#also sorry for this taking so long to reply to

[breadwithpoprocks-fandom]

additions;

@thekiwislayer : and she did that 💅

@thisvampireisaloser : Justinia and Cassandra are Tethras novel stans confirmed

@sic-sempervirens :

Said religious military branch later makes you choose between a hospital and a gym. No one ever said these people were qualified

#pretty accurate depiction of a nonprofit tbh

replies;

@silhalei : I call bull. Justinia was 100% going to lead the Inquisition and they intended to execute Hawke or interrogate them to find Anders (if he lived).

tags;

@sluttyquarentinetheory (op) : #in conclusion divine justinia approved of anders actions

@annalyticall : #when cassandra told me she was actually looking for hawke to be inquisitor i was like...#my anders-romanced blood mage hawke? that hawke?

@dragonjade : #She should have realized she was as nuts as them by the end of the game

@phvnthom : #put like this....... it really makes no fucking sense

@umbreix : #dragon age sure is a series

@candiedcatnip : #and was then surprised to learn varric blatantly lied to her#the most whack ass plan the fantasy pope couldve dreamed up

@twist-shout-and-shells : #this gets even funnier if hawke romanced anders#and was a mage himself#like wtf#also#a religious military btanch whose commander is cullen

@anneisalwaysangry : #well when you put it like that#justinia looking at the smoldering ruins of the kirkwall chantry#and going 'lmao poggers hey hawke wanna lead my army?'

@monsterfkr : #and then all she did was make *subtle* *suggestions* that he finish his slowburn fanfic about Aveline#she bullied him so hard but i love her so

@thirstyforred : #love how with the passage of time we get more takes about how much dai sucked

@faith-less-one : #you're not wrong#damn#justinia was a badass#justinia says mage rights

@sweetladyjustice : #also she wanted the Scoop on the next installment of Hard in Hightown#the dumb little details in these games are just the best

@nightowlqueen : #a+ plan everyone great work

@nelkenbabe : #you can say a lot of things about cassandra#but not that she is wise like i'm sorry but--#cassandra critical

@gaychocolatehomicide : #thats#thats a good point#I'd bet Justinia knew about Cassandra's thing for swords and shields#she did that on purpose

@divorcedwife : #justinia simply had a sense for main character syndrome

@wifeblade : #i like to think cassandra decided to recruit hawke on her own because#i think its funny if she just has that poor judgement#in my heart also because in inquisition she volunteers to be the pope despite not wanting to and she is the worst at the job by far#i think she just really makes poor judgements and i LOVE her for it. my fail queen

@lithosaurus : #pope francis sends me to recruit tamora piece into a militant cult- as its leaders

@rhyske : #with how crazy life is for hawke#leading a religious branch is just par for the course#why not

@doorianpavus : #please everyday cass just wakes up and has to cope

@rinplaysdragonage : #yeah… I love Cassandra but thinking things through is not her strong point

@vivalasthedas : #hawkes too busy blowing up more chuurchs cause t's very sexy

@scuttlebuggery : #and then hawke when they actually show up is just like#'damn inky i'm glad as hell they found you first lmao ✌️'

@antiqua-lugar : #the divine makes sound all of hawke's plans brilliant and foolproof

@psqqa : #it be like that sometimes

@onthespiral : #and the author just spends however long telling her about their drinking games and sexcapades instead

@urlbending : #the favorite author writes both noir detective stories and porn#depending on the day

@flame2ashes : #Meanwhile the Warden is somewhere sitting on a beach chair in full armor drinking a margarita like ''Damn. Good luck tho''

@nonbinarywardenamell : #cassandra is about as good at interrogation as hawke would be at leading the Inquisition

@theuniceon : #vacation for Cassandra

@cajunroe : #a lesbian on a mission cannot be stopped

@maybesteverogers : #man i know nothing about dragon age but it sounds like cassandra was absolutely set up to fail#how would this ever have worked as intended

@honbunnie : #tbf Cassandra didn’t know that he was her favorite author

@metronomeblue : #divine justinia was such a funny character#like from what I’ve heard she’s behind Wynn’s publicizing that tranquility can be reversed#she was like hey Leliana I know you’re having a goth moment but don’t become a merciless killer#AND she was like oh hey. can you find Hawke. do whatever#dragon age

@justice-spirit-kin : #they were desperate also I think the Pope just wanted Varrics autograph on his shitty bodice ripper

@miraculan-draws : #cassandra is dumb as a box of rocks i have said it this many times#dumb jock energy

@verchielmarch : #if hawke was stuck in that neutered game where you cant even really be mean or express uncomfortability w the chantry...#blows up the chantry pt 2 electric boogaloo no anders needed

@folditdouble : #and the first choice was someone who may or may not have defiled a sacred relic

@caffeinosis : #the idea of hawke leading the inq is just laughable no matter how much damage control varric has done

@orion-the-onion : #to be fair if the conclave didn't get blown I'm pretty sure they wouldn't have cared how willing hawke is

Cassandra was literally sent by The Pope to interrogate her favorite author in an attempt to find a dude who may or may not have helped blow up a church. In the vague hope that they would willingly lead a religious military branch.

[sereia4skz]

Hi Yaya!! I hope you're not too busy with many requests and I hope you're okay! I wanted to ask for something with poly!skz where they all go to a festival of some sort and perhaps they end up walking too much and reader (who has some back problems), ends up being barely able to walk, and the guys are, worried but also help them out? I don't know how much sense this makes, if this is too detailed im sorry! Feel free to delete this, no worries!

drabble | we got you

pairing: poly!straykids x reader

genre: comfort

warnings: back problems magggi

word count: ~600

masterlist: A-Side (texts) | B-Side (written)

The festival had seemed like the perfect idea. Colorful lights, late spring air, music and laughter echoing between vendor booths. You were surrounded by the boys, arms bumping, hands held, too many snacks being passed around, Jeongin nearly choking on cotton candy after Hyunjin made him laugh too hard.

It was perfect. At first.

But you’d been walking for nearly four hours now. The cobblestone paths and uneven terrain of the fairground were doing no favors for your back. You’d tried to keep pace, tried to ignore the slowly tightening ache that always crept up your spine when you pushed too far.

Now, each step feels heavier. Your lower back burns. You're trying to stay in the conversation, to laugh at Changbin’s joke about Minho’s tragic attempts at the ring toss, but your smile falters as your body protests louder.

It’s Felix who notices first. You didn’t even realize you’d slowed until his hand gently brushes your arm. His brow furrows when he catches the way you’re favoring one leg, your weight shifting oddly.

“Hey, love,” he says softly, leaning closer so the others don’t hear just yet. “You hurting?”

You hesitate. But he sees right through it, because he knows. Because he’s been there too, wincing after too long in a chair, groaning about muscle tension that won’t quit. His voice lowers even more.

“Your back?”

You nod. It’s barely noticeable, but his expression softens immediately.

“Okay. I got you.” He turns around and gestures discreetly for the others. One by one, they slow down and fall into step near you and Felix.

“What’s going on?” Chan asks, and you can tell he already knows something’s wrong.

Felix answers for you. “Her back’s flaring up. It’s getting bad.”

You’re quick to shake your head. “I didn’t wanna ruin anything. We’re having fun, I just-”

“Sweetheart,” Minho says, and the word alone makes you pause, “you don’t have to push through pain to be with us. That’s not how this works.”

“I’m fine, really-”

“No, you're hurting,” Chan says, his voice gentle but firm. “That matters. You matter. Come here.”

Before you can argue again, Seungmin’s already pulling off his flannel to lay over Changbin’s arms, who’s crouched down in front of you.

“Hop on,” Changbin grins. “Piggyback time. We’ll switch off when I get tired.”

“Guys, no, it’s too much,”

“It’s really not,” Hyunjin chimes in, brushing hair from your face. “You’d do it for any of us.”

“Felix literally made us carry him halfway through Lotte World last year,” Jeongin says with a smirk. “We owe you.”

Felix gasps, clearly offended. “That was different, I had a flare-up and you dropped me!”

“You kissed my neck!” Jeongin defends himself, while Han just cackles behind him.

Laughter bubbles up from your chest despite the ache. You blink rapidly, eyes stinging for a reason that has nothing to do with pain.

“You guys are ridiculous,” you murmur.

“We’re yours,” Chan replies, and that silences the chaos for a heartbeat.

“You can let us take care of you,” Felix adds. “You’re not weak for needing help. You’re strong for letting us love all of you.”

And just like that, you melt.

Changbin carries you first. His arms are solid, his teasing gentle as he makes exaggerated sound effects with every step to get you to laugh. Hyunjin takes over next, spinning in slow circles when the line for food stalls gets too long. When it’s Chan's turn, he presses his cheek against your shoulder and whispers how proud he is of you for speaking up, even if you didn’t say a word.

Eventually, you end up nestled on a bench between Seungmin and Chan while the others grab snacks and warm drinks. Felix stays next to you, knees touching, his hand squeezing yours every so often.

Your back still aches. But it’s different now. Softer. More manageable.

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght @inishij @bangchanspineapple @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @gnabsss

taglist pt2: @zayn-210 @wolfhallows4 @katsukis1wife @sammhisphere

[afroslacks]

My long list of requests for either or both smokestack twins

- stubborn reader

-quiet reader who defends herself

-reader who moves back from school

- recent times model who gets spoiled by one or both of them

-baker reader who made sweets for their mom before she passed

- younger reader who depends on one or both since her papa has passed

All requests could have smut or whatever you want to add thank youuuuu🩷

a/n: I don't think I've ever written for Stack. I hope I did a good job! Also, I like this so much I MIGHT make it into a sequel or series. idk anyways bye!

Model! reader x Sugar Daddy! Stack "Elias" Moore

You’re a top model mainly based in New York City, but you don’t mind traveling for a check. The bare minimum you’ll work for is $200,000, nothing lower. You’ve been featured in many high-profile magazines such as Vogue, Marie Claire, Harper’s Bazaar, and ID magazine, just to name a few.

