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anisespice · 8 months

Note

tall fem reader?

tall fem reader!!! thanks for the request, anon :)))

hq ver.

pairing: college!tr x tall!fem!reader

warnings: mature language, MDI, suggestive language, reader mentioned in chifuyu’s but not present, mild mild mild cat-call in hanma’s - just crack overall, honestly lol feel free to let me know if i missed anything!

notes: planned to make this a whole x whoever you want type beat, BUT figured just doing a headcanon broken into different heights would be more efficient lol plus MORE CONTENT - gonna make a pt. 2 with some hq men, but for now — t.rev! :))) hope you enjoy <3 !!

tagged: @fantasycantasy , @illegalspacecow

small — ♡

When it came down to a relationship, MIKEY wasn’t shallow enough to let physical appearances stop him from pursuing someone he wanted—He liked what he liked, fuck what anybody else had to say about it. The blonde never had issue with your drastic height difference, seeing it as more of a perk than anything else. His best friend was tall, so why not his girlfriend? It just meant whenever he walked down the street, he’d look like a total badass with his two attractive beanpoles at his side.

However, a lot of the buzz on campus mostly centered around Mikey’s height rather than yours. It never bothered him, but it certainly got you tight anytime someone tried to uplift you whilst putting him down in the process.

“A shrimp like him wouldn’t know how to handle all that leg of yours, mama. Lemme take you out tonight, show you a good time with someone who’s more on your level, whaddya say?”

Barf.

Mikey would merely give them a dead-stare; unbothered king. You, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate to knock them down a size or two.

“First of all, your busted-looking ass could never be on the same level as me. Second of all, where my man lacks in height, he makes up for elsewhere, so he handles me very well, thank you. You’re probably the type to just shove it in without any sort of technique, thinking that’s enough to get a girl to finish. My man won’t bust once until I’ve came up to four times, the fuck can you offer me besides being six-foot? Hm? That’s right, not a damn thing. Remember that next time you talk shit, dirt-neck.”

Read him straight to filth. And God forbid Mikey had his gang with him anytime some scrub tried to spit game, best believe they’d dog the guy until he scurried away in humiliation. It always filled him with great adoration for you wherever you checked someone in his defense, your entire relationship giving off the same energy as that one meme with Kevin Hart’s character being protectively held by the lady. It’d been put in the groupchat a number of times just to tease the delinquent, but he’s unashamed at the fact you could easily pick his ass up. If anything, he was all for it, even requested piggy-back rides from you more often than his right-hand man—Draken’s back appreciates your sacrifice.

Now let someone try and spit game at him.

“Yeah, normally guys feel emasculated when their girlfriend’s taller than them, y’know? I’m surprised you don’t, though. No offense, [_____] just doesn’t seem like a good fit for you. I mean, must be tough to lay in the same bed, or even put her in your lap without feeling smothered or crushed. Wouldn’t it be much better to have someone a little smaller-”

“She could sit on me until my pelvis collapsed, and I would thank her. And, full offense, if I was single, still wouldn’t pick you even if you put a gun to my head. Keep my girl’s name out your mouth, you don’t deserve to breathe the same air let alone be on first name basis. Now, quit wasting my time—Do you have the notes from yesterday’s lecture or not?”

You don’t play about him. He don’t play about you. Period.

And as far as sharing a bed, cuddling or otherwise, Mikey was a sucker for being held like a damn squishmellow. Didn’t matter if you took up most of the leg space, dude would be wrapped around you like a python, so snug and warm you’d be lucky to even escape his grasp for food or the bathroom. Once he’s sleep, he’s SLEEP, and then you become the squishmellow.

“Mikey, I will be right back, turn me loose-”

“Zzzzzz…” out like a light. Drooling and everything, face smushed up against your boobs, just content. You’d think he’d been working the graveyard shift. And God forbid he ended up laying on top of you, sprawled out starfish style…you for sure weren’t going anywhere then.

Even if you expressed this dilemma after he woke up, the blonde merely yawned. “Just pick me up and carry me with you…”

“You’re smoking crack if you think I’m gonna haul your ass with me into the bathroom. I love you and all that, but we ain’t at the stage where I can comfortably use it with you in room.”

He shrugged. “Mm. Guess you don’t have to go that bad. G’night.”

“Mikey.”

“Shh, I’m sleeping…”

A gremlin. But, your gremlin. ♡

—

medium — ♡

CHIFUYU still can’t believe he bagged you, frfr.

There’d be moments where you’d catch him staring, as if he figured you’d disappear the second he took his eyes off you.

It’d get a little creepy sometimes, but it was endearing all the same. He wasn’t the shortest guy, though he wasn’t the tallest either, and standing next to you was a constant reminder of that. Not that he held any resentment toward you for it, he absolutely loved your height. However, there was always some form of insecurity that would resurface anytime someone called attention to it.

And today, his best friend and co-worker, Baji, would not only be the culprit, but an unlikely source of reassurance.

While they were stocking up inventory, the ravenette couldn’t help but notice the stool his friend was using to put a box in a particular high place. Wearing a mischievous grin, Baji pointed. “Oi. You should take that home with you. That way your girl won’t have to strain her neck when she kisses you.” He snorted, thinking he was the funniest man alive.

Normally, something that lame wouldn’t phase him, but guess today he was feeling a little more sensitive. With a grunt, the former blonde coolly spoke, “Maybe you should shut the hell up, and stock the damn shelves.”

“Whoa. What’s up your ass?” Baji furrowed his brows, walking over to lightly kick at the stool’s metal leg, making it jerk. Chifuyu sharply gasped, latching onto an empty shelf to steady himself. He exhaled, relieved, then shot a glare. But, Baji wasn’t perturbed.

Chifuyu sighed. “Nothing. I’m fine...”

“Fine my left nut. You don’t get short like that unless there’s something on your mind,” not the best way to phrase that, but at least he was genuine. Chifuyu rolled his eyes, coming down off the stool to brush past the ravenette.

“Not in the mood, alright?”

Baji was left standing there, dumbfounded.

The entire vibe had been thrown on its head, and he didn’t understand why. Awkwardly, he went back to assorting through the contents within the nearest box, bottom lip stuck out in thought as he briefly glanced at Chifuyu’s back mere feet away. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He knew not to pry, but curiosity always won gold in the end. Baji replayed the conversation in his head, using his impeccable deductive reasoning to draw his own conclusions.

And then suddenly, an epiphany.

Without a hint of warning, the ravenette quickly walked over and slapped his friend in the middle of his back. Chifuyu yelped, nearly dropping the box in his hands before whipping around to fix Baji with a wide, incredulous look. “T-The hell?!”

“So. She dumped ya, huh? [Sigh] Look man, don’t beat yourself up, a lot of guys fumble the bag from time to time. If ya need a shoulder to cry on…don’t use mine, but ‘tora might let you-”

“Hah?? What are you—[_____] didn’t dump me, dumbass!”

