#and destroy stuff that's not supposed to be destroyed

[vivwritesfics]

Drive Me Crazy

Chapter Five

Max and Charles aren't exactly a pack. But they want to be, especially when the half feral little werewolf starts driving in Carlos's place after an injury. Unfortunately, things aren't always that simple

Lestappen X Reader Werewolf AU

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four

Mad Max. A name that hadn't been used in a good long while. Last season he hadn't needed to be Mad Max, not when he was the only one winning. 

It was a fitting nickname, sometimes. That was what Charles realised as he sat beside him. On top of the bed covers, his ass positively sore. It wasn't Max he'd just had sex with. No, it was Mad Max. 

He'd slept with Mad Max before, just a few times. But those times hadn't been because Max was mad. It was after he had moved himself and his cats to Monaco, when the full moon was near and he needed to stuff his cock in something. That something, more often than not, was Charles. 

His neck ached as he reached up, touching the bitemarks Max had left behind. "Sorry," Max muttered as he grabbed a cold can of drink from the mini fridge. "At least they've stopped bleeding." 

Charles released a dry laugh from his lips. "Who knew one practice would have you so riled up," he said and laid back. He stared at the ceiling, a smile crossing his face. 

He knew exactly why that practice had Mad Max showing his face. Every time he set the fastest lap, the fastest lap was taken from him. FP1 wasn't supposed to be for going fast, but Max couldn't stop himself from racing her. And she couldn't help but race him back. Even with Max in a superior car, she raced him. 

In FP2, it was the same story. 

"She's incredible," Charles said, still holding the can against his neck. He wouldn't drink whatever was inside, just use it to sooth the wounds that Max created. Wounds Max wanted him to wear with pride, wounds he couldn't bring himself to wear. 

"Incredible?" Max scoffed. He shook his head, his hair falling in front of his eyes. "Not the words I'd use. 

Charles sat up and let the can fall into his lap. "What words then, Max? How would you describe Birdy?" 

Max didn't mean to recoil. "You've given her a name? Fuck, Charles, you really are planning on keeping this one, aren't you?" 

"Answer the question, Max." 

He let a scowl overtake his features. "You wanna know? Fine, Charles. I'll fucking tell you!" He kicked his suitcase, flipping it over and emptying it of his clothes. "She's dangerous and viscous and she's gonna be the reason you don't get into the car!"

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" 

Suddenly Charles was on his feet, too. It was going to go one of two ways, always did with Mad Max. Either Charles was going to be back on the bed, letting Max take out his aggression, or he was going to let out of there, let Max stew in his anger. 

If it wasn't about Birdy, that sweet sweet girl, Charles would have been on his hands and knees, face pushed into the pillow. 

But it was about Birdy. 

Grabbing his things from the floor, Charles marched out of the hotel room. Max didn't know what he was saying, especially not about his Birdy. His Birdy, because nobody knew what they were saying, not when it came to her. 

Even as he walked down the hall, barely dressed, the bite marks in his shoulder throbbing, he could hear Max. No doubt destroying the room, tearing it up. Mad Max. It was no full moon; it was pure anger. His usual outlet, winning races and being the fastest person alive, wasn't hitting it anymore. Because he wasn't the fastest person alive, and he fucking hated it. 

Charles couldn't help but sigh as he walked into his room. This wasn't his Max, the one he had molded. Max, who was usually the kindest man in the room. That kindness born from a childhood full of abuse. 

Just like Birdy, Charles thought. Max and Birdy, matching sides of two coins. And Charles was the other side of both those coins. She could be just as sweet as Max, he knew. She just needed a chance. 

Charles wasn't speaking to him. Max watched him, watched from the Red Bull garage as Charles walked past him. Normally he was the last person there, first to leave. But he had gotten there early, just for a chance to speak to Charles. 

But Charles wouldn't speak to him. 

Eventually, Max gave up waiting for Charles to catch his eye, to come and speak to them. All he wanted was to make up for his mistakes, all he wanted was that chance. A chance Charles wasn't giving him. 

He strode across the Red Bull garage, making his way to the Ferrari garage. "Charles," he called, and the Il Predestinato looked at him. He stepped closer and not close enough all that once. Close enough to keep it casual, too far away to show how he really felt. 

"Charles, I want to apologise for last night," he said, trying to keep himself quiet, keep the words just between them. 

Charles hadn't yet looked at him. He didn't turned towards Max when he spoke, didn't pay him any attention. Max's jaw twitched, but he didn't let it show on his face. "I was out of line, I know, and-" 

"It's not me you need to apologise to." 

Max stilled. 'Not me you need to apologise to.' "Charlie, you can't be serious," Max whispered as he reached out to grab his arm. But Charles stepped out of reach. He looked past Max, looked across the garage. 

Max looked too. 

Birdy. That was the name Charles had given you. Beast was the name given to you by the rest of the motorsport world, the name Max knew you by. And you were a beast,  vicious beast who had gone to attack Charles. You were dangerous, and you had made that perfectly clear. 

Max steadied himself. He sucked in a breath and strode across the garage. 

It was hard to see the sweetness that Charles saw in you, not with the muzzle covering your mouth and the shock collar around your neck. You hadn't noticed him yet, head bowed as your muzzle was taken off and your balaclava was given to you.

When your handler told you to put it on, you did so. Your helmet came next, acting as a replacement for the muzzle. You fastened it under your chin, head tipping back slightly. 

And then you locked eyes with him. 

Max Verstappen. Current World Champion, lead in this year's championship. He stood before you, looking awkward and uncomfortable all at once. You couldn't help but match his pose, looking just as awkward and uncomfortable. Your helmet managed to hide your expression, though. 

"Hello," Max said, trying to get a look at your reaction. It was near impossible to get a read on you though, not with the helmet on. He looked back at Charles, watching the both of you. 

He cleared his throat, attention back on you. You hadn't looked away from him. "Look," he began, his hands dropping. "I'm sorry for..." But what was he sorry for? For thinking that you were dangerous? That was the truth, wasn't it? You were dangerous. 

"Okay, here's the thing. Charles is mad at me, so can we just pretend that we've had this big talk and I apologised for stuff?" 

The way he looked at you, expecting something. You blinked at him. If he wanted to apologise, he could go ahead and do so. But this wasn't much of an apology. 

"Come on, Beast-"

"Birdy." 

It had surprised even you. The word left your lips so suddenly, your brows furrowing beneath your helmet. You didn't want to be a beast, not anymore. 

Max stared at you, his blue eyes blown wide. "W-what?" He looked around, looking to see if anybody else had heard it. But everyone around the two of you was much too preoccupied with whatever they were doing. "Say it again, go on," he tried, but your lips were sealed. 

Speaking out of turn. 

Speaking out of turn.

Bad little wolves get punished of speaking out of turn. 

You stumbled back, trying to get away from him. "Wait," he called, but you were gone, disappearing further into the garage. 

Max desperately looked around for someone else that had heard you. But nobody else had. Birdy. The name Charles had given you. The fear had been so evident in your eyes the moment the name left your lips, he couldn't help the sadness that shot through him.

a/n: you guys can thank supreme-mango and her continued harassment of me for this quick update

Taglist: @remussbitch

@mimisweetz

@usseraloo

@trashmouthsahra

@dakotapaigelove

[missb0at]

My thoughts about Phainon

First let me gather facts

In Phainon's drip marketing his name was blank

He was also titled The Nameless Hero

Phainon is the Deliverer and supposed to be the demigod of worldbearing

Someone in the Amphoreus cast said something along the lines of Kephale and the Trailblaze being similar/the same

There is a strange connection between the Trailblaze, the Destruction and Phainon. (I'm not gonna talking about Phainon's destruction stuff since everyone and their mother has picked that apart already.)