Modeling has been your passion since the age of eighteen. Immediately after you graduated high school, you jumped headfirst into the career path, making a name for yourself. Currently, you’re on your treadmill in the penthouse gym when you receive a call from your manager, Giselle. The treadmill slows down to a light jog as your finger moves to answer the phone. “Hello gorgeous, how are you?” she asks with a chipper tone in her voice.

Giselle has always been willing to do whatever it took to get you in the door; she has done her best to propel your career forward. She understands especially how much harder it is for you to succeed as a Black model in this very white, Eurocentric, and nepotistic industry. Most of the time you have to know someone to make it in the door, and she was your somebody. Lightly panting, “I’m alright, just finishing a workout. What is the reason for your call?” The sound of a door closing could be heard from the other side of the door. A deep sigh escapes her lips. “You’ve got a job,” she confesses, but you know she’s holding something back, so you stop the treadmill and stand still. “Okay, what’s the job?” you push, wanting her to spit it out already. “Your special gentleman caller.” Giselle replies.

Your heart suddenly picks up at the mention of your special code name that you both use when referring to your secret life. Your manager has been your confidante regarding your sugar daddy situation, not because you wanted her to, but because the man made himself known. The man's name is Stack. After Giselle called one too many times when you were together, he got so sick of it that he called up an associate of his to give me access to your phone. Because he’ll be damned if he’s someone’s fool.

Recently you’ve been avoiding him because you’re working non-stop. The replies to his text messages don’t stop; it’s just when he mentions seeing you that things get tense when you decline. You curse before ordering Giselle. “Tell him I’m busy; he’ll understand,” hoping that’ll be the end of it. A slightly nervous chuckle can be heard. “Baby girl, I’ve tried; he isn’t taking no for an answer. He offered $12,000,000, and he said if you don’t, he’ll just clear your schedule anyway. I’m sorry.” She says he pisses you off because he can be crazy and demanding, like he doesn’t have a business to run. But always make time to get his dose of you, unfortunately. “This is some bullshit...when does he want to meet?” you ask, making your way out of the gym and going towards the elevator. “He said in two hours.” You shake your head, leaning against the wall, not ready to face him again. “Alright, I’ll be there. Thank you, Giselle.” Giselle ends the call with “I’ll let him know. Be safe and let me know if you need me, much love,” and then you hang up the phone. “Clingy ass bitch” slips out before you can stop yourself.

Two hours later you showed up, got dressed, and put on his favorite perfume. Stack texts your phone before you can walk out the door, keys in hand.

Leave the keys at home; you’re getting picked up.

Stack that. It's unnecessary; I can drive.

Don’t argue with me like you aren’t already in trouble for leaving me dry for the past two weeks.

I have to work, and you know that.

You don’t have to work, and I told you that.

I don’t mind taking care of you at all.

I don’t want to live that way; it’s not safe for me.

Well, now you’re going to live like this. Which is making time to come see me every week since you’re so damn busy. Now get downstairs; the driver is waiting.

At his attitude, your face twists into a scowl. “Okay, crybaby ass,” to nobody in particular after getting downstairs his usual driver Chancy is standing outside when he sees your familiar face; he smiles. “Hello, Miss, how have you been?” he greets, stepping closer to pull you into a fatherly hug.

All of Stack’s personal staff know exactly who you are; that’s how deep you are in with him. Your photos, whether magazine or personal, are hung up on his walls, your face is on his phone, and your name is on your accounts.

Stack will even show up to shows sitting in the front row just to see his pretty baby. “I’ve been hanging in there, Chancy.” After stepping back from one another, Chancy confesses, “He’s missed you like a madman; it’s been hard to ignore.” We staff members have done our best, but he really just wanted to see you.” You bite your lip as your mind races as you imagine what his staff members had to go through, possibly “Don’t make that face. He wasn’t crazy or mean; he was just not his usually loud self. He was full and short, that’s all.” Chancy says soothing your worries “Now let’s go; we can’t keep him waiting.”

The car ride was thirty minutes due to the New York City traffic, but once you arrived, you stared at the tall building, preparing yourself for the inevitable reunion. “Wish me luck,” and then you step out of the car and make your way upstairs.

As you ride on the elevator and look at your reflection, you wonder if it's even worth it anymore. What you had wasn’t serious when you started, but as you continued, it became a lot for you to maintain. It's difficult to focus on your career and also meet Stack's needs.

Those thoughts before and after, though, as the doors slide open, legs carry themselves down the hall until you make it to his place and you knock on the door. “Come in,” you hear him say, and the door is pushed open to be greeted with the sight for sore eyes. He sits there with his waves, earrings, cream-colored suit, and some dark liquor in his hand. “Look who it is,” the first thing that comes to mind when he sees you. “Finally got you to put a pause on work and come and see little old me.” He walks closer, and your heart beats fast because no matter how long it’s It's been just the sight of seeing him that makes you excited.

“Stack, I’ve told you I have to work, baby,” you explain, reaching out to place your manicured hands on his suit-covered chest, hoping to ease his anger, but he shakes his head, not liking the sound of your words. “Nuh-uh, baby, you come here when Daddy calls,” before taking another sip of his drink. You lean your forehead against his. “Stack, you have to respect that I’m my own woman, but I’ll always communicate with you.” You promise, holding his gaze as he looks at you with those beautiful brown eyes.

His eyes never stop following you. “We’ll discuss that later. Now that I’ve got you, your time is mine. Now go into the bedroom and go model the clothes I bought. Give me a show, baby,” he orders before breaking out of your hold. You stare at him for a moment before walking towards the bedroom.

“Don’t keep me waiting. I want to see every piece.” After throwing on most of the clothes, you spot a separate bag filled with lingerie. Your hand reaches in to pull out a lacy red set and a pair of red bottoms to match. Once you put it on, you make your way into the living room to see Stack had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

“Come here,” the words slip out of your lips. You slowly walk over to him before standing in front of him. Stack’s hand reaches for the thong, pulling on the material to test the stretch.

“That’s good, so these might not rip the next time I want to fuck you.” Both hands then slide up to the cups, breast massage them through the cups as you slowly feel yourself getting wet. “Look at you, getting wet already,” he cockily observes and chuckles at your flustered state with the sudden heat rising in your face.

“I shouldn’t even be touching you right now since you were too busy to see me.” His hands start roughly squeezing your breast, causing a moan to slip through your lips. “Elias, please,” you beg softly. “Nah, don’t use my name now,” he taunts, enjoying your desperate state. His large hand then slides up to your neck, getting a firm grip on your throat, pulling you closer. “Now say you’re going to make time for me whenever I say,” he orders. Your lips press together at the refusal to say the words. He sits there, waiting for you to come to your senses, but you decide to be bold.

His other hand slides into your panties; his index and middle fingers find the entrance of your lips, slowly sliding in, cursing pants to escape your lips as you close your eyes in bliss. His fingers move, curling them inside your tight heat as he watches you enjoy yourself. His finger then finds your sweet spot. “Oh!” you exclaim, trying to stay standing with your wobbly legs.

“Say it,” he orders again, knowing that you’re getting close. Your moans fill the living room as your hands find his broad shoulder to brace yourself so you won't fall.

His fingers then separate for a second just to fit your pearl between the two, and he continues his movement, being mindful of your center. “You gonna say it, or I’m not gonna let you come?” moans escape your lips in protest, not wanting the pleasure to stop.

Your legs continue to wobble as they start to give out. His hand escapes your panties before he pulls you onto his knee, then he slides right back in. As your stomach starts to get tighter and you get close, he stops. “Elias!” you exclaim in frustration. He then pulls you back so you’ll make eye contact. “Girl, you better say it like you mean it.” For the last time, he reinserts his fingers, resuming his motion as you get closer again. “I—” you are cut off by a moan. “You what? Keep talking,” he orders, looking at you with a hard glare. “I promise when you call, I’ll be there.” You rush out, trying to chase your high, and then you start to come. “You better,” the words are said in your ear as you come down.

[delulujuls]

head down and focus | mv33, gp

hi, long time no see since adult life is trying to crush me completely BUT i am not giving it up

here comes something intense, well, maybe this part is not as intense as the second one (because yes, there will be two parts of it because this bitch long as hell i got a bit carried away lol)

anyway, i guess this one is just for the real connoisseurs and if you dont like the idea of what i cooked here, just do it for yourself baby and scroll away

anyway, bon appetit! (and @subaru-copilot made those gifs btw)

summary: max and reader are secretly dating but it's nothing what an sharp eye of a race engineer couldn't spot. so if GP already got that something is going on between them, then why not invite him to their bedroom?

pairing: max verstappen x fem!red bull driver x gianpiero lambiase

warnings: s3x scene (in here just max x reader) nothing super explained though, some swearing i don't know how many times i used 'fuck' in here im sorry, mentions of voyeurism, is GP calling Max a good boy should have a trigger warning? idk

It started as a joke.

An innocent one, thrown out after one of the races to ease the tension.

After a while, the topic resurfaced—again as a joke—but this time it didn’t leave either Max or Y/N’s minds as quickly as it had before.

When the subject came up a third time, it was clear it had stopped being a joke. Even though they both wanted it to remain one.

"Do you think he leads like that during sex too?"

The question came at the least expected moment. Max was in the middle of putting on a condom, and Y/N, cheeks flushed, lay beneath him.

Max furrowed his brow at her question.

"Who?"

"GP," she answered, lifting her gaze to his face. Max’s cheeks were also tinged with red, his lips slightly swollen from kissing, and his tousled hair fell over his forehead.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Max shook his head in disbelief, adjusting the condom and moving a little closer to her. He wetted his fingers and ran them along her already soaked pussy. It wasn’t necessary—she was wet enough to take him comfortably.

"Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it too," she said, not breaking eye contact, partly to gauge his reaction. Max slid into her without a word, slightly more forcefully than he had intended, irritated by the remark. She hissed, sucking in air through her teeth and gripping the sheets with clenched fists. Max clearly hadn’t been as gentle as he’d planned, so he quickly braced himself on either side of her head and leaned down to kiss her. He moved his hips slowly, drawing out long, soft moans from her.

"Maybe I have thought about it," he said after a moment, towering over her and slowly letting her adjust to his size. It had been quite a while since they last had sex, and Max didn’t want to spend this moment thinking about his race engineer. "Doesn’t change the fact this isn’t the right time for that conversation."

"I’m just curious," she replied, pulling him closer and kissing his collarbone. Judging by Max’s reaction, she figured maybe she had gone too far, even if she had meant it jokingly. She didn’t want to piss him off.

"Hey, it’s okay," he assured her when he noticed her slightly sheepish expression. He touched her cheek and lightly rubbed it with his thumb. "And GP definitely seems like the type who leads during sex. No doubt."

She smiled, glad her stupid comment hadn’t ruined the mood. She grabbed Max’s cheeks and pulled him into a long, wonderfully messy kiss.

Their sex was so good it occupied their thoughts for days. But a few days passed, and duty called—meaning it was time to focus on racing and pretend they weren’t sleeping with a teammate.

Max and Y/N exchanged one last, silent smile—though both would have rather shared a kiss. But surrounded by mechanics and paddock staff, that smile had to do, as they each walked off to their respective parts of the garage.

Max returned every greeting with a smile. Nothing unusual there—both he and Y/N were well-liked. Contrary to the rumors and accusations, Red Bull had become a very tight-knit organization. Or, as the PR people said, they were simply one big family. Disfunctional sometimes, but still a family.

"Hey there, champ," Gianpiero smiled up at Max from behind his tablet. "Earlier than usual."

"Do you think he leads like that during sex too?"

The thought hit Max so hard, it felt like walking full speed into a glass door.

It took him about one and a half seconds longer than usual to pull himself together. He hoped GP hadn’t noticed.

"Morning’s quieter than usual," he replied, trying to maintain his composure. "Media folks must be stuck in traffic, so I figured I’d do something useful."

The man chuckled, swiping across his tablet screen, preparing to go over the latest updates with Max. Verstappen, if he could, would’ve high-fived himself. "Everything’s fine," he told himself as he set down his backpack and sat beside him. "Just act like nothing’s happening."

And really, if something is weird, pretending it’s normal often makes it feel that way.

Max listened intently as Gianpiero explained small changes made to the car and how they would suit the track’s specifications. Max was usually a focused student, listened a lot, and gave feedback. GP always made sure to be as clear and understandable as possible, enjoying it when things clicked.

This time, GP had again prepared everything excellently—but Max seemed to be in his own world, not quite the focused student today. Walking into the garage, he’d felt sharp and ready to prepare for the race. But seeing Gianpiero—and more than that, hearing his voice—completely knocked him out of rhythm.

How absurd was it to sexualize your race engineer? And more absurdly—why couldn’t he stop?

"Do you think he leads like that during sex too?"

"You’re not focused, Max," Gianpiero’s voice pulled him out of his daze. He had, indeed, drifted off in the most pathetic way.

"Sorry," Max quickly shook his head and leaned in closer. The scent of GP’s cologne enveloped him even more. Fuck, did he always smell like that? "I’m listening, I’m listening."

"Head down and focus," his voice wasn’t angry—wasn’t even annoyed. GP knew emotions had no place in engineering. He simply clicked back a few slides and resumed the topic he suspected Max had mentally wandered away from.

It wasn’t much easier now.

"Head down and focus," echoed in Max’s head like a tennis ball in an empty court. He gnawed the inside of his lip, eyes fixed on the notes, and whenever GP looked his way, Max nodded to signal understanding.

"Head down and focus"— fuck’s sake. Max grabbed his water bottle and took a sip, his mouth suddenly dry. "Head down and focus," he imagined Gianpiero standing over him while he lay between Y/N’s thighs, trying to get her off with his mouth.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

"We wanna get this nicely done, aren’t we? So head down and focus, Max. You can do this."

Max took another sip, squeezing the bottle a little too hard, making it crackle.

GP just shot him a mildly amused look, and Max quickly set the bottle aside. What he really needed to cool off wasn’t water—it was a bath in a tub of ice.

The situation didn’t improve when Y/N strolled into his side of the garage, pretending to casually check on things.

"Hi, GP," she smiled at him, leaning against the station where he and Max were sitting. "New haircut?"

Gianpiero laughed at her words, taking the jab in good humor. His relationships with both Max and Y/N were strong, relaxed, and full of such teasing.

"I really appreciate you noticing," he said theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest, making her giggle. She squeezed his arm warmly, wished them a productive day, and returned to her tasks.

"That girl," GP shook his head with a smile, swiping his stylus across the tablet.

"Such a minx, isn’t she?" Max watched her go.

"In that respect, you two are a perfect match," Gianpiero admitted, looking up from his tablet. When he did, Max quickly averted his gaze. But GP was much more observant than people gave him credit for—certainly more than Max or Y/N realized. Then again, he was a race engineer—being observant was practically his job description.

Max and Y/N did a fantastic job maintaining professionalism—so good, in fact, that probably no one, aside from Gianpiero, suspected anything was going on between them.

No one likely suspected either that Max wasn’t sleeping in his own hotel room on race weekends—like tonight, for instance.

"You seriously thought about that?" Max asked out of nowhere while they lay on the girl's bed. She was reviewing race notes; he was scrolling through social media. At some point, though, his finger stopped, and his thoughts—off the leash—wandered straight to Gianpiero.

"Thought about what?" she replied, not looking up from her pages.

"Please don’t make me say it," Max locked his phone and set it aside, leaning back. The girl looked at him, and he looked back, trying to make it obvious what he meant.

"I may be a great driver, but I still can’t read minds," she said, and Max sighed in resignation.

"I mean GP."

"My God, Max Emilian," she cut him off before he could continue, covering her face with her hands. "You’re seriously making this weird."

"I wasn’t the one who brought it up at the worst possible moment," he defended himself. "I’ve never thought about Gianpiero during sex!"

"Never?" she raised a brow, giving him a yeah-right look. "Seriously, never?"

"Give me one rational reason why I would," he said, looking right at her. Sure, GP had never crossed his mind during sex—Max had been too focused on more relevant things. But now? Now, if he went down on her, he couldn’t help but imagine GP standing over him, saying in that familiar radio voice, "Head down and focus."

"I mean, he’s attractive," she admitted. "You can’t tell me he’s not."

Max bit the inside of his cheek. He’d be lying if he said otherwise. GP looked good, always smelled good, and somehow managed to look great even after sleeping two hours the whole race weekend. Plus, he was insanely smart—which was sexy as hell on its own. And, fuck’s sake, that voice.

"He’s married," Max said, looking back at her. She just shrugged.

"So what? I’m just saying he’s handsome. And I'm saying that respectfully."

It was absurd. So absurd that Max started laughing under his breath. He rubbed his face with his hands and sighed. "I won’t be able to do the next race with him. I already couldn’t focus today on what he was saying to me."

"I'm impressed you managed as long as you did," she laughed, putting her notes aside. She knew there was no point continuing to study.

Of course, it’s not like they hadn’t had a conversation about who on the team they wouldn’t sleep with. Hell, who in the entire paddock they wouldn’t sleep with. Anyone who claimed they’d never thought about those things was lying. You spend such an obscene amount of time around these people that those thoughts pop into your head whether you want them to or not. Like, come on now.

They spent the evening having such ridiculous conversations that if someone had put a glass to the door and eavesdropped, they would’ve assumed a pair of teenagers were inside, just discovering what sex was. That level of ridiculous. So much so that Max, head down and cap pulled lower over his eyes than usual, walked into the garage the next morning.

Of course, the center of attention was none other than Gianpiero. And both of them, slightly ashamed—because GP definitely didn’t deserve to be sexualized like that—came to the conclusion that Max could fuck Y/N to the sound of his instructions.

The night passed, and the next day there was no escaping Gianpiero; they had a full day of work ahead of them.

"Hey," the man turned around after hearing the commotion behind him, caused by none other than Max entering the garage. The younger man smiled at him briefly and patted him on the back, but couldn’t get a single word out. Which was, of course, more than embarrassing.

"Everything okay, Max?" GP asked, after a moment of casting sidelong glances in the driver’s direction, now fully convinced something was wrong. "First race nerves? Isn’t it a little late for that, champ?"

He said it playfully, trying to lighten the mood. Max was already sitting in the car, ready to begin the practice session, staring off into space. When he heard the engineer’s voice, he sighed and shook his head. You’re acting like an idiot, Max, he thought. Get it together. Don’t make it weird.

"Everything’s fine," he nodded and looked down, adjusting the straps on his gloves. "I just want to get started already."

"Impatient boy," Max could hear the smile in his voice as the words came through his headset. Fuck you, GP. Fuck you so fucking much.

Max looked up toward Red Bull’s pit wall and saw GP standing with a slight smile, leaning back against the data monitors, swiping across his tablet—having no idea what he was capable of doing just by existing, completely unaware of it.

Soon after, the countdown ended and the cars slowly began to leave their garages, eager to get in some solid laps.

"Any feedback on the car, Max?" GP asked, as the Dutchman hadn’t said a word over halfway into the session. "Let me know how we managed the balance problems, please."

"Everything’s fine," Max said curtly, tightening his grip on the steering wheel as he took a corner more aggressively than planned. "Fuck, I mean—it's, uh, it’s fine."

"Copy that."

By the time the first practice session ended, Max felt like he’d driven the race of his life. He climbed out of the car, pulled off his helmet and balaclava, and wiped his face with his hands. But before he could take out his earpieces, Gianpiero’s voice came through again.