Baji blinked. “Oh. My bad, jus’ figured that’s why you’re in your feelings.”

“And you thought the best thing to do was to hit me, then tell me to cry on someone else?” Chifuyu squinted when the arsonist gave a shrug. He sighed again, carefully setting the box down. “It’s not about [______]. Well, technically. The other day we had lunch with a few of her friends. They apparently have been dying to meet me for some time. And things were going great until…”

Chifuyu trailed off, leaving Baji in suspense.

He grunted. “‘till what? Jus’ say it, bet it isn’t even that bad-”

“They were shocked to see her with someone who barely came up to her elbows.”

Silence filled the storage room. Chifuyu continued to keep his eyes trained elsewhere while his counterpart merely stared for what felt like hours, but only seconds. And then…

“Pfft.”

Chifuyu looked up and sneered, blushing furiously as he threw a chew toy from one of the boxes at the fiend. “Hey! Don’t laugh! Do you have any idea how humiliating that is??”

Baji, to his dismay, effortless caught the toy, even squeaking it a couple times just to annoy him more. Taking a moment to collect himself, the ravenette still wore his sharp grin as he spoke through airy giggles. “So? Who cares what they have to say?”

“I do! They’re [_____]’s friends, everyone knows their approval is just as crucial to the relationship as the parents…if not more.”

“Mm. Pretty sure you’re overthinking this.”

Chifuyu gave a sarcastic laugh, “Pretty sure I’m not.”

“Alright. Lemme school ya on how women operate when they get in their little cliques.” Baji dusted off his hands, missing the eye roll the former blonde gave once again. With his pointer held high, he declared, “If majority of the friend group is taken, they’re just being protective. No doubt they’ve been there for every heartbreak, every fight, ‘nd jus’ don’t think anyone’s good enough for [_____]. Jus’ gotta keep your head down, and don’t give ‘em any reason to be weary. Simple.”

With a slow, skeptical nod, Chifuyu pursed his lips at his fellow delinquent. It wasn’t unlikely, so at least he’s correct in that regard. However, the line between facts and feelings began to blur the further Baji continued.

“But, if majority of them are single, then you’re screwed either way —Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

“Wow, that’s so helpful. You sure schooled me, Baji-san.”

“‘m serious. You gotta watch out for the single ones in the friend group. They’re all passive aggressive, try to get under your skin, push your buttons. Then, before you know it, they’re in your head, get you so worked up only for them to turn around and play victim, saying you can’t take a joke, and now you’re the fucking bad guy! Classic textbook emotional manipulation—Don’t fall for it. ‘cause they’ve got it down to a science, I’m telling ya.”

Chifuyu’s eyes widen at the sudden intensity that overtook the room, taking a small step back when Baji jabbed his finger at him, as if he were warning him of some conspiracy. “Uh…you good?”

Baji took a moment’s pause. Then, he cleared his throat.

“Sorry, got a little carried away. All’s I’m saying is, don’t sweat. Lotta chick’s pick on the best friend’s new fling, t’s like a war tactic—Poking at our fragile egos ‘nd all that. But, seems like you did fine, otherwise you’d be crying all over ‘tora right now.” Baji shrugged.

Chifuyu blinked, now his turn to be dumbfounded. “Huh.”

He frowned. “‘Huh’? I jus’ gave you some killer, black-pilled insight on cracking their code of conduct, and all I get is a dry-ass ‘huh’? Tsk. I’m charging you next time, goddamn freeloader.”

Chifuyu glared, but softened soon after. After taking his words into consideration, the former blonde couldn’t help but feel lighter. “It’s just... didn’t expect that to actually make me feel better.”

Baji scrunched his nose. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean? Oi, don’t ever doubt my knowledge. It may be selective, but I got it when it counts. Besides, thanks to me you won’t take that stool home after all.”

“I wasn’t planning to take it home in the first place.”

“Right. Keep telling yourself that, elbows.”

“Hey!”

—

large — ♡

“Hey, baby, those legs go all the way up?”

It was moments like this where you detested not being able to blend in with the average crowd. Attention always seemed to gravitate toward you no matter how hard you tried to avoid it, like being covered in honey while trying to walk in front of a herd of bears. And it didn’t help that you were currently wearing heels tonight, accentuating your legs even more in the little, black cocktail dress you sported. You were headed to a party a mutual friend of yours was throwing, and you wanted to surprise your man by wearing the new Jimmy Choos he bought you, knowing how much he loved how your legs with the extra height on them—Evidently, so did the prowling degenerate on the streets.

You had elected to ignore them. HANMA seemed to have other plans as he came to a complete stop in his tracks, slowly turning around to walk up on the moron who had the nerve to open his mouth. Low, golden eyes gazed down at the waste of space, face calm but a murderous aura oozed off him like pheromone, suffocating the slimy bastard into submission as he attempted to shrink away. But, he wasn’t about to let him get away so easily.

A wide, eerie grin spread across his face. “Could’ve sworn I just heard you cat-call my girl right in front of me. But, you wouldn’t be stupid enough to do that. Right?”

The guy nervously looked back for reinforcements but his buddies were already long gone. Hanma’s grin immediately dissolved from his face, kissing his teeth before grabbing the guy by the front of his collar and twisting. “Fuckin’ hate repeating myself.”

Hanma wound his arm back, dead set on knocking the guy into an early grave until you intervened at the last second. By grabbing onto the balled up fist, you brought it to your lips to place a tender kiss on the inked skin. You felt his muscles relax, but he still held the offender by his shirt, only slightly playing attention to you cooing in his ear.

“Baby, you promised no fighting tonight, remember?”

“I know, doll, but this fucker,” he shook the guy around in his tight grasp, unhinged grin making its appearance once more at the sound of him blubbering, “deserves to have his shit rocked for even looking at you. I’m just gonna teach ‘em a little lesson about manners, that’s all. I’ll be quick.”

You scoffed, “You and I both know you don��t do quick.”

Hanma snickered. “First time for everything, right?”

“Shuji.”

Tugging on his arm, you were able to redirect all of his focus onto you, sinister eyes melting into sweet caramel as his pupils dilated the second they locked on yours. It always did something to him whenever you came up to eye-level. Sure, you were already pretty tall but the heels nearly had you towering him. It gave him a weird sensation, one that made him want to drop everything and worship you like the deity you were. Especially in situations like this.

Hanma felt like the smaller one for once. It drove him insane.