Phainon has consistently been shown to be connected to the Trailblaze through his title as "The Nameless Hero" or the blank space replacing his name, quite literally being naneless. In game someone in the Amphoreus cast has also already said something about how the Trailblaze was essentially the Kephale equivalent for those outside of Amphoreus. And Phainon is supposed to be the demigod taking over Kephale's divine authority.

In addition I think it's noteworthy that Akivili has visited Nanook's home world, Adlivun, before the latters ascension destroyed it.

Personally I think all of it is suspicious. Perhaps our journey in Amphoreus mirrors Akivili's in Adlivun. Maybe Amphoreus is somehow tied to the accident that led to Akivili disappearung. But that's just speculation. I think something is going on there, I just can't say what exactly it is.

I've also found it an odd coincidence that destruction Trailblazer and Phainon are the same path and element. It's an interesting choice for two characters involved wit the same paths( Trailblaze and Destruction)

[deadmercenaryslover]

ok maybe you know. WHAT is going on with ol istys nobleman status? some stuff indicates he was always one and other that sigismund gave him a title after he saved his ass. What Is The Truth?

Oof, I definitely wish I knew that, because I could really use the information for fic-writing purposes, but unfortunately, I don’t. I suppose no one knows the whole truth, except maybe some lorekeeper at Warhorse, assuming they have one.

That said, there are a few in-game hints that could be used if someone wants to form their own headcanons.

Here are some of the tidbits I’ve used while shaping my personal take on Ištván’s background for the fic I’m currently writing, probably in a fairly random order. Just keep in mind that I’m going to veer pretty heavily into headcanon territory here, and I’m not claiming any of this is canon. Just some random thoughts put together.

Thanks for asking, though! �� I just love to yap about Ištván and KCD in general, I’m just usually a bit too shy to share my thoughts unprompted.

(It's going to be a pretty long post, so I'm going to put the whole thing under a cut.)

So, what we do know for certain is that Ištván was born in Banat, his parents were killed by the Turks, and his father had a fortress, which somewhat implies that Ištván was originally highborn.

I think this is where we have a gap we can fill with whatever we want and veer deep into headcanon territory, since he trails off and never finishes the sentence. Personally, I feel like it's quite heavily implied that whatever happened to him after his family was slain and his home destroyed must have been deeply traumatizing for him. I know the devşirme theory is quite popular, though I believe becoming a war captive and ending up in regular slavery is just as plausible an option.

I don’t know if it’s just me, though probably not based on what I’ve seen, but I get the feeling that Ištván is kind of dancing around the issue here, despite usually being all about tough talk. To me, that suggests there's deep trauma behind it, likely connected to sexual abuse.

I also believe that what Henry says to him, "You pretend to be cruel, but you take good care of Erik. Someone must have really hurt you, am I right?" also points in that direction.

Another thing we know for certain is that, at some point, he fought the Turks, as we hear from both Ištván himself and Erik (in KCD1), and that he also fought in the Battle of Nicopolis in 1396. There's still a lot left open to individual interpretation, but I think one possible reading is that the events at Nicopolis led to Ištván, who might’ve been just an ordinary mercenary back then, becoming personally acquainted with Sigismund.

I imagine it's also possible that Sigismund rewarded him for his service by elevating him to the nobility, despite the battle itself ending in disaster. Saving your king’s life has to count for something, right?

I think this bit is also interesting to take into account. More often than not, Ištván seems to look for connections between himself and Henry, but here he draws a rare distinction. The way I see it, this doesn't necessarily contradict the possibility of Ištván being noble by birth. I could see it implying that he simply lost that privilege at some point in his life, likely when his family was slain and his home destroyed.

I imagine noble blood doesn't count for much when you are all alone and have lost everything. With his family gone, and the possibility of him being taken into the Ottoman Empire and kept there for some time, would he even have had any way to prove he was of noble origin? Even if he had surviving relatives, they might not recognize him after so many years and could be inclined to think he was just some impostor trying to get his hands on family wealth or something.

I don't know, just some food for thought.

And then there's this small detail. I just find it interesting how he says "the noblemen," not "we noblemen." Again, we can't be sure whether he's simply trying to influence Henry by highlighting their supposed similarities, or whether he genuinely relates to Henry here, even though he's a nobleman himself. It could just as well be both, I suppose. This doesn't have to mean anything, but I wanted to include it because it supports my personal interpretation that Ištván might personally not relate much to those nobles who have led easier lives than he likely has.

And from there, we come to another aspect I’ve been thinking about lately, one that’ll probably need its own post at some point: taking a sociolinguistic approach to Ištván’s background. I don’t have the screenshots at hand to support my theory yet, but it seems to me that he can switch between appearing as a rough mercenary and an eloquent nobleman, depending on what the situation calls for (and yet, he's often being clocked for this, too.) The clearest example of this, I think, is the way he code-switches during the prison scene in Nebakov while speaking with Sir Jaromier.

This doesn’t have to mean anything in particular, either. We could just draw a parallel between Ištván and, say, the Dry Devil and leave it at that, but as a language nerd, it’s just something that’s caught my attention. If anyone’s interested, I could ramble some more about it.

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 13

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 7.0k+

Note: SMUT again!!!!! i had SO many requests to write more so im trying!!! any authors want to give me tips id love that xxx

18+ only, MDNI

content warnings: blowjob, face fucking sorta, cum swallowing, exhibitionism I suppose?? idk what to call it. if I'm missing any let me know <33

xxx

The last three weeks? A blur.

It’s been… about as close to "not casual" as you can get without admitting it’s something real with Will. And I don’t know whether I should feel relieved or like I’m teetering on the edge of some emotional cliff.

He’ll wait for me to finish work, and then we’ll go out to dinner. Always somewhere low-key, somewhere we can avoid prying eyes.

But he hasn’t made me a cup of tea, not once. Not even when I’ve been on the edge of exhaustion, when a cup of Earl Grey could fix everything.

He’ll text me job opportunities his friends are posting—always practical, always thoughtful—but he doesn’t ask about my day, not in the way someone who’s really invested does.

Or maybe he's trying to keep it casual, like me.

And we never meet when the sun’s still high in the sky. It’s like he has this rule, a silent agreement we’ve never discussed: after dark, we exist. Before then? It’s as if we’re just... separate lives.

He hasn’t met my friends. Not Ruth, not anyone. It’s like I’m hiding him away, but I don’t really mind. I don’t want him to be friends with Ruth—she’d ask too many questions, and I’m not ready for that.

We don’t know what the other gets up to when we’re not together, but over text, we’re funny. We send memes, random jokes, and stupid updates, like we’re in some constant, low-stakes conversation. But it’s never about anything real. No talks about our days, no checking in on anything that matters. It’s just… banter.

It’s like we exist in parallel, connected by inside jokes and little moments, but never touching the deeper stuff. Until we come together for our stolen moments.

But god… it’s fun. It’s so much fun. He’s fun. He’s wild and unpredictable, and when we’re together, it’s like the world falls away.

And yeah, he’s pretty. He’s ridiculously pretty. Like it’s almost unfair.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s easy to get caught up in all of it. The thrill. The mystery. But I’m starting to wonder… is that enough?

xxx

Work was hell. One of those days where every email felt like a personal attack and the printer chose violence for the third time this week. My manager spent the afternoon breathing down my neck like I was personally responsible for the state of the global economy, and by the time I got on the tube, I felt like a chewed-up receipt someone had stomped on.

