#i'm probably forgetting something in here

[vingtetunmars]

Hot Off the Press

Pairing: Johnny Storm X F!Reader

Summary: You were just supposed to cover the press conference. Write a clean, professional piece. Get in, get the quote, and definitely not fall for the city’s most flammable superhero.

You swore you were the one woman in New York who wouldn’t fall for the Human Torch.

Oh, how wrong you were.

Tags: Fluff, witty banter, “I Swore I Wouldn’t Fall For Him”, Johnny is a loverboy at heart, she doesn't know he had her at first interaction, getting together, no spoilers for FF:FS. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N

A/N: I'm back!! And as expected Johnathan Lowell Spencer Storm has infiltrated my head and living in it rent free. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 10.7k

masterlist

The cameras clicked like cicadas on a summer night, all chirping in rhythm to catch the perfect angle of the Fantastic Four. You stood near the back of the Baxter Building’s press room, notebook in hand, heels clicking softly against the polished floor as you edged closer.

This was your first time covering them — the Fantastic Four. Three years into their rise, and still, they looked like they’d stepped out of a comic strip and into technicolor reality. The press called them explorers, heroes, geniuses. You called them your assignment.

Reed Richards, ever the picture of precise intellect, adjusted the microphone like he was recalibrating a telescope. Beside him, Susan Storm stood poised in light blue, all calm and practiced charm. Ben Grimm, rock-skinned and stone-faced, gave the occasional grunt that counted as a full sentence in his world. And then — of course — there was him.

Johnny Storm leaned back, with his arms crossed. He didn’t even blink. He looked like he belonged in the sky — or maybe just on the front cover of a magazine. Probably both.

You rolled your eyes before you could stop yourself.

“Thank you all for being here,” Reed began, his voice clipped and professional. “We’re happy to report that the Mad Thinker has been officially turned over to the authorities, along with his robotic enforcers and classified tech. As of 0600 hours this morning, he is in custody.”

A round of polite applause followed, tinged with the kind of awe that only came with the phrase “Mad Thinker neutralized.”

You took notes. Clean, detached. That was your job. You weren’t here to fawn or flirt or feed the fandom. You were here to write a clean feature for The Daily Observer. One that made your editor forget that this was your first major assignment. One that didn’t give the Human Torch a single ounce of the attention he so obviously craved.

Except, when it was time for questions, and Johnny finally leaned forward to speak, your pen hesitated mid-stroke.

"Guess he didn't think that far ahead," Johnny said with a smirk, referring to the Mad Thinker. A few reporters laughed. His smile deepened — satisfied, but not smug. “Not even his big brain could predict the Human Torch flying through his security grid at Mach 2.”

You didn’t laugh. But your eyes flicked up, just for a second.

And he caught you.

His gaze landed on yours like sunlight through a magnifying glass — warm, focused, too sharp for comfort. He cocked his head slightly, curious. Amused. Like he already knew you didn’t like him, and he found it funny.

Your spine straightened. You looked down, scribbled something unimportant, and didn’t look up again.

Not even when he said, “We’ve got time for one more question,” and Reed nodded.

Not even when he added, “Let’s hear from the new face in the back.”

You froze.

Oh, you hated him already.

You lowered your notebook slowly. The entire room turned toward you, the chorus of murmurs dying into anticipation. Damn him.

You cleared your throat, standing straighter. “Johnny Storm,” you began, deliberately skipping the title, “your maneuver through the Mad Thinker’s drone grid — you mentioned flying through it at Mach 2. Given the adaptive AI those drones are equipped with, what was your contingency plan if the AI recalibrated mid-flight and blocked your exit trajectory?”

Silence.

It hung in the air like static — thick and heavy with implication.

Johnny blinked once.

Then leaned into the mic.

“Well,” he drawled, grinning, “I figured if it came to that, I’d just punch through the wall and make my own exit. Y’know, big flamey boom — very cinematic.”

A few people chuckled. You didn’t.

Reed, however, stepped in without missing a beat. “To clarify — the team ran multiple simulations prior to Johnny’s entry. I programmed a counter-scrambler pulse that temporarily blinded the AI’s recalibration process. It wasn’t just a brute force plan. Johnny was operating with full sensor override and two automated failsafe routes if the main trajectory failed.”

You nodded, polite. “Thank you, Doctor Richards. But the question was for Mr. Storm.”

Reed hesitated — just long enough for you to feel the ripple of surprise move through the room. Then he nodded once, stepping back from the mic.

Johnny leaned forward again, that lopsided grin creeping back onto his face like it lived there.

“Well,” he said, voice lower now, just for you, “guess I gotta brush up on my tech lingo if I wanna impress the press.”

“You could start with not dodging questions,” you replied, just loud enough for him to hear.

The smallest twitch touched the corner of his mouth. Not offense. Not irritation. Just interest. Huh.

“Duly noted…?” He dragged the word out like an invitation.

You flipped your notebook shut. “You’ll read it in the byline.”

And with that, you sat back down.

You didn’t see him watch you as the next question was called — but you felt it. Like heat from a fire you weren’t supposed to enjoy.

The morning after the press conference, the Baxter Building’s kitchen smelled like burnt toast. Johnny lounged in the living room, flipping through the day’s stack of papers.

Reed was already dissecting a gravity anomaly from the upper stratosphere, Sue was reviewing her own quotes with the cool detachment of someone used to headlines, and Ben was elbow-deep in a bowl of protein-enhanced cereal. Johnny skimmed until his name popped out.

“Fantastic Four Thwart Thinker’s Terror Once Again!”

One paper described Reed’s leadership as “flawlessly calculated.” Another hailed Sue as “a vision of grace and tactical finesse.” Even Ben got a glowing paragraph about “raw strength tempered with loyalty and control.”

Then came his part.

Johnny’s jaw moved a little slower as he read.

“—while Johnny Storm, ever the Human Torch in name and temperament, played his usual role of chaotic spectacle. Though undeniably brave, one wonders how much longer recklessness can be mistaken for confidence.”

He blinked. Re-read it. His chewing stopped altogether.

“Hey, Stretch,” he said, lifting the paper and squinting at the byline, “you remember that new reporter? The one with the notebook and the spine made of steel?”

Reed didn’t look up. “Hmm? The one who cornered you about the AI drones?”

“Yeah. She wrote this.”

Ben grunted without looking. “What, she get your flame-retardant undies in a twist?”

Johnny folded the paper and tossed it onto the counter. “Just funny how I save the day in a ball of fire, and all I get is ‘reckless spectacle.’”

Sue took a sip of her coffee. “Maybe she’s not wrong.”

He turned. “Et tu, sis?”

She shrugged. “She didn’t say you weren’t brave. She just said you’re the kind of brave that forgets plans exist.”

“She called me a ‘spectacle.’ That’s basically ‘show pony’ in journalist speak.”

Reed finally looked up, adjusting his glasses. “She also made you sound like you belong in a pulp serial. That kind of language sells papers.”

“Thanks, that really soothes my ego.”

But he wasn’t angry.

If anything, he was... annoyed that it got under his skin at all.

He'd been flamed before, literally and figuratively. But something about the way she wrote it — so clean, so sharp, like she wasn’t trying to insult him… just calling him out — it stuck.

Johnny leaned back, arms folded behind his head.

“All right,” he muttered to himself, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “game on, byline.”

The Daily Observer newsroom buzzed with the usual mid-morning chaos — the clack of typewriters, hum of fax machines, and cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling like it had deadlines of its own. Reporters darted between desks, arguing over column space or chasing coffee that tasted like burnt despair. Your desk was tucked near the back, wedged between the city beat editor and a storage closet that had mysteriously started leaking toner last week.

You were rereading your latest draft when a shadow fell across your notes.

You didn’t even need to look up.

The air smelled faintly of fire.

You sighed, set your pen down, and slowly lifted your gaze.

Johnny Storm stood there — in the middle of the bullpen — like he hadn’t just walked into the lion’s den with zero clearance and a ridiculous amount of self-confidence. Dressed in a bomber jacket and aviators pushed up into his hair, he looked more like someone on his way to a photoshoot than a surprise visit to a newsroom.

He gave you a smile that probably melted at least three interns behind him. “Hey.”

You stared at him for a long beat.

Then: “You’ve never had PR training, have you?”

He blinked. “Wow. Not even a good morning?”

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossing slowly. “You think walking straight into the bullpen of the city’s most stubborn newspaper — unannounced, by the way — is the best idea to change my opinion of you?”

“Maybe not best, but I’d say boldness counts for something.”

You tilted your head. “So does common sense.”

His grin didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of hesitation behind it now. Just a second. Just enough to tell you that he didn’t come here only to be charming — he actually cared about what you wrote. That stuck with you more than it should have.

“I just figured,” he said, stepping closer and lowering his voice so only you could hear, “since you already called me a reckless spectacle in print, maybe I should live up to the part.”

“You know that wasn’t personal, right?” you replied, quiet and cool. “That was professional observation.”

“And here I thought journalists were supposed to be unbiased.”

“I am.” You pointed to the article. “You think I wrote that to get under your skin?”

“Mission accomplished,” he said, with a smirk.

You studied him — really studied him this time. The golden-boy posture was still there, but something else simmered underneath. Less flame, more... frustration? Not anger. Not arrogance. Something genuine.

“Sit,” you said, motioning to the empty chair across from you. “If you’re going to try to argue your way into a rewrite, you’ll need better lines.”

He looked surprised for a second. Then he pulled out the chair and sat down like it was a negotiation table at the Future Foundation.

You picked up your pen again, tapping the end against your notepad.

“Start talking, Torch.”

He sat down like he’d just won something. Legs spread, arm slung casually over the back of the chair — like he didn’t just march into a den of cynical columnists with a mission taped to his chest.

You raised a brow. “So. Talk.”

Johnny opened his mouth… then closed it again.

You watched him falter, just slightly, like the words weren’t lining up the way he rehearsed them. The bravado dimmed by a notch, the way a flame might lower when the wind shifts.

“I guess I just…” He scratched the back of his neck, expression almost sheepish. “I thought maybe you misunderstood me.”

“I quoted you exactly.”

“Right, no, I mean—not the words. Just… what they meant.” He leaned forward a little, lowering his voice. “I’m not trying to be some reckless hothead out there.”

You didn’t say anything. Let the silence stretch.

He looked down at your notebook, like maybe it would help him organize the jumble in his brain.

“You write like someone who actually thinks before they speak,” he said. “And the way you wrote about the others — you got them. Sue’s calm. Reed’s brain. Ben’s grit. It was… fair. It was real.”

You tilted your head. “And you didn’t feel represented?”

He hesitated again.

“I didn’t feel seen.”

That surprised you. Not because it was dramatic — but because it wasn’t. There was no fire in his voice. No defensive snap. Just quiet truth. Like he was finally saying something he didn’t let out often.

You watched him carefully. “So you came here to… what? Change my mind? Charm me into writing a nicer paragraph next time?”

He met your eyes. “No. I came because I don’t want to be a punchline in the press just because I don’t talk like a science textbook.”

You almost smiled.

Almost.

“Maybe stop acting like one, then.”

That made him laugh — a real laugh. Not the smug kind from press conferences or photo ops. This one was low, quick, and caught him off guard.

“I walked right into that,” he said.

You finally leaned back in your chair, tapping your pen once more before setting it down.

“I’ll say this,” you murmured, voice softer now, “you care more than you let on.”

Johnny looked at you — just looked — and for once didn’t smile. He just nodded.

“I care about the mission. I care about the team. And yeah,” he added, eyes flicking to your notepad again, “I care about how we’re remembered.”

You sat with that for a moment. Then picked up your pen.

“I’m not rewriting the article,” you said flatly.

“Didn’t ask you to.”

“But…” You met his gaze again. “If you’re really not the guy I described, then prove it next time you’re out there. Show me something I have to write about.”

He stood, slower this time. “You got it, Byline.”

“And for the record,” you added as he turned to go, “you’re lucky none of the editors saw you walk in. A man literally on fire would’ve caused less panic.”

He grinned, one foot already backing toward the hallway. “Then I’ll save the fire for next time.”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time… you were smiling too.

The streets still smelled like scorched pavement and ionized air.

Broken glass glittered on the sidewalks, cordoned off by bright orange pylons and the occasional floating police drone buzzing around like oversized flies. The Red Ghost had made a mess of Midtown with his intangible tricks and hyper-intelligent apes — again. But the Fantastic Four had driven him off before anyone was seriously hurt.

Now the smoke was clearing, the crowd was thinning, and your notebook was nearly full.

You were crouched beside a frazzled street vendor whose hot dog cart had been overturned by an invisible monkey. She spoke with a tremble in her voice but kept glancing down at her half-burnt umbrella like she wasn’t sure what to be more upset about.

You nodded, murmured something comforting, and jotted down the last of the quotes. Then you stood, brushing soot from your pants and squinting up through the haze.

That was when you felt the heat before you saw him.

“Careful,” a familiar voice called above you. “Your shoes are standing in the middle of a melted bike rack crime scene.”

You turned slowly, not surprised in the slightest to see Johnny Storm hovering just a few feet above the street, his body still faintly glowing with post-battle embers. He landed with a soft thud beside you, steam curling from his shoulders like breath on a winter day.

You stared at him.

He grinned.

“Hey, Byline.”

You raised a brow. “Are you gonna keep calling me that?”

“Only when you’re working,” he said, brushing soot from the sleeve of his uniform. “Didn’t think I’d see you out here this fast.”

“I’m a journalist. You lot punch holes in buildings, I show up to document it.”

“Fair.” He looked around at the half-destroyed plaza, then back at you. “So… I was thinking. If you’re not too busy cataloguing melted lampposts, maybe you could do something different.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Different how?”

He gave a small shrug, more casual than cocky. “Interview me.”

You blinked. “You’re asking me to interview you?”

“I figured I owe you one good headline before you make me the villain in another paragraph,” he said with a half-smile. “Besides, Reed’s great, Sue’s diplomatic, and Ben’s Ben. I’ve got stuff to say, too. Might as well say it to someone who doesn’t let me off the hook.”

You studied him for a moment, then flipped open your notebook to a fresh page.

“All right,” you said, uncapping your pen. “What are the team’s plans on catching the Red Ghost? Or are you just going to wait around until he crashes another brunch hour?”

Johnny’s posture shifted, just slightly. Straighter. Focused. His grin faded — not into a scowl, but something serious. Intent.