"Lunch together?" The Dutchman was just about to remove the earpiece but looked over and saw the man still sitting at the pit wall, now watching him intently. Fuck. "I think we need to talk, right?"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Max somehow managed to maintain eye contact and just nodded. The man smiled and turned back to his workstation, resuming his duties for a moment. Max, in that instant, wished GP would just forget the lunch and focus on work—his stomach twisted at the mere thought of the conversation ahead.

The Dutchman, of course, didn’t consider that Gianpiero, not just his race engineer but also a friend, might actually be worried about the strange behavior Max had been displaying for several days. Max felt like every filthy thought that had passed through his head in the last 48 hours was written all over his face, and GP—of course—would have no trouble reading it.

Shortly after the first practice session ended, Max headed to the canteen. He dragged his feet endlessly, but finally pulled himself together after an internal motivational speech—basically just swearing at himself to stop being a pussy—and appeared in the small Red Bull cafeteria. Gianpiero was sitting at a table in the corner by the window, eating lunch and scrolling through his phone.

"Sorry I’m late," he mumbled, placing the pasta and chicken salad on the table, pulling out a chair, and sitting down.

"No worries," GP smiled at him warmly. Fucking hell. This man was born without the part of the brain responsible for anger and negative emotions.

At first, they sat in silence for a while. Then, word by word, a loose conversation developed about the previous session, the car, and the collected data. Max managed to relax—he finally reminded himself that hey, it’s just GP. The person who knows everything about him—well, almost everything—who knows him like the back of his hand and who always wants the best for him. Everything is always fine when GP has his eye on it. Everything is just fine.

"Well, I wouldn't want this to be uncomfortable for you, so I’ll skip the lame small talk and just say I know," Gianpiero spoke up after a moment of silence, when his plate was empty and his coffee was nearly finished. He raised his eyes and looked at Max’s face, which didn’t flinch even a millimeter. He felt like his heart stopped for two full seconds.

Fuck.

"Know what, exactly?" Max twisted open a bottle of water and leaned back in his chair, taking a few sips. Gianpiero could tell he was tense. His body language tried to say otherwise, but there was no escaping it.

The man was about to speak when Y/N and Hannah walked into the buffet, deeply engaged in what he assumed was a lively conversation about the recent track events. He caught the girl's gaze and gave her a smile, which she returned. Still, her internal reaction was probably no different than what was consuming Max at that moment.

Fucking hell.

"That there’s more going on between you than just professional collaboration," he replied, watching them as they left the buffet with coffee cups and food containers. Max followed his gaze and saw only the familiar hair color and well-known silhouette still dressed in a racing suit as she walked out the door.

Max blinked several times. It took him a moment to process the words. Act cool. Act. Cool.

He knew there was no point in hiding the truth. He suspected that sooner or later people would start guessing. But that someone would be GP—his safe harbor—was a surprise. The last person who would judge him or throw unpleasant remarks.

The man looked back at him, waiting for him to respond. He was smiling slightly, sitting relaxed. Honestly, he had hoped to hear something more pleasant than the never-ending issues with car balance. But he had known Max for a long time and knew how professionally he approached his work—meaning, he wasn't the most expressive. Still, he wanted him to know that if anyone wasn’t going to judge him, it was him.

"Are we just terrible at hiding it, or is it your sharp eye?" Max didn’t quite sigh, but he felt like a massive weight slid off his chest. He smiled slightly and raised his eyes to him.

"Well, I wasn’t entirely sure," Gianpiero smiled more broadly. "But your recent behavior kinda confirmed it for me and well, here we are."

Max knew exactly what he meant. Yet in the spiral of absurdity, he forgot that Gianpiero might be referring to the fact that he was sleeping with a teammate—not that he was sleeping with a teammate and wanted him to guide them through it.

"Sorry," Max sighed this time. "I didn’t mean to act weird."

"Oh, come on, you don’t have to apologize to me," GP shook his head. "From a technical standpoint, as your engineer, I just wanted to know what might be occupying your thoughts."

"Technical standpoint?" Max laughed. "Not as my friend?"

The atmosphere loosened, and Max’s tongue untied on its own. He wasn’t particularly talkative by nature, but with Gianpiero, he had a tendency to ramble like the biggest gossip. From the outside, it might have looked like two grown men talking about work, but in reality, Max was close to giggling and GP was listening like a teenager’s best friend soaking in all the juicy drama.

Max felt so comfortable he barely stopped himself from saying too much. GP probably couldn’t handle that much in one sitting. The older man could tell there was something more, though—the moment Max looked down, fiddling with a salt packet, it was a clear sign something else was up.

"Is there something you want to add?" he asked, looking at Max’s face. He was still smiling gently, genuinely glad that Max had opened up to him. He knew it might not be a big deal—they were both adults—but close relationships in the workplace, especially in F1, were always a minefield.

Max stayed quiet for a while, fighting with himself. But when he looked up and saw nothing but his friend across from him, he thought, fuck it. Just fuck it.

He nodded silently.

Gianpiero, sensing the gravity of what Max was about to say, leaned in closer, rested his elbows on the table, laced his fingers together, and pressed them to his lips. He looked at Max silently, giving him the unspoken green light that he was ready to listen—if Max chose to speak.

The Dutchman looked up and, seeing there was no turning back, took a sip of water. It instantly felt like he'd just swallowed a kilo of sand.

"Promise me this won’t change anything between us, and if it gets weird, you’ll just forget I ever said anything, okay?"

GP nodded. "You have my word, Max."

"We’re looking for someone to join us, you know—" Max looked down again. He felt like he was having a sex talk with a parent.

"For a threesome?" GP asked, totally unfazed. To him, this might as well have been a weather chat.

"Not exactly," Max clarified. "We know you have a wife. It would be unethical."

"She’s a golden woman," GP laughed. "I promise, you’d be surprised."

"But it’s still not about sex," Max emphasized, continuing to play with the salt packet, which was starting to spill. "I mean, it is, but not the way you think".

"Be an adult, look at me, and tell me straight what this is about," he said when silence fell again. Max stopped moving his fingers and obediently looked up at him.

"Good boy," GP smiled. "See? That wasn’t so hard."

That innocent praise was loaded with sexual undertones—and Gianpiero did it entirely on purpose. This time.

"That’s exactly who we need," Max finally choked out. "To guide and lead."

Gianpiero stared at him, and that gaze burned holes through Max. The older man slowly processed what he had just heard, making sure he was following.

"You’re looking for someone to guide you during sex?" he asked, and Max just nodded. "Like a strategist during a race?"

Max nodded again. He was glad Gianpiero was smart enough that he didn’t have to spell it out.

"We both know you hate being told what to do," he said playfully, but Max could swear his voice dropped a little. "You barely listen to me in the car, and now you want to do it while pleasing your own girlfriend?"

A shiver shot through Max’s scalp and down his spine. Gianpiero seemed to be taking immense pleasure in how awkwardly embarrassing this was for him.

"And from what I know, following instructions is not Y/N's favorite thing either," he added, tilting his head slightly. "In that sense, you’re a perfect match."

"She has a praise kink," Max threw out, even though no one asked. "And she listens to authority. I promise, she values your knowledge and skills."

"You flatter me. I might blush," GP laughed, resting his chin on his clasped hands. "Alright, let’s say we’ve got one eager student. What about you? Would you follow instructions?"

"It would be a different situation."

"You’d still have to obey."

"You want me to say I’d be a good boy?" Max felt like he’d never blushed this hard. But something gave him incredible courage. He didn’t flinch and looked GP straight in the eyes.

"Would you be a good boy?"

Fucking Gianpiero Lambiase.

"Yes," Max swallowed hard. "I would."

"I need to hear the whole sentence, Max. Use your words, please," GP leaned back in his chair. A soft smile still danced on his lips. Seeing Max embarrassed like that after all these years together was wildly satisfying.

"Yes, I’d be a good boy."

Gianpiero smiled and finished his now-cold coffee. "I’ll talk to my wife and let you know soon."

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

What the fuck was that?

The conversation Max had with Gianpiero in the buffet certainly made him feel lighter. But it wasn’t until he stood under the hot shower in his hotel bathroom that it really hit him—he had just invited Gianpiero into his bedroom. His and Y/N's bedroom. Y/N, who didn’t know anything yet.

Later that evening, Max, without warning, went to the girl’s hotel room and knocked on the door. She opened in a robe and with a face mask on, clearly not expecting him. Still, she didn’t send him away. She continued her evening routine, and Max followed her closely. They talked about the day, Max sat on the edge of the tub, and she finished her skincare.

"I talked to GP," he said at one point, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She met his gaze—and seeing the look on his face, she knew exactly what he meant.

"No," her shoulders dropped heavily, and Max only nodded.

"You didn’t talk to GP," she turned to face him, and Max just nodded again. The girl pressed her fingers to her lips. Oh fuck.

"He was actually very positive about it," he admitted, shrugging. The girl shook her head and tilted it back.

"I can't believe you did that, Max."

"It was... definitely something," he admitted, glancing at the girl.

She sighed, shaking her head again and standing in front of the mirror, closing a jar of cream. "There's no way he's going to agree. We made ourselves look like complete idiots."

Matter of fact: They didn’t make themselves look like complete idiots. And GP had already agreed—in the buffet. His wife shortly after.

Max decided to go back to his room and relax a bit with a stream. He was just about to leave the girl’s room when his phone buzzed. With one hand on the door handle, he reached into his pocket with the other to grab the phone. When he saw who the message was from, his heart skipped a beat. He swiped the screen to unlock it and tapped on the message icon.

GP: Told you my wife’s a golden woman. Green light here. GP: Just let me know time and place.

Max smiled to himself, and before Y/N could even ask what was going on, he silently showed her the phone in his hand. They looked at each other and both burst out laughing.

So it’s happening. It really is.

