making your heart pound exponentially faster.

“See you around, Princess.”

[writingwithcolor]

A Careful Balance: Portraying a Black Character's Relationship with their Hair

@writingraccoon said:

My character is black in a dungeons and dragons-like fantasy world. His name is Kazuki Haile (pronounced hay-lee), and his mother is this world's equivalent of Japanese, which is where his first name is from, while his father is this world's equivalent of Ethiopian, which is where his last name is from. He looks much more like his father, and has hair type 4a. I plan to make his character very finnicky about his hair, both enjoying styling it, but also often being unsure how to style it (not in that he doesn't know how to, but has so many options for how to style it, he has trouble choosing). However, I know that there are some very harmful ways to write black hair, especially in regards to how the black character themselves feels about it. Kazuki does not hate his hair, in fact he takes joy in it, and I'm researching black hair and hair styles to be as accurate as possible. But I'm unsure if portraying a black character as occasionally overwhelmed by or vain about his hair is negative. How would you suggest either changing this or making it work? Does it need to be changed in the first place?

Black Character Overwhelmed by Curly Afro Hair

Your Black character wanting his hair to look its best and at times feeling overwhelmed seems reasonable and natural to me. It appears their challenge comes with how to style it. Not so much with struggling how it looks or how hard it is to manage. That is good, as this further helps avoid placing a strong negative focus on Black hair. 

Him caring a lot about how it is style should not be deemed vain or frivolous, either. In any case, hair care is self care. There’s nothing wrong with having pride with your hair, especially hair that mainstream society, historically and present, might say is not beautiful. This still matters, even in a fantasy world, since your readers still exist in this reality. It’s empowering and a welcome change to see someone who loves their afro hair, actually.

There are unique factors someone with coily afro hair would experience vs. straight, wavy, or looser curls, but people struggling with their hair (too frizzy, too flat, too limp, too thin, too thick!) is universal. 

There is a delicate balance to achieve.

Avoid Writing a Black Hair Journey Experience 

An overall negative Afro hair journey might be the reality for many, especially when society deems Afro hair as unacceptable and slaps so many uninvited opinions, laws and policies over its existence and on certain styles (again, historically and very much at present), but that’s the kind of story that is best handled by someone with the background. Someone willing to commit to the research might also be able to pull it off, although it’s truly not the kind of thing an escapism novel needs in my opinion. If the story is not meant to delve into “A Black /Black Hair Experience” then I'd avoid going that route. That is moving a bit towards a struggle narrative, depending on how much it defines your character’s story.

Add positive and neutral hair language and interactions

For your writing, I’d avoid using unchallenged negative language about his hair. Being overwhelmed at times and frustrated is one thing and expected. If his hair is constantly brought up, and is associated with uncontrollable, ugly, or too [insert struggle here], then rethink the direction you’re going. 

Add some positive or neutral terms, reactions, and interactions in the narrative towards afro hair, such as describing color and texture.

“His fine coils bounced in the wind.” 

“Hair black and shiny” 

“She wore her hair in two large, fluffy buns.”

“He admired his fresh, neat braids in the mirror, smiling at his reflection, before turning to leave.”

Another tip: It may have been for research purposes, but leave out any hair number categorizing in the story and rely on description. I’d say this goes for any story, as reading the number would feel off. 

“He had coily 4a hair.” Nahh! :P 

Also, I would suggest sending all passages that focus on his hair to a Black sensitivity reader for review.

More reading:

~Mod Colette

[bbywriter]

one by one | c. sturniolo

masterlist

summary: a look into decorating your daughter’s room

pairing: christopher sturniolo x fem!reader

warnings: the use of mommy and daddy but like NOT in a kinky way<3 also idk how accurate this conversation is for a four year old but ik your baby w chris would be a smart girl anyways

notes: one more blurb before i start school again tomorrow </3 this has been collecting dust in the drafts since this surprise came out.

word count: 1.3k

—

The ice dispenser was stubborn and got jammed a couple times, but finally, you managed and are now headed upstairs to your daughter’s room, hands full of bedroom makeover pick-me-ups. Three glasses of pepsi, two drinkable straight from the cup and the other topped with a pretty flower straw.

It’s the weekend and your day off from work, but you guys have been busy since the morning. Now that the pink paint on the walls has had the time to dry overnight, you and Chris have spent the past couple hours rearranging furniture and adding the final touches to your daughter’s room. Princess covers, a cozy mermaid lamp, and as per her request, sparkly star stickers.

When you make it back to the entrance of her room, you find the two of them exactly how you left them.

Chris is cross-legged in the middle of a fluffy heart shaped rug, leaning back on his hands as he watches your daughter who is sitting way too close to the wall. She presses a collage of pink stars to the surface in no particular order.

“Yesterday Ms. Claire gave me a gold star for my drawing,” your baby says mindlessly, tilting her head at the wall to figure out where to place the next sticker.

Chris gasps softly. “No she didn’t,” he replies. His tone is wondrous like he’s asking her to tell him more.

“Yeah. She said my drawing is perfect and she stuck it to my paper.” A boxy smile, the same as her dad’s, finds its way to her face. Her tiny voice is proud as can be.