You fixed him a stern look. “Drop him.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he discarded the guy onto the pavement like an old can, wild eyes eagerly watching you and waiting for your next request. Taking his free hand into yours, interlacing your fingers, you led the rest of the way by pulling him from the nobody now cowering near a bush, no doubt rethinking his life choices while you kept onward to your destination. You didn’t get all spruced up to not be seen tonight, and you’ll be damned if any more time got wasted on some loser he’d put in a coma after one hit. After a short moment of silence, you expected Hanma to be mad at you for not letting him knock someone’s teeth loose. But when you glanced back at him, you should’ve known you’d be greeted with absolute smugness as you shook your head in mirth.

You elected to ignore the obvious tent in his pants…but he’d surely plan for you to do otherwise later on.

#🍁allspice #🍁wasabi #CALLING ALL THEE STALLIONS 🗣️#*posts and runs*#tokyorev #tokyo rev #tokyo revengers #tokyorev x reader #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo rev headcanons #tr x reader #manjiro sano #matsuno chifuyu #hanma shuji #mikey x reader #chifuyu x reader #hanma x reader

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kingofthe-egirls · 5 months

Text

SNAKEMAN: LUFFY x Y/N (stripper part 3!)

stripper au: part 1 part 2

(cw: sex, snakeman monster fuck, sad luffy but u help)

(a/n: uk how it is)

Songs: “Minimize” by B.P. Valenzuela

words: 1k

****

Luffy stalks towards you, as you circle the stripper pole in your sparkly heels. They’re the newest gift he’s spoiled you with: rhinestone heels with small platforms and black velvet straps. The crystalline shimmers reflect the studio lights as you twirl around the pole, letting your legs swing your weight slowly in circles. You’re wearing black exercise shorts and a lacy bralette.

Snakeman’s haki-armored pythons suddenly wind around your waist. He slows your spin, as you release your grip on the pole so he can reel you back into his strong chest.

He’s like, five feet taller than you.

You squeak, surprised at the sudden contact between your almost-bare back and his heated chest.

“Ssssuch a sweet pussy f’me, hah?” Luffy’s hissing, snakelike voice drops several octaves as he manhandles your shorts off.

His python hands find your pussy, cupping it with his palm. He rubs the heel of his against your clit, wasting no time before dipping his swollen, steel-like fingers inside your sopping pussy. He lets out a sinful groan.

“Shiiiiit, baby~,” He snickers from three feet above you. His muscles clench and contract behind your body as he maneuvers your thighs beneath both hands. Snakeman is an impatient, slithery version of your slutty captain.

His cock stretches you out perfectly.

“Ssssooo goooood~!” He hisses, his whines turning hoarse as he starts a slow and steady rhythm.

He’s fucking you like a monster: both large hands wrapped around your thighs as he spreads your legs as far as he can. He’s lifting you up and down on his cock, his head thrown back as he stutters and moans.

Eventually, he sits.

Snakeman Luffy is sitting crosslegged on the floor of the studio, still lifting you up and down his stretched-out cock. Like you’re his personal fucktoy. Like he’s never felt something so warm, so hot, so tight before. He’s hissing out phrases of pleasure, his compliments half-bitten off and chewed as he chokes through his own whining keens.

“Ssssuch a—such a good sex doll, huh sssweetie?” His tongue flickers against your ear, before wriggling its way inside. He teases your sensitive ears with his snakey tongue, and you find yourself cumming with reckless abandon.

He snickers as you writhe and moan.

You scrabble at his hair, your arm stretched up all the way as you try to reach his head. His Snakeman locks are silken: long and swaying as if there’s a breeze. He leans down a little so you can pet him easier.

“Snakeman doin’ a good job for ya?” He asks, whispered voice betraying the self consciousness he always so deftly conceals.

“So good~!”

He starts smooching the skin of your shoulder, as his Snakeman deflates.

He’s panting, ragged and worn after his exploits. He slumps against you, his limbs wrapped around your torso as he sniffles. His face is buried between your shoulder blades.

“S’not too—freakish?”

You gasp, swirling around to smother his face in your chest.

“Don’t ever say that!!!” You say in disbelief, scratching his hair as it slowly spikes back up to its usual shortness. His body is sleepy, deflated. His skin is paler than normal, as his breaths come raspy and hoarse. He stares up at you with big, pleading eyes.

“Snakeman’s sexy, right?”

He’s asking for reassurance, for sex-driven compliments and you can’t help but pour out your affections for him. The same way statues pour water from ceramic vases into fountains: endlessly.

“Snakeman is so sexy,” you encourage him, stroking his face. His eyes flutter shut, as his smile starts twitching up again. “Snakeman is sexy because he’s you.”

Luffy stares up at you with the pit of his stomach in hell. “No one’s—ever called me…sexy…before,” he confesses, his eyes shiny with tears. He scrubs at his face: at the side with no scar. “Stupid baby face,” he sniffs sharply, “M’short and scrawny, too…,” he whispers out his insecurities, staring at the floor.

You sit up, facing him.

“You are sexy. Inherently. Your voice, your scrawny, your stupid chubby cheeks. Your scar, your eyes. The way you move. You are sexy.”

You try to tell him, to get the message across, but something in his eyes says that he’s still seeing the weak, childish version of himself.

He sniffs.

“Makino said I’ve got owl eyes…,” he says miserably, scrubbing at his face. He stares down at the glossy studio floor with shadows over his expression. “Ace said m’so short no one would ever kiss me…and Uta—,” he hiccups, his eyes red and swollen as tears flow freely. He scowls.

“Uta said m’too ugly for her to stay steady with…she said she was just usin’ me fer kissin’ practice,” he speaks bitterly.

You grab both sides of his face, anger boiling inside you with heat you’ve never felt before.

“Who the fuck. Is Uta.”

Luffy stares at you, suddenly perked up at the sound of violence in your undertone. He sees you’ve gone so terribly still. Steel is flintlocked into your eyes. He shakes his head.

“Shanks’ kid…she was my crush, as kids…,” he wavers a little, still stung by her harsh critiques.

You grit your teeth.

“She. Was. So. Wrong.”

He stares, still not comprehending.

You sear him with a kiss that starts low at your gut. Center of your pelvic floor. Magma, molten lust.

“Sexy doesn’t begin to describe it. You’re so…so handsome. Your jawline, your bone structure…,” you grace your fingertips against his cheekbones. You trace the slight slope of his nose. “Your skin is so warm, and your lips are velvet. I—,” you shake your head, “Why d’ya think all those girls flock ta ya? Cuz you’re a wanted man? Cuz you’re strong?” You shake your head vehemently. You pour as much stripper-seduction into your words as you possibly can. “Nah, Snakeman. It’s cuz you’re so fucking sexy. Your hair is dark, your skin is warm brown, your muscles are defined, your voice is so—ugh!” You’re at a loss for words.

Luffy stares at you.

“Seriously?”

You swallow.

“Seriously.”