So when I finally unlock the front door, all I want is silence, maybe tea, maybe death.

Instead, it hits me immediately—music, laughter, and the low thrum of voices carrying down the hall from the living room.

Shit.

I thought I’d dodged this.

Chris texted something earlier about “lads round before the pub,” and I’d purposely stayed late at work, hoping I could sneak in, grab a snack, and vanish into my room unnoticed. No small talk. No beer breath.

No Will.

I’m not ready for him to see me like this. In my work clothes, Absolutely destroyed. My limbs are heavy, my brain is fried, and I have zero patience for banter or flirtation or pretending to be even remotely charming. I feel frayed at the edges, like if someone so much as asks me how my day was, I’ll burst into tears or flames—whichever comes first.

I try not to think about the last time I came home like this. When I’d been this wrecked, this worn down, and he saw it—all of it. I remember the quiet way he looked at me, like I wasn’t pathetic for falling apart over spreadsheets and deadlines. I remember how he kissed me like I made sense to him, even when I didn’t make sense to myself.

I almost get to my room. But then—

“Y/N!” Chris’s voice cuts through the noise like a boomerang of guilt. “You’re back! Come sit, we’ve got room!”

I freeze at the corner of the hallway, fingers still curled around the strap of my work bag. Just a second’s pause. Too long. George’s head turns. He sees me.

There’s no escape.

“Just for a bit,” I call back, keeping my voice light, masking the internal oh-for-fuck’s-sake that’s bubbling up behind my ribs .I step into the room and it’s like a spotlight swings right onto me. Seven pairs of eyes. A half-empty bottle of rum on the table. And Will—

Will, lounging across the couch like a Renaissance painting that got bored and discovered sarcasm. Long legs stretched out, one arm draped over the backrest, beer bottle balanced loosely in hand. He clocks me immediately, and his mouth curves—not into a smile, exactly, but into something far worse.

Our eyes meet.

It’s electric. Sharp. Stupid.

He's got that knowing tilt. That lazy smirk. That look that says: You came here for me, didn’t you?

So painfully obvious that I look away almost instantly, like that’ll stop my cheeks from heating up.

Chris kicks the beanbag next to him, indicating the spot he's 'found' for me. “Don’t be antisocial. You’ve earned a drink, coder queen.”

“Only if the drink contains morphine,” I mutter, letting my bag thunk to the floor. I move into the room slowly, careful not to look too long in Will’s direction, which of course just makes me more aware of every molecule of him.

George offers a vague nod from the armchair, glass coke-and-probably-rum in his hand. “Rough day?” he asks.

I shoot him a look that could curdle milk. “Define ‘rough.’” I don't mean to be so curt with him. But its hard not to be recently.

Will hums, eyes glinting. “Did someone interrupt your TikTok scroll with a meeting invite?”

I give him a saccharine smile. “No, just got emotionally waterboarded by capitalism. But thanks for your concern, William.”

He raises his beer in my direction, grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Cheers to emotional trauma.” The room laughs, Arthur snorts into his glass—but Will’s eyes don’t leave mine. Not really.

He’s joking. Obviously. That’s the game. We throw jabs, deflect with sarcasm, act like neither of us is keeping score. But there’s a flicker underneath it. His brow arches just slightly, the tilt of his head barely perceptible—but it’s there.

You alright?

He doesn’t say it out loud, and I don’t answer. Not with words. Just a half-smile, quick and crooked, the kind that says I’m fine even when I’m not. Especially when I’m not. I'm sure he sees right through it but that’s okay.

I take the spot Chris offered me on the beanbag, it's just close enough to feel the heat of Will’s gaze, but far enough that I can pretend to ignore it. The voices swirl around me, but they feel distant. My focus is too busy tuning itself to him. Chris hands me a rum and coke he's just mixed. I take one sip, holy fuck it's strong. I know I insinuated I wanted one with heavy drugs in it but goddamn. I mutter a thank you to him.

Will leans slightly forward, one elbow resting on his knee now. His fingers tap absently on the glass bottle. His eyes flick to mine again, like he’s checking I’m still there, still looking.

I am.

I always am.

The stress starts to slip off me in layers—first my shoulders, then my jaw. He doesn’t even say anything to me. Just exists in the room the way he does, all ease and quiet smugness. This always happens. I show up bristling and bitter, decide I won’t even look at him, and five minutes later I’m laughing at nothing, forgetting why I was mad in the first place.

I scan the room, counting names like mental flashcards. Chris. George. Arthur—both of them. Bach, curled up with a cider and a fresh haircut, hoodie sleeves pushed up like he’s about to solve a mystery or maybe start a band. But then there's a face I don’t recognise.

He’s shorter, with could-be curls and the kind of cheekbones that suggest he’s good at five-a-side. His football shirt is vintage, or at least cool enough to pretend it is. He catches me looking and offers a polite, not-unfriendly half-smile.

I nod, reflexively. Then—without thinking—glance at Will.

And he’s already looking at me.

He clocks the exchange immediately. Doesn’t miss a beat. “This is Stephen,” he says, voice pitched just that bit louder than necessary—like he’s introducing him to the room, but really, the message is mine. A soft thread tugging: I see you.

The conversation ripples with laughter, someone says something about Stephen being “the designated wildcard,” and I manage a real smile this time. Not forced. Not polite. Just… easy.

Will’s eyes find mine again. That same look—subtle and steady, with none of the usual bite. Not quite a smile, but something warmer than neutral. Something careful. Protective. Like he’s flicking the corner of a post-it note stuck to my ribs that says, You’re not invisible.

I want to thank him, for throwing me that social lifeline, for always noticing. For being the first and honestly only person who introduces me to people. It seems like everyone just assumes I should know them.

But the words catch in my throat, too heavy with everything we’re not saying. So instead, I shift on the beanbag, tuck one leg underneath me, and look away—pretending not to blush while the heat creeps up my neck like he lit a match inside me.

Still, I feel it.

That invisible line drawn across the floor. The energy between us shifts. It’s no longer sweet — it’s something else. It’s…

I meet is gaze, steady on me.

Like a secret that doesn’t need to be spoken to be known.

So I take a sip of my too-strong drink, pretending it doesn’t taste like his name on my tongue.

It’s…

Hot.

Heavy.

It’s…

everything I didn’t want to admit.

The conversation rolls on, picks up speed again like it never noticed I tried to derail it by existing. It’s normal. Casual.

I feel anything but.

Every nerve in my body is hyper-aware of Will’s presence. Of the three inches of space between his leg and George next to him. Of the way he isn’t drinking much, just slowly nursing a beer and glancing in my direction whenever someone else is talking.

I try not to notice.

I fail spectacularly.

“So, Will,” Chris says, stirring something neon and suspicious, “what’s going on with you? You seeing anyone? What happened to that girl from Dublin?”

My stomach tenses. I blink hard at the rim of my glass. I didn't know there was a girl from Dublin.

Will grins, infuriating and deliberate. “She moved back to Dublin, plus we couldn’t understand a word each other were saying.”

George scoffs. “Translation: she ghosted him after one mediocre date.”

“Excuse you,” Will says, hand on chest in mock injury. “My dates are never mediocre.”

He says it to the room, but he looks at me when he says it.

Direct. Unapologetic.

Like he’s daring me to contradict him.