“We’re triangulating the residual energy signatures from the primate phasing tech,” he said. “Sue’s helping Reed map out a possible pattern in the Red Ghost’s movement based on his prior attacks. It’s not random — he’s testing different types of tech defenses, seeing what reacts to his phase modulation. He’s not just stealing — he’s scouting.”

You blinked, surprised at the sudden shift in tone. It wasn’t over-explained, but it was technical. Clear. Strategic.

“So this wasn’t a one-off.”

“No,” Johnny said, meeting your gaze. “He’s escalating. And next time, we won’t just be reacting. We’ll be ready.”

You stared at him a beat longer than you meant to, then jotted the words down — slower this time.

“Well,” you said, a touch more genuine than you’d planned, “you obviously came prepared.”

He gave a crooked smile, but didn’t say anything right away. Just let the silence settle.

Then: “Told you I wasn’t all spectacle.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “One quote won’t change my mind overnight.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to keep giving you better ones.”

Then, casually — too casually — he said, “Maybe… we could talk more. Over some coffee?”

You looked up at him. Not sharply. Not cruelly. Just… professionally.

“No.”

And just like that, the moment cracked.

He blinked once, fast, and straightened a little like he’d been bracing for impact. There it was — the end of the attempt, the polite rejection. You could see it settle behind his eyes.

But before he could nod, turn it into a joke, or retreat behind the easy charm—

“Maybe ask me,” you said, sliding your pen behind your ear, “while I’m not at work.”

His head tilted slightly. Brows lifted.

The faintest flicker of a smile returned, slower this time. A little stunned. A little boyish. Like the fire hadn’t gone out, just dimmed long enough to make room for surprise.

“Oh,” he said. “Right.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of boundaries, haven’t you, Storm?”

“Vaguely,” he said. “I’m trying this new thing where I respect them.”

You hummed, not fully smiling — but not hiding the twitch at the corner of your mouth either. “Let me know how that goes.”

He took a step backward, hovering just an inch off the ground now, arms crossed like he was resisting the urge to take a victory lap.

“I’ll see you around,” he said, warmth curling into his voice.

“Not if I see you first.”

He laughed — short and surprised — before blasting off into the sky, a streak of orange light burning through the last of the smog.

The city hummed in low light as the workday dissolved into evening. Neon signs flickered to life, casting their glow on chrome bumpers and damp sidewalks. The Daily Observer office emptied out one tired body at a time, heels clicking and shoulders loosening under trench coats and rolled-up sleeves.

You stepped out the glass doors with your bag slung over one shoulder, rubbing the back of your neck as you finally — finally — clocked off.

And there he was.

Johnny Storm, leaning against a deep blue Pontiac GTO parked just outside the building like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread. The headlights were off, the street quiet. He wore a bomber jacket over a white tee, no flame in sight — just a casual confidence, hands in his pockets and a grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

You stopped on the last step and stared at him.

“You’re really persistent, aren’t you?”

Johnny pushed off the car with a shrug that was almost bashful — almost. “I waited until you were off the clock, didn’t I?”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s dangerously close to ‘stalking.’”

“I prefer the term ‘timed entrance,’” he said. “And before you accuse me of another headline-worthy stunt — this isn’t an ambush. It’s an invitation.”

“To what?”

He nodded toward the passenger door. “Coffee. Conversation. Possibly a slice of pie so good it makes you rethink your whole evening.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You drive around with a backup pie plan?”

“Wouldn’t you, if you were trying to win over someone who called you a cocky spectacle in print?”

You exhaled through a quiet laugh, surprised even at yourself. The part that would’ve bristled, retreated, shut the whole thing down — it didn’t speak up this time. Instead, you glanced at the car, then back at him.

This was definitely a date.

And surprisingly, you didn’t mind.

You stepped forward and opened the passenger-side door. “Just so you know,” you said as you slid into the seat, “if the pie is bad, I’m writing a review.”

Johnny grinned as he rounded the front of the car and climbed in. “That’s fair. But you’ll probably be too impressed to hold a grudge.”

You shot him a look as he started the engine. “Don’t push it, Storm.”

He just chuckled, the engine rumbling to life beneath the neon skyline, and pulled away from the curb like he had all the time in the world.

The diner Johnny picked wasn’t flashy. It sat tucked between a laundromat and a 24-hour flower shop, its windows fogged just enough to make the neon signs outside blur like watercolor. Inside, it smelled like coffee, butter, and cinnamon — a place where time moved slower. A place you didn’t expect Johnny Storm to know about.

You slid into the booth across from him, still not entirely convinced this wasn’t a joke or some bet he’d made with Ben Grimm. But then the waitress came over, already knowing his order. You raised a brow at him.

He just shrugged. “Told you. Great pie.”

The first few minutes were casual — light teasing, a few too many glances at the menu you weren’t actually reading. Then your reporter instincts kicked in.

“So,” you said, leaning forward a little, “why hero work? Out of all the paths someone could take after getting hit with cosmic radiation—”

Johnny cut you off with a grin. “Hold up. Nope. Not tonight.”

“What?”

“I’m not letting you interview me,” he said, pointing his fork at you. “You do that with everyone else. I wanna flip it this time.”

You leaned back, crossing your arms. “You wanna ask me questions?”

“Exactly.” His smile softened. “I mean… if that’s okay.”

You blinked, surprised. “Fine.”

He took a sip of his coffee like he was preparing for something important. Then:

“Where are you from?”

You blinked again, not expecting such a normal question. “Syracuse.”

He nodded like he’d guessed right. “Upstate. Cold winters, right?”

“Brutal,” you said with a slight smile. “Scraped ice off windshields half my life.”

Johnny laughed softly. “Okay. And what’d you study?”

“Journalism. Minored in international studies.” You glanced at your pie, cutting it slowly. “I thought I wanted to be a foreign correspondent. Cover wars, revolutions... real stories.”

“Is that why you became a journalist?”

You hesitated. It was rare someone asked that and actually wanted to hear the answer.

“Sort of,” you said. “I guess I liked the idea that people could read something and understand the world differently. That I could help make sense of the chaos, even a little. Shine a light on things people didn’t want to look at.”

Johnny watched you closely. Not in that performative, flirty way he had in front of cameras. It was quieter now — like he’d turned something off and let something else show through.

“That makes sense,” he said. “You’ve got that kind of presence.”

You smirked. “What kind?”

“The kind that gets people to talk. Even when they weren’t planning to.”

The conversation had drifted to music by the time his watch beeped.

It wasn’t loud, just a sharp beep-beep that cut through the low hum of the diner. Johnny glanced at it with a sigh, and just like that, you saw his posture shift. He was still sitting in front of you, but something behind his eyes had already left.

“Shit,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m so sorry, I—”

“You have to go,” you finished for him, not even mad—just… mildly surprised. “Right. Saving the world and all that.”

He looked sheepish, standing up, pulling out his wallet to toss a few bills on the table. “I really didn’t want to leave. Not now. This was—” he paused, then grinned. “Fun.”

You tilted your head, fingers tapping the side of your coffee mug. “Is this gonna be a pattern?”

You didn’t mean for it to come out like that. But his smile turned lopsided, cocky in that infuriatingly charming way.

“So there’s gonna be a next time?”

You rolled your eyes, sipping your coffee to hide the smirk tugging at your lips. “That’s not what I said.”

“Didn’t have to.” He took a step back, right before pushing out the door. “I’ll make it up to you, Syracuse.”

You shook your head, watching him flame on in front of the diner and fly away with style.

You didn’t know what surprised you more — that he had to leave… or that you kind of hoped there would be a next time.

You were halfway through transcribing your notes from a city council hearing when a voice called out from just beyond your cubicle wall.

“Someone’s got fancy mail today,” the mail guy sang, leaning over the divider with a mischievous grin. “Baxter Building, huh? You got friends in high places or something?”

You blinked, reaching for the envelope he held out. Thick, expensive stock. BAXTER printed in bold navy lettering at the top.

“Oh god,” you muttered under your breath.

“Is this what happens when you write about superheroes? They write back?” he teased, laughing as he walked away.

You tore it open. Inside was a folded card—of course it was glossy, and of course there was fire-printed trim on the edges. Typical.

Lunch? Saturday? Baxter Building. Noon. Dress code: Something pretty.

– J

You scoffed. But your lips tugged into a smile before you could stop them.

It was so Johnny.

Ridiculous. Dramatic. Bold.

…Charming.

You tucked the note into your drawer before anyone could sneak a peek, and returned to your typewriter, trying to remember what the deputy mayor said about parking enforcement while your brain was already halfway to Saturday.

The Baxter Building loomed as impossibly tall and sleek as she remembered—though it felt different this time, somehow. Less like the intimidating center of scientific innovation and more like… a place she was invited to.

You approached the security desk, where a man in a dark suit stood behind a glass panel. He looked up, not unkindly.

“Can I help you?”

You held up the invitation. “I—uh. I have an appointment. With the Human Torch.”

He arched a brow, then glanced at the envelope in your hand. The moment he saw BAXTER in bold font and the ridiculous fire-themed trim of the invitation, something flickered in his expression. Recognition. Amusement, maybe.

“Name?”

You gave it. He checked his screen, nodded.

“You’re on the list. Elevator to your right. It'll take you straight to the top level. Enjoy your… lunch.”

The pause was deliberate. You didn’t blame him.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

As you stepped into the elevator, the doors closing around you, you took a breath and tried not to think about the fact that you were on your way to have lunch—with Johnny Storm.

Not an interview. Not a headline.

Just… lunch.

And maybe that was what made your pulse skip a little.

You stepped into the living quarters, still holding onto the last remnants of skepticism—because no way Johnny Storm had actually cooked anything himself.

But there he was.

Dressed in a now-spotted white shirt, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel hanging off one shoulder like he was hosting a cooking segment instead of whatever this chaos was. The smell hit you first—something tomato-based, maybe? It wasn’t awful, just... suspicious. A sleek robot you recognized from news clips—HERBIE—stood beside him, handing over utensils with mechanical grace.

Johnny turned when he heard your footsteps. His face lit up immediately, a little too brightly, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“You’re early!” he said, then caught himself. “I mean—you’re right on time. Totally on time. I just thought I had, like, five more minutes to make this less of a disaster.”

You raised an eyebrow, arms folding across your chest as you took in the scene—the splatter on the stovetop, the open container of sauce, the cutting board with... were those strawberries?

“You call this cooking?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, Ben’s usually the one who handles the food part. But I thought I’d try.”

HERBIE beeped and rolled over to you, offering a glass of water. You accepted it without breaking eye contact with Johnny.

“At least someone here knows what they’re doing,” you muttered.

Johnny put a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Herbert’s just following my lead, thank you very much.”

HERBIE beeped again—this time, with a tone that sounded oddly like an apology.

You bit back a smile. This was already ridiculous.

He finally declared the meal done—with an exaggerated “Ta-da!” and a proud look at his slightly overcooked but still recognizable pasta dish. Then he pointed at his stained shirt, muttered something about “presentation,” and jogged upstairs to change, leaving you alone in the sleek Baxter kitchen with HERBIE watching over the food like a judgmental sous-chef.

You leaned against the counter, eyeing the plates. The food didn’t smell bad, but you weren’t getting your hopes up. Still, the thought of Johnny Storm actually making you lunch—not catered, not restaurant takeout, but his own clumsy, messy attempt—made something flutter in your chest. You pushed it down.

He came back ten minutes later in a clean tee that hugged him in ways that felt a little unfair for lunchtime. He moved like he hadn’t just nearly set the place on fire twenty minutes ago, sliding into the seat across from you like this was just a regular Saturday. Maybe it was.

You took your first bite, preparing yourself for the worst.

It was... edible.

Actually, kind of decent.

You blinked at him across the table. “Wait—this isn’t terrible.”

Johnny grinned, leaning forward like he’d just won a bet. “High praise. I’ll take it.”

“Did HERBIE actually cook it while you stood nearby and took credit?”

He put a hand to his heart. “Ouch. You wound me.”

You both laughed. It came easy. Effortless.

The conversation flowed just like it had at the gala. He asked about your week, what stories you were working on, and you asked about his latest mission—though he kept it vague. The banter was there, the teasing, the gentle nudges. It felt like another date, not that either of you had called the first one that out loud.

He never made it feel like he was showing off. Not the apartment, not his name, not the security you had to pass just to sit across from him. He just looked at you like he genuinely wanted to be here. With you.

You hadn’t expected that. But here you were.

And you weren’t rushing to leave.

Somewhere between the last few bites and your second glass of water, the conversation drifted into quieter, more thoughtful territory.

“So,” you started, poking at the last piece of garlic bread with your fork, “what was it like… the first time you went to space?”

He blinked, caught off guard—not because you asked, but because of how gently you had. You weren’t asking for the spectacle or the news headline. You really wanted to know.

And something in him shifted.

Johnny leaned back in his chair, eyes softening, mouth tugging into a quiet smile that wasn’t showy or flirtatious. Just real.

“It was… insane,” he said after a beat. “But not in the way people think.”

You tilted your head, curious.

“I mean, yeah, it was loud and chaotic. Reed was spouting numbers no one but him understood, Sue was trying to keep everyone calm, and Ben was yelling about how the thing looked like it was held together with duct tape. And maybe it was.”

He laughed a little to himself. His gaze wandered—not away from you, but somewhere just behind your shoulder, like he was watching a memory replay.

“But then we broke through,” he said. “Past the clouds. Past the blue. And it just… opened.”

He gestured vaguely with his hands, like he was trying to shape the size of the universe.

“It was the quiet that hit me. The kind of silence you can’t even describe. And the stars—they weren’t twinkling or cute or whatever. They were alive. Like watching a fire that never went out. There were so many of them, and I felt like I was just… nothing. A spark. A breath.”

You stared at him, almost forgetting to blink.

“I’ve never felt so small in my life,” he continued. “And I loved it. That kind of smallness—it humbles you. And then…” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Then we got hit with cosmic rays and everything changed. But that moment—that first break into space—that still lives in my chest.”

His voice had softened by the end. He looked at you again and found you watching him with quiet awe.

You’d seen Johnny Storm smirk and pose for cameras. You’d seen him flirt and laugh and play up his reputation.

But this—this was the fire.

And it had nothing to do with his powers.

After lunch—surprisingly edible, despite your doubts—Johnny wiped his hands on a towel, told HERBIE to “clean up,” then he offered his arm dramatically and said, “Madam Journalist, would you care for the grand tour?”

You tried not to smile, but didn’t stop yourself from accepting.