****

#dumpster dive #luffy smut #fav #my writing #one piece fanfic #luffy fanfic #luffy x reader #luffy x y/n #luffy x you #snakeman smut #luffy gear 4 smut #gear 4 smut

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sheetsonfire · 1 year

Text

Chasing Shadows Away

Fandom: Chicago PD

Pairing: Jay Halstead x Reader

Genre: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff

Warnings: Horror, violence, murder

Word Count: 3220

Summary: The reader dreams of their worst fears, and Jay is there to chase them away.

A/N: This is part of @resanoona's #resa.3kfiestabingo! I'm using this fic to fill the "Hurt/Comfort" square!

My dreams are nothing if not good for writing fuel, ha!

[Dream]

You’re trailing behind Jay in the crowd, receiving stares as you pierce your way through the waves of bodies with hollers of his name. You can’t seem to keep up, his hand having been disconnected from yours, which happened several clusters of people ago.

There’s jostling and a frenetic blur of conversations, some of which you’re sure are about you and the commotion you’re making. You don’t care, however, the only thing on your mind is to keep tabs on the black [POLICE] vest on Jay’s back.

Anxiety coils around your stomach like a python, squeezing the more you try and free yourself of the sensation. To your dismay, your hand is met with thin air as you reach for your radio on your own vest.

Where the hell had your radio gone?

Fuck.

Paranoia in your line of work was generally a good thing, it kept you alert and tuned in to your surroundings. However, as you meet the eyes of judging civilians, who seem to move toward you in a silent threatening waltz, it does nothing but make your hairs stand on end.

You didn’t know why you felt so scared and so out of control, but you don’t know how to tame it anymore.

All the while your eyes haven’t left the back of Jay’s head for longer than a second, anger fizzing out of you as you watch your boyfriend and partner take a left and head for the elevator. You would surely lose him by the time you made up the distance between you.

You had no evidence for your next thought but as true as the sky is blue you know in your soul that to lose Jay to the elevator would mean disaster. Whether that disaster was for you or for him, you couldn’t be sure.

“Jay! For god’s sake!” You holler with abandon, with no concern about the scene you’re making.

A gap opens up in the shifting bodies ahead of you and you break into a sprint, thwacking shoulder to shoulder with faceless silhouettes as you keep moving.

It’s too late, however, the elevator doors begin to close just as you round the corner and you watch the back of Jay disappear.

You stand there breathless, the hum of activity behind you makes you grab at the back of your neck, trying to find some feeling of safety and security. The elevator ascends into the heights of the arched building, bright lights and a glass ceiling loom overhead, making you feel small.

Why wasn’t the team here? Why did Jay never look back for you?

You scrub your hands at your face, trying to collect your thoughts. You lift your eyes to the panel above the elevator entrance, there should be numbers there to tell you where Jay was going but there was nothing. Yet another jab at your gut.

With little option but to climb the stairs and go looking for signs of trouble that’s exactly what you start doing. You’re taking the stairs with speed as you make it to the first floor, another floor that seems to be full of people whose dark eyes are drawn to you, you felt that you were most certainly an unwelcome intrusion. Though you were used to that when on duty.

This time the floor is littered with couches, red plush velvet upholstery with canoodling couples and threesomes dressed in opulent gowns and suits, indulging in platters of food and flowing taps of alcohol. The air is thick with a pleasant-smelling smoke, it almost has an orange haze to it. You knew this place was somewhere for the rich and the elite, unsurprisingly insidious and almost cult-like in nature.

It feels as though you’ve fallen into an alternate dimension as you whip your head around, looking for glimpses of Jay. You’re avoiding the gaze of the watchers as best you can, inching forward to the next stairwell whilst keeping a distance from the silent pandemonium around you.

Suddenly in front of you, a sour-faced individual appears, feminine in appearance they align themselves with you, stopping you from moving further ahead. There are eyes are vividly green, serpent-like, their lips blood red. Those same lips are pursed as they point sharply in the direction of a small glass balcony that hung over the edge of the floor you were on, looking down onto the ground floor concourse.

For some reason, there are no words exchanged, and you can’t even bring yourself to ask for clarification, it’s like you instantly know that Jay is in that direction. There is no other choice but to go over there and see what awaits.

You nod at the strange figure, watching as they turn on their heels and strut away - catching briefly the couch-dwellers staring at you again. You could feel the inky black of their eyes, only pinpoints of white in their pupils.

The sooner you could get Jay and get the fuck out of here, the better.

Mindful of the fact that you didn’t know what was on the other side of the thick, long, velvet curtains that concealed the balcony, you keep a hand close to your weapon but your heart feels increasingly close to your vest, pounding relentlessly.

You couldn’t afford to act in a rash panic to get to Jay.

Inching forward you try and keep an ear out for signs of movement or voices, the crowd behind you seems to fade out as a sharp ringing tone pierces your ears, and you wince at the sensation. It felt as though you’d been caught in an explosion, something you had experienced on multiple occasions.

Of course, this was different, you knew that. You were certain you were actually in the undercurrent of a panic attack. Heart pounding, a sickly feeling in your throat, you feel the cold of your anxiety ripple through your adrenaline.

Still, no sound or movement in front of you as you come to a standstill in front of the curtains, balancing your posture to not fidget or jostle your vest too much.

You’re still processing how to handle what comes next when you hear the unmistakable metal whistle of a blade being unsheathed. Your heart leaps into your mouth, a shaking hand grasping the fabric of the curtain as you pry them open just a fraction, trying to see what the hell was happening.

“Oh my god.” You breathe out, and the sight in front of you is incomprehensible.

Jay is now stripped of his clothes, and his weapon and vest are discarded along with everything else. Tears and sweat stain his cheeks, mixing in with the blood that drips from his nose, drying into a rusty colour on his mouth. Angry red marks litter his skin, marks which look to be made with a blunt object. You suspected that blunt object was one of the many candelabras sitting at various heights on the ledge of the balcony.

Your boyfriend’s face is stoic, his nostrils flare in defiant anger, but you can see the fine tremor in his muscles as he tries to remain still, trying not to provoke more of what they'd already done to him.

They.

They were hooded figures, in black robes with gold trim, and black gloves to conceal anything that might show you who they were.

Your blood is rushing in your ears, the confined space of the balcony left you without a vantage point to attack from another angle or use the element of surprise.

“Time.” A deep voice utters, taking you by surprise. It doesn’t sound as though it came from any individual at all, but rather an omniscient presence from above, ethereal and intangible, surrounding you completely.

Between that last thought and your next breath, the sickening sound of metal slicing into flesh brings the world rushing back to burn you.

A stunned gasp escapes Jay's mouth, a grunt of unregistered agony as his brain fights to protect his pain reception.

The dagger in the gloved leather hand is pressed to its hilt in Jay’s abdomen, seated beneath his chest.