[cryptidvillage]

Bullying Remmick Imagine #1

I'm getting back into writing, and I love being an unserious little menace. I am God's silliest goose fighting Her funniest battles. Remmick needs to be made fun of more, he just makes it too easy. Not proofread, just chaos. Enjoy.

_______________________________________

° It's night. You're finally winding down after a long day, where work and family tried your patience until it was hanging by half a thread. Now that you were at last alone in the peaceful quiet of your abode, you'd be damned to hell if you let anything get between you and your deliciously warm cup of chamomile lavender tea--with two drops of local honey to taste.

° Pursing your lips together, you prepare to blow steam off of the hot liquid. A burnt tongue was certainly unwelcome, and there was no need to suffer for the simple pleasures.

° Knock, knock, knock. Your nose scrunches up in annoyance when you were interrupted by whoever had the foul audacity to knock on your door at this hour. This was, arguably, a sacred nighttime routine for you. And someone had the nerve to impede upon it.

° With a groan, you begrudgingly set down your favorite mug on the wooden table before standing to attention on your tired legs. You glare in the direction of the door. You hoped that if you were a cockatrice, that whoever was standing on the other side would have dropped dead from your fatal stare. You rolled your eyes so hard a black hole probably formed somewhere.

° Every step you took towards the door thundered into the floorboards with an unforgiving ferocity. Anyone with decent hearing would be able to deduce that you were in an irritable state, and they should steer clear, unless they wanted you to make them cry.

° Your fingers wrap around the doorknob and yank it open. Not only was your routine interrupted by knuckles upon your door, but your eyes were assaulted by the most pathetic man you've ever seen in your goddamned life.

° "I-I'm mighty sorry, miss, I do know it's an odd hour," the male specimen stammered, his voice breaking. "But I uh, I've run into some trouble, and I'll need a place to stay the night, lay low and whatnot. I'll be out of your hair come mornin' time, honest."

° With the way this man was begging you, he managed to remind you of all of your worst exes combined into one horrible little amalgamation. It was almost impressive. Almost. Don't ever give a man like him that much credit. Also, if you're going to solicit someone at an ungodly hour, at least have better fashion sense.

° "Wow, are you serious? In that shade of blue?"

° The man frowned at you, his pout straightening into thin lips. "Come again?"

° "Did I stutter? That shade of blue is disgusting. I wouldn't be caught dead in it."

° His mouth hung slightly agape at your words. In all of his existence as a vampire, he'd never had anyone insult him on their doorstep quite like this. Sure, he'd been told he was a sight for sore eyes, looked like he'd narrowly survived a pack of wild dogs, etcetera etcetera. But this? Going after his choice of clothes? It was a new low Remmick didn't think possible.

° "Aww, miss, ya don't gotta be so mean now," the man began again, wagging his finger at you. "Ya don't know what I been through. Please, let a man whose clothes ya don't agree with come in, and crash on the couch or somethin'? Ya don't gotta look at me much if it really bothers ya to yer core."

° You cocked a brow at him. Persistent little fucker, aren't you. Your eyes flicked to his left hand, and a gold wedding band caught your stare. "I see that ring on your finger," you spoke. "I'm sure your wife appreciates you knocking on other women's doors at night. She thinks you're a real keeper, doesn't she?"

° The man's face contorted into one of deep sadness. "I ain't got a wife anymore, miss," he replied. "She--my wife was killed. She's dead. I'm runnin' from the men who killed her, like a goddamned coward. Please take pity on me, don't let the bad men get me like they got her." He then had the idea to sink to his knees and fold his hands together pleadingly. It didn't make him any less kickable.

° Both your eyebrows shot up. Bullshit had a strong, offensive odor.

° "You tell everyone that, don't you?" you shot back. "You're not foolin' me. I bet she divorced your sorry ass. Thoughts and prayers. Not to you, though. I hope your wife got everything. Looks like she did, since you're the one on my porch beggin' like a sad little wet dog, Mr. Divorce." You give a sharp nod of your head, saluting a woman you didn't know across time and space. "Good for her."

° The incredulousness that Remmick felt made his eye twitch, and his pleading hands fell at his sides. Sure, his wife back when he was still a human had willingly left him over a thousand years ago, but this was a low blow. He wished you'd slip up and break the threshold so that he could tear your throat out, permanently taking your ability of hurtful jabs away.

° "I don't understand why you gotta be so cruel to a man who's clearly strugglin'. There's somethin' deeply wrong with ye. Hurt people hurt people, ye know. Maybe I could come in and have a chat with ye, get to know ye more and figure out what's botherin' ye. We could help each other. We don't have to be bickerin' like this."

° You picked up a lick of an Irish accent slipping through his Southern drawl. Bingo.

° "My problem is that my fucking tea is cold now, from me having to stand here listening to you flapping your goddamn cake munchers," you retorted. "Fuck off, Lucky Charms."

° The door slammed in Remmick's face. You did not have the pleasure of seeing him blink like a frog as he struggled to process what the hell had just happened.

[magic-magpie]

I Got Your Name Tattooed in an Arrow Heart

Leon Kennedy x Gender Neutral Reader

Leon's returned from a mission, and the two of you celebrate his return by cuddling up together in front of a shitty movie. He's more interested in you than the movie though, and in his gazing he notices a little marking on your wrist, one he's never seen before, one that you seem to be rather keen to hide.

Or, you write Leon's name on your wrist because you're a closet sap and you miss him and you're lowkey embarrassed about it.

Tags - Fluff, like just pure fluff, kissing, minor references to past suicidal thoughts, gender neutral reader + pronouns, very domestic, you are shorter than Leon by a fair bit sorry abt that, no use of y/n, any post-Raccoon City Leon can be applicable here but I had RE4R Leon in mind, but there are mentions of him being blond

Word count - 2,381

A/N - Hiiii this is my first Leon x Reader fanfic <3 It's been on AO3 for a while but I'm finally uploading it to Tumblr too! People do such pretty formatting for these and I have no idea how to do all that so please just accept the above Leon pictures as my formatting offering. There are also no physical descriptors of Reader aside from them being shorter (I'm five foot that's why), I aimed to make this as inclusive as possible :)

The walk up the stairs was a long one, the exhaustion set deep in Leon’s bones. He’d just come back from a mission debrief, filled out the necessary paperwork thrust upon him not two seconds after returning to American soil. Hunnigan had done her best to lighten the load though, and he couldn’t be more grateful. It meant he could return home quicker, back to comfort, back to his bed. 

Back to you. 

A glance at his watch told him it had just gone eight, too early for you to be in bed. The thought of coming home and seeing your face gave him the energy to put one foot in front of the other, and it was with a sigh of relief that he opened the door and entered their home. He shucked his boots off and left his motorcycle helmet on the nearby counter, and as he shrugged his jacket off he heard your sweet voice call out his name. 

“I’m back,” he called out in reply, and there was a bit of clatter in the living room before he heard a familiar set of footsteps approaching, and then there you were and it was like a weight had been lifted off his chest. A beautiful smile was on your face, your eyes sparkling in that way they only seemed to sparkle when you looked at him. He hung his jacket up and then you were hugging him and this, this was what kept him tethered. Your arms were wrapped around him, hands rubbing soothing circles into his back, face buried in his chest. He hugged you back, held you close, resting his head on yours and breathing in your familiar scent, so refreshing and comforting after trekking in the middle of nowhere for weeks. 

“You smell like shit,” you said, cheek pressed up against him. He breathed out a laugh, tickling the top of your head. 

“I’ve smelt worse.” 

“Shower or bath?” 

He hummed. “Shower.” 

A bath sounded nice, but honestly, he just wanted to collapse with you on the sofa as the TV droned on. Lay down with you, regain his sense of self in your warmth – as much as he had left, anyway. 

“You take a shower then, and I’ll get you dinner. I just made pasta – I didn’t know you were coming home tonight so I don’t have anything better.” 

His arms tightened around you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Pasta’s fine.” 

Before you, he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a home-cooked meal made for him. You’d told him you weren’t the best cook, to not judge your basic dishes, but every meal you cooked tasted wonderful to him. It tasted like home, like love, like someone cared about him enough to cook for him. 

Pasta was more than fine. 

“Cool, I’ll get that heated up for you then,” you said, and he eased up his hold to let you go, immediately feeling the loss of your warmth and having to stop himself from chasing after it. “Now go clean up, stinky.” 

He snorted, punching you lightly in the arm as he set off towards the bathroom, your subsequent laughter washing over him like a balm.

----

Stomach full, clean, and dressed in his comfy clothes, the two of you were cuddled up together on the sofa, lazily watching a shitty B-movie. You’d started off sitting apart but sometime during the movie you’d drifted closer together, and now you were nestled in Leon’s arms, practically on top of him, you holding his hand and idly stroking it with your thumb. There were a lot of explosions and yelling going on in the movie, but Leon found his gaze drifting to you instead, like a magnetic pull. You were dressed in his old hoodie – one of the ones you’d deemed part of the ‘communal wardrobe’. He’d acted grumpy about it at the time but he honestly loved seeing you in it, and if he’d left a few more of his hoodies around for you to steal then that was between him and the God he didn’t believe in. 

His gaze drifted down to your hand holding his, then zeroed in on a marking on the inside of your wrist. 

“Hey, what’s this?” 

Curiosity piqued, he grabbed your hand and pulled it closer, making you yelp in shock. 

“Leon, give off!” 

“Just looking!” He said, curiosity piqued even more by your protests. He turned your hand to see the inside of your wrist, and his breath hitched. 

It was his name written in pretty cursive, with a heart around it. He stared at it, lips parting slightly. His first thought was that it was a tattoo, but there were some little smudges here and there. 

He looked down at you, your face redder than before and pointedly avoiding his gaze. 

“You wrote this?” 