Laughter breaks out around us. Chris chuckles into his drink. Arthur-who-i-don't-live-with claps once, delighted. George chuckles too at first. But I feel it. That subtle shift. The way his body leans back, almost imperceptibly, like he’s just remembered something, or just noticed something he hadn’t meant to see.

Will sits back again, smug. His fingers brush the rim of his bottle, slow and rhythmic.

Arthur-who-i-DO-live-with raises his eyebrows. “So what—you are seeing someone now?”

Will shrugs, slow and maddeningly nonchalant. “Yeah, sorta. It’s… early. Kind of nice, actually.”

The word nice lands on me like a spark. My heart flips.

I see George go stiff.

Arthur-who-i-don't-live-with lights up. “Is that an exclusive soft launch?”

Will tilts his head, grinning like he knows the chaos he’s about to cause. “Wouldn’t be very soft if I confirmed that, would it?”

More laughter. But I see it—the small clench in George’s jaw. The way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

My pulse is in my ears, like the room just tilted slightly and no one noticed but me.

I stare at glass, trying to focus on the ice melting. I don’t look at Will. I don’t look at George.

I try not to look like I’m thinking too hard about any of it.

The conversation has shifted again, and now I'm pretending to listen to whatever Arthur’s saying about Fantasy Premier League. Will’s directly across from me, half-lit by the warm lamplight, that same lazy posture like he hasn’t moved in an hour. But I can feel him.

Not see him.

Feel him.

The way his gaze keeps drifting—pulling across the space between us like a taut string. It slides over my cheek, down my collarbone, lingers somewhere just below my neckline. Never obvious. Never quite bold enough to be caught by anyone else. Well, except maybe George.

But I feel it. God, do I feel it.

I keep my face carefully neutral, sipping at my drink and nodding like I’m tuned in. I’m not. I’m hyperaware of everything else—of the way Will’s thumb rests along the bottle’s edge, slow circles, absent-minded but precise. Of the way his knee bumps against George’s once, shifts, then angles ever-so-slightly toward me. Of the flicker of his tongue as he licks a bit of beer from the corner of his mouth.

He hasn’t said a word to me in ten minutes.

And he doesn’t have to.

That silence between us? It’s louder than anything.

Someone jokes about going out soon, about being already half-cut—and the room laughs, the energy rising. I laugh too, a bit too high, a bit too fast. Will notices. Of course he does.

He lifts his bottle and tilts it slowly toward me. Barely half an inch. Just a twitch of his wrist. But it’s deliberate. Drink, love, it says.

I blink. Tilt my glass back in quiet rebellion.

He smirks.

The bastard.

Chris throws a cushion at Arthur, and the room devolves into a tangle of boys and half-empty mixers. But I stay grounded—anchored by Will’s eyes. Every time I glance up, I find him already looking. Like he doesn’t trust me to be in the same room without watching me.

I shift slightly on my beanbag, tug my work cardigan off my shoulders like it’s casual, like it’s just warm in here. It’s not. I’m ice inside and overheating all at once.

He doesn’t look at the cardigan. He watches my hands as I pull the sleeves over my wrists, watches my fingers fiddle with the hem like I’m trying not to fidget. Like I’m unravelling, slowly, and he’s enjoying every second.

George says something beside him, and Will nods along, doesn’t break eye contact.

Doesn’t need to.

His gaze is that constant hum under my skin. That pressure behind my ribs. That memory of last week’s hands on my skin—of mouths, too fast and too familiar, of breathless laughter tangled in the dark.

I press my knees tighter together, shift again.

Will’s brow lifts—subtle, cocky. Like he knows exactly what I’m doing.

I clench my jaw. Look away.

Then, under the coffee table—light, so light—I feel it. The brush of his foot. Just barely grazing the side of mine.

I don’t move.

I don’t flinch.

But my pulse kicks up like I’ve been yanked out of my own skin.

I glance up again, carefully, slowly. Will’s talking now. Joking about something, deflecting someone’s dig, probably Stephen's, but his eyes flick back to mine mid-sentence. And the corner of his mouth twitches.

That almost-smile. That “I know what this is doing to you” look.

I hate him. I hate how well he reads me. How much I want to close the distance between us in front of everyone. How I can’t.

Someone’s asking me a question—Arthur, maybe—but it doesn’t land. I answer with a nod I barely register. My brain is half-fog, half-fire, and all of it is him.

He shifts again, knees spreading wider, then lets his hand drop to his thigh. His thumb taps once. Still watching me.

I sip my drink just to give my hands something to do. I’m going to combust.

And he knows it.

Xxx

There is a lull in the conversation, and I can feel another story starting, another distraction spinning through the air like glitter. I use the moment and push myself to my feet.

“Gonna crash,” I say casually, stretching like the act of standing isn’t a full-body escape. “You lot have fun.”

There’s a scattered chorus of goodnights. George offers a warm “Sleep well,” and Chris winks like I’ve just admitted defeat to my own social battery.

Will doesn’t say anything.

But I feel his eyes follow me as I walk out.

I don’t look back.

Upstairs, my room is dark and quiet, the low hum of bass from downstairs barely bleeding through the floor. I close the door gently, not quite clicking it shut. Just in case.

I exhale.

Then I sit on the edge of my bed, the silence thick around me, hands pressed into the blanket like I need the grounding. The energy from the night still crackling across my skin.

Two minutes later—barely enough time for me to even kick off my shoes—I hear the floorboard outside my door creak.

The faintest knock.

Then the door opens. Will slips in without waiting for a reply, like it’s not a question. Like this has always been the plan. He clicks the door closed behind him.

He’s holding his half-finished beer. His brows lift when he sees me still sitting on the edge of the bed, like he expected something different—maybe pyjamas, maybe distance.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says, voice low and easy, like the joke’s been waiting on his tongue all night.

I glance up. “Like what?”

He tips his head toward the clutter. “You. Me. This cursed little museum of other people’s bad purchases.”

I snort. “Hey, don’t knock the early-career YouTuber aesthetic. George says the broken drone adds character.”

He glances at the corner like it personally offends him, eyes landing on the toppled ring light still leaning sideways against the wall.

“That tripod’s still knocked over,” he says, mouth twitching. “Should’ve known you’d leave it exactly where we kicked it.”

I shoot him a look. “Technically, you kicked it. While trying to multitask.”

He steps a little closer, slow, smug. He’s still standing. I’m still seated, spine straightening without meaning to as he closes a bit of the distance. “I was very focused,” he says.

“On making a mess?”

“On you.”

God.

That look on his face—just barely smug, but warm underneath, like he’s remembering the exact moment he lost focus. The way his voice drops when he says you.

It does something to me.

I try not to let it show. But suddenly I’m hyper-aware of the way he fills the doorway. The way his shirt clings to the dip of his collarbone. The light catching on the edge of his jaw. He smells like citrus and beer and something faintly like heat.

He’s not even trying, and I feel like I’m about to go up in flames.

That shuts me up for half a second too long. He notices—of course he does—and the smugness softens, just a fraction. Not gone, just folded beneath something quieter.

“Yeah, well, I live here rent-free. I don’t get to be picky.”

“There’s a monitor from 2011 under your bed.”

“And yet you keep showing up.”

He smiles at that—slow, crooked. Dangerous. “Yeah. Wonder why that is.”

He doesn’t move closer. Just lingers near the door, like he's giving me the choice. Like if I said go, he would.

I don’t. Obviously.

He scans the room again, like he’s seeing it for the first time—even though this isn’t new. He's been here before. More times than makes sense, actually.

More than makes sense for two people pretending not to mean anything.

His voice softens. “You alright?”