You watch in horror as Jay’s glassy eyes meet yours, weak hands trying to push away the stranger’s hands, you’re trying to move forward, your voice screaming hoarsely with no sound to speak of. The curtains move no further, unrelenting as they hold together with some unseen force.

Your boyfriend’s life fades in front of you, trapped in his glass prison as concealed robed heads turn to watch you, unrepentant as they make you watch your love slip away.

Your fists pound against the barrier, screaming Jay’s name in disbelief, willing him to keep his eyes open and look at you.

[Dream jump]

“Detective, this came for you.” One of Platt’s officers hands you a reasonably large box as you thank them and let them leave.

It’s a black box with no label or card attached, suddenly you’re confused as to how the officer knew it was for you. Realistically you knew you shouldn’t open it, it could have very well been something dangerous, but your feel compelled as you move on instinct, undoing the large gold ribbon wrapped around it.

The more you undo the knot in the ribbon, the worse the trembling in your hands gets, it was as though you already knew what was inside without seeing.

Lifting the lid may as well have been lifting a solid block of stone, discarding the top onto the floor as you peel away black sheets of paper.

The sight makes you gag.

Without hesitation, you knew that the pristinely cleaned and catalogued skeletal remains were Jay’s, returned from that incomprehensible and soulless place where they had taken his life in front of your eyes.

In your terror, your anger and your despair there is nothing left to do except scream, or at least try to. Throat-shredding gasps and squeaks tear at your vocal cords as you try and release your grief, fists clenched until–

[End of dream sequence]

You wake up still screaming, scrambling upright in the bed, thrashing around as that chasm of darkness swipes its claws at your consciousness, trying to pull you back in.

A warm hand on your bare shoulder makes you flinch, pulling away from it until you're almost falling off the edge of the bed. You whip your head around to the hand's source.

Concerned green eyes meet your wide, panicked, ones.

“Hey, hey, Y/N, it’s me. It’s Jay. You’re awake, everything is okay, and you’re safe with me. Breathe for me, honey.” Jay keeps his grip on you, gentle to not alarm you further but secure enough to prevent you from hurting yourself.

The longer the heat of his palm and fingers seeps into your skin, the easier it gets to breathe, the familiarity of his touch, the cadence in his voice, the smell of his aftershave, the quiet of your bedroom - it all grounds you.

That bliss of recognition relaxes your muscles, your eyes blinking against the sting of sleep and fear, tears that brim fall down in silent tracks on your cheeks. You know you’re safe, but the sensation of powerlessness and loss makes you feel like you’re dropping from a height, your stomach still giving involuntary flips of anxiousness.

“Jay.” It’s a broken whisper that makes your boyfriend’s heart ache, opening his arms up as you scramble back towards him, practically settling yourself into his lap as you wrap yourself tightly around him.

You kiss his neck, inhaling him as you steady your breathing further, slow and deliberate as you follow his guiding rhythm. Squeezing your eyes shut to get away from the tortured images, only to open them again as you see your greatest fears in that darkness.

Hands moving on instinct to feel every bit of him, stroking through his bed head, pulling back so you can look at him. His eyes search yours, trying to understand what you need, but it’s clear as you begin to trace the features on his face. His expression softens, nuzzling into your hand as you caress his jaw, chasing your hand to kiss your palm.

You study him again, cupping his face to press a slow kiss to his lips, he feels you shivering in his arms, the adrenaline and the chill of the room rattling your very being.

Wordlessly he lifts the duvet up and over your shoulders, cocooning you between him and the weighted, warm, material.

It’s not hard to guess what the nightmare was about, the way you watch him like he would disappear at any moment makes it all too clear. He takes your face in his hands like you had with him, reassuring you with certainty.

“I got you. You got me. I’m okay, I’m not leaving and nobody is taking me. Alright?” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, to your cheeks, then back to your lips - he takes your focus away from the “What if”, letting you hear, feel and see him from second to second.

You simply nod, resting your head back on his shoulder as he holds you, gently rocking you as you sigh. Your heart races still, but not in the gallop that it had been. You feel fingertips tenderly massaging at your scalp, trailing over your neck to rub your back.

Focusing on the heat of Jay’s skin, the softness of his breaths, and listening to his gentle words as he occasionally encourages and soothes.

After a while you feel yourself truly come out of the alarmed stupor, croaking out a “Thank you.” with your dry throat.

“You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart. This is what I’m here for.” He gently encourages you to look at him, making sure you see his sincerity.

You smile, rubbing your thumb over the bridge of his nose.

“Want to talk about it?” He tests, running his hands up and down your arms.

You think about the question, not sure if you were ready to relive the moments of losing him just yet. Perhaps it would be a morning thing, where the sun could shine on both of you over breakfast and keep those shadows away, only existing in the story you would tell.

You shake your head, smiling weakly. “In the morning?” You suggest, to which your boyfriend nods without hesitation. “Of course.”

You glance at the clock, it reads 2am and you hum in thought. Sometimes, you and Jay would go to the kitchen to make a hot chocolate, then settle on the couch to watch something mindless and relaxing on the tv - it was a ritual that usually worked if either one of you was struggling, but you didn’t want to keep Jay awake. Despite the day off both of you had ahead of you, it was late and the case you’d been on this past week had been an energy wipeout.

In the silent weighing of your thoughts, Jay’s voice brings you back, you notice he’s got that knowing smile on his face, hands settled on your waist. “Hot chocolate and whatever’s on tv?” He asks, but really he knows it’s a sure thing.

You let out a small laugh, kissing his cheek. “If that’s okay? I don’t want you to lose sleep over this.” You frown, still not sure if you should just lay back down and try to sleep.

Jay shakes his head, “Babe, when do we ever just cut this short and force ourselves back to sleep when we’re not ready? I wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing you’re not feeling totally safe and totally relaxed. You wouldn’t want that for me either, would you?”

You of course shake your head too, there would be no way you’d let Jay just suck it up and not do everything you could to help him wind back down. You had countless nights of dealing with his nightmares and helping him calm down to show for it, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Jay kisses your forehead, “That’s settled then. Gimme a second.”

In a swift motion, he extricates himself from the warmth of you, rooting around in a drawer for one of your sleep shirts, some fluffy socks and the fluffy dressing gown that hung on the back of the door.

Then he returns to you and begins to put the shirt over your head, helping you get your arms in before pulling your legs carefully to the edge of the bed, making you laugh at the military-like execution of this routine.

“Cosy?” He asks, and you nod, shimmying off the bed to stand. “Cosy.” You confirm, immediately putting your arms through your gown as he holds it open for you, trying the belt securely as the soft material instantly eases the tension in your body.

You watch as Jay grabs his own shirt, some sweatpants and some socks, patiently waiting for him to get dressed too. Then you’re reaching for the hand he holds out to you as you both wander down the hall to the kitchen and lounge.