He led you into the common room first—the one you’d seen in pictures but never expected to step foot in. The sunken lounge area was a cozy crater of plush teal seating, curved like a spaceship’s command deck. A fireplace on the center, doubling as a TV console. The tables were sleek white, dotted with forgotten magazines and half-eaten snacks. The walls arched in warm wood panels that made everything feel strangely futuristic and homey.

Johnny jumped over the back of the couch to land beside one of the yellow stools, grinning like a kid in a candy store. “This is where Ben and I fight over the TV and Sue pretends not to be watching.”

Then it was the lab—less cozy, more “ANSA meets mad scientist.” He showed off a few gadgets he claimed to have helped build, tossing around science terms like he actually knew what they meant, you suspected he did, but exaggerated for flair. He hovered near buttons he didn’t press and screens that blinked codes you couldn’t read.

When you raised a brow at one of his particularly grand gestures—something about a neutrino stabilizer—he caught it.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me like that,” he teased, nudging your arm as you walked. “You know I’m impressive.”

You rolled them anyway. But it came with a quiet little smile.

Eventually, the tour wound back to the elevator near the front. You checked your watch, sighing. Time to go.

“Thanks for today,” you said as you stopped at the elevator, bag slung over your shoulder.

He leaned on the frame beside you, arms crossed casually, looking every bit the boyish hero with too much charm for his own good. “Anytime. Seriously. I mean that.”

You nodded, reaching for the elevator button. Then—impulsively—you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

Just a soft touch, a flash of warmth.

By the time he turned toward you in surprise, you were already stepping into the elevator, calm as ever.

“See you around, Storm,” you said as the doors started to close.

He stood there stunned, his hand drifting up to where you’d kissed him, the faintest smile blooming on his face like it couldn’t help itself.

“…Yeah,” he murmured. “See you.”

With every date, the walls came down.

Not all at once, of course. You still rolled your eyes when he got too smug, still shot down his more ridiculous one-liners with a well-placed look. But the lines between professional skepticism and personal affection blurred a little more each time.

Eventually, you exchanged telephone numbers. Written on the back of a matchbook you kept in your purse, and his scrawled on a napkin that lived pinned to your corkboard.

You told yourself you were just getting to know him better.

You told yourself someone needed to stay objective around all that fire.

You told yourself you were the only woman in the city who wouldn’t fall for Johnny Storm’s charm.

Oh, how wrong you were.

You got spotted together a handful of times. First, coming out of a downtown restaurant, laughing at something he said. Then again in the park, sharing a hot dog under the early autumn sun. And then at a late-night movie, when he tried to wear a hat and sunglasses as if that would stop anyone from recognizing him.

The headlines started coming fast after that.

“The Human Torch’s New Flame?”

“Johnny’s Got a Girl—But Who Is She?”

“Blazing Romance!”

Your name appeared in fine print under photos where your face was slightly turned, or blurry, or hidden by sunglasses—but that didn’t stop it. A few gossip rags even tried to dig through your background. One misspelled your name. Another called you “plucky.” You were still mad about that one.

Your coworkers had a field day.

Every time you walked into the newsroom, at least one person would clear their throat and hold up the morning paper like it was a trophy. The whispers weren’t cruel—just amused. Wide grins. Wiggling eyebrows. A few wolf whistles when you passed the bullpen.

Even your editor joined in once, muttering, “Better make sure our fire alarms are up to date.”

You’d sigh, flick your press badge onto your desk, and mutter the same thing each time, fighting a smile.

“Mind your own business.”

Of course, that only made them laugh harder.

But in the quiet moments—when the tabloids were silent, and the crowds were gone—it was just you and Johnny.

Talking on the phone late at night, your voice low as you curled the spiral cord around your fingers. Sitting close on your couch, listening to one of his records crackle while he tried to explain how a rocket launch works in too much detail. Sneaking glances at him across diner booths, thinking about how stupidly warm he always was, like he was made to be held.

Each date stitched the two of you closer together.

You, the no-nonsense journalist. Him, the fireproof heartthrob.

And even if the whole city had their opinions, you knew the truth of it:

You hadn’t fallen for the idea of Johnny Storm.

You’d fallen for him—messy, loud, brilliant, kind.

And there was no denying it now.

You were supposed to be covering a gala.

That was the entire reason you were here—tucked into a sleek, borrowed dress, notepad and micro-recorder hidden neatly in your clutch, playing polite while industry bigwigs talked about progress and philanthropy like they weren’t drinking champagne that cost more than your monthly rent. The venue gleamed, all chrome and glass, bathed in soft light from floating chandeliers and robotic servers weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. You were halfway through mentally drafting your opener—“Progress is plated in gold and served with a smile.”—when the windows rattled.

It started with a low boom.

Then a tremor.

Then screaming.

The crowd moved like a single, terrified organism—heels clattering, glasses shattering, voices rising in chaos. Someone yelled about the Red Ghost. Someone else screamed about the apes.

And that was when you saw them.

Out past the crushed cars and fractured pavement, under the strange glow of the city’s skyline, the Red Ghost stood like a specter reborn—gaunt, furious, with that deranged spark behind his eyes. His super-powered apes crashed through structures with terrifying ease, one of them ripping a streetlight from its socket and flinging it toward the building like it weighed nothing. The gala crowd surged again, pushing toward emergency exits and shattered doors. You tried to follow, but something caught your eye—a child, maybe six or seven, crying near the base of a toppled sculpture.

You didn't hesitate.

Your heels cracked against the marble as you ran toward him. You scooped the boy up and covered his head with your hands just as another explosion ripped through the street outside. The blast knocked you clean off your feet, sending you tumbling across the floor. Marble crumbled beneath your palms. The child wailed and clung to your arm, but he was alive. You were alive.

Barely.

Smoke filled the air. Your ears rang. Somewhere above you, the ceiling groaned.

And then—

A streak of fire tore through the sky.

The building's front cracked wide open in a burst of light, and figures descended like gods. Sue’s forcefield shimmered in the dust, Ben’s voice boomed as he barreled into one of the apes, and Reed stretched across the wreckage, directing civilians to safety.

Then came Johnny.

He flew in a comet of flame, banking hard through the ruined archway, flames licking at the smoke. His expression was tight—focused—until his eyes swept across the wreckage.

And landed on you.

There was a flicker of disbelief on his face, then something sharp—panic, maybe—cutting through the bravado. He dropped the flame mid-air, landing hard in front of you. You could see the moment he registered the dust on your face, the scrape on your brow, the child clinging to your side.

“You?” he breathed, stunned. “What the hell are you doing here?”

You blinked at him through the dust, chest rising and falling.

“I was working,” you rasped, your voice hoarse. “I didn’t exactly plan for gorilla warfare.”

Johnny swore under his breath. Then he knelt beside you, his hands checking your arms, your side, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. “Are you hurt?”

“Nothing major.”

He looked at you like that wasn’t good enough.

Another crash echoed from outside. He flinched, eyes flicking toward the chaos, then back to you.

“Stay behind the barrier,” he said, rising to his feet. “Reed’s pulling people out. I’ll be back.”

You nodded, still holding the child.

Then Johnny turned, and with a roar of flame, shot back into the smoke.

You didn't have time to process the way Johnny looked at you—not when the building groaned again, not when another blast from outside shattered the last intact window. He was gone in a flash of flame, and the child in your arms whimpered as you stumbled to your feet.

“Come on,” you whispered, voice rough as you tightened your grip. “We’re getting out of here.”

Smoke swirled in thick waves as you made your way through the ruined lobby, weaving past debris and toppled furniture. Your heels were long gone, left somewhere in the chaos, and your knees stung with every step, but adrenaline kept you moving. Emergency responders were beginning to push through from the far side—drones first, scanning for vitals, followed by medics calling out over the noise.

You passed the boy to one of them, ignoring the sting in your palms as you steadied yourself against a cracked column. You were shaken, bruised, and probably inhaling a lifetime’s worth of concrete dust—but alive.

Outside, the air was sharper, colder. The sky above the city flickered in orange and red, lit not by the neon lights of the skyline but by fire. You joined the crowd of survivors gathering at a safe distance, behind hastily raised barriers and the metallic hum of a forcefield dome deployed by ReedTech units. People clutched each other, crying, coughing, whispering in disbelief. Cameras from hover news drones blinked red as they hovered, broadcasting the chaos to every home in the city.

And there, right in front of it all, they stood.

The Fantastic Four.

Ben charged first, unstoppable in a suit that barely held together over his rocky frame. He tackled one of the apes—a massive one with cybernetic implants along its spine—sending both of them crashing through a concrete wall like it was paper.

Sue moved like light itself, her shields flaring in perfect synch with every attack. She pushed back rubble with invisible force, guided civilians to safety, protected a pair of officers pinned under a crumbling awning without breaking stride.

Reed extended high above the scene, body arcing and twisting as he flung some kind of tech device toward the Red Ghost—a trap, maybe. A pulse erupted from it, briefly flickering through the air, but the Red Ghost phased just in time, his form flickering like static. His maniacal laugh echoed across the block.

And then Johnny.

You spotted him above the others, a streak of fire trailing behind as he looped through the air, darting between attacks, drawing the apes’ attention like a comet refusing to fall. Every burst of flame from his body lit up the street like fireworks—controlled, precise, nothing like the chaotic flair you remembered from the first time you saw him in action. This wasn’t showmanship.

This was war.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away.

He banked hard to avoid a projectile, then scorched down the side of a building to protect a group of people still trying to flee. He shouted something to Ben—then flicked a blast of flame so fast and sharp it seared the ground in a line, forcing one of the apes to retreat.

A woman near you gasped. Someone whispered, “That’s the Human Torch,” like they were seeing him for the first time.

And for some stupid reason, your heart skipped, and you smiled.

You swallowed hard and stayed behind the barrier, watching the chaos unfold with a journalistic eye—but this time, it wasn’t just about the story.

It was about him.

And whether or not he made it out in one piece.

It last longer than you'd hope.

The Red Ghost had fallen, neutralized by one of Reed’s devices. The apes—what was left of them—were either tranquilized or subdued, dragged into containment pods that sealed with a heavy hiss. Emergency lights painted the scene in flashes of blue and red as more responders arrived, swarming the wreckage with stretchers, scanners, and press drones.

You stayed where you were, arms crossed tightly against your chest, watching the dust settle with a hollow thrum in your ears. Your dress was torn at the hem, your knees scraped, and your hair probably looked like you’d crawled through a wind tunnel. But none of that mattered.

You scanned the sky for flame.

And then you saw him.

Johnny dropped out of the air in a smooth arc, landing just beyond the emergency barrier with his suit still smoking faintly around the collar. His hair was tousled, soot streaking across his cheek, and his brow glistened with sweat. But he was upright. Whole. Breathing.

Your heart punched your ribs in relief.

He looked around—eyes darting past crowds and medics and shattered architecture—until they landed on you.

You didn’t hesitate.

You shoved past the barrier and met him halfway, the momentum pulling you forward until your arms wrapped around him, solid and warm and alive. You didn’t care that he was sweaty or scorched or smelled like smoke. Your cheek pressed against the fabric of his suit, and for a second, you let yourself breathe.

He hugged you back instantly, arms winding around your shoulders like muscle memory. “You’re okay,” he murmured, half to himself, half to you. “God, you’re okay.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “Are you okay?” you asked, eyes scanning him, checking for injuries, burns, bruises—anything. “Did you get hit? Broke anything important? I swear if you—”

Johnny grinned.

That maddening, familiar grin.

“You were worried about me,” he said, smug and sing-song.

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t let go of him. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“You care,” he teased, voice warm and soft now. “That’s cute.”

You gave him a gentle shove, but your fingers curled back into the sleeve of his suit like they didn’t quite want to let go. “You almost got vaporized, Torch.”

“Almost is the key word,” he said, then added with a wink, “Besides, can’t die before we make it official.”

You gave him a look.

He wiggled his eyebrows.

And despite yourself—despite everything—you felt your lips twitch upward.

The office buzzed in that usual midday lull—typewriters clacking, phones ringing, someone two desks down arguing with a source who apparently “didn’t say it like that.” You sat hunched in your cubicle, half-finished coffee going cold beside your elbow as you typed out a rough draft for an exposé that had nothing to do with supervillains, collapsing buildings, or fiery superheroes.

You were almost grateful for the normalcy.

Almost.

Then a shadow loomed over your desk.

“‘A blaze of brilliance—controlled, focused, the Human Torch proved himself more than just a hothead that night.’”

You turned, already cringing a little.

Johnny Storm stood there in a leather jacket, tousled hair, and the unmistakable smirk of someone who knew they were being quoted.

Tucked under his arm: a folded copy of The Daily Observer. Your paper.

“Let me guess,” you said dryly. “You read it fifteen times and had someone frame it already?”

“Twenty-three, actually. And I’m still waiting on the frame,” he replied, pulling the paper out with a flourish. “But really—‘a blaze of brilliance’? You’re gonna make me blush.”

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. “I was being professional.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That was professional?”

“Yes.”

“Because it read more like someone with a slight crush.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I could’ve just called you ‘reckless’ again and left it at that.”

“But you didn’t,” he said, stepping into your cubicle like he owned the place—which, technically, he did not, but Johnny had never let small things like boundaries stop him. “You called me focused. Smart. A hero. That’s basically poetry, coming from you.”

You grabbed your coffee, took a sip, and made a face. Cold.

“I call it ‘objective reporting,’” you said.

“Right,” he said, tapping the paper. “Totally objective. Nothing at all to do with the fact that I saved a bunch of people, including you—and maybe looked insanely cool doing it.”

You let the silence hang just long enough to make him twitch.

Then you smirked. “You did look cool,” you admitted.

He blinked.

“Oh my God—say it again,” he said, clutching his heart like you’d just proposed.

“Don’t push your luck, Storm.”

Too late. He was beaming now, folding the paper carefully like it was a love letter. “I’m getting this laminated.”

“Great. Hang it in your bathroom.”

“I was thinking above my bed, actually.”

You rolled your eyes. “You came all the way here just to fish for compliments?”

“Nah,” he said, shrugging. “I came to ask if you’re free for dinner. But the compliments are a very nice bonus.”

You paused. Your fingers curled slightly around your mug.

“You’re asking me out. Again.”

He tilted his head. “You gonna say yes?”

You studied him—still smug, still cocky, still every bit the firestorm he’d always been—but underneath it, there was something softer in his eyes. The same look he gave you after pulling you out of rubble, after promising you he was okay.

You set your mug down.

“What time?”

The knock came at exactly six-fifteen.