“I am now,” I say, quieter than I mean to.

He nods like he already knew. Like it’s not the first time I’ve said that to him.

Then a beat. Just enough silence to feel like gravity.

He looks at me, just looks, still standing, beer in hand, five feet of electric space between us, and says, “Funny, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“This keeps happening.” His eyes flick around the room—the clutter, the quiet, me sitting there in the middle of it all like a scene he keeps returning to. “Me ditching my mates. You sitting here like you didn’t plan on letting me in.”

I try to look unimpressed. “I didn’t.”

He takes one slow step forward. “You always leave the door open.”

“I always forget to close it.”

“Sure you do.”

His voice is lower now, steadier, pulling something out of me like thread from a seam. I should say something clever. I should move. But I can’t. I just sit there, heart thudding, skin flushed, and think—

He looks so fucking good.

And then I do move.

I stand slowly, like I’m not entirely sure why I’m doing it, like gravity’s just pulled me to my feet instead of common sense. We’re closer now—barely a foot between us—and he watches me rise like it’s happening in slow motion.

He opens his mouth like he might say something else, but I don’t give him the chance.

I kiss him.

Soft at first, but insistent. Like I’ve been thinking about this all night—and I have. His mouth tastes like beer and something sharper underneath. I grip his collar and feel his breath catch against mine.

He kisses me back, of course he does—hands sliding to my hips, grounding me, anchoring us—but there’s something restrained in it. Like he’s kissing me carefully.

I know that version of him. That cautious, thinking-too-much version.

So I tip things.

My hands slide lower, thumbs brushing under the hem of his shirt. I toy with the edge of his waistband, tug lightly, just enough to make a point.

He breaks the kiss with a soft, breathy laugh. “All of my mates are literally a door away.”

I look up at him, deliberately unfazed. “So?”

His breath hitches again.

It’s almost funny, how flustered he gets when I push things. He’s all bark in the living room, teasing across the room with smug little comments and those eyes. But in here, with me? His confidence slips just a little when I’m the one steering.

"I think they're about—” he starts, but he doesn’t finish.

I kiss him again, firmer this time, my hands threading through the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer like I own this moment. “We’re already being stupid. Might as well commit.”

Will leans back against the door, just like the first time he pressed me here—his body a solid frame against mine. The heat between us sizzles, silent but undeniable, like electricity sparking in the tight space.

My fingers move to his chest. I pull back just enough to catch my breath, eyes locked on his. “I need five minutes and a hairtie,” I say, voice low, teasing with a dangerous edge.

He arches a brow, a slow, reluctant smile curling his lips. “Five minutes? What’s the plan, boss?”

I step forward, voice dropping to a sultry whisper as I lean close, so close he can feel my breath against his jaw. “You’ve been looking at me like you can’t resist me all night," I murmur, "may as well give you what you want."

He laughs, rough and easy, but there’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, I know he's nervous, with all his mates next door but let's be real, he's a guy. He won’t think about the consequences of a blowjob if it means getting a blowjob.

“Alright, alright. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” I murmur, my lips brushing his ear, “because I like you exactly where you are.”

I step back just enough to grab the scrunchie from the messy bed, my fingers trembling slightly over the pile of clothes and tech junk. The crooked ring light teeters but doesn’t fall.

Will watches every move, his gaze sharp and hungry, the light catching the planes of his face—jawline, collarbone, that subtle crease above his brow.

I twist my hair up slow, deliberately, locking eyes with him the entire time. When I turn back around, he’s still by the door, eyes dark, lips slightly parted.

Without warning, he reaches out, fingers sliding around my waist, pulling me close again. His touch is firm, possessive, and completely sure—like he’s claiming every inch of me without holding anything back.

My hands press against his chest, feeling the steady pulse beneath his shirt, matching the wild racing in my own veins. I let my lips drift lower, tracing a slow path along his jaw, brushing against the sharp angle, every kiss deliberate, every breath warm against his skin.

Will's breath catches. I bite lightly at the curve of his neck, my teeth teasing, my tongue on his skin just enough to make him shiver. My fingers find their way back to his waistband, and I feel his bare skin under his shirt, my fingers ghosting along his hips.

Without breaking the kiss, my fingers fumble hurriedly at his belt buckle, the tension making my hands tremble just enough to slow me down. It catches on the metal, stubborn. He leans in, breath warm against my ear, and with a quick, practiced motion, frees the clasp.

His hands slip around my waist again, fingers pressing into my skin, pulling me impossibly closer—solid, grounding me in the wildfire sparking between us.

His eyes darken, shadows deepening into something fierce and hungry, raw and unfiltered, completely caught in this moment like nothing else exists beyond us.

I can feel the heat radiating off him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat syncing with mine, every second stretching out, heavy and electric.

Theres no hesitation now, just the undeniable pull, the raw energy crackling through the air.

I kiss him again—no time for pleasantries—my tongue sliding boldly down his throat, hungry and demanding, like I’m trying to swallow every word he’s left unsaid.

I push his jeans down his legs, just enough to give me access to his briefs. I palm his dick through them, a moan escaping his mouth into mine. His knees buckle just slightly, but enough for me to notice. I giggle softly, breathless, and he responds by moving his hands up, cupping my face gently—his touch warm and steady, grounding me even as everything else feels like it’s spinning.

I want to tease him a little longer—draw this out, keep the heat simmering—but I’m wary of the time, the situation.

I told him five minutes. I’ll deliver on my promise.

So I pull back just enough to flash him a sly smile, my fingers trailing teasingly down his chest before stepping away, leaving the tension hanging between us like a spark waiting to catch fire.

“Five minutes,” I remind him softly, voice low and mischievous.

I drop to my knees faster than he’s expecting. I know because when I look up, his eyes widen—surprise flickering across his face.

My hands work quickly, sliding his briefs down, then his jeans, the fabric slipping and pooling around his ankles like they don’t belong.

He’s exposed and vulnerable now, and somehow it only makes my grin widen.

His hands find my hair, fingers curling tightly around my locks, tugging firmly—sharp enough to sting but slow enough to tease—setting the tone so fast it knocks the breath out of me.

Heat surges through me, but I have to steady myself, remind myself we don’t have all night to make this flirty or even sexy.

There’s no time to ease into it, no room for slow burns or soft teasing.

Just this—raw, urgent, and real.

I take him in my mouth, my tongue swirling around his tip, trying to make it as slick as quickly as I possibly can. I can taste his precum, and I catch every last drop.

I move forward, taking him into my mouth as deep as possible, my hand covering the rest. I'm still not over how big he is. For a skinnier guy hes a) strong and b) hung. I press one hand lightly on his bare thigh, using it to steady myself—feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my palm, grounding me in the moment.

I look up at him, drinking in the way his chest heaved and how his eyes were screwed shut. His mouth is hanging open, He's trying to not moan, I can see it in how he bites his lips, how tight the grip is on my hair. I wish he would, he has the prettiest little moans I've ever heard.

He tells me late at night, when we’re soft and happy and talking about anything and everything, that he doesn’t moan.

I’ve learned otherwise.

And tonight? Tonight is just more proof.

“holy fuck.” he breathed out, as quietly as he could. He's not able to stop himself from thrusting down, his eyes blinking open, a shocked face looking down, looking at me. I look back, hollowing my cheeks, taking him deeper. He hits the back of my throat over and over, im gagging slightly, but not too loud.

I hope.

His hips were shaking now, and he was twitching in my mouth.

"Love can I - " he breaths softly, looking down at me. One of his hands is now detangled from my hair, finding its way to my cheeks.