The sound of the simmering milk on the stove and the smell of the cocoa being stirred in has become one of your most cherished things with Jay, watching him put everything together and take such care of you only ever makes your heart grow fonder.

It was times like this that unquestionably reaffirm that you wanted him to be your husband one day, hopefully, one not too far away.

The lights are dimmed low, the curtains are drawn and the air is warm, you feel safe in your world with Jay, and your nightmare is all but forgotten for now.

With a pour of some caramel and a sprinkle of marshmallows onto the swirl of cream, Jay brings two steaming mugs over and hands one to you, holding the hot bottom of the mug to make sure you can take the cool handle.

“Thank you, honey.” You smile, making sure he’s got room to settle next to you - using your free hand to hold the blanket up so he can climb under.

Settled against Jay’s side, you sip at your hot chocolate, the ever-present weight of his arm around your shoulder lulls you into serenity as you watch the opening scenes of Our Great National Parks.

You lift your head, looking up at Jay, “This is how it should be forever.”, you muse, following up with words that you want him to hear as many times as you can say it. “I love you.”

Jay leans in, knocking his head gently against yours, “Y/N, this can be forever, you don’t have to doubt that. I love you too.”

Taking the last sips of your drink, you set the empty mug on the coffee table, pulling your legs back up to remain in the heat under the comforter, slipping your arms around Jay as you pillow yourself back against him, feeling the vibrations of his gentle laughter - he loved how assertive you could be about your cuddling.

“Good?” He asks, checking in with you one last time.

“Good.” You confirm as stretches of beach and forest are shown in rich colour and wondrous sound - letting your mind wander unafraid, secure in the knowledge that Jay is right where he’s meant to be.

Fin.

tags: @resanoona - @elius-learns-to-write - @dumb-fawkin-bitch - @enchantedblackrose

#one chicago #jay halstead #resa.3kfiestabingo #jay halstead x reader #chicago pd

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secretgamergirl · 7 months

Text

That thing where bigots accuse trans people of things and then when pressed for examples name people who aren't trans.

The other day I had some random youtube video going in the background because I needed background noise and I don't have TV or a radio, and someone got into an aside about one Jimmy Savile. That name rang a bell, because oh yeah, that's that name that TERFs are always incoherently shouting. I had never heard this name in any other context before (this may be surprising to British people but for real nobody in the vast world outside your tiny bigot-ridden island has heard of ANY of your celebrities outside of like, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Monty Python, Mr. Bean, and the leads from Doctor Who in 1980 and 2008, plus some people who got famous on American TV) so I started paying attention, but the person talking was kind of talking around the subject. So then I looked him up on wikipedia, and first of all, yikes, but also yeah this guy doesn't have the slightest thing to do with trans people, so what the hell?

See to hear TERFs tell it, the world was all sunshine and rainbows forever until the ever-moving target of "just a few years ago" when trans people suddenly started existing and you can't trust them, especially around kids, and then, yeah, they incoherently shout "Jimmy Savile!" Every so often one will be in an interview or something and not just shouting slurs at you in an unmoderated forum and there'll be some followup where they mutter about having absolutely no idea and being totally shocked but again like, none of that holds up? Trans people have been around for the entirety of human history and never actually caused any problems of any sort for anyone, this creep people claim to have had no idea he was a creep until after he died in 2011 had songs (plural!) on the radio about his well-known to anyone who ever interacted with him serial sexual assaults on children as far back as the the mid-1980s, and the particular TERF I most often trying to make some sort of connection here absolutely knew I was trans back when he was apparently trying to get into my pants in 2014, well after they I guess started scrubbing this creep's names off buildings and apparently before trans people existed according their weird sliding timeline.

Being, apparently, quite a few years older than all recorded human history, I also remember that bit where before really going all in on "corrupting our innocent children" BS and dropping other weird angles, there was this desperate flailing about where trans women were like, using our vile shapeshifting powers to sneak into locker rooms and punch people or whatever? In particular, I'm recalling the bit where it first became apparent to the last few hold outs that Rowling's an unhinged bigot, and some of those people had the presence of mind to ask her WTF it was she had against trans people anyway. To which Rowling responded with this non-sequitur about her ex-husband being a violent abuser. I remember at the time a lot of people were surprised, because they had no idea that Rowling's ex was trans. But see, people had no idea about that, because it's not at all true. Like the next day someone dug up the ex in question and asked him, "hey, are you actually a woman or something?" and he responded with a rather confused no.

And like, there's SOME logic to responding to the question "why are you making unfounded claims about a whole group of people being violent?" with "oh I know this person who's violent and I hate him," there's just this unspoken "and I feel like that's a pretty universal reaction, so being violent struck me as a good thing to claim about anyone I want people to hate," ditto with the CSA stuff, but it can't just be rational people with any clue what they're talking about like me who see these totally unrelated claims and go "OK wait though. If trans people are guilty of all these horrible evil things, why is it you literally don't seem to be able to name a single one, and keep just bringing up people who aren't trans?" Happens with sports too! They'll shout about trans people being super athletes and then when they can't actually find examples they point at random cis athletes.

I don't really have a larger point here, just, you know, it's a weird freaking tactic, and people don't call it out the way they should. So I guess I'll just awkwardly transition into begging for money again.

Patreon link.

#terfs #baseless accusations #I feel like I should be more specific here but the whole point is inventing an overlap between innocent people and awfulness

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i-m-snek · 1 year

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My goobers ❤️❤️

#scrub python #merauke scrub python #reptiblr #Simalia amethistina #Tali

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atsadi-shenanigans · 6 months

Text

Feeding Alligators: Ch 3 - PANTS!

And chapter three is up! You find pants! And disappoint your ancestors! Also, Astarion is here now, but with the language barrier, all communication is in charades.

On AO3

Whoever thought up camping needs to get their teeth smashed out with a brick. You’re pretty sure Hammurabi chiseled that into a stone somewhere.

Your ragtag squad of weirdos bustles around a clearing they found just off the trail. You’re far enough away from the wreckage of the butthole ship that traces of the stench only occasionally drift over you when the wind shifts. As night falls, your mental states unclenches. The python strangle the panic has eases enough for you to be aware of how your left side hurts. You’ve been laying, unmoving, for a while now.

But it’s your bladder that does it.

You’ve had funks before, hence the medication (and there’s a fun thought: brain zaps out in the middle of nowhere/space). This episode is shorter than most. You can’t tell if that’s because of all the progress you’ve made (yay, therapy!) or because you’re still very much in a survival situation in which a freakout is entirely warranted (yay, therapy).

Mumu glances up when you push yourself to your feet. He’s got a tent with rugs and baubles all set up. Goth Girl is making a little tipi out of sticks, and Pasty is nowhere to be seen.

There’s not going to be any bathrooms around.