You were still smoothing down the fabric of your dress, glancing one last time in the mirror, when it sounded—two sharp knocks and a pause, like he was trying to be both confident and considerate. You opened the door with a breath caught halfway in your throat.

Johnny Storm stood there in a white tee and charcoal jacket, hair slicked back just enough to pretend he hadn’t spent five minutes tousling it right after. He held a bouquet in his hands—vivid, almost comically large, all fire-colored blooms in reds, oranges, and golds.

You blinked.

He beamed. “You like them?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Did you rob a botanical garden on the way here?”

“They’re thematic,” he said, holding them out proudly. “Like me. On fire. But in a romantic way.”

You took them, fighting a smile as you buried your nose in the blooms. They smelled like summer evenings and warm hands. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You say that every time you see me.”

“Because it’s still true.”

He offered you his arm with an exaggerated flourish. “Your ride awaits, Byline.”

Dinner was surprisingly quiet—tucked away in a retro-style rooftop restaurant with soft jazz humming from corner speakers and skyline views so clear it looked like the city had paused just for the night. You picked at a dish you couldn’t pronounce. Johnny ordered something with way too much heat, then insisted it was “barely spicy” until he nearly choked on it.

You laughed. A lot.

And when the check came, he insisted on covering it—said it was his turn, said it like he genuinely meant it, like it wasn’t some macho gesture but just… him wanting to give you something.

Afterward, neither of you were ready for the night to end.

So you walked.

Central Park stretched quiet under the early evening stars, its pathways lit by the soft golden glow of vintage lampposts. Leaves rustled gently, and the buzz of the city felt like a distant hum.

Johnny walked beside you with his hands in his pockets, jacket open to the breeze. Every now and then, your fingers brushed as your arms swung—and each time, he didn’t pull away.

“Y’know,” he said after a few minutes, glancing sideways at you, “I think this is the longest I’ve gone on a date without being interrupted by a supervillain, a fire, or Reed needing me to hold a wrench.”

You smirked. “Don’t jinx it.”

“I won’t. But if a portal opens up and a robot army marches out, I just want it on record that I tried to have a normal night.”

You laughed—soft and real.

Then it got quiet again, but not uncomfortably so.

Just enough quiet to notice the warmth in your chest, the way your steps slowed, the way you wanted to say something before the moment passed.

You stopped near a bench, looking out toward the pond where the moonlight shimmered against the rippling water. He stopped beside you.

“Hey,” you said softly.

Johnny looked at you, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Yeah?”

You hesitated.

Then, with a sigh, you said, “I didn’t think this would happen.”

His brow creased. “Dinner?”

You gave him a look. “This. Us. You.”

Johnny tilted his head, curious but quiet.

“I thought I had you figured out,” you continued, voice low. “Thought you were just ego and fire and headlines. I told myself I wasn’t gonna be the type to fall for that. For you.”

He was silent, eyes fixed on you now.

“And I don’t know how it happened,” you added. “But… I really like you, Johnny.”

Your words hung in the air—bare, brave, and terrifying.

Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Yeah?”

You nodded.

He took one hand out of his pocket, stepped closer, and said, so quietly it made your heart stutter, “Good. Because I’ve liked you since the moment you called me reckless in front of a hundred reporters.”

You let out a breathless laugh—half-relieved, half-overwhelmed.

Then he cupped your cheek gently, eyes searching yours. “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t even answer.

You leaned in.

And the kiss that followed was warm and slow, more tender than either of you expected. It tasted like rooftop wine and burnt pepper, like all the things you hadn’t let yourself feel until now. His hand slid to your waist, anchoring you gently. Your fingers curled into the lapel of his jacket like maybe you’d melt without something to hold onto.

When you finally pulled apart, your forehead rested against his, and for a second, the world stopped spinning.

Then you smiled—soft, teasing, fond.

“Well,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, “The Flaming Hearts is really gonna hate me now.”

He laughed, arms looping around your waist. “They already do. I read the forums.”

You snorted. “You read your fan forums?”

“I like to stay informed,” he said with a wink.

You groaned, burying your face in his chest. “God, I’m dating a dork.”

“You’re dating this dork,” he corrected, smug as ever, resting his chin atop your head.

You stayed like that under the Central Park sky—wrapped in warmth and something that felt like maybe, just maybe, the start of something real.

It had been a few months since that first kiss under the quiet glow of Central Park.

Since the night you let your guard down and finally let him in.

Now you were his. Officially.

Not that the tabloids had let you forget it. Every coffee run, every blurry sidewalk kiss, every slightly windblown post-battle cuddle was plastered across newsstands like you were part of a pulp serial. You’d stopped reading them after “The Torch and the Truth-Teller: A Love Story in Flames” hit the stands.

But today wasn’t about that.

Today, the city was nervous.

The Frightful Four had made themselves known in a very public, very destructive way the day before—leaving Central Avenue cratered, several civilians injured, and even the Fantastic Four pushed to their limits. The new villains weren’t just chaos for chaos’s sake. They were calculated. Aggressive. Dangerous.

So, of course, the press conference at the Baxter Building was standing room only.

You stood near the back, arms folded around your notepad, trying not to feel weird about covering a press event for a team you technically had dinner with twice a week. Your press badge still held weight, but now it hung alongside a relationship that blurred lines more than you liked to admit.

Still, you kept it professional. You always did.

Even if Johnny winked at you the second he spotted you in the crowd.

The conference began like any other—Reed detailing the attack in his usual clinical tone, outlining the measures they were taking to analyze the threat, reinforce the city’s defenses, and “neutralize the ongoing presence of the Frightful Four.” Sue followed up with diplomacy and calm reassurance, while Ben added something about “clockin’ that wizard wannabe next time he shows up.”

Then came the Q&A session.

You didn’t plan to raise your hand. Not at first.

But the question burned at the edge of your tongue, and when Reed nodded to the press corps, your hand lifted almost instinctively.

You saw a few heads turn.

So did Reed.

He gave a tiny smile. “Yes, you—go ahead.”

You stood tall. “In light of the Wizard’s tech matching several known Fantastic Four signatures, is the team considering the possibility of a breach in security—or worse, that the tech was reverse-engineered from a previous mission?”

The room went silent.

Tough. Fair. Pointed.

A few reporters turned toward Reed, pens poised. Reed, after all, was the one who usually answered tech-related questions with a thousand syllables and no punctuation.

But then—

Johnny stepped forward.

He didn’t wait for Reed. Didn’t look back for a signal.

Just shifted to the mic, adjusted it once, and looked straight at you.

“We’ve already considered that,” he said, voice steady—not cocky, not performative. “And Reed’s running diagnostics through every system in the Baxter Building as we speak. We’ve seen tech imitation before—it’s not new. But this was something else. The Wizard wasn’t just copying us—he was testing us. Learning our limits.”

He paused. The room leaned in.

Johnny continued, hands relaxed on either side of the podium. “That’s why we’re not just going back to old defenses. We’re adapting. Evolving. If someone wants to play smart, then we play smarter. That’s what we do.”

A flicker of surprise rippled through the crowd.

You felt your lips curve, slow and warm.

He wasn’t improvising. He wasn’t trying to steal the spotlight.

He was stepping up.

And it wasn’t just about being brave. He was prepared. Thoughtful. Clear.

God, he really had been listening all those nights you stayed up editing stories and picking apart soundbites. He’d absorbed it all.

When he stepped back from the mic, Sue gave him a quick side-eye that was both impressed and suspicious. Reed nodded, faintly approving. Even Ben muttered something like “Look at Flamebrain, gettin’ all articulate.”

Johnny didn’t look at them.

He looked at you.

And when he saw you smiling—really smiling—he smiled back like that had been the only audience he was trying to impress.

You shook your head slightly, eyes narrowing in mock disapproval, but your grin didn’t fade.

You didn’t leave when the press conference ended.

While the others packed up their cameras, chased quotes, and filtered toward the elevators, you lingered near the edge of the Baxter Building’s main hall, pretending to reread your notes. In truth, your pen hadn’t touched paper since Johnny spoke. You just stood there, professional façade cracking at the edges, watching the crowd thin and the team scatter toward their usual post-briefing routines.

Eventually, the lights dimmed to their usual state and the last guest reporter filed out. The hush that settled over the room felt different—less urgent, less public.

Just quiet.

And then you heard footsteps.

Booted, sure, and too familiar by now.

Johnny appeared from the side corridor still in his white and blue suit, the chest insignia slightly scuffed from yesterday’s battle. His hair was tousled, his cheeks still a little flushed from the heat of the day, but his eyes—those troublemaking, earnest, too-honest eyes—found yours instantly.

You didn’t wait.

You crossed the space between you and your arms looped around his neck before you could stop yourself, pressing your lips to his without a word.

He kissed you back just as easily, as if he’d been holding his breath through the entire press conference and this was the first time he got to exhale. His hands rested gently on your waist, grounding. Warm.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his for a moment, both of you breathing slow in the dimming room.

“You really gotta stop asking me the hard ones,” he murmured, his voice low and a little playful, but still soft around the edges.

You smiled, brushing your thumb lightly along the seam of his suit at his shoulder. “It’s my job.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, leaning in to nuzzle your temple once, “remind me to start bringing a flashcard with smart-sounding words. Just in case.”

You laughed quietly, still close. The suit was warm under your fingers—not from his powers, just from him. Being near him always felt like this now. Like a space you didn’t realize you needed.

Then, softer, you said, “You did a great job.”

His eyes flicked back to yours, and for a second, all the cocky charm vanished. What was left was raw and real.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

He smiled at that—not his usual smirk, not a teasing grin, but something gentler. Something that belonged only to you.

“You looked proud,” he said. “When I answered.”

“I was proud,” you whispered.

Johnny leaned in again, kissing you this time with less urgency—just warmth. Familiarity. Gratitude.

You let your hands slide from his collar to the back of his neck, your fingers brushing the edge of his hairline.

“You keep doing things like that,” you murmured when the kiss broke, “and I’m gonna run out of critical things to write about you.”

He laughed against your cheek. “Guess I’ll just have to do something reckless again. For balance.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was already full.

taglist: @purplefluffycows

[inkydelusions]

SAFE AND SOUND - 1.3k

pairing: gn!reader x spencer red summary: in the middle of the night, spencer's mind takes him to a dark, dark place. until a gentle touch and a soft voice bring him back. c.warning: vague descriptions of reader being extremely hurt (nothing too graphic), angst-ish. with happy ending, hurt/comfort a/n: bit of a cliché but hey ido love them sometimes. anyways, i'm trying something different with the aesthetic. what do you guys think? hope you enjoy it <3 likes & reblogs are appreciated !! requests |masterlist

there’s the sound of chains dragging across the concrete floor. the relentless dripping of water somewhere to your right. your throat is raw from crying, but still, soft, broken whimpers slip past your lips. your whole body aches. your skin burns. and time has dissolved into a blur of darkness and pain. you don’t know how much time you’ve been here. maybe hours? or a couple of days? probably more.

you’ve lost track of how many times you’ve whispered his name. screamed it. sobbed it into the damp walls. spencer. you cried it when the hands first came, covering your eyes and mouth, dragging you away. you breathed it like a prayer while they tied your wrists, your ankles. you whispered it as you laid curled into yourself in the farthest corner of the room, shivering, weak, begging whatever force is out there to send him to you.

and he hears you. somehow, through the fog of panic and the deafening quiet of his own helplessness, he hears you in the back of his mind. in the days it takes him and the team to find you, your voice haunts him. faint, fragile. calling for him. pleading for help. and it kills him. it’s unbearable; not knowing what’s happening to you or where you are, being unable to help you and ease your pain. his mind churns with worst-case scenarios, with the image of your face twisted in fear, in pain. he imagines your tears, your blood. and the weight of it is unbearable.

but nothing compares to the moment they find you.

when they finally break through the rusted door to the basement, spencer sees your body lying motionless on the floor. your eyes are closed. your lips are pale. and worst of all…

your chest isn't moving.

you’re not breathing.

and for a moment, neither is he.

forgetting all about protocol, instinct takes over. spencer drops to his knees at your side, pulling you into his lap with shaking arms. the concrete bites at his legs, but he doesn’t feel it. all he feels is the crushing, suffocating terror rising in his chest.

he stares at you. your lashes resting gently against your cheeks. the delicate slope of your nose. your bloodied, chapped lips. he memorizes every detail, as if it might be the last time.

“spencer,” jj calls him.

but he doesn’t turn to look at her standing behind him. he can’t take his eyes off your face. he takes his time, eyes roaming over every small detail: your closed eyes, the soft curve of your nose and the pale, chapped lips. he tries not to pay much attention to the dry blood sticking to your cheeks and forehead. or the recent wounds scattered all over your body, along the bruised skin of your arms and legs. he glances over at the chain still wrapped around your ankle.

“spencer, hey,” tries again, her voice sharper this time, more urgent.

a hand lands on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off, gripping you tighter.

you can’t be gone. you can’t leave him. not like this. not here.

spencer doesn’t even realize it when he starts crying. it’s only when the salty taste of his own tears reach his lips that he notices it. with a shaky hand, he graces your left cheek, trying to clean the dried blood, brushing away a bloodied strand of hair.

he releases a shaky breath when you don’t react. 

“no, no, no,” he whispers, voice broken and think with tears.

you always loved it when spencer plays with your hair. played with your hair. you'd smile, eyes half-lidded, pressing your face into his palm, whispering his name like it was a secret only the two of you shared.

“wake up, please,” he hears his voice whisper, but the words don’t feel like his own. come to think of it, he doesn’t feel like himself either, like he’s experiencing all this pain rom outside his own body. “baby, please wake up.”

his chest caves under the weight of it all. the idea of a life without you. 

he can’t imagine a world in which he wakes up every morning and you’re not laying next to him. he doesn’t want to live in a universe in which he doesn’t get to share his first coffee every morning and his last tea every night with you. he refuses to live a life in which he doesn’t get to hear you laughing at his worst jokes. i would be a very,  very sad life if he  doesn’t get to tell you how much he loves you every day, over and over again.

“i know,” he feels your voice whisper in his ear.

but it’s just in his mind. a cruel echo of what he wants to hear.

a ragged sob tears from his chest. he doesn’t care who sees, who hears. he doesn’t care about protocol or appearances. all he can think is that he should’ve stayed at that party with you. he should’ve never let you out of his sight.

“it’s okay, baby,” you speak again, voice soft, almost angelical.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers back, dropping a kiss to the crown of your head.

“spencer,” you call his name. “hey, baby.”