“Who else?” You replied, which was a fair point. You tried to tug your wrist back but he held firm, not done looking at it. The heart was a little wobbly, and he could see where you’d rubbed off ink and redrawn certain parts. His name was smoothly written though, and in the prettiest cursive he’d ever seen you use. He’d made fun of your typical handwriting before for somehow being worse than his own, so this was new. 

“I... I write it when you’re not here,” you said, voice quieter than normal, as if you were going all shy on him. “Like, when you’re on missions and stuff.” 

“You’ve done this before?” He asked softly, and oh God, his heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his chest. You nodded. 

“I dunno, it’s just, like,” you’re looking at the floor like it was the most interesting thing in the world, you were definitely going shy on him, “you’re not here, so I write that and it helps. With, y’know, missing you. I usually wash it off when I know you’re coming back home but I had no heads-up this time so I forgot.” 

Leon swallowed. God, you were perfect. Dressed in his hoodie, his name on your wrist, waiting for him to come home. How many years had he spent just coming home to an empty apartment, nothing to greet him except the utility bills, no one to miss him except the mould growing on the food he accidentally left out? On every mission there would be a not-insignificant part of him that contemplated just... not coming back. Letting the bioweapon with its hands around his throat snap his neck. Letting himself bleed out on the floor. Letting go of the ledge and falling to his death. He was going to die on the job - might as well have it happen sooner rather than later. 

Then you came along, and he found himself wanting to come home. Your face flashed through his mind when he parried an attack, when he shot an approaching threat. He wanted to come home and see your face again, wanted to feel you again, wanted to live to see tomorrow if that tomorrow would be spent with you. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t give you a heads-up from now on,” Leon said, then pulled you across until your face was closer to his, laughing at the surprised little noise you let out. Your face was still red and he could see the question forming on your lips, but he swiftly leant down and kissed you with all the affection that had been bubbling up inside his chest. He let go of your wrist in favour of circling you with his arms, another wave of adoration washing over him as your lips moved against his, fingers tangling in his hair. 

I love you, he thought as he held you close.  

I love you, as the kiss deepened, you making the little noises he loved. 

I love you, as you separated for air, breaths mingling. 

You laughed softly, and God if that wasn’t the most beautiful sound. 

“This is so embarrassing,” you whined, practically hiding your face in his chest. He wanted to make a little teasing remark, but as you lay there, dressed in his hoodie, his name on your wrist, all he could think about was that he loved you too fucking much. He took your hand, stroking his thumb over your knuckles. 

Imagining how it would look with a ring on it. 

“S’not embarrassing,” he replied, “it’s cute.” 

“You weren’t meant to find out,” you went on. He laughed softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You looked up at him, and if he could have this view for the rest of his life, he’d die a happy man. 

“Yeah? Well, I’m glad I did.”

----

You were stood at the kitchen counter, chopping up some potatoes. You’d finished work earlier than Leon today and so had bought a couple of steaks on the way back home, intending to make a better dinner tonight to make up for yesterday’s basic pasta with store-bought sauce. Not that Leon had voiced any disappointment with the dinner, but you liked making his favourite meal when he came home after a mission. 

Leon had texted you to say he’d be home soon, so you put the potatoes in the oven then got ready to work on the sauce. You caught sight of his name on your wrist and smiled. You didn’t tend to write it when he was around, but he’d seemed very happy to learn of your little habit , and so you figured you might as well re-write it on your wrist today. And every day after that, you supposed. 

A tattoo would solve the re-drawing issue, but you liked writing it. It felt romantic. Plus, you got to add little embellishments, depending on how you were feeling. Sometimes little stars, or dots around the heart. You’d opted for a classic design today, an arrow through the heart. 

A short while later you heard the front door open, Leon coming into the kitchen soon after, looking tired but thankfully without that dead, empty look he got after missions. He smiled when he saw you, that beautiful smile you treasured so dearly. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said as he approached you, hugging you from behind and resting his head on you. “Nice day?” 

You shrugged, turning the cooker off on the sauce. “So-so. You?” 

“Better than usual.” 

“Oh?” You said, turning round to face him properly. There was a little sparkle in his blue eyes, a little grin tugging at his lips. It was rare to see him like this after work – it normally took him a bit to shake the work off, so to speak. It was making you smile too. “And why was that?” 

“Because,” he said, then raised his left hand and shifted his watch to reveal your name in wobbly cursive, encased in an even wobblier heart. “I had you there with me.” 

Your face broke out into a smile, laughter bubbling up as you drank in the sight. He was fully grinning too, a dorky little grin with his eyes crinkling in such a way that had your heart doing topsy-turvies. You pulled up your sleeve to show him your matching inscription. 

“What a coincidence - you were with me, too,” you said, and Leon laughed, joy evident. Seeing him this happy melted your heart, and as he took to admiring your wrist again, blue eyes alight with adoration, blond hair loosely falling over his face, framed by the overhead lighting, he looked positively angelic. 

Truth be told, he was your angel. He’d disagree, would say he’s ‘just a guy’, but in him you’d found a love you’d only dreamt about. He wasn’t perfect by any means, but that didn’t matter when he held you so tenderly when you cried, when he supported you through thick and thin, when he made you feel so, so loved.  

Watching him like that, stroking your wrist with his thumb, looking at you like you hung the stars when all you did was write his name on your wrist, you knew that this was the man you wanted to spend forever with. 

“Can I have my hand back?” You asked teasingly, and Leon’s smile turned a little sheepish as he lowered your hand, but didn’t relinquish it, instead simply shifting so he was holding your hand instead of your wrist, fingers intertwined with yours. 

“I’ll let go if you give me a kiss,” he teased back, leaning in expectantly, and you gave an exaggerated eye roll before leaning up and pressing your lips against his, smiling into the kiss. He released your hand in favour of winding his arms around your waist, and your heart fluttered as he gently pulled you closer, enveloping you in his warmth. Your hands came up to embrace him in turn and the two of you stayed there, enjoying this time you had together, enjoying each other’s touch, enjoying the feel of the other’s lips, a feeling that was so familiar but never got old. 

Eventually you pulled apart, all lovestruck smiles and little laughs when your eyes met. 

“I love you, you know that?” Leon said, thumbs stroking circles into your skin. “I know I don’t really say it often, but I do. I love you.” 

You smile. “I know.” 

“Y’know, I figured out of the two of us I’d be Han Solo.” 

“Nah, you’re my princess.” 

“I’m not dressing up as Leia if that’s what you’re hinting at.” 

“Boo, you whore.” 

Leon snorted, rolling his eyes fondly before pulling away. “Alright, I’m gonna go get changed. See you in a bit.” 

He pressed one last kiss to the top of your head before walking off, and as you watched him you felt that certain fondness swell in your chest. He was your everything, the one you loved most ardently, and who, by some grace of God, loved you so ardently in return. 

“Hey, Leon?” 

Leon turned around, having just entered the hallway. “Yeah, sweetheart?” 

“I love you too.” 

He smiled softly, and that was your raison d’être. You could see a million stars, watch thousands of meteor showers, look up at a twilight sky, and none of it would compare to the view right before you. 

“I know.”

----

[amirawrah]

⭐︎ The Dad life

with IBRAHIMA KONATE

a/n: based on this ask. as i said i got carried away and made three and i hope you all like this also thank you to everyone who took some time to comment, reblog and like my fics, we may not really know each other but it means so much, love ya'll fr.

by: amirah⭐︎

first⭐︎

There’s a calm that settles over your home when the late afternoon sun filters in through the gauzy curtains—warm, golden, and slow. It's the kind of calm that only exists when the world outside feels far away and you’re wrapped up in your own private joy. The living room is scattered with tiny cups, mismatched plush toys, and the soft giggle of a toddler who’s clearly orchestrating something elaborate.

Samirah, your two-and-a-half-year-old, stands with her hands on her hips like a tiny general in a tutu. “Baba, you sit. You wear this,” she says sternly, holding up the pink tulle skirt in one hand and a sparkly crown in the other. Her curls are a halo around her face, her tiny feet padded in socks with stars on them. You stifle a laugh from the kitchen where you're half-cleaning, half-eavesdropping.

Ibou’s deep laugh echoes from the carpet where he’s already on the floor, long limbs folded and patience infinite. “Are you sure Baba can fit in that tutu?” he asks with playful skepticism, eyeing the elastic waistband like it might bite him.

Samirah nods with conviction. “You’re big but not too big. Try pleaseeee.”

He throws a glance at you—dramatic and desperate. “Help me.”

You shrug from behind the counter, biting into a strawberry. “Sorry. She’s in charge.”

With the most exaggerated sigh in human history, he bends and carefully steps into the pink fabric, pulling it up over his shorts until it sits just above his knees. It’s hilariously stretched. But it holds.

Samirah claps like he’s just performed magic. “Yay! Now crown!”

She places the glittery plastic tiara atop his hair, smoothing his hair back with the focus of a seasoned stylist. Ibou sits perfectly still, letting her adjust and re-adjust until she’s satisfied.

“You look beautiful,” she declares with a wide smile. “Now we do tea.”

Ibou straightens up, fixes his posture and nods. “Of course. Tea.”

You slide closer to the doorway with your phone discreetly raised. The sight before you is nothing short of legendary—your 6'4 husband in a tutu and tiara, legs crossed at the ankle, holding a tiny pastel teacup. He even lifts his pinky.

“To Queen Samirah,” he says solemnly, raising his cup.

“To Queen Samirah,” you echo, barely holding your laughter.

Samirah grins and pours imaginary tea into each cup with impressive seriousness. “Baba, do you want strawberry tea or mango?”

“Mango, please,” he replies without missing a beat. “Two sugars.”

She carefully stirs the air inside the cup before handing it to him. “Hot. Blow it.”

Ibou blows delicately over the empty cup, then takes a pretend sip. “Mmm, that’s delicious. Did you make this yourself?”

“Yes,” she says proudly. “I’m the chef.”

He places a hand to his chest. “You are amazing, chef and queen.”