���Perfect, huh? Bet you get a million of those stars a day then.”

A giggle almost escapes your lips when she nods smugly at Chris’s words. Like she knows, in fact, that she is perfect. You keep quiet, not wanting to interrupt their conversation.

“Yeah. More than all of these,” she claims, poking at each star on the wall one by one with her glittery finger.

Chris hums thoughtfully. "So can Daddy get a star then?"

Her finger freezes in the middle of the biggest star, her whole body pausing at the question. "Uhh," she says, voice serious in that very specific way only a four year old can manage. "But you only get stars if you’re perfect."

This time you can’t hold back your laughter. The sound draws both of their heads toward you, and you laugh even harder when you see Chris’s expression. His mouth has fallen open, still upturned at the sides, but his brows have pinched together in slight betrayal at her words.

“Baby that was a little mean,” you tease her, moving to set down the drinks on her night stand and sit next to her on the bed.

It’s clear from your daughter’s expression that she was genuinely just stating a fact, which somehow makes it even funnier. And Chris, of course, isn’t actually offended. But you still take the moment to say something you want her to remember.

"Daddy might not be perfect, but you don’t always have to be to get a star," you tell her, smiling gently as you brush a piece of hair out of her face. "That would make life way too hard, baby. Lots of times, you’re gonna get them for just trying your best."

She listens intently, her hands frozen in midair.

"I think Mommy would have zero stars if I had to be perfect all the time," you add, smiling at her.

She frowns slightly in confusion, thinking you’re still talking about the actual stickers. "I never even gave you any," she says.

You chuckle and scoot closer to her.

"No you haven’t," you grin. "And that’s the thing. Your stars aren’t always gonna be stickers. Just like mine aren’t—I have your dad instead." Her beautiful blue eyes grow wide, taking in your words. "And you," you finish, before attacking her chubby cheeks with wet kisses, your fingers tickling her sides until she’s a giggling, squirming mess.

From where he’s sitting on the floor, Chris can’t help but smile so big as he watches the both of you. Your words melt his heart and the sound of her giggles makes his chest swell; his entire world so happy together in each other’s arms.

Your daughter puts up with the tickling a little longer, then pushes weakly at your shoulders, laughter still bubbling out between breaths.

"Mommy stop," she giggles, her whole face lighting up.

You pester her for a couple more seconds before finally letting up, smiling so fondly at your baby as you squish her cheeks in your hands. “I just love you so much,” you tell her, “you’re so cute, oh my god.”

She sticks her tongue out at you, very reminiscent of her dad’s mannerisms, then giggles and pulls herself out of your hold to get back to her stickers. You place one more kiss to the top of her head and finally look back at Chris.

He’s watching you with the biggest grin on his face. You can’t hear his thoughts, but they’re sweet and so filled with love. You’re such a good mom, and she’s such a good kid, and he doesn’t know how he ever got this lucky.

You make your way to stand next to him. At his side, his hand slides around your hips as he leans his head into your thigh. Instinctively, you place your hand on the side of his face, running your thumb along his temple.

The moment is quiet as you admire the work of the room. The three of you are stuck in your own little worlds until Chris squeezes playfully at your bum to get your attention. You tsk at him.

“Chris,” you scold.

He laughs as he looks up at you, neck strained to see you from under the rim of his cap. “Sit down, baby, we’ve been moving all day,” he says.

You roll your eyes but listen anyway, fitting yourself beside him on the plush rug. Before you can get fully comfortable, you crawl forward on all fours to reach for the drinks on the nightstand. In the position you are in, you feel Chris pat your ass again.

“Yo can you stop?" you laugh, grabbing the glasses and returning to his side. You hand him his drink, but he doesn’t respond right away. He just smiles at you, soft and a little mischievous, like he’s about to say something—definitely dumb or inappropriate—but he stops himself.

Instead, after a moment, he finally replies with, "I love you."

You chuckle and shake your head at the words, but you still feel your chest warm. You glance over at your daughter making sure she’s distracted, and then flip his cap backwards, before placing a hand onto his jaw. You angle him towards you and there’s a second where you smile at each other, before you kiss him softly, then a little deeper.

“I love you, too,” you tell him against his lips.

—

Later that evening, as you get ready for bed, you giggle when you pull off your sweats.

"I must’ve sat on one of her stickers," you say, peeling a pink star off the butt of your pants.

Across the room, Chris tugs off his shirt and looks over at you, already smirking.

"No, I put that there," he confesses the earlier thought he never said out loud.

Your hands fall limp at your sides, the sticker dangling between your fingers. You tilt your head at him, silently asking ‘are you serious?’

Chris laughs at your expression and steps toward you. Before you can say anything else, he pulls you in by the hips, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"Nothing more perfect than your ass," he says, grinning as he leans in close, "deserves a million stars in my eyes."

You laugh, half in disbelief, and toss the sweatpants straight at his face.

"You’re the weirdest person ever," you say, still grinning as he catches the pants one-handed and tugs you even closer.