“i’m so, so sorry, angel. i’m…”

“open your eyes for me, please. spencer, let me see those pretty eyes of yours.”

there’s a gentle hand on his cheek, delicately tracing his cheekbone in a soothing motion. he swallows hard, blaming his brain for fooling him like this.

however,after a few seconds, he finds himself opening his eyes for you. and when he does, the dark, humid room dissolves around him, fading out with every blink. suddenly, there’s a soft, orange glow tinting the walls around him. the stench of mold and humidity has been replaced with smell of clean linen, mixed with the familiar scent of your favorite shampoo.

“there you are,” you whisper from where you’re laying in the bed next to him. “it’s okay, baby.”

your hand still rests against his face, thumb stroking his skin with such familiarity it breaks him all over again. but this time, the pain comes with relief. with love. with life.

a few minutes ago you had jolted awake when you felt spencer squirming next to you. you had asked him what was wrong, searching for his face in the darkness of the room.  but as soon as you saw his closed eyes, you knew. it was a nightmare. and you brought him back the only way you knew how: with your voice, your touch, your love. all the while you were holding back your own tears. he always looked so small, so vulnerable when he was having one of his bad nightmares. frown deep, cheeks red and tear-stained.

“baby?” he whispers, voice hoarse.

“i’m here. you’re fine, spence.”

before you can take your hand away, he reaches for it, cupping it against his own cheek. he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and swallowing hard.

“you’re okay,” he whispers, more to himself that to you.

his free hand snakes up between your bodies until it reaches your chest, resting it gently over the soft beating of your heart. he feels a new wave of tears burning behind his eyes, this time from overwhelming, all-consuming relief.

“bad dream?” you ask softly, lacing your fingers with his.“bad dream?” you ask him, interlocking your fingers with his over your chest. he only nods. “it’s gone now.”

he knows it is. but the weight of it still lingers.

“do you want me to make you some tea?”

he shakes his head. “can we just stay like this? please? i need to hold you.”

“of course,” you whisper.

so you stay. tangled in the quiet, wrapped in each other. his breathing slowly steadies against yours, syncing like it always does. his hand finds your waist and pulls you impossibly close, like he’s trying to merge your bodies, to feel your heartbeat against every inch of him.

you fit together perfectly. you always have.

he kisses your forehead, slow, reverent.

“i love you,” he murmurs, voice barely audible.

you smile, already drifting back to sleep, the sound of his heartbeat in your ear like a lullaby.

“i love you too, spence.”

thanks for reading <3 likes & reblogs are appreciated !!

tags !! @siennnaaa1202 ; @kusanagisunshine-blog-blog ; @girllblogging777 ; @superbeaglewitch ; @cynbx ; @tokalotashiz ; @yasministration

creds for the medieval dividers to @/cursed-carmine

[chaotic-toasters]

Here's something you could write about: the huntrix girls has a plus sized s/o and their s/o starts to feel self conscious after hearing how the girls were fearl for Abby's abs

Comforting you when you get insecure about your body

Zoey x Fem!R

Warnings: Implied body dysmorphia

/N: Thanks anon! I don't think I specified the reader having a certain body type, but otherwise this is what you asked for. On another note, I'm having a little trouble writing Rumi and Mira, so I think I'll post each member's separately and then a polytrix one last so you can at least get Zoey's today

Story under the cut

-Gushes about how perfectly symmetrical and solid Abby's abs are. Not as much as she gushes about Mystery, but still

-Sneaks around the penthouse (not really) with her phone in hand, thirsting over edits of Abby with his shirt riding up

-Might not notice your feelings about it right away, especially if you're subtle, but if you're more obvious or start withdrawing from her, she'll notice instantly.

–

Zoey had gone straight to your shared room after she, Rumi, and Mira had gotten home from getting Rumi's tonics, her phone open to some random edit she'd found. “Hi, baby!” she said, grinning as she flopped down next to you on the bed. “Have you heard about the Saja Boys?” You looked up, voice soft as your eyebrows furrowed. “They're the new boyband, right?”

Zoey pressed her phone into your hands, already a few seconds into random edit. “Yeah! You need to see Abby. His abs are like- I don't even know. They're so… rigid. Even Mira thinks so.”

You listened to her ramblings in dismay as the edit played on screen, Abby's shirt popping open and riding up multiple times over to reveal his stupidly chiseled abs, something ugly rearing up inside of you.

Insecurity.

“Yeah, it's- it's nice, yeah,” you muttered, shutting Zoey's phone off and putting it face down on her thigh in a fruitless attempt to forget what you'd just seen. “Yeah. Perfect.”

Zoey frowned, instantly noticing how fast you seemed to shutdown. “Baby, hey, what's- are you mad?” “No!” you protested, far too quickly, far too defensive. “I just thought… no. No.”

“You thought what?” Zoey's voice was soft now, all her usual playfulness gone. “That I like him...?”

“No, I don't know. That you think he's… better looking than me or something,” you mumbled, half-hoping that she wouldn't hear you. It was unfair how fast you folded when Zoey was being all serious and gentle like this.

Her expression softened into one of understanding. “You know I love you, right? And I'd love you even if you weren't so hot, so perfect.”

Your expression faltered a little. “I know, but-”

“No, baby,” Zoey murmured, crawling onto your lap to cup your face in her hands. “You're so pretty, I have thirty-two notebooks full of random lyrics about the way you look. You gotta stop thinking you're not. Okay? It's not true.”

Her arms snaked around your shoulders, face pressing into the crook of your neck- and when you hesitated to wrap your arms around her, she moved them for you, touch gentle as she shifted your hands onto her back.

“You're my everything, baby, not some demon with abs,” she mumbled into your neck, squeezing your shoulder lightly. “Okay?”

You hesitated for a moment before pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “Okay… but did you really write lyrics about me?”

Zoey didn't even pretend to be embarrassed, looking up at you with a smug grin. “Oh, yeah. I'm gonna write you a song one day, baby. Just you wait.”

Your face flushed a little. “You're cheesy.”

“I'm in love.” She corrected- and when her playfulness shrunk back into a soft seriousness, so did your insecurity.

-

Thanks for reading! Mira or Rumi's (probably Mira's) will be posted soon

A/N: Don't judge me I'm rusty 😭

[sleepyjump]

NARRATIVE HYPNOSIS AND YOU: A PRIMING/PRIMER ON TAKING THE LEFT DOOR

or: how dirk strider et al. changed my ontological worldview, and how you can brainwash your friends and loved ones without really trying

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in a lot of our posts, we keep referring to "narrative hypnosis." i don't know if this is the widely-used term for what i'm talking about, or even if we're using it right! but since we've been asked a few times, here's my best shot at explaining in the simplest possible terms what we actually mean by that.

i'm BB, from the killer games except not really except kind of except it's complicated, and here's what the deal is with narratives, metanarratives, brainwashing, and you! according to some random girl on the internet, that is. i don't claim to be an expert of anything except my own cognition. and making zines. and even then i have a lot to learn about both of those things, so take everything i say with a grain of salt!

(and, if any of this happens to bear any resemblance to something some of you have done before -- it was a coincidence, i swear! i really truly wasn't there. but that doesn't mean any doors are closing behind you.)

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now, before we begin, i'd like to list an extremely non-exhaustive handful of games and media that i think accidentally -- or on purpose! -- create or discuss narrative hypnosis through their structure. these are:

- undertale/especially deltarune

- superhot, extremely

- homestuck & especially the homestuck epilogues

- the beginner's guide (really!)

- invitation to a beheading

- house of leaves

- beau is afraid

- doki doki literature club

- dispatches from elsewhere

hopefully these will all make sense by the end of this -- but if any of them don't, send me an ask and i'll explain my interpretation in more detail :-)

finally, i'm gonna be talking a lot about my view of reality first, so feel free to skip ahead to a section header that interests you! just imagine that all the sections you didn't read were really really brilliant and you agree with them completely, ok?

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intro: narratives create perception, perception creates "reality"

so, our view of what narratives are relies on this fundamental view that material reality (as distinct from stories) is completely arbitrary. you might say: well, BB, stories aren't real and the real world is. that's what makes them stories. you can't just say that everything's real!

to which i'd say: well, i see your point, but real according to you? who died and made you the objective viewpoint through which the entire universe should be split into "real" and "not real?" those are words. we made those up, just like we made up "chair" and "philosophy" and "spamton" and "sun" and "moon." if you take away all the perception, what you're left with is one single everything -- because with nobody to divide it all up into pieces, there's just "stuff!"

so, we decide how we want to chop that stuff up into individual words and concepts. and we create distinctions that are really important to us! your idea of a chair is really helpful, say, for deciding what you want to sit on. you wouldn't want to sit on an upturned nail -- so that's not a chair! we agree on a lot of these concepts, but they get a little fuzzy at the edges -- you've probably heard of the famous chair copypasta, in which wikipedia used to have this extremely long and arduous definition of types of chair. not everyone'll look at the same object and call it "chair!" hell, i call stools chairs sometimes. am i stupid? maybe. but that's real to me!

and this goes beyond just the stuff we can knock on and touch and eat and feel and breathe and smell. when you imagine something (like a story or a memory), your brain produces electrical signals in the "shape" of it for you to process. so you're perceiving it as a Fake Thing, even if it immerses you a lot sometimes and you forget it's a Fake Thing to you. but here's the kicker: you know what you are, bud? also electrical signals! if us and our fictions are both just patterns of brain signals, what's actually the difference...?

plural systems and plurality in general blur this line even more. at what point does a character stop being a fictional character and start being a fictive, and at what point is a fictive a real person? your answer might be different from mine... and you'd better answer carefully, 'cause your system of morality probably relies a LOT on what you consider real or not, babe!

so we all have our own views of what's what, and our own collections of what's real. and sometimes these views all line up a lot, like i said earlier. i'd argue that what keeps these views relatively in line -- and informs our morals, our conceptions of what's what, and everything else we process -- is NARRATIVES!

narratives are how we perceive EVERYTHING. narratives are how we share ideas. narratives are not only how we inhabit other worlds, but define our own -- and critically, our role in it and how others relate to us and what inspires us and what we learn and what we hate and what we like and what we want and what we fear. we all construct a story in which we are the main character (or at least the pov character). narratives are the building blocks of reality, because they're the means by which perceptual ideas propagate. if you'd like, memes contain individual ideas, and memes get packaged into narratives to travel between people's consciousnesses, and those narratives produce their perception -- and therefore their reality.

make sense? hope so! let's get to

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⭐️📚 the good stuff 📚⭐️

what if we could manipulate these central narratives?

if you can change someone's central narratives, you'd be able to change their perception, right? that would mean controlling their reality. take a second to really process what that means -- their moral system, identity, personality, and what's real and what's aren't are all stored within these narratives. and these narratives are all bundles of ideas! and we're constantly exposing ourselves to narratives all the time refining them. so... is there a back door we can sneak in somehow?

if they're plural, yes, definitely. but that's a whole thing in and of itself -- whether someone is or isn't a system, though, there's two really really good ways to shape someone's core narratives.

the first is controlling their sources of information, which is itself a whole can of worms, too. sometimes that's a high-control environment (yikes!) and sometimes that's just showing your friends something you KNOW will affect them (hehehehe.) but that alone does not narrative hypnosis make.

the other one, though, is producing narratives that are lab-created to not only be compelling but enthralling. narratives that draw you in, capture your attention, lure you into a false sense of security... and then suddenly wrap claws around your perception and drag you riiiight over the barrier that separates the "real" electrical signals from the "fictional" ones! that's right: you know it, you love it, iiiit's....

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metafiction babey!!!!

it's like that old example of trance you've probably heard a million times where you get so sucked into a show or game that you forget you're dealing with pixels on the screen and start to interpret the words you're reading and images you're seeing as real. that on its own is a type of hypnosis -- but what i'm talking about is when the story refuses to let go at the end. instead of booting you out and handing back that immersion and saying "there! that was a story :-) have fun in your material world!", these types of story say "wait. don't leave. wait. what if this is real? who's to say it isn't? who's to say these electrical signals are any different from your electrical signals??"

take undertale, for example -- THE classic version of this. undertale finds ways to speak directly to you, the player, as distinct from the cast -- and to make an argument for the cast's agency and the genuine immorality of fucking with these fictional characters' lives. that's not to say that, according to everyone's perception of reality, you're a bad person based on the way you play this video game. but the text of undertale itself posits that these characters are meaningfully real and their experiences persist outside of being sprites and code, to the point that one of them implores you not to reset their lives. that creates a VERY different way of engaging with the text than, say, a mario game -- where you can replay it again and again and never have to contend with the moral decision of resetting princess peach back into the claws of bowser. it's not about that!

but this effect goes beyond just games that directly confront you, the player, about your actions. it can also be more subtle -- like if you just have a story that's really REALLY immersive. so immersive that you find yourself gripped by the heart even without it telling you that you're part of it. sometimes, that means stories with casts so real they feel like real people you know and care about, like hypnospace outlaw. but sometimes, it's...