Even now, like this, he’s soft with me.

Despite everything, there’s a gentleness in the way he holds me, in the way he lets himself be vulnerable—right here, right now.

“Can I move? Can I…” It’s so cute and honestly downright hot when he says things like that—when he asks sweetly before taking the next step, like he’s checking in, making sure I’m okay. Before he fucks my face.

I nod, mouth still full of him. He smiles at me, hands returning to my hair, further back now, and much tighter.

his hips set a restless pace, it's hard to breathe, but god. If he looks like that he can do anything to me.

My name spills from his lips, soft and quiet—like a prayer. Like a plea.

It catches in my chest, a tender weight I didn’t expect but don’t want to ignore.

He moves a hand,  ushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead, my fingers trembling just a little.

Tears start to well in my eyes, blurring my vision until I can’t see him clearly anymore. My body feels like it’s on fire—every nerve alive, every breath catching like it’s too much and not enough all at once.

“god, fuck, yeah-,” he stumbles over his own words, the pleasure taking over him completely.

Will's muscles are strained in his long sleeves, and he pushes my head further down him.

He groans quietly—low, guttural, a sound that vibrates through me and sets something deep loose.

I blink, tears falling from my face. His pace falters for a second, but I softly move my fingers on his thigh.

Its okay, keep going.

His pace resumes, but not for long. “sh-shit, I’m gonna… fuck.” his body began to shake, and I restrict my mouth around him one last time. His pace stops, and his body shudders forward. Hands still firmly tangled in my hair.

I felt his hot, desperate load down fall down my throat. 

and I swallow all of it, like a goddamn champ. I clean off his cock with my tongue and finally let him drop from my mouth, wiping the sides of my lips with my thumb. He whimpers, clearly overstimulated, and is looking at me like I just sucked his soul clean out of him.

Maybe I did.

Will is still catching his breath, chest rising and falling as he recovers. I revel in the site. A silent I did this to him.

He pulls his jeans back up his body, fixing his belt. Then, slow and steady, he extends a hand to lift me off the floor.

His fingers brush the tears from my face, wiping them away gently. He smiles at me—sweetly, innocently—as if we hadn’t just committed filthy sin in his mate’s storage cupboard.

He kisses me, deeply, and tastes all of himself on my tongue.

"Holy… Fuck" he says. Our faces only inches away. "You weren't kidding about five minutes. I've never cum that quick in my life".

"What can I say? I'm a woman of my word, I say, cheeks very warm. I can feel my own heat sticking through my underwear. I'll have to sort myself out later, when the flat is empty.

Oh my god. The flat isn't empty.

If anything its very full.

Will’s breath is still warm on my neck.

We haven’t said anything in a minute, he's holding me close to him, his back still against the door, like he didn’t actually want to pull away. My chest is flush against his and his hands are still resting on my waist like he's forgotten how to let go.

“Think they’ll notice I’m gone?” he mutters, voice low against my skin.

I don’t get the chance to answer, because right then, through the door, we hear it:

“Oi, where’s Will?” George.

Will stiffens. I feel it immediately — every muscle in him goes tense.

Shit.

We’re still standing way too close. I try to move but he doesn’t step back. Not right away. He just lifts his head, eyes flicking toward the door like he can see straight through it.

“He was just here?” says Arthur-who-i-do-live-with.

They don’t sound suspicious. Yet. Just drunk. Loud. Careless.

Will finally shifts, just enough to ease the weight between us, but he doesn’t step away.

His arms stay around me, loose but certain, like letting go isn’t an option yet. One hand trails slowly down my arm, brushing my skin in a way that sends shivers up my spine—but instead of stopping, he links our fingers together, holding me there.

Close.

Warm.

Silent, but full of something neither of us dares to name.

I take a shaky breath, still wrapped in him, pretending I’m fine.

Not flushed.

Not trembling.

Not wildly aware that we’re tucked away in my bedroom with friends just metres away and his heartbeat still thudding against mine.

And even though we should be moving, disappearing before anyone notices—we don’t.

Because neither of us wants to be the first to pull away.

“Bathroom?” someone says. Then there’s the sound of doors opening — hallway cupboard. Not mine.

“This is bad,” I whisper.

He shrugs, but his eyes are still locked on the door like it might vanish if he stares hard enough. “Only if they find me.”

I look up at him quickly. He grins. Bastard.

“Come on, we’re heading out!” Chris calls. Muffled, but definitely closer. “Will, don’t make me come find you!”

Outside, someone knocks on the bathroom door. A beat of silence. Then George again: “If he’s having a tactical, he better hurry the hell up.”

They’re all still yelling and fumbling around out there, no idea he’s right here, ten feet from them — hair messy because of me, shirt untucked because of me. I hold onto him, heart racing.

Will and I both freeze when we hear the bathroom door open.

“Nope,” George calls. “He’s not in there. Ghosted us.”

Will glances at me. He looks amused.

I don’t.

Outside, footsteps echo down the hallway — Chris stomping like he’s on a mission, Arthur’s voice somewhere behind him, probably making sarcastic commentary, and Stephen mumbling something about just leaving without Will entirely.

Will leans his head closer to the voices, listening carefully.

He holds up a finger: wait.

And then, the second their voices fade past my room and toward the front of the flat, he opens the door just enough to slip out.

It happens fast. Quiet. Like he’s done this before.

But right before he disappears fully into the hallway, he glances back at me — not a smirk this time, not a wink. Just… a look.

I don’t know what it means.

Then he’s gone.

I hear his voice seconds later, chiming in with the group like he’s been there the whole time.

“Oi, I was getting my jacket. Calm down.”

They laugh—one of those tired, half-drunk bursts of laughter that echoes down the hall.

Chris curses him out, but it’s half-hearted, more fond than furious.

And I can hear Stephen’s already halfway out the door—his voice going all echoey as it carries from the shared hallway, fading in and out between open space and walls.

They’re leaving.

They think Will’s just behind them.

And I’m still here, tangled up in him, trying to catch my breath while pretending this doesn’t feel like more than it’s meant to be.

But then there’s a pause.

A beat.

Arthur's voice isn’t loud — just close. “…You didn’t get your jacket from Y/Ns room, though.”

Silence.

My phone buzzes.

I ignore it.

It’s probably Ruth. Or maybe it’s Chris asking if I want to come with them. Either way, I don’t have it in me to check right now.

I curl onto my bed, knees pulled in, face pressed to the pillow that still smells like his shampoo. I can still sort of hear them, I guess they're at the front door, dicking around with the uber app, realising they need an XL.

Will’s voice is the first I catch.

“yeah were… It’s… a thing. Kind of.”

The words hit like a slap I saw coming but didn’t move fast enough to dodge.

I don’t even know what the question was. Doesn’t matter.

The way he says it — awkward, hesitant, like he’s embarrassed to say more — that’s the part that sticks.

Not a relationship.

Not I really like her.

Just a thing. Kind of.

God.

What happened to "it's kind of nice, actually." from before?

There’s a short silence, and then George pipes up, far too quickly.

“I’m happy for you, mate.”

But his voice betrays him. There’s something sharp under the words. Brittle.

And the others go quiet, like they heard it too.

I go still, barely breathing, straining to hear anything else — but the silence that follows says enough.

Because I know George, better than most.

Will doesn’t reply right away.

I imagine him there — shifting uncomfortably, maybe rubbing the back of his neck like he does when he’s not sure if he should push or back off.

I almost wish I could see his face.

Almost.