Or toilet paper.

Jesus christ.

Then Mumu is crossing over to you, holding out a pair of pants, and suddenly, he’s your favorite person in the world.

He says something. Smiles. Holds them out.

“Thanks,” you say. You’re sure he doesn’t understand English any more than you understand pigeon, but he seems to get the gist of it.

Now, how to pee in the woods.

Which is a ghastly business. Fancy word, “ghastly.” But accurate! The tunic hitches up easily enough, and you have the foresight to set the pants aside until you’ve finished. Unfortunately, you’ve not super athletic (or flexible), and balancing while squatting and trying not to touch anything ends with piss all over your right calf.

“Kill me now.”

There’s got to be water, somewhere? People camp near water?

That water is the ocean—it is salt water you’ve crashed into. You glance around, find nobody, and shuck off the tunic to give yourself a scrub that almost takes off a layer of skin. There’s no snakes in the ocean; at least not this close to shore. Right? Too late. The salt is going to wreak havoc on your hair. But hey, no more slime or soot or blood, so that’s worth something.

One leg into the pants and you wonder when the last time they were washed. They don’t smell bad? Just neutral? But someone running around with archaic weapons and sleeping in archaic tents is not going to have a washing machine, you fear.

You try really hard not to wonder if Mumu goes commando, and where his junk might have rubbed in here if he does.

The fire’s going when you get back. Goth Girl digs around in a pack and produces what looks like thick crackers. She gives you a cool once-over when you ease yourself down nearby. You’re barefoot, toes dusted in drying sand, your thankfully short hair dripping onto the neck of your tunic. Good thing the night breeze is warm.

She hands you a cracker. You take it and thank her. Eating is a small task you can focus on, an easy achievement.

You smell vaguely of seaweed. No one says anything to you. Mumu talks enough for everyone, it seems. When Pasty slinks in, he doesn’t join your little campfire circle, retreating to the edge of the firelight instead and propping himself up against a large rock.

How does one sleep outside, you wonder as seven generations of Cherokee ancestors stare down at you in Disapproval. Which is rich, considering Cherokees lived in towns for a reason. That reason being that they knew camping was bullshit.

You sleep in the dirt, it turns out. Mumu and Goth Girl both pull a tent out of literal nowhere—magic bags? Is that a thing here?? Some kind of space-warping, bigger-on-the-inside alien tech???

Mumu offers you a sleeping bag, of sorts. It smells a little musty. The night seems clear and warm, so you opt to lie on top of it while the lucky two retire to their individual tents. Leaving you and Pasty outside.

He seems to be about as out of sorts as you. Shifts against that rock of his a few times. Frowns at the dirt and grass. Until he meets your gaze.

Mumu had offered him a sleeping bag too, which he’d declined. He cocks his head at you now. Says something you choose to interpret as, “Greetings, fellow dirt napper.”

You nod back.

He’s not laying down. Seems content to sit cross-legged against his slab.

Now that your head is clear(ish), you can actually look around. One moon hangs in the sky. A lot of stars, but you don’t see any of the three whole constellations you know. And there’s no Milky Way.

When you look back down, Pasty is watching you. His hair is a goofy-looking fluff of silver. His eyes catch the firelight just so, like a camera flash, and reflect back a red glow. Super pale, red eyes. An albino elf? (Elf??)

His clothes look fancy. Spirals of embroidered lines curl around his jacket—is it a jacket? Your schooling sucked and you haven’t sent yourself down a “historical fashions” rabbit hole yet.

Except it would be “alien fashion”, wouldn’t it? And how the fuck do aliens, hell, and what you’re pretty sure is a fucking wizard all mesh together?

You rub your face with both hands.

Pasty says something. “Pasty” is probably insensitive, isn’t it?

“Hmm?” you say.

He repeats himself, gestures to the sleeping bag you sit on. You try hard not to stare blankly at him—”you look like such an idiot when you just stand there”—and end up flapping your hands around in a way that makes even less sense.

Pasty—no, Fancy Pants—stands and dusts himself off. Motions to you—lay down, you think, sleep—and presses a palm to his chest. Then waves to the area around you and then up to his eyes.

Lookout, your brain chimes in. Staying up to keep an eye out.

You really should have realized that sooner. A bunch of UFO survivors camped out near the wreckage need to keep watch. God knows what else could be out here or looking for y’all.

(If you’re all abductees, why do these three all speak a shared language?)

No. Fancy Pants is right. You need to sleep.

“Thank you,” you say, though his vague, unwavering smile shows he didn’t understand.

You’re done thinking for today. You’ve been through enough. It’s time to sleep. Slip into nice, safe oblivion where everything is fine and nothing is wrong and you’re not always two seconds away from another breakdown.

About two hours before dawn, the sky opens in a downpour.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #fanfic #it's a goddamn isekai #i'm not sorry #astarion x tav #slow burn #no betas we die like men #feeding alligators

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is-the-snake-video-cute · 1 year

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I wasn't sure if this was the right way to do it, it seems correct but I wanted to make sure.

https://youtube.com/shorts/Ki63xV_aoAI?feature=share

Link for everyone! This video is captioned "sometimes bad sheds happen," and features a ball python being soaked in warm water and then wiped with a washcloth to remove stuck shed.

This isn't terrible. The general advice - a warm-water soak followed by a gentle washcloth scrub - is good, and is good practice when helping a snake after a bad shed. My biggest note is that the tub the snake was placed in really needed something in there for the snake to hold onto! Soaking in an empty tub can be scary because the snake won't have any traction at all, so a rock or washcloth in there can really help the snake feel safer.

Also, while it's true that every keeper will have a bad shed from time to time, they should be something of a wake-up call. Bad sheds in captive snakes are usually caused by husbandry issues, so they should never be treated as something that "just happens." A single bad shed doesn't mean you're a bad snake owner, but it does mean that it's time for some re-evaluation of your husbandry.

#mixed #snake husbandry #ratings #shedding #ball pythons

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blackbirdofasgard · 5 months

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Mobius x reader fic series 👀👀 now wait a minute. From those titles they sound incredible.