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🌟😵‍💫 the GOOD stuff 😵‍💫🌟

what if we could get more direct? is there such thing as "narrative intox?"

yes, and that's a very hot way to put it. thank you, me. you're very clever for that one. when i say "narrative intox," i mean the equivalent of slipping something into someone's drink when they're not looking. the drink doesn't look much different... and then they get all woozy... and then all of a sudden everything's different and they don't recognize where they are and the world is so weirdddd.

some stories i consider narratively hypnotic are less blatant about their metafictional elements because they're sneaking something past you. some narratively hypnotic stories don't have metafictional elements at all, but still achieve hypnotic effects, because all communication is hypnosis. every story -- and indeed, every word and every picture and every note and every sound -- contains ideas, and communicating those ideas is an attempt to force the audience's brain to perceive what you perceive. if you make a REALLY convincing argument -- through sensory language, relatability, thoroughness, et cetera... you are essentially reaching directly into their core narratives and tweaking something here or there.

so if you were to write a story someone projected on -- because a character REALLY reminds them of themself -- you could theoretically change their behavior quite a bit. with a thought experiment -- just a hypothetical -- you could change the moral system they view the world through, or make them realize their perception of reality should be a lot closer to yours than it really is!

but you don't just have to make new narratives! you can slot yourself into the ones they already have. when i talk about "the protagonist," "the side characters," "the narrator," "the antagonist," and the like -- or even more specifically, "the princess" and "the maid" and "the wise fool" and "the Joker Baby..." these are roles that we all have our own understandings of. whether you want to or not, you -- the girl reading this -- unconsciously recreate these fictional roles in your real life. the antagonist might be your boss, or that neighbor you hate, or another poster, or yourself. the princess might be a girlfriend you REALLY want to impress, or a really hot customer, or some dude at the grocery store that you could probably forcefem.

who's the narrator?

well. that might seem easy to answer. there isn't one. not every story has a narrator.

but if someone could become the narrator.... well, that'd give them quite a bit of power, wouldn't it? narrators are pretty strong. their words shape the reality of a narrative. their communication is manipulation, just like everyone... else's... hey, wait, that's pretty easy to do, right? if you could convince someone that you're the narrator, could you.... just start telling them what their reality is?

okay, that sounds fucking awesome. but then, of course, the question is:

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who gets to be the narrator?

spoiler alert: you don't need g-d powers to be the narrator. you just need to be trusted and listened to long enough that your words start to make a lot of sense. say you're reading a tumblr post, and it seems really enthralling. like you can't put it down, and every new insight is making something click in your brain, and you're reading along and along, willingly letting it change the way you see the world.... hungrily lapping up each new word of it, like this post -- this one tumblr post -- is some kind of prophecy, some Absolute Truth, a certainty that the world must work this way...

wouldn't that make me your narrator? hehehehe. well, i'm not interested in staying your narrator. i just want to make my point, and then i'll give you your life back and you can decide if you want to believe me and keep sinking deeper into it! but part of the reason that i might've successfully had you there was my confidence. we tend to believe confident stories when the details match up! or at least i sure do. confidence makes a lot of hard-to-swallow pills go down easier, because who likes uncertainty? certainly not me or you, right?

when you have a conversation with someone and nod along to everything they're saying and only later realize you didn't actually agree with it, they were narrating you. when someone slips you a little extra alcohol and you drunkenly cling to them because they make sense and the whole world's blurrrryyyy, they were narrating you. when someone hypnotizes you, they narrate you. when someone tells you what to do and you feel compelled to obey, they narrate you.

so what is narrative hypnosis? it's telling someone what happens in their own story. whether through metafiction, through relatability, or through confident communication, you can grab those central narratives by the throat and completely redirect the shape of their reality -- subtly or directly!

and the best part? they don't have to be the protagonist of their own story, either. maybe you want someone to be your thrall -- so you narrate them as such, slowly shrinking their possibility space until they're eating out of your hand. maybe you want someone to be a pet -- so by making them associate certain things with their idea of the narrative role of a pet, you can slide them right into that headspace. it's like loading a different CD on a CD player! you're playing all the dog hits now, sweetheart. let's hear you howl. good girl.

💞💕 in conclusion... 💕💞

be cool please

i hope it doesn't look like i'm trying to write a guide on how to like genuinely ruin someone's life. you are responsible for the actions you take -- even if you set your own morality constants one way, a lot of other people might look at it a different way. who am i to tell you who's right? use your best judgement, please.

but overall, narrative hypnosis is a really cool concept to me, because it's like hacking into a video game or splicing footage -- it's direct manipulation on the reality level, using the means by which we interface with the world! which is a REALLY hot concept to mess around with in stories and scenes and bits and stuff. the idea of a charming narrator suddenly rewriting me into "The Doll..." well. i'm crossing my legs. LMAO.

i find metafiction really hot for the same reason i find being narrated hot: that it claws into my mind and forces me to either incorporate it into my reality or contend with it. and i think that's erotic! when a work is fighting to be considered "real" within my head, that's sex to me. and when it wins, and a story about the story not being a story starts to actually change my behavior and speaking patterns.... well, i think that's super hot. super. hot. super. hot. super. hot. <3

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any questions? i'm SURE i missed something or worded something bad, but i wanted to get this ramble out there into the world! and now it is. it took me a while to write.... oh well! i'll upd8 it later with any corrections or further comments. see you in the beautiful askbox!!

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addendum: the additional posts i'd like to write about this topic include how it relates to the other media i listed, how it relates to dirk strider specifically, how it relates to spirituality and religion (to me), and ESPECIALLY how it relates to plurality! and forcefem. hehehehe. if any of these interest you especially let me know!

[bungoubongoboys]

THIS FUCKING SCENE! Honestly I'm so feral for BSD in general but THIS Scene seeing Dazai and Chuuya interact and all the layers in what they say to each other when they're alone for the first time again after Dazai leaving just says SO MUCH about their relationship.

Dazai blew up Chuuyas car. On the surface level? Petty, annoying, fits their outward image. Deeper level? He knew Chuuya so well, so intimately that he knew he'd be destroyed. First, he didn't want Chuuya following him. He wanted to disappear. But more than that. He didn't want Chuuya to risk himself in any way *for* Dazai. Because he knew that was a possibility.

Whether it was just following Dazai and risking the status of his loyalty to the Mafia in Mori's eyes, of whether it was getting drunk and getting hurt or killed while driving, or both even--Dazai was protecting him by removing his car from the equation.

And Chuuya isn't dumb. He's not the same level of genius as Dazai, but he's not dumb, or he wouldn't be an executive. Executives aren't chosen on power alone because Mori is too smart for that. So after the initial shock, Chuuya would've KNOWN there was more to Dazai blowing up his car than just being petty. He probably would've known it was to protect him, to some degree.

And he DEFINITELY would've gotten the message of "don't follow me" (let's be real, he has more than one vehicle). So instead, Chuuya goes home. He takes out a prized possession--an outrageously expensive bottle of wine, possibly the jewel of his collection--and opens it, destroying all value it had. Losing it forever, likely hurting himself in the process. And likely drinking it all at once, not enjoying it, thinking about Dazai.

That's the surface of the wine. But then, like the car, there's a deeper level. There are a few things we KNOW Chuuya cares about--his job, his hobbies/collections (wine), his appearance, his character (loyalty, responsibility, etc), taking care of people around him and close to him, etc.

Why did Dazai leave? Because *he* was hurt. He lost Oda. Oda died on a mission that, realistically, could've been handled by Double Black. It would've been hard, but probably doable. Chuuya would be able to put that together. But he wasn't there. So Oda dealt with Mimic and died, hurting Dazai, and Chuuya wasn't able to save or protect anyone in the end. Even, or especially, his partner. As a direct result of this failure to protect, he lost yet another person he cared about--Dazai. Sure, he's not dead, but he might as well be since he effectively disappeared from the planet at this point. And Chuuya is already carrying the weight of the Flags' deaths and Verlaine and The Sheep and so much more. All people he failed to protect and lost as a result. But because of his loyalty and trusting nature, he doesn't put together that Mori is the cause, and instead blames himself.

So, back to the wine. There's a lot of layers here. First, is self harm. Chuuya is actively destroying something he likes and wants to have as a punishment to himself for his perceived failures. Second, grief. Chuuya is grieving HARD and knows that alcohol is (self-)destructive, but he turns to it anyway, wasting (in his mind) something precious because he *already* wasted something ten times as precious--the life and well being of others. A metaphor for and parallel to how he views his destruction of his relationship with Dazai. It doesn't matter that he didn't WANT to hurt Dazai, what matters is it happened. Their relationship is gone, effectively, so he destroys his most precious physical possession in response to losing his most precious relationship/personal connection. And since it's wine, he can't get drunk enough to forget--just enough to feel sick in the morning. Another punishment for himself, because he will NEVER let himself forget his own failures.

YOU FAKE ASS IDGAFER YOU WERE GRIEVING!!!!

[howlingday]

Weiss Sometimes Hides Her Feelings in Atlesian;

Nora Valkyrie being a little gremlin to her “big brother” Jaune

Nora: (Motorboats Pyrrha)

Pyrrha: Um... Are you finished, Nora?

Nora: Yeah! Thanks, dude~! Man, titties are the best~!

--------------------------------------------------

Nora: I thought Jaune would get the harem, but Ren's got more game than a protag whose hair covers his eyes!

Jaune: Your problem is who got the harem?!

--------------------------------------------------

Jaune: Ugh... Nora, you are so cringe...

Nora: Heh! I'm the cringiest~!

Jaune: Not a reason to be smug!

--------------------------------------------------

Nora: KYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA~! My big brother is a big pervert~!

Jaune: Yeah! Right! Like you didn't set this up, you little pervert!

Nora: Aw... Was I that obvious~?

Jaune: Like, c'mon! You probably stepped out of the shower as soon as you heard me come into the dorm.

Nora: (Grabs his collar) Hang on. Aren't you curious why your adorable, little sister would concoct such a trap~?

Jaune: Not while you're still naked.

Nora: Anyways, FANSERVICE TIME~! (Poses)

Jaune: Where the hell are you even looking?!

Nora: Where else? Gotta flash the camera, dumbass.

Jaune: AT LEAST MY ASS IS COVERED!

Nora: All jokes aside, this was my attempt to reward my big brother team leader for all his hard work today~.

Jaune: Learning my teammate is a disappointment is my reward?

--------------------------------------------------

Weiss: !!!

Nora: (Sinister aura)

Nora: ...Aren't you afraid? I thought my prey would at least be on guard sniffing around my territory. But maybe your domesticated lifestyle has made you numb to your survival instincts~? Like goose that's flying in circles.

Weiss: Why are you here?

Nora: I know you're in love with him.

Weiss: !!!

Nora: I would know since I love him more than anything, too.

Weiss: Do you... really mean that?

Nora: I do. I love him more than Ren. And Pyrrha. And not even pancakes come close to how I feel about Jaune. He's my whole life~.

Weiss: ...

Nora: But how do you feel toward him again? Do you have a crush on him?

Weiss: ...

Nora: I asked you a question. ARE YOU IN LOVE WITH HIM?

Weiss: Love is... a bit of a bold label...

Nora: ...I told you how I felt without any hesitation. So now it's your turn! (Corners her) Go on! OPEN YOUR HEART!

--------------------------------------------------

Nora: So~? Are you gonna steal your little sister's first time on second base~?

Jaune: You seriously need some therapy.

--------------------------------------------------

Jaune: (Yawns, Stretches, Steps out of bed) Maybe I've been too harsh on Nor-

Jaune: (Leg grabbed) AGH! WHAT THE HELL?! (Jumps away)

Nora: (Under his bed, Arm waving) HA HA HA HA HA HA HA~! WERE YOU EXPECTING A SAPPY ENDING? WELL THINK AGAIN! I SAID I'D DO THIS AND I DID IT!

Jaune: I actually felt bad for you?! Nevermind!

Nora: Ngh! Ghk! Urgh! Oh no! Hurgh! Ighk-ghk-ghk~!

Jaune: ...

Nora: ...Pull me out.

Jaune: What?

Nora: Lookin' like I'm stuck down here. Don't make me say the step-bro meme~!

--------------------------------------------------

Nora: Your face was in my crotch and your hand was on my boob! The right one! (Teary-eyed) How could your forget something like that~?!

Jaune: THERE IS NO WAY I WOULD FORGET SUCH A CALAMITY! NOW STOP! I don't want to be the lucky perv archetype!

Nora: Tch!

[samarosina]

After too many incidents involving Emperor's Smile, Lan Qiren writes to Jiang Fengmian pleading that he cut off Wei Wuxian's weekly allowance. Jiang Fengmian does (he hadn't even known the boys were getting an allowance!) but he warns Lan Qiren that it's not going to be enough to deter him.

And Wei Wuxian is, of course, not deterred. Stealing worked back in Yunmeng so why shouldn't it work in Caiyi? He'll steal the wine, drink it, and in the morning the Jiang sect will pay in arrears.

Except, in the morning, once the thrill of looting several jars of wine and dodging angry storeowners has worn off, Wei Wuxian wakes up to find that the Jiang Sect have refused to pay. The Lan sect refused to pay. And the Nie sect, because while Huaisang was drunk he was never actually implicated in the act of thievery itself, also refused to pay.

Which leaves Wei Wuxian at the mercy of the angry storeowners.

"They'll cut off my hands!" Wei Wuxian cries. "My hands are so nice! They'll put my fingers on a stick and tanghulu them! Jiang Cheng, you can't let them. You like my hands, don't you?"

Jiang Cheng pointedly does not answer that. "Don't be so dramatic. They'll probably just make you work until you pay it off."

"There has to be a quicker way. What if we sold something?" Wei Wuxian looks around their pathetically empty room. Between the peanut shells, clumps of hair on the floor, and their swords, there's little else, and little that could actually be sold for monetary gain. Then his eyes land on their dresser. "Jiang Cheng, your robes! The fancy ones with dancing frogs!"

"You mean the singular set of robes I brought with me?" Jiang Cheng scoffs. "Do you want me to travel home naked? I'm not taking these Lan robes with me!"

"An even better idea! We could sell your body! You're, what, fifth on that silly list? I know a few people who'd pay handsomely for drawings of your thighs. If we commissioned Huaisang..."

"Sell your own body!" Jiang Cheng snaps. "You're ranked higher than me so you must be worth more than me, right?"

"Exactly!" Wei Wuxian grins. Blinded as he is by the sheer genius of it all, he fails to see how Jiang Cheng recoils at his exclamation. "But why stop there? Let's aim higher. All in the name of efficiency and profit making, of course. After me, there's... who?"

"Jin Zixuan," Jiang Cheng grinds out.

"Well, nobody's paying for that," Wei Wuxian says, and Jiang Cheng allows himself a quiet snort. "Then there's... Lan Zhan." Wei Wuxian blinks. "Oh. Jiang Cheng, it's perfect. Almost too perfect."

And as quick as it left, the irritation comes flooding back. "We're not selling Lan Wangji," Jiang Cheng says.

"It doesn't have to be his body, it just be parts of it. Clumps of hair he left in his comb? The handkerchief he used to mop up his sweat after drills? Actually, I don't think he sweats..."

"You're forgetting that everyone here is broke," Jiang Cheng sighs. "If you're pricing Lan Wangji accurately, we shouldn't be selling rare items. They'll be too expensive and too difficult to actually obtain. It should be something abundant but marketable."

"Abundant... Something we could resupply every day." Wei Wuxian's eyes widen.” Jiang Cheng, I've got it. It would be enough to pay off the stolen wine. More than enough. We could probably buy out every brewery in Caiyi!"

Jiang Cheng doesn't want to ask. He doesn't. Because, whatever idea has just struck Wei Wuxian, selling Lan Wangji might actually be the better option, just to get the poor man away from Wei Wuxian and to safety.

But even if Jiang Cheng says nothing, Wei Wuxian will still somehow find a way to make him complicit. So, Jiang Cheng gives in.

"You better not expect me to help you," he says, just to be difficult.

But Wei Wuxian just smiles at him anyway.