A few minutes later, I hear the front door shut. Voices blur into the street noise—Chris yelling something, someone laughing too hard—and then the house finally settles.

Quieter. But not quiet.

Not in my head.

I don’t move. I just sit there, staring at the chipped edge of my bedside table like it might tell me what I’m meant to feel.

I want to be angry.

At George, for whatever that was.

At Will, for saying "It’s... a thing. Kind of.”

Like I’m a side quest. A rumour. A shrug.

But the worst part is—

he's not wrong.

That’s what we agreed to. No pressure. No label. Nothing real.

Just fun.

But it's not just fun anymore. I'm sure of it. It's changed somewhere.

Somewhere between when he notices when I’ve had a bad day before I say a word.

When he brings me the crisps I always pretend I don’t want. When he lingers after everyone else has left — just long enough to ask if I’m okay, but not long enough to make it obvious.

Somewhere in the way he kisses me like he means it.

I rub my palms down my jeans, still not sure if I want to scream, cry, or just disappear into the mattress entirely. There’s a twisting feeling in my chest—hot and stupid and hard to name.

Not heartbreak.

But definitely something cracked.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, screen lighting up in the dim room.

 lol cat’s out the bag

The boys are teasing me for how fucked my hair looks.

I don’t respond to him, not yet.

You alright? Want me to come back up?

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the reply bubble, but I don’t type anything. Because I don’t know what I’d say. Not yet.

Lol

Probably should've thought that more through

Enjoy your night!!

I feel so tired now. The heat in my cheeks is long gone, replaced by something strange and hollow—like whatever was burning in me has cooled too quickly, leaving just the ash behind.

I want to forget about George, I really do. Because this—this sharp edge under his words—it's not just a random mood swing. It’s personal. And it’s unfair. Because he was the one who rejected me. Not the other way around. But I don’t want to think about George. I don’t want to untangle the way my chest tightens when I hear his voice. Or the way his eyes flicker when he catches me looking. I want to focus on Will.

But George—George is a weight I can’t shake, and it feels like he’s dragging me back every time I try to move forward.

And it’s not fair. Not to me. Not to anyone. I rub my palms against my trousers , willing the knot in my stomach to loosen.

But it won’t.

xxx

Taglsit: @meglouise00@migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl @mrswillne @ravenaz

[11queensupreme11]

if you go back to the way earlier chapters of the fic, fate has been altered! it's a huge deal for everyone back in pjo verse cuz percy was NEVER supposed to go to the ror verse. what fate had planned for her was for hera to kidnap her, erase her memories, and then all the other hoo stuff (so basically, just like canon). THAT was percy's fate

but percy was accidentally yoinked to the ror verse which altered all of fate as they know it. that's why pjo!fates sent hera to go find and bring percy back cuz their universe has two years until gaea rises and possibly destroys everything which is NOT supposed to happen.

percy is extremely important for the future of the pjo universe. she's supposed to help save the world a second time and her actions directly and indirectly impact a bunch of other lives (like.... literally every single one lmao). if she's not around to actually FULFILL that fate, then literally anything can happen and the fates won't know what to expect cuz EVERYTHING has been altered. she was supposed to get taken by hera and prepare for the second gigantomachy, now she's not here so what's gonna happen next?

back in the debutante ball chapter, the ror!fates tell her that she has no string. she doesn't exist in their universe cuz she doesn't belong in the ror verse, she belongs with the pjo verse. so her fate is nonexistent in the ror verse, they only know what was SUPPOSED to be fate in the pjo verse (which is the canon hoo stuff). that's why her soul's breaking, she shouldn't exist there.

the prophecy of the seven is what her fate is supposed to be, but since she's in the ror verse, it might not happen if she stays in the ror verse and dies there cuz of the soul issue/or ascends and remains stuck there. the only reason we, the readers, know it's gonna happen anyway is cuz... well, i've been telling everyone what act 4 is lol 💀

ok ok so you guys remember my reaction fic that i'll be publishing once act 2 is over with, cerulean cyanide

since i don't plan on writing about EVERY SINGLE CHAPTER of the pjo series, i feel i should also include the hoo series afterwards!!!

like a "okay you just saw percy's past up until how she ended up in your universe, now this is what percy's future would've looked like had she never got sent to you guys 🥰" kinda thing

WHAT DO YOU THINK??? ANY THOUGHTS??????

[worstloki]

"Thor cared about Jotunheim!" "Thor cared about Coulson!"

Nah sorry I think he cared that it was Loki acting so abnormal both times. Not about the people just yet. Still growing. Sorry.

[laurrelise]

finally started reading sunrise on the reaping and here are my thoughts so far :))

oh my GOD oh my god what the HELL oh my FUCKING GOD my GOD holy SHIT what the HELL i was not PREPARED i am in devastation i will never be ok again don’t talk to me i am in pain

[lynxgriffin]

Since Cattington is collectively a cat and a snake, would they like naps in sunbeams? Is that even a concept in the Dark World?

There's not really a proper sun in the Dark World, so Catti and Jockington would probably be enraptured by some real sunbeams in the light world they could lounge in!

[fagbearentertainment]

I feel like I’m already seeing ppl over correct the tenna woobification (which is a real thing that’s happening I’ve seen it) or attempt to not repeat the 2021 spamton woobification by talking about how evil he is or whatever and it’s driving me crazy

Like you can acknowledge the bad stuff he did while not horribly mischaracterizing him, you know this right? He’s intentionally written to be sympathetic you can feel bad for him while not woobifying him you don’t gotta over correct it

[magnass]

tagged by @lezziemanville thank you for tagging me! this was so fun even if it took me 2 business months to actually do it.

rules: give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words (feel free to interpret however you would like; if not on AO3, can be on Tumblr or FFNET!)

most hits: wheat kings and pretty things (let's just see what tomorrow brings) (Bernie/Serena Holby City Great British Bake Off AU) 29,086 hits

light of my life, my darling, the longest and most intricate fic I've ever written. baked goods, lesbianism, there was a very detailed spreadsheet that planned out every bake and every ranking/star baker/disqualification for every week. trying to find technical bakes they hadn't done before was brutal.

I sometimes get comments that people are re-reading this as their comfort fic and that brings me so much joy

second most kudos: don't care what you keep doin' (just keep on doin' it with me) (Bernie/Serena Holby City Fake Dating AU) 1,183 kudos

I've always been a sucker for fake dating and this cruise fake dating moment was so fun to write. this was the first long fic I actually wrote and finished so it has a special place in my heart for that. also 10/10 enjoyable way to say fuck you to Marcus

third most comments: an intimacy (Bernie/Serena Holby City Sex Worker AU) 345 comment threads

literally obsessed that this is on here 😭 the world's most sex-less sex worker au.

as is probably very evident from my writing I really vibe with Bernie's experience of trauma and how she copes with it and I loved getting to give that an in depth treatment that wasn't there in the show. it was also very cool that so many people were willing to go along with whatever wacky au my muse handed me.

fourth most bookmarks: until i had you on the open road and now we're singing (Bernie/Serena Holby City Bernie is a Mechanic AU) 77 bookmarks

mechanic au!!! wow we are truly just playing the hits of my long holby city fics. this was a super fun way to put my time working in car servicing to good use. I loved hot mechanic Bernie and I also vividly remember scouring the internet for schematics of engines in order to get this done.

fifth most words: they don't know about the up all nights (they don't know I've waited all my life) (Johnny/Bull Band of Brothers) 22,010 words

throwback to when my former roommates and I got super into band of brothers for like 6 months. I am super proud of this fic, I actually think it's some of my best writing in terms of capturing characters as they exist in canon (especially because unlike most of my long fics this is not an AU but follows canon).