I have to ask about this one though lololol because simply an iconic line from Monty Python:

"Only a Flesh Wound"

Yes, I can share a little snippet from that one! So, first a little bit of information about the whole series for context: it's a slow burn, so about the first half of those titles listed are not super romantic, but are building reader's relationship with Mobius. That includes this one, 'Only a Flesh Wound,' which is about how Mobius is injured in the field and reader's reaction to it. It's a pretty short story, so I don't want to give too much away, but here's the beginning. 😁

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Mobius stared at his shirt, discarded over the back of a metal hospital chair. It was usually so pristine and crisp. He was a little shocked to see it stained with his own blood, even though it made perfect sense. He had a hole ripped through his left arm, after all. Everything had been going fine. It'd been just a standard variant scene in Dumas, Texas in the year 1895. The outlaws had set upon them like a wildfire. Nobody saw them coming until it was too late, and Mobius had happened to be standing in just the wrong place when they announced themselves with their first gunshot. Well, not exactly the wrong place; it could have been worse. If he'd been standing a little farther to the left, he may not have lived to analyze another variant scene. The sudden sting of the Insta-Heal closing his wound snapped Mobius out of his thoughts with a start. "Sunuva bitch!" he cursed, squeezing his eyes shut in a wince. "The effects of the healing will pass momentarily," said the med bay attendant who had administered the shot to him. "Yeah, I know…" Mobius groaned, lowering his head. While he'd never needed to have the healing device used on him personally before, he was familiar with them through all the TVA's documentation. He'd read about the process plenty. He'd just never expected it to hurt so much. As the pain faded slightly, he sat up straighter and joked, "Remind me not to let myself get shot again." The other man, who wore a beige set of scrubs labeled M-P-62, didn't even crack a smile. He just raised an eyebrow at him. Mobius let out his breath in a huff. Honestly, his humor was wasted on the medical staff.

#mobius x reader #agent mobius x reader #my stuff #ask

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mariacallous · 4 months

Text

Many times a year, as if on a hidden schedule, some tech person, often venture-capital-adjacent, types out a thought on social media like “The only thing liberal arts majors are good for is scrubbing floors while I punch them” and hits Send. Then the poetry people respond—often a little late, in need of haircuts—with earnest arguments about the value of art.

I am an English major to death. (You know us not by what we’ve read but by what we are ashamed not to have read.) But I learned years ago that there’s no benefit in joining this debate. It never resolves. The scientist-novelist C. P. Snow went after the subject in 1959 in a lecture called “The Two Cultures,” in which he criticized British society for favoring Shakespeare over Newton. Snow gets cited a lot. I have always found him unreadable, which, yes, embarrasses me but also makes me wonder whether perhaps the humanities had a point.

By the time I went to college, in the mixtape days, the Two Cultures debate had migrated to corkboards. In the liberal arts building, people tacked up pro-humanities essays they had snipped out of magazines. A hot Saturday night for me was to go and read them. Other people were trying drugs. I found the essays perplexing. I got the gist, but why would one need to defend something as urgent and essential as the humanities? Then again, across the street in the engineering building, I remember seeing bathroom graffiti that read “The value of a liberal arts degree,” with an arrow pointing to the toilet paper. I was in the engineering building because they had Silicon Graphics workstations.

Wandering between these worlds, I began to realize I was that most horrifying of things: interdisciplinary. At a time when computers were still sequestered in labs, the idea that an English major should learn to code was seen as wasteful, bordering on abusive—like teaching a monkey to smoke. How could one construct programs when one was supposed to be deconstructing texts? Yet my heart told me: All disciplines are one! We should all be in the same giant building. Advisers counseled me to keep this exceptionally quiet. Choose a major, they said. Minor in something odd if you must. But why were we even here, then? Weren’t we all—ceramic engineers and women’s studies alike—rowing together into the noosphere? No, I was told. We are not. Go to your work-study job calling alumni for donations.

So I got my degree, and off I went to live an interdisciplinary life at the intersection of liberal arts and technology, and I’m still at it, just as the people trashing the humanities are at it too. But I have come to understand my advisers. They were right to warn me off.

Because humans are primates and disciplines are our territories. A programmer sneers at the white space in Python, a sociologist rolls their eyes at a geographer, a physicist stares at the ceiling while an undergraduate, high off internet forums, explains that Buddhism anticipated quantum theory. They, we, are patrolling the borders, deciding what belongs inside, what does not. And this same battle of the disciplines, everlasting, ongoing, eternal, and exhausting, defines the internet. Is blogging journalism? Is fan fiction “real” writing? Can video games be art? (The answer is always: Of course, but not always. No one cares for that answer.)

When stuff gets out of hand, we don’t open disciplinary borders. We craft new disciplines: digital humanities, human geography, and yes, computer science (note that “science” glued to the end, to differentiate it from mere “engineering”). In time, these great new territories get their own boundaries, their own defenders. The interdisciplinarian is essentially an exile. Someone who respects no borders enjoys no citizenship.

You could argue that for all the talk of the university as an “intellectual commons,” it is actually an institution intended to preserve a kind of permanent détente between the disciplines—a place where you can bring French literature professors together with metallurgists and bind them with salaries so that they might not kill each other. The quad as intellectual DMZ. But those bonds are breaking down. Universities are casting disciplines to the wind. Whole departments are shuttering. The snazzy natatorium stays open, French literature goes away. And then the VC types get on Twitter, or X, or whatever, to tell us that poetry is useless. The losses are real.

And so what, really? Well, what I mourn is not a particular program at a college I never visited but the sense of institutions being in balance. I’ve spent most of my life wanting desperately for institutions to be disrupted, and now I find myself entering the second half of my existence (if I’m lucky) absolutely craving that stability. The delicate détente is vanishing, that sense of having options. A shorter course catalog is an absolute sign of a society in decline.

But also, we’re cutting off the very future that the tech industry promises us is coming. If the current narrative holds—if AI is victorious—well, liberal arts types will be ascendant. Because rather than having to learn abstruse, ancient systems of rules and syntaxes (mathematical notation, C++, Perl) in order to think higher thoughts, we will be engaged with our infinitely patient AI tutors/servants like Greek princelings, prompting them to write code for us, make spreadsheets for us, perform first-order analysis of rigid structures for us, craft Horn clauses for us.

I see what you nerds have done with AI image-creation software so far. Look at Midjourney’s “Best of” page. If you don’t know a lot about art but you know what you like, and what you like is large-breasted elf maidens, you are entering the best possible future. You might think, Hey, that’s what the market demands. But humans get bored with everything. We’re just about done with Ant-Man movies.

The winners will be the ones who can get the computer to move things along the most quickly, generate the new fashions and fads, turn that into money, and go to the next thing. If the computers are capable of understanding us, and will do our bidding, and enable us to be more creative, then the people in our fields—yes, maybe even the poets—will have an edge. Don’t blame us. You made the bots.

Perhaps this is why they lash out, so strangely—a fear of the grip slipping, the sense that all the abstruse and arcane knowledge gathered about large language models, neural nets, blockchains, and markets might be erased. Will be erased. At least art goes for the long game, you know? Poems are many things, and often lousy, but they are not meant to be disposable, nor do they require a particular operating system to work.

All you have to do is look at a tree—any tree will do—to see how badly our disciplines serve us. Evolutionary theory, botany, geography, physics, hydrology, countless poems, paintings, essays, and stories—all trying to make sense of the tree. We need them all, the whole fragile, interdependent ecosystem. No one has got it right yet.

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