"Jiang Cheng, let's sell Lan Zhan's bath water!"

[factual-fantasy]

24 Asks! Thank you! :)

@the-holly-opal

Nope! She's alive and well. She was born in present day since she swapped places with Eggman in the timeline. 🫶

@fablegate

XDD Nah, only thing in his boots are his feet! And maybe like.. A knife or something? A dagger? Do cowboys keep weapons in there..? <XDD

@how-am-i-still-here-lmao

Nah, I still cant afford it 😅💔 I think I'm just gonna throw in the towel and watch a play through on YouTube-

But yeah I don't have much interest in those 3 characters, but I had fun molding them into whatever I wanted in my AU :D

@ardent-38

XDDD You are very welcome!! 😎😎😎

Pff XD No, my sona just gets spikey when stressed

@lathan-chillyfilm

I don't know much about it yet, but I don't like what I see Imma be real..

@mimioctoandfriends

👁️👁️

@thelatter0verview5

Frank Welker wouldn't have been a great voice for Bowser, but ANYONE would have been better then Jack Black. 💀

Ngl I genuinely rotate between the 3 and use them equally as much as eachother.

When I am trying to distinguish between my laptop and my full set up, I say "My laptop and my desktop."

When I am talking casually about my set up, I use "PC" and Computer" interchangeably for no discernable reason. Its just which ever word my brain adds to the sentence first <XD

Idk if I wanna be added to a graph of any kind..? But it was still a fun question to answer, so thank you! :D

@graphitesblog

Shnom...... liteol shmolm...

@lokifaith

Thank you!! :DDD💕💕

@zorkbork

Honestly that's a good question.. my memory isn't that great-

I thiiiiiink I just wanted to draw a silly character with a stupid name. And since I like gnomes I thought to make a Gnome with a name that started with a silent G. I added the among us shape to him and boom, Gerald was born(?) XDD

Also thank you! I wish the same for you! :DD

@caronaro-flipaclip

I know of the mystery dungeon games and kiiind'a get the premise. But my Violet team is in the normal Pokémon universe with humans and everything :0

I always forget they're canonically cousins because their age difference is crazy. If Maria was alive today she'd be like 70 years old or somethin. She'd probably have 30 years on Eggman

W Tails! :DD

Thank you for the info! :00

@minnesotamedic186

Yeah but when people make a cartoon character based on a blue whale, its almost always depicted as blue. So I was just surprised to see it be so grey.

And the color aside, nothing about that character look like a whale to me 💀 If you showed me that cookie and told me to guess what it was based on, I would have NEVER guessed a whale of any kind.

@eireni

ooo :0 thank you for the info! 📝

Oooo thank you for all the information! :DD

As a whole I'm not really interested. <:/ I never felt inclined to jump into it the same way I did Undertale. 💔

AWE! Thank you so much!! :DDD

@misscherrypie

The thing that threw me off is I was under the impression that murder drones was meant to be a very serious show. With the concept of all life on earth being extinguished and the remaining robots going around massacring each other.

With that in mind, I expected rather realistic and gritty looking robots. Instead we got.. this.

Giant bobble headed robots with ENORMOUS glass foreheads to show their uwu expressive eyes. They have HAIR and normal working mouths for some reason. Long noodle arms a cartoony round hands and fingers. They wear NORMAL HUMAN CLOTHES for some reason- with a Uzi wearing a hot topic edgy beanie and jacket. And then the murder drones, they all have these long noodle tails with needles at the end. Like.... I just cant take these guys seriously, no matter how gritty their world tries to be, I cant take them seriously at all.

And that's not even mentioning the episode that was about prom or something where they wore suits and dresses.💀 Its just not for me at all. The characters look way too silly for my taste considering how serious (I think) the show was trying to be. 💔

@redrevent2

Nah, I only really write romantic plots for my own original OCs sometimes. I don't dabble in any ships if the characters aren't mine.🚫👎

@megadino706 (Referencing this post)

It explains why he mirrors Sonic in almost ever way. In canon there is absolutely no logical reason why Shadow is a hedgehog. Sega just wanted an edgy character that could be mistaken for Sonic.

(And before anyone argues the "super sonic mural" thing, that is not canon. Its just a theory, a GAMMEEE THEORY...)

[adara-of-the-flame]

"I knew it, I knew it!" Selva Roja clapped her gigantic, manicured hands together. "I've got an eye for these things, you know."

Arms full of fruit and vegies as she was, Mars was still able to free one arm and take a snapshot of Hoggle's vine-knot with her phone. "Gotta remember to take more pictures for everyone at home." She took a large bite of square peach. "I could probably make a pie out of these. A square pie!"

As the half-Urru made to take another picture, the lense of her phone caught a sliver of darkness slide into existance just below Selva Roja's shoulder. It was as though something were drawing a jagged line in reality itself.

"Wh--oh. It's you." If the Summer Queen were surprised, she didn't show it. She poked the scratch in the air in dull agnowledgement. "I was wondering when you'd return my message."

"I was busy." The new voice on the other side of the crack inthe world was brief and busninesslike, and unmistakibly feminine.

Selva Roja shook her head. "You always are anymore. It's not good for you."

"We are not here to discuss my constitution. You wanted to talk to me. I'm here."

"Well, not now! I've got a lesson going!"

"You can postpone the lesson."

Despite the chill, authoritative tones of the mystery speaker, Selva Roja didn't seem intimidated. If anything, she seemed exhasperated. "Look, normally I would humor you, because I know you're going through a lot. But, now is not the time." She turned her eyes downard to Hoggle. Her easygoing grin cast a blanket of comfort around the valley. "Though...if you wanted to, I could let you sit in with the rest of us. I've got our new, little, Spring King in training with us. You'll be working with him soon."

Perhaps it was Selva Roja's happy influence, but nothing seemed to change, at least on their side of the Realm. Just a crisp, "We'll speak later then." And, the scratch in the world zipped up as though it were never there.

"Don't forget!" Selva Roja sighed, turning her attention back to the small pair. "Sorry about that. To be honest, today's lesson is almost over, but the conversation Cornucopia and I are going to have doesn't need an audience. You understand?"

===================

"Aye, that we do."

Yumika privately thanked any higher being that might be listening that this vendor knew the Common Toungue. This one presented herself as obviously feminine: draped in rich-colored skirts with fingers, ears, and beard covered in jewels. Advertising her wares, obviously. "One of the many secret Dwarven jewler's arts, passed down through a hundred family generations."

"Yes, yes, whatever. How soon can you put this--" The kitsune held up three strands of her fur between thumb in forefinger. "--in crystal?"

"Well, that depends on what kind of crystal. We got the humble quartz all the way up to diamond, and everything in between."

"Whatever's cheapest." A ninja's salary wasn't ideal for extravigance.

The Dwarrowdam's jewelry chimed as she took out a clipboard. "Quartz then. And, what about the setting and type of chain?"

"Just add a hole for a string of leather. Nothing fancy."

"Right then...It'll be about a week."

"A week?!" Some older kitsune are known for having powers of precognition. That wasn't really one of Yumika's talents, yet something told her she didn't have that much time. Call it kitsune intuition. "Isn't there anything I can do to...rush this? Like, overnight?"

"Overn--" As profesional as the Dwarrowdam was, one could never mistake a snicker. "We make jewlery here, Fox-maid, not miracles." She pause. "Although..."

"What?"

"Can you make fox-fire?"

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the stench of this terrible blog…bleck!”

[mia-fey-needs-a-drink]

Ok I said I'd do a long post on Mia post death so here I go (this one's more of a disorganised ramble but I think it's just about coherent enough):

Mia's death is, in my opinion, the most important event for the tone and themes of the trilogy and arguably game series as a whole. Sure you have DL-6 but hear me out on this one. Idk why I've never seen anyone bring it up or if I'm the only one who feels as such but Mia's death is the darkest, lowest point in the mainline series (except arguably Miles Edgeworth chooses death, but A) we don't see the immediate aftermath and experience it as the player in the same way and I don't think his disappearance was really comparable to finding Mia brutally murdered, and I guess his disbarment but again I don't think I'd consider it worse than finding Mia dead) and yet it happens 30 minutes into the first game. I think an important part of ace attorney is things getting better after tragedy (even if they don't go back to the way they were), a turnabout you could say (woah! the thing from the games!).

I don't think people appreciate how much happens for Mia after her death, like I feel there's a tendency to somehow treat her death as the end of her story when like she's still a prominent character in the rest of the trilogy. I said earlier that Mia rides a fine line between being active enough to where her death wouldn't seem meaningful and being dead enough to become irrelevant and that people like to lean wayyy more into the irrelevance side (I mean the AJT itself does this ☹️) when really I think it obscures a lot of what's interesting about how Mia is mourned.

Mia is not gone, her soul and spirit lives on (literally and metaphorically through Phoenix) but she is still dead. Her soul sticking around doesn't change the fact that Mia can no longer really be there for the ones she loves when they need her or grow old with the people around her. Spirit channeling does allow for a lot more freedoms but still comes with restrictions, she borrows a body but it's not *her* body, she can't feel the sun on her skin because it's not her skin, she can't buy clothes for herself anymore, she can't like make out with Lana and of course going by my name it would be impossible to forget: she can't drink anymore. Even when Maya gets old enough to drink in japanifornia, would Mia really feel comfortable using Maya's body as a means to get wasted at her expense? I know I'm kinda giving silly examples here but really Mia has to deal with the responsibility of someone else's body when she's channeled, imagine the guilt she'd feel if she gets a paper cut while being channeled ya know?

Another thing, Mia can briefly get chances to live some more through channeling, but to do this it means Maya or Pearl has to live less and I don't think Mia would feel comfortable letting that happen (Maya would probably be more than willingly give up her time to channel Mia so she can continue to live her life in a sense but I doubt that'd change how Mia would feel). Mia can't be there for Maya without taking Pearl's place, and she'll never be there for Pearl without taking Maya's place. She goes through so much in the trilogy, her death of course but also Morgan's betrayal, Maya's kidnapping, everything that happens in T&T, not to mention having to watch all the most important people in her life also go through such traumatic experiences. Mia isn't exactly open about her thoughts and feelings most of the time but we do see her crack now and again, especially in 2-2 which is rather interesting.

Semi tangential but Morgan and Mia's relationship is really interesting, we get the impression from the way Mia talks about her and responds to her betrayal that she considered Morgan to be close and supportive, likely something of a parental figure when her mother left. She talks about her strawberry deserts and acts with bewilderment as to why she'd do such a thing. As for Morgan? She pretends she doesn't even remember Mia, never mind that she's dead. Morgan clearly became deeply jealous of Mia being someone who had everything she ever wanted, and was probably enraged by her decision to relinquish it all to Maya. Imagine how Mia felt after her murder to find out her aunt who she loved and cared about and trusted was relishing in it.

Mia seemingly loses faith in a lot of things after her death and throughout the trilogy: She loses faith in the courts at the end of 1-2 and decides to blackmail Redd White into confessing, she loses faith in her family after Morgan's betrayal and I think by extension she probably loses faith in her mother. It's not really disproven but there's no indication that Misty ever decided to channel Mia or communicate with her in any way after her death, maybe she thought it'd give away her identity to Maya but still, after being murdered and still not hearing a single thing from her or her reaching out to Maya I think it would make Mia question how much she trusts her mother's judgement and how much she really cares for her, and hence the direction she took her life. Was it worth it?

We don't really get to see Mia directly engage with her own death too much but what's there is interesting. For a start one of the first things she does once she's back is crack a joke about it ("I won't forget as long as I live!") and she makes a few similar comments/jokes in 1-3, which comes across to me as her coping with humour. Her attitude towards phoenix and advice for him definitely changes from 1-1, she's a lot more honest about the need to bluff and pull other tricks and she seems a lot more trusting in him, and a lot gentler, she's almost a bit rude to him at points in 1-1 (granted it's because he's being an idiot) and a lot of this is specifically him helping in her own murder case but also to me it feels like she's recognising how dire the situation is for her, for Phoenix and for Maya and the grief that they're going through and deciding it's not really the time to be too stern. We see at the end of 3-5 Maya keeps it together through all the hardship she's put through because she needs to be there for Pearl, but I don't think a lot of people realise that's what Mia's been doing for the both of them the entire trilogy.

Phoenix is incredibly important to Mia, after her death he basically becomes the means by which she can still help people in some form, and he becomes someone she can rely on to do what she would where she can no longer, as she says at the end of 3-5, "You've accomplished something I wasn't able to. I owe you a great deal. …Thank you." To me, the trilogy is about Phoenix taking up Mia's place in the world for her, not just as a lawyer but as someone to be there for Maya and Pearl and Lana and Diego and the people who will come who she should've been there for, Wright is the one who adopts Trucy because Mia would've but she wasn't there to do it, Wright mentor's Athena because Mia would've but she wasn't there to do it, Wright challenges the absurdity of the Kura'inese legal system because Mia would've but she wasn't there to do it. Everything he does, everything he is, is what she would've been had her life not been cut short, and she can rest easy knowing that even though she's not really able to be there for people anymore (even if she is still around in a sense) Wright will be there in her place.

There's probably more things I'll want to add once I look back on this post but it's long and incoherent enough already, So I'll leave it at that, Mia is cool and awesome and stuff.

[marudyne]

29, 19!

12. describe your process while drawing I let the demons win.

Joking aside, I really do just sketch out silhouettes and blobs until something catches my attention and gives me an idea. Then I just sketch and colour all at once. It's a messy process, that uses maybe two layers max. Sometimes though, the first step is that I see a set of colours that I think look neat together and then I use them to start putting in the silhouettes, so i start kind of colouring before I even sketch anything or have an idea of what I want to draw. Sometimes, I even draw a rectangular frame first to limit the drawing, as I draw everything on one big canvas

Example of the "process" (on here I had those 5 colours already in the canvas- I used it for some porn doodle. Anyway, I used the orange and pale blue to do the silhouettes/blurs and then just blocking of stuff with the others)

Since I draw everything in like a layer or two, I redraw things I dont like like the snake on ryuu's nose in that left panel. After I just add random stuff that I think either frames it better or makes it look more cohesive to my eye.

(edit: oh oops 5 and 6 are the same image my bad) My friend, on how I draw:

What I mean by multiple drawings on the same canvas layer (as in there are more layers just like this in one canvas. I think once I made like an 200MB file because I just kept everything in it. If I were to turn on all layers on multiply it would probably look like a giant black canvas. This canvas contains quick old film screenshot "studies" that I managed to convince myself to do for like 2 weeks before I just stopped being dilligent ):

I've been thinking of recording the "process" one of these days. Maybe next time I do happen to come in with a theme before i open CSP.