truly a tiny ship in a small fandom so very much something I wrote because there was so little fic out there for this pairing. you should watch the show because it's great and then go to ao3 because there is some phenomenal fic for it.

least words: always the healer, never the healed (Bernie/Serena Holby City) 1,494 words

just a short introspective fic that was one of the first things I wrote for berena. I don't know that overall it's my best written work or my favourite (I honestly think that ‘‘ｓｏ ｃｏｍｅ ｈｏｍｅ’’ said the voice from the stars. is my favourite thing I wrote for Holby City and technically one of my best pieces). But always the healer gave me the opportunity to really delve into and think about Bernie and Serena's characters and I think it was really foundational to how I wrote them in my later longer or better fics.

tagging Jess in case she hasn't done this before! @missparker

[charlesemersonwinchesteriii]

I do really want to terrorpost but I don't feel qualified to be in that fandom man...... everyone is so smart and creative and they all have advanced degrees and I'm just sitting here like I think the lieutenants are in love :3

[basket-of-radiants]

So not only have skybreakers existed as a secret society all this time, there's also been an offshoot group of a second even more secret society of skybreakers, that even most members of the first group are unaware of...

[fly-sky-high-bug-games]

Dragon devouring the Light

[bright-hope-spot-19]

All right, so to make things clear: this is a rewrite of an old post I'd written as a reblog to show a side of Kankuro's character not many people take into account: and that's how he's not flawless despite the development he saw between og Naruto and Shippuden. I just had to delete that reblog once I found out the op who'd made the main post is an Israel defender. It almost made me throw up, realizing I had unknowingly reblogged smth from a genocide apologist. So, I decided to delete my reblog and write it as an individual post instead.

This is another one of Kankuro's traits that I adore because it just helps show how human he is. Now, a very important detail to keep in mind when writing a character and giving that character development is to not get rid of their flaws. Especially if said flaws form an intrinsic part of the characters' personality, and they just wouldn't feel the same without these flaws. It's hard to strike a balance in a character that has seen development, changed for the better, and learned from their mistakes, but at the same time, they're not flawless. As humans, we're not flawless and will never be. We're emotional, we make rash decisions, and when under stress, it's easy to choose with your heart, not your head. Kankuro embraces that relatable human experience perfectly.

Did Kankuro see development? Definitely, yes. He did develop and change between how he was in the chunin exams and the way he is in Shippuden. Is he flawless? Very big, fat NO. Despite having become a more mature and responsible person who's changed to the point of being Gaara's n.1 supporter and his second most important bond after Naruto, Kankuro is still Kankuro. As we know him, he is reckless, rash, cocky, and overconfident. He jumps into a fight, not taking the possible consequences into account, but when push comes to shove and he is defeated, he still manages to obtain a vital, useful clue for their mission. As we can see, he still has his personality traits that characterize him. He's just learned to adapt and make a small victory out of that loss. And we know it is intentional for Kankuro to be flawed and human because after he'd been defeated and brought back and Chiyo and her brother Ebizo were also called in to heal Kankuro. Ebizo calls out Kankuro for his mistake. So, his flaws are acknowledged. He doesn't just get away with it. He's made responsible for them, despite being in a life or death situation. Kankuro is constantly being called out for his mistakes, actually. Something that I don't think happens with any other character to that extent.

When in his introduction, he got into a fight with the Leaf kids? Got called out by both Sasuke throwing a rock at him and telling him to get lost, as well as Gaara literally showing up and threatening to kill him. When in the pre-lims, he tries establishing a connection with Naruto? Nart tells him to his face that he doesn't like him. When he shows too much eagerness and excitement to fight his opponent in the pre-lims? Gaara also has a scene calling him pathetic. In the Gaara rescue arc, he's schooled twice, once by Sasori and another by Ebizo, as mentioned above, before getting a little respite with Kakashi's praise of his quick-thinking skills. Yeah, Kankuro will attack recklessly and accidentally end up falling into a ditch, but he'll also be the first to come up with a safe and sound plan to come out of that ditch stronger than before. That's a sign of a well-written character. That's why I believe he's better written than both his sibs. Because I dare anyone to mention a single instance since Gaara's 'redemption' where he's shown making mistakes and learning from them. There simply isn't. Same with Temari. Whereas Kanks cruelty is presented as a flaw, her cruelty is presented as a virtue that makes her a #badass girlboss. Her anime scene fighting with Konohamaru proves that. When Kank was the one bullying this kid, despite being introduced as a legit villain and antagonistic character (what do villains do, I wonder? Geez, take a fucking guess). And being a kid himself, it's presented as bad. When Temari is the one who also fights this same child almost killing him, she's cool, and Konohamaru is the one scolded. Even if at that point, Temari was one of the 'good guys', and she was like 18-19 threatening to kill a 12 year old. Long live feminism guys! She almost killed a young teen cause he taunted her, she's so cool! The same applies to the war arc. After Temari gets separated from Gaara and she finds herself in a little group with Shika and Gaara's two insufferable fangirls (Matsuri and whatever her friends' name is). She legit spends most of her screentime shouting at these two young, inexperienced teens cause she doesn't know what else to do.

Compare that to Kankuro:

Yeah, guys. Sorry to say this, but only one of them is well-written, and it's not the girl. The difference between them is that while Kankuro's flaws are pointed out to him and he's challenged to change and overcome them without truly losing the essence of his character. Temari's flaws are merely presented as traits that make her 'quirky' and 'not like the other girls'.' And as a result, she's not challenged to change them or learn nothing from her mistakes cause the story simply refuses to acknowledge them. So, endgame Temari is exactly the same as the Temari from the chunin exam. She's just kinda softer now, cause she has a bf? But that won't erase her fierceness! She can still punch and slap Shikamaru no problem! Feminism is still alive, guys! Gaara's character is just as atrocious as he becomes just as flawless and emotionless, to the point an old man can insult him to his face (Oonoki), and he needs his brother to react for him. They're bad because they don't make mistakes, so they can't improve, cause they have nothing to learn. That's boring. Gaara and Temari are a 12 year olds' idea of what a good character is. In reality? Both shallow and boring. Kanks is the only halfway decent one, and keep in mind, when compared to higher writing standards, Kank isn't that good either. Only when compared to the standards of side characters in Naruto, he's not only one of the best but highly outshines both his sibs in terms of writing. Feel free to crucify me, but that's the truth, lmao.

From now on, I'll be more careful and check every blog I intend to reblog from to make sure they don't support genocide. I don't want to end up accidentally reblogging stuff from a criminal ever again. Always remember: from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.

[theygender]

I wish cats were like dogs where you could take them to a cat park or kitty daycare or on a playdate and let them run around with other hyper energetic kittens for several hours and then you bring them back home and they're so played out that they're just chill the rest of the day. Astrid is in her preteen phase now and she has the most violent destructive zoomies of any cat I've ever seen. Our older male cat can't keep up with her when she really wants to play and neither can we. I just played with her until she flopped from exhaustion TWICE a few hours ago and she's already jetting around at near light speed knocking shit off every horizontal surface and doing kickflips off of us with her claws out again

[timothylawrence]

always cool to be able to say yeah I’ve walked around Roman baths and ancient Roman ruins of a town and theatre + crusader defense castle… and then people are shocked I did all this at the same city in Lebanon lmao

Here’s one (bad) pic I took LOL. Roman ruins in the front and a crusader castle behind it