—

a/n: i miss my future daughter</3 and i wanna be chris's wife</3

[meolia]

. *. ⋆ twisted wonderland: how dateable are they? (savanaclaw ver.)

a/n: i try to imagine myself in a relationship with them to make the result more accurate but im left traumatized 😐😑😐. i think we'd all be collectively saner if they all got a lobotomy & wore a straitjacket // i actually think this part feels a little inaccurate???

cw: profanity, teenage boys + 1 grown man, content from vignettes, main story & events on the eng server, involves SOME headcanons.

1 (extremely undateable), 10 (extremely undateable); not really biased in this one 😛

HEARTSLABYUL | other parts tba.

SAVANACLAW

Leona Kingscholar

PROS: rich, hot and is royalty. is also extremely strong, knows martial arts and can wield magic effortlessly. smart, as seen by the random burst of philosophy he has occasionally midway through the storyLMFAOO... says some real shit to other people sometimes and is honest about it, especially when it helps the other person. observant, can easily tell if something about you changed or how you currently feel. due to being a beastman, he can easily sense danger so you're in great hands if there's ever danger lurking around yay!!!!#!# indirectly caring (as seen with his relationship w/ruggie and the savanaclaw guys in general). chill....??? it's beneficial in some ways. sometimes. anyways he's basically a fairytale prince

CONS: what's NOT fairytale-princey about him is that he's lazy and has NOT graduated from nrc yet and has been a third year for like. what three years now??? he could easily graduate because he has all the necessary knowledge & abilities. like okay i get youre rebelling against your family but come on. you can't complain about "these kids getting on my nerves" and "these kids know nothing" when you refuse to graduate and willingly put yourself in a space you cannot tolerate. stop beefing with teenagers you twenty-year-old-that-needs-to-graduate. competitive with stronger people... okay, sure, great you have enough confidence you'd come out of a brawl with malleus unscathed but sometimes it's truly embarrassing how everything will go down afterwards. (book 2 lol.) he's terribly unorganized, like in ruggie's labwear vignette he was literally picking dirty clothes off of leona's bedroom floor and he was all like, "whatever" 🥀🥀🥀 nonchalant to the point of annoying. corny as hell too... "ill wolf you down!!" empty ass threat.

MY FINAL VERDICT: 3/10. if he actually tries he'd be decent enough to be called a boyfriend but i don't think he'd try all that hard for a relationship currently. i don't even think he wants one 💔 even something casual will wear him out

Ruggie Bucchi

PROS: he can speak with animals REALLY well. idk that's very important to me... and he's resourceful, can make use of everything at hand without wasting it due to his years of experiences </3 can cook, can clean, can do almost everything if money is involved. will probably do almost everything for you if he's REALLY into you. run errands? sure. clean your room? why not. hungry? already cooking. will nag you for your own good even if it'd remind you of a parent. EXTREMELY adaptable and is a hard worker, as seen with some odd jobs getting thrown at him he always manages to get through it successfully. he's good at haggling, having succeeded in doing so with sam multiple times (ruggie lab wear vignette 👅). good with kids? i think? im actually not too informed about ruggie but i remember it being mentioned somewhere in-game...??? if true, yes.

CONS: can get a little money hungry at times which, i REALLY can't blame him but he'd probably give you up for 1000 thaumarks and a full course meal. even if he doesn't he'd seriously consider it. sneaky ass bitch too his unique magic is so diabolical id most likely distance myself away from him if i ever have anything valuable on hand. it's not like he's actually gonna steal something right off someone's hands since leona's at least giving him enough things to keep him afloat but iiiiiii. wouldn't put it past him. if he had a kin list mr. krabs would be high on it. okay i ran out of bad things to say about him

MY FINAL VERDICT: 9/10. i think if you guys have a good enough friendship beforehand he'd make an actually great boyfriend.

Jack Howl

PROS: has a strong sense of justice. even if the people are supposed to be on his team, he'd betray them if they did some immoral thing for their own achievements. cares about others' safety a lot, even if he comes up with some bullshit excuse to hide his worry LMAOOO. he could be really cute at times, like for example, counting every spike on his cactus (anthology manga). really smart and observant, can catch up on things quite quickly whereas others may take a few seconds. like leona, would notice new things about you quite quickly and can sniff out/hear danger approaching. very healthy and physically capable, useful as a carrier :3. and when it's cold his tail has a purpose of being a heat source... of course, if he lets you 😐

MY FINAL VERDICT: 9/10. deducted one point because i feel he'd be a bit awkward in a relationship, like he takes an astronomically long time to warm up to his partner because he can't seem to show his affections like a normal person............ would make a very sweet boyfriend otherwise.

CONS: listen. i understand how people find "tsunderes" cute (soz for the quotation marks i really hate using that term 💔💔💔), and i do find it adorable as well but when one over does it... jack i love you but i need you to say a "i care for you" once. just once will do. please. please. im begging. im begging. im begging. im begging. im b

SAVANACLAW MOST DATEABLE TO LEAST DATEABLE

JACK > RUGGIE > LEONA

(although i think jack and ruggie are debatable LMAOAO)