You melt a little as you watch them. You’ve seen him do incredible things on the pitch—solid tackles, impossible headers, calm leadership under pressure—but this? This is the version of him that knocks the wind out of your chest. The version that wakes up early to braid your daughter’s hair when you’re too tired, that picks her up from daycare and still gets down on the ground like a kid. The version of Ibou who is a father, through and through, and thrives in the smallest, softest roles.

Samirah holds a plastic cookie up to his mouth. “Eat.”

He obliges with a dramatic chomp, eyes going wide. “Whoa! That’s the best cookie I’ve ever had!”

She giggles uncontrollably. “You’re silly baba!”

“No, you are,” he counters, leaning over to tickle her sides until she collapses in laughter, the tea party momentarily forgotten. He glances up at you from the floor, his eyes soft, warm, full of that same quiet joy you feel swelling in your chest.

You walk over and settle on the couch behind them, running your fingers through his curls. “You two make a good team.”

“We make a good family,” he corrects gently, his gaze flicking toward you like a vow.

Samirah crawls into his lap, unbothered by her teacups and teapots now. She yawns in that sudden way toddlers do, energy crashing all at once. Ibou lifts her effortlessly, tucking her into the crook of his arm like she’s made to rest there.

“She’s tired,” he murmurs.

You nod. “I’ll take her up—”

“No,” he says softly. “Let me.”

You watch him rise, all strength and gentleness, still wearing the tutu. The tiara falls slightly askew, and you fix it on his head without saying anything. His smile curves slow and fond as he carries your daughter upstairs to her room, whispering a made-up bedtime story along the way about a princess named Samirah and her favorite tutu-wearing dragon.

When he returns a few minutes later, tiara in hand, the tutu abandoned somewhere on the stairs, he sinks onto the couch beside you with a sigh and rests his head on your shoulder.

“You’re so gone for her,” you whisper, brushing your fingers along his jaw.

He hums, eyes closed, smile stretching wide. “She owns me. Completely.”

You snuggle into him, the two of you wrapped up in this sleepy, joyful quiet. The house still holds echoes of giggles and tea party chatter. The scent of dinner lingers in the air, and outside, the sky darkens into hues of navy and lavender.

“She got your heart,” you murmur.

“And you have the rest ma reine,” he answers without hesitation, wrapping an arm around you, pulling you close until your nose is buried against his hoodie. my queen

There’s no fancy dinner. No grand romantic gesture tonight. Just quiet, soft, familiar love. Just the memory of your daughter’s joy. Just your man in a tutu. Just your family—warm and whole.

And in the middle of all of it, you realise: this is the best version of your love story yet.

second⭐︎ this is based on the early parts of parenthood.

The house was still. Not silent, not quite. Somewhere, the boiler hummed low like it always did, and the soft rustle of leaves brushed the windowpanes in the early London breeze. But in your bedroom—warm and dim with the moon casting light against the curtains—it felt like the world had finally quieted. Samirah had gone down at 9:17, not 9:00 like the books said she should, and not screaming her lungs out either, which you both counted as a win.

You lay on your side, arm under your pillow, hair still slightly damp from the quickest shower of your life. The baby monitor sat on the nightstand, its green light soft and steady, casting a faint glow beside the scented candle you never had the time to light anymore. And next to you, Ibou—bare chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm, one arm lazily thrown over your hip even in sleep.

He’d set three alarms that evening. One at midnight, one at three, and one at five, just in case. You told him he didn’t have to, that you’d wake up anyway the second Samirah so much as stirred, but he insisted. “I want to be part of this,” he had said, brushing your hair from your forehead with his warm fingers.

You didn’t expect the first whimper at 11:34 p.m.

Your eyes flew open before your body had even processed it, trained now by weeks of interrupted sleep. You groaned softly, but before you could even throw back the duvet, you felt the bed shift. Ibou was already up, bare feet quiet on the floorboards, shirtless in the low light. “Go back to sleep,” he murmured, voice deep and gravelly with sleep, a hand gently pressing your shoulder down. “I got this.”

You blinked. “The alarm—”

“It’s not midnight, I know,” he mumbled, pulling on a pair of grey sweatpants he must’ve left by the side of the bed. “But she needs her Baba. And you need your rest. Just sleep, okay?” His lips brushed your temple, warm and soft, and then he was gone—down the hall before you could protest.

You smiled into the pillow, that aching, tender kind of smile that happens only when someone loves you deeply and shows it in the smallest, most consistent ways.

Through the baby monitor, you heard the soft hush of his voice. “Hey, my star, it’s okay, it’s baba,” he whispered, in the kind of tone only meant for your daughter. The rustling of the crib. The creak of the rocking chair. A sleepy lullaby hummed with a slight accent, slow and gentle, as she gurgled, settled, and melted right into his arms.

You don’t know when you fell asleep again, only that the next time you stirred, Ibou was crawling back into bed, arms sliding around you. His body radiated heat, and he smelled faintly of Samirah’s baby lotion. “She's good?” you whispered, half asleep, nose nuzzling into his throat.

“She’s perfect,” he mumbled. “Just like her mama.”

The next night, you were the one who got up first. It was 2:17 a.m., and the cries were soft but insistent. You reached for your robe—but he stirred beside you, eyes barely open.

“I got it,” he murmured, voice like gravel and honey, stretching.

“You sure?”

He was already halfway out of bed. “Always,” he said, not even waiting for the monitor to confirm. “She needs her baba.”

You followed him down the hall this time. He was too focused, too sleepy, too gentle as he picked her up and rocked her in slow, quiet motions.

“I think she’s teething,” he said softly.

“She probably is.”

“She bit me a little.” He grinned at you.

“Welcome to fatherhood.”

He chuckled, forehead pressed to hers, whispering, “No biting, ya habibti. That’s only allowed when you’re older and I’ve had a talk with whoever you’re dating.”

“She’s three months.”

“I’m preparing.”

You laughed quietly as he handed her to you, and she immediately nestled into your chest, soothed now. “Come back to bed,” he said, wrapping his arms around both of you. “We’ll sleep when she lets us.”

You all curled into the bed together, Ibou snoring before you even finished settling. Samirah let out one last sigh and went limp against your chest, and for a moment, everything was perfect again.

Because love, in its truest form, looked exactly like this—sleepless nights, warm baby breath, soft kisses at midnight, and a man who set alarms to help but never needed them.

He was already halfway there. Every time.

third ....and last ⭐︎

The sun had only just risen when the three of you stepped onto the tarmac, the gentle heat of the Mediterranean already warming your skin. Your first family holiday. You and Ibou had planned it on a whim—after months of adjusting to parenthood, sleepless nights, night feedings, and bouncing between your schedules, a beach escape felt like the balm your little family needed.

Ibou insisted on carrying everything. And when you say everything, you mean everything.

"You sure you got all that?" you asked, watching him with an amused smile as he adjusted the strap of the baby bag on one shoulder, slung your oversized beach tote on the other, held Samirah’s flamingo floatie under one arm, balanced a milk bottle in his fingers, and—somehow—still cradled your daughter effortlessly against his chest.

She blinked sleepily in her sunhat, her little hand clutching his chain.

He grinned back at you over his shoulder, "I’ve got it. You just enjoy the view."

And you did. Every bit of it.

The hotel was dreamy—white walls, billowing curtains, private access to the beach. Samirah squealed the moment she saw the pool, her fat legs kicking in excitement from her carrier.

"We are not going in there yet," you laughed, lifting her out. "At least eat first."

Ibou leaned over your shoulder, brushing a kiss to your temple. "We’ll take turns. You relax first."

That first day blurred into golden sun and salty air. Ibou built Samirah a little shade tent out of towels and her sun canopy. You watched him carefully adjust it, making sure no rays would touch her soft skin, his brow furrowed like it was the most important thing in the world.

You snapped a photo of him mid-build. “Engineer daddy,” you teased.

"I take this very serious"

You fed Samirah on a lounge chair while Ibou lay beside you, sunglasses on, one hand resting on your thigh. Even in moments of rest, he never let go of you. Not really.

That night, after a long shower and Samirah’s bedtime routine, the villa grew still.

The baby monitor on the bedside table glowed quietly. Samirah was out cold, swaddled in her soft blanket, the ocean waves beyond the window a natural lullaby.

You stood by the mirror, rubbing lotion into your skin, your silk robe barely tied at your waist. The moonlight flooded in, making your skin glow, and you didn’t even hear your husband walk in until his arms wrapped around your waist from behind lips grazing your neck.

You leaned into him, eyes fluttering shut. "She’s asleep. For real this time."

He hummed low, like that information lit something in him. "I have you to myself."

He turned you gently, kissing you slow and deep, hands roaming your sides like he was relearning the shape of you. Parenthood had been beautiful, but hard. You hadn’t had many moments like this—just the two of you, in silence, in love.

You led him to the bed, silk robe slipping off your shoulders as he kissed down your collarbone.

It was soft. Intentional. The kind of intimacy born from knowing every side of someone—watching them fall asleep with the baby curled between you, hearing their voice crack at the sound of her first laugh.

"I missed this," he murmured, forehead pressed to yours.

The night stretched slow and sweet. No rush. Just hands tangled, breath shared, his voice saying your name.

The next morning, you woke to Samirah babbling softly in her crib beside the bed. Ibou was already sitting up, shirtless, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

He turned to you with a lazy grin. "Morning, wife."

You smiled back, voice still thick with sleep. "Morning, husband."

He leaned over and kissed your cheek, then stood and padded over to scoop Samirah up.

"Did you sleep well, my princess?" he asked her, cradling her in his big arms.

She gurgled in response, reaching for his nose.

You watched them, heart full to the brim.

This was your little heaven on earth.

And it had everything to do with the way he carried three bags, a floatie, a bottle, and the baby—without ever complaining—just so you could walk behind him, smiling like your life was perfect.

Because, in that moment, it was.

[musette22]

MINNIE I KNOW YOU'RE ENJOYING YOUR TRIP BUT !!! WE CAN FINALLY SEE CHRIS' EXPRESSION WHEN HE SAID "he's an Oscar nominee", AND HE LOOKS SO PROUD???! Im gonna cry 😭💘😭💘😭💘 https://www.instagram.com/reel/DLdryCwRfbz/?igsh=MWttMmpwZWExdndwOA==

WAAAHHH 😭😭😭 THANK YOU JOSH 💗💗💗 Stopppp this is just so cute 🥺 His faaace!!! He's so happy and proud aawww! 🥹 I knew he was, but it's so nice to see it on his face too 💕 Ugh, they're adorable when they gush about each other, I can't stand it 🥺 Thank you for sending me this, lovely!! I know I'm missing lots of stuff right now, so I really appreciate it 🫶🏻

Also, I'm really sorry about taking so long to answer messages right now, I'm still on vacation and still doing SO MUCH and sleeping so little that I just haven't had the time yet, but I will reply and catch up with everything properly once I'm back from vacation, in a little over a week from now, I promise 🙏🏻❤️

[yoinkschief]

I mean, technically, Matt is a cryptid trying to look human

So I see no issue here !

I love Vampire Matt, I love whenever I scroll on my feed and I see him in cool Vampire/Gothic-esc/Victorian-esc outfits, silly little guy

[egophiliac]

Serious question.

Do you think we’ll see the parents/family of each of the guys???

Like, We’ve been TEASED with Ace’s brother, that I’m starting to think it’s just a reference to that Alice in Wonderland park character in Japan and nothing else….

Jack’s family, Ruggie’s grandma, Falena, Maleficia, Ms.Rosehearts, Just now Vil’s dad is in the picture which I am really happy but now I’m wondering about his mom, and so Deuce’s mom.

I mean, some HAVE a silhouette!! It could mean they do have a design in the making/ready to show. They could’ve shown us Falena in the Tamashina (hope I said that correctly) event, but didn’t (prolly to make Leona not so σ(▼□▼メ) and it’s understandable)

Anyhow, any idea/headcannon about this? Who do you want to see first?

I'm wondering if everyone might eventually get a travel event? like they've now introduced with Vil's that it doesn't have to be specifically hometowns, so that opens things up a lot! (especially if they have to figure out how to do three separate Coral Sea visits) (how would that even work otherwise)

but yeah, I hope everyone gets a chance! there's a lot of backstory characters I would LOVE to meet. :D :D :D though I do think some of them don't really suit the more light-hearted tone of the events (pretty sure you're right about that being why Falena wasn't in Tamashina-Mina, that would've just been. too much for Leona.) so like...we're probably not ever going to meet the Rosehearts. or Maleficia (although I maintain that this would be THE funniest possible way to introduce her outside of the main story, and actually I would love this a lot, can we please Twst) (I need to see her to put Malleus in a froofy little outfit and tell him what a handsome boy he is). but they've sprung surprises like Kifaji on us, and honestly anyone who shows up and tells embarrassing stories about characters' childhoods is good in my book!

characters off the top of my head who I most want to meet: literally any of the Zigvolts, Azul's mom, Ace's brother, Che'nya's grandfather (<- I think he would be a good one for Riddle) (please just any non-terrible adult in his life), any member of Rook's family because I need to see how they managed to produce him, and...really just whoever they can come up with for Silver.

[crossbackpoke-check]

blessed be (lorscher bienensegen) | telling the bees (wiþ ymbe)

"Bees" [remixed, abridged], Claudia Emerson // "Letter to Someone Living Fifty Years from Now" [remixed. abridged], Matthew Olzmann // "Letter to my Great, Great Grandchild" [remixed, abridged], J.P. Grasser | Len Redkole, Nina Weiss, Brian Babineau, Christian Peterson, Mitchell Leff, Dave Isaac, Megan DeRuchie

[waywardstation]

Just letting you know, after years of having my dash periodically bombarded by these 2 train men, and purposely ignoring all of it because I told myself I would never get into Pokemon, you converted me.

Your reblog game comic is what finally got me. Years of resolve, gone.

I have now been obsessed with these two dorks since your previous update, and I'm completely lost in the submas sauce.

I blame you. (Affectionate)

In regards to my interactive reblog comic

ANOTHER ONE HAS BEEN PULLED INTO OUR CORNER!!! WOOO

The train guys come for us all one day, I was drifting from the pokemon fandom for years before Ingo reached out of the bubble with his time-displaced, amnesiac hand, and pulled me into the submas fandom so deep that I can’t find my way out almost three years later.

I’m so so so appreciative and happy that this comic is the thing that got you interested in submas!!! They are dorks and I love them and I’m always happy to see other people love them too ;w;

GLAD TO HEAR YOU ARE INVESTED IN THEM TOO NOW!!!!

[breakouttahere]

crawls through the hole in your floor boards and hands you a microphone. hi what direction would you like the plot to take if 1nm8 wins. gving you full permissions to ramble as much as you like i wanna hear details 🎤

I NEED KEI TO HAVE AN ARC WHERE HE REALIZES HE CAUSES THE BIGGEST RIFT IN MUSICAL CHANGE IN HISTORY.

namely, i need kei to have a Come to Jesus moment where he changed everything, banned phantometal which was seemingly the root of all evil and took his baby brother from him, only to regret taking away something that, ultimately, made rokuta happy. its stated multiple times that the Phantom Lives and performing is what made rokuta truly happy, and that now that rokuta isnt performing as much (i imagine their popularity fizzled out a bit with the controversial move of banning phantometal), kei realizes he was being selfish, at his core, like he was fighting for rokuta and itsuki and for their voices but now kei figures out that it wasnt his place and he was only using the Lives to enact a lifelong grudge

i think that the audiences would be very divided on the phantometal ban; 1nm8 has fans that would definitely support them but i feel that the greater masses would be staunchly against it lol.

dont get me wrong kei sees phantometal banning as a good thing through and through at first. but he eventually realizes, after rokuta falls behind in piano practice and is sleeping more and is always asking kei when they’d perform next, that this isnt really what he wanted. like yes phantometal is the cause of rokutas abduction, but above all else, he just wanted to finally have justice. he wants rokuta and itsuki to thrive in this world !!!

i can see itsuki being a key player here since his phantometal is his tattoo and thus cannot be detached from him. because of this, kei worries that itsuki may never be truly free from the metal. itsuki says to kei something to the effect of, “the metal is just part of who i am. it cannot be changed. even after all the trauma it caused, its still a part of me and i must live with it.”

which, i think, would open keis eyes even more. like a trauma can be a part of someone and they can heal it/get past it with work and rehabilitation, not by simply banishing the root cause of it… if that makes any sense !

itsuki would have an arc where he basically acts as a comforting presence to kei, who is extremely conflicted about whether or not he did the right thing. itsuki supports him, but is also a voice of soft reason.

rokuta is, as always, keis driving force, and rokuta is basically depressed without saying hes depressed lol. he might have some thoughts or dialog in which he questions why he isnt happy at long last, or why he feels so empty despite them winning the competition and kei seeing his goal through… though by the end rokuta would support kei in no matter what venture theyre in

visty would definitely have a smug “YOU did this, YOU need to deal with it” kind of mentality toward kei at first but theyd learn to get along after kei makes amends

basically, Angst Central. i think that the other groups would play a part and that kei would receive the biggest redemption arc known to man, with the groups coming together without their phantometal, showing that while the phantometal drew them all together, they dont require it to perform. things CAN change without phantometal being banned altogether. people CAN live through trauma without being held back perpetually by it. if we get another Friendship Freestyle at the end of the act then id probably die happy but that isnt necessary LMAO

oh and this whole arc would probably span about a years time or so, maybe a little less, like 6-9 months at least. during this time i think that some very underground spaces would utilize phantometals still

[acetier]

will you be drawing any more of torin and varre? no rush at all, but i am lowkey obsessed with them now 👀

ask and you shall receive, anon :^)

[shanklin]

Is the song you knows begun going to update again? I really love it and I’m excited to see where it goes

You know how in the fic Ford has to make everything about himself?

The bastard did it again! 😡

I also talked about it in my little rant post here, but basically I realised the fic desperately needs a little Ford intermission and now I'm trying to write something entirely new for it. 

This way I can set some stuff up for the sequel AND give poor Ford some well needed character motivation.

My goal is to make everyone in my comments, who wants Ford to suffer for his actions as well as the very few Ford defenders, mad at me. 😌🩷

So yes! I'm still working on it and it will be updated soon-ish. Stupid Ford just wants to steal the show.

So far he's failed to count to 10, lied to Stan about very important feelings and sent him away to be alone with the one true love of his life!

Thank you for the ask! 

It feels surreal that there are people actively waiting for the next chapter. Great motivation though! 🥰

[hitcritical]

hello   friends   !    i've   been   absent   for   a   bit   (   not   that   it   was   super   evident   with   my   running   queue   )   but   i   needed   a   quick   breather   to   get   my   head   on   straight.   i   love my   dash,   these   muses,   and   the   wonderful   people   that   i've   met   through   here.   however,   my   life��  is   a   mess   right   now   and   i   frankly   can't   dedicate   as   much   time   to   this   blog,   and   writing   in   general,   as   i   used   to   do.   writing   is   my   hobby   and   not   my   priority.   

activity   will   be   slower.   it   will   take   longer   for   things   to   get   written.   i   care   about   each   and   every   interaction,   and   i   try   to   be   as   fair   as   possible   when   it   comes   to   writing   replies,   but   it   can   be   weeks,   if   not   months,   before   i   have   the   time   to   write   a   reply.   if   you   want   fast   replies   this   is   not   the   blog   for   you   !    and   i   will   totally   understand   if   you   choose   to   unfollow   because   of   this,   no   hard   feelings   whatsoever.