18 is here!

19. where do you find inspiration? Everywhere. Plants, organs, animals, physics, songs, cultural practices, word etymology or word plays or idioms...

Also sometimes I just go "hahaha wouldnt it be funny if (...)" and that's that. I tried to find the more obvious example of each but I did get lazy, so I didnt scroll far enough back to show something based off of redshifting which would have been a more obvious physics example.

29. do you use a lot of references while drawing? Ah, this is a terrible habit of mine- I don't use them. I really should, it would make things much, MUCH easier. Any other artist out there looking at my stuff- please don't do what I do, and actually help yourself to them. They aren't cheating, I just forget to look for them when I draw. But I suppose that has to do with my rarely knowing what I want to draw before I'm like already with the program open and doodling.

[silverynight]

Love and fire

Rengoku is good at training, even though Zenitsu considers the routine a little bit too hard for his liking, but he can't deny it has made him improve in the last couple of weeks.

However, that's not the problem. The problem is that the flame hashira is completely in love with his best friend Tanjirou and it's so obvious everyone knows but the redhead himself.

He doesn't even try to be subtle about it; Inosuke doesn't really care, but Zenitsu is certainly getting tired of watching a Pillar constantly making heart eyes at his friend.

It's obvious their connection is different and grew considerably stronger after they were attacked by the upper moon three and Rengoku lost an eye because of it.

Tanjirou admires him a lot and is incredibly grateful for what Rengoku did for them, especially after the hashira said he considered Nezuko as slayer as well. But despite that, Tanjirou doesn't seem to be aware of Rengoku's feelings for him.

Even though the flame hashira doesn't know how to be subtle and probably doesn't want to. He's constantly giving Tanjirou his undivided attention, it doesn't matter if Inosuke and Zenitsu are there with them too, Rengoku has made it clear that Tanjirou is his number one priority. He also adjusts Tanjirou's katana ten times more than he does with Zenitsu or Inosuke and can't stop his hands from staying longer on Tanjirou's shoulders and waist.

It's even worse with the looks; Rengoku can't stop himself from staring at Tanjirou all the time and Zenitsu would like to erase from his memory that time he caught him ogling his friend when he took off his shirt.

His family even seems to approve of it, his little brother is the most interested in getting the two together and has tried to talk Tanjirou about it but Zenitsu's friend remains painfully oblivious.

Then Rengoku starts bringing Tanjirou gifts, expensive and beautiful ones that the redhead somehow manages to mistake for friendship gifts...

It's painful to watch. However, Rengoku is really patient with him, he's determined to make Tanjirou realize what's going on, but doesn't get mad or irritated when he can't get the message across.

Honestly, Zenitsu is not interested in helping him, but he's getting tired of the situation.

"He's courting you."

"What?"

"Rengoku-san is trying to court you, Tanjirou..." Zenitsu sighs, stopping himself from pinching the bridge of his nose.

"No, I don't think–"

"He's in love with you and has probably been since he brought you here to train as his tsuguko... No, actually, I think it was even before that..."

The confused expression on Tanjirou's face turns into something like shock; he's blushing.

"He's a hashira," he mumbles, shaking his head.

"You mean the Pillars are incapable of loving someone? What about Uzui's wives?"

"No!" Tanjirou's cheeks turn even more pink at that. "I mean that he can't be in love with me... Because I'm just–"

"Tanjirou, don't finish that sentence or I'm going to tell him," Zenitsu warns, getting impatient. "You are amazing! Don't ever think otherwise! Just go talk to him, alright?"

"Okay... I'll do it."

Zenitsu regrets it almost immediately. Mostly because the next time he sees them, Rengoku is trying to devour his friend's face. He's kissing Tanjirou like there's no tomorrow and the redhead is kissing back with the same amount of enthusiasm.

It's something Zenitsu won't be able to forget any time soon.

It doesn't even surprise him when Rengoku announces he's going to marry Tanjirou in a couple of months while Tanjirou shyly buries his face in his chest. Of course the flame hashira wouldn't be able to wait until the end of a traditional courtship; he looks already desperate to marry Tanjirou.

Zenitsu knows things will only get worse from there.

***

Patreon

[frazzled-froggie]

Tumblr where was my notification???? 😭 Anyway thanks for the tag!!

Origin of blog name:

My dad calls me Frazzle as a nickname and frogs are my favourite animal so I thought frazzled froggie sounded cute :)

OTPs and ship names:

AZIRACROW/INEFFABLE HUSBANDS (I'm obsessed atm 🙃), I don't really have any others tbh

Favourite colour:

Definitely green but generally I love the colour combo of black with a bright colour

Song stuck in my head:

Currently got xXXi_wud_nvrstøp_ÜXXx by 100gecs in my head

It's taken me so long to write all of this out I now, while I'm looking back through my answers as I add the colours to the questions, I have Rot by Lacey Sturm in my head which is probably a more accurate representation of my music taste

Weirdest habit/trait:

When I get nervous I start singing everything instead of talking normally

Hobbies:

I LOVE drawing, I also love climbing (I do bouldering and bottom rope and a bit of lead but I need some convincing for that one lol), I really enjoy singing, I do a bit of dance, I play the bass guitar and the kalimba a little bit, and I enjoy sewing (currently making a Vox plushie for my best friend's birthday), I also love reading but I don't find the time anymore as much as I'd like

If you work, what's your profession:

I'm currently a student but I might try to get a job at Lidl over the summer

If you could have any job you wish, what would it be:

I really want to be an animator (2D, frame-by-frame) so that's what I'm aiming for but other jobs I would enjoy, I would love to be a singer in a metal band except I cannot write songs for the life of me, (I'm currently in a punk rock kinda band where I play bass guitar so maybe that might go somewhere)

Something you're good at:

Drawing (hopefully anyway otherwise my career path isn't looking good), I've been told I'm good at singing and I'd say I'm pretty good at climbing (V3 bouldering, 6b+ bottom rope)

Something you hate:

Drawing on the wrong layer or forgetting to save my work 😭😭

Something you collect:

I've had many collections over the years but my most recent is my crystal collection which is now worth probably about £200. I spend way too much money on collecting things I'm going to try my best to not start any new collections 😭

Something you forget:

All my memories after about 6 months it feels like 😭 My sister will ask me about what some kind of event like Sports day for example was like last year and I have no idea, I only have one memory from that day 😭 I know that I did do the 1500m, no recollection of actually doing it though. I need to write things down to remember them, but I also forget to write things down 😭

What's your love language:

Gift giving, but not in the traditional way. More like: We're walking along the path together. There's a leaf. I shall give it to you. Or, I just peeled a very satisfying layer of paint out of this tub. Here you go.

Favourite movie/show:

GOOD OMENS :D Also Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss are close runners up

Favourite food:

Fruit and even better, ✨dried fruit✨ I will fall in love with anyone who supplies me with dried apple or dried mango. Also randomly I have a newfound love for noodles

Favourite animal:

Frogs :3

What were you like as a child:

In first school I was very popular and very smart. I had bundles of energy and loved running around and people would always come to me if they had an argument that needed solving.

In middle school I was still pretty smart but definitely not popular anymore. I didn't have any friends for a while so I became a massive bookworm. I still had loads of energy but people didn't wanna run around and play tag as much anymore. I was also very innocent and gullible which got taken advantage of sometimes.

In highschool most of that wore off, I became pretty average and hung out with the "weird queer kids" (still my best friends, I love them)

Favourite subject at school:

Art! But also the coursework side of media too

Least favourite subject:

Wasn't a big fan of French (the only subject I did foundation for) and I was SO bad at chemistry 😭 Writing subjects generally I was a lot weaker on and they annoyed me because I got extra time but still couldn't finish the English and history exams

What's your best character trait:

I think that when there's arguments and drama, I don't come in hot, I listen to everyone's point of view and try to de-esculate the situation and promote understanding which I think has helped me avoid a lot of arguments and help my friends out as well

What's your worst character trait:

I'm horrible at telling people how I actually feel which has definitely lead to a lot of mental health problems that could've been avoided. That's definitely something I need to work on

If you could change any detail of your life rn, what would it be:

Either magically disappear the executive dysfunction or skip the absolutely massive waiting list for testosterone

I think I only have 1 moot who hasn't already answered or been tagged in this as far as I know, @residentdisaster but if anyone else wants to join in, go ahead!

Get to know your mutuals!

Got tagged by @wishfulsketching! Let's do this~

What's the origin of your blog title?

I honestly can't remember but it's been the one that has stuck with me the longest.

OTP(s)+ shipnames(s):

Zaundads and Jayvik (Arcane), Hartwin (Kingsman), BayoJean (Bayonetta), Hankcon (Detroit: Become Human), Cherik (any rendition of Xmen foreverrrrr)

I was trying to remember which were my oldest and it's a toss up between Zelgadis/Amelia (The Slayers) and Xena/Gabrielle (Xena: Warrior Princess)

Favourite color:

I'm an all shades of purple kinda gal but I do love me a teal from time to time.

Song stuck in your head:

This one specific rendition of Malagueña Salerosa

Weirdest habit/trait:

i fucking love eating freezer ice

Hobbies:

the usual reading, gaming, cross stitching, writing, drawing i used to do archery and i miss it so much...

If you work, what's your profession?

my family and I run a bakery/cake shop (I did the math the other day and I make 24 cheesecakes a week)

If you could have any job you wish, what would it be?

I'd like to think there's an AU version of me out there that's a published author. That or a funeral director cuz funerals here in Spain fucking suck.

Something you're good at:

My mother often said I'm a good problem solver so I'll go with that.

Something you hate:

'proship DNI' culture

people who yuck people for their yum in general

The commodification and girlbossing of Persephone's myth.

No wind in the air. No even a breeze.

Something you collect:

I'm quite fond of the collection of NMBC Sally merch I've acquired throughout the years.

Something you forget:

to call my dad

What's your love language:

i'll throw hands in a parking lot

Favourite movie/show:

Movies: Rocky Horror Picture Show, Who Framed Roger Rabbit, Kingsman, Into the Spiderverse, Death Becomes Her, Blazing Saddles, Millennium Actress

TV: The Venture Bros, (Go Team Venture ✌️😭) Interview with the Vampire, Haunting of Hill House, Arcane, Twin Peaks, Puella Magi Madoka Magica

Favourite food:

I could eat ramen forever.

Favourite animal:

octopi and bears reign supreme!!!

What were you like as a child:

"She's so good! She barely makes a sound!" was something I heard a lot growing up. I was fiercely shy but liked that people found me funny so I leaned heavily on wanting to make people laugh. I enjoyed my own company and my imaginary friend was Basil of Baker Street.

Favourite subject at school:

English lit. I remember when it finally clicked and how much I enjoyed picking apart the themes and symbolism.

Least favourite subject:

German. My teacher said that since I was already bilingual i was just too lazy to learn another language.

What's your best character trait?

I do like making people laugh

What's your worst character trait?

how i express my anger

If you could change any detail of your life right now, what would it be?

I really wish my grandfather was still around.

ALRIGHT! time to tag!

@glitteryrainbows @ballowvalence @poltergeist-punk @artknifeandglue @silcobrainrot

[moonsickness-posts]

To the person who told me to "fuck that old man" I'm tryingggg anyways here's some Halsin head cannons in absolutely no particular order

● This man does not fuck in a bed nearly ever he's an in the woods where ever god intended kinda guy especially because he finds it particularly enjoyable to dick you down in wild shape

● Munch canonically but let's be real he's a not stopping till your shaking and smacking his shoulder pushing his head and shit even then he'll probably keep going pushing you over that edge again and again

● all he does is meditate and fuck post grove man's is living his best life but also has that ingrained druid guilt (like catholics but nicer)

● grower not a show-er but God damn if that fucking thing ain't a third leg when he's rearing to go

● Will wake you up fucking/sucking you if you have previously said your chill with it (consent is sexy)

● Is loosey goosey with pet names but so serious when he actually tells you he loves you

● is low-key lazy would totally spend all day in whatever bed situation you got at the time

● and on that note big bear man has the biggest cock warming kink in all of faerun

● will totally forget he's 350 till you, presumably younger does or says something that snaps his mind back into the present

● pretends to sleep when you crawl into bed with him at night cause he knows if he looks at you or kisses you goodnight no-one in camp is sleeping tonight

That's all

@twoblondesmaybemore

[tragedry]

What’s your favorite canon moment of Ashler? (LOVE UR BLOG BTW)

ashler actually has a lot of canon moments together so i have a lot of favorites! and i feel like i've posted a few of them already, so let me talk about a moment that i haven't talked about yet!

episode 46 lives in my mind rent-free bc of this ashler moment as well as the fact that this is the episode where we not only get to meet the twins' mom, but we also get a brief scene hinting about their dad (as well as their past)

regarding the ashler moment: what's not to love, really? this moment is pretty much the apex of their slowly developing friendship--this is the pay-off of rooting for them as a reader, the conclusion that i've been waiting for.

this moment is an irrevocable proof that while they had a rocky start, they are now close enough to have this conversation.

why do i say proof? well it's because this moment solidifies and answers two very important things:

1. what does ashlyn think about tyler now compared to when they met the first time?

which ashlyn answers (to our faces) with 'you've become less of a jerk lately' and that alone speaks volumes to their closeness bc she says this unprompted. there's no trick or manipulation on tyler's part--ashlyn wholeheartedly admits and acknowledges that she can see the change in his character, and that this change/development is something she sees as positive.

she doubles down on her answer even when tyler tries to be a smartass. she doesn't take the compliment back. making it very obvious to both tyler (and the readers) that she no longer sees him as the obnoxious boy that refused to follow her at the start of the webtoon.

2. how much does tyler trust ashlyn now compared to when they met the first time?

well, i'll let this panel speak for itself:

hoo boy there's a lot to unpack here, so let me take it a step at a time. first of all, wow ashlyn really has been complimenting him non-stop this episode (sobbing) and ofc she ends the compliment with an insult (i love their banter so much y'all)

going back to the compliment: i think it's important to note that tyler could have easily ignored her if he didn't value her words. but the thing is, he does. (there's proof of this in case y'all think i'm tripping) and while he could have taken offense at her last words, he actually goes out of his way to humbly agree with her statement and clarifies that he only knows how to play a few songs.

☝️ BUT what's more important than tyler actually going along with this conversation is that he admits more than his lack of expertise to her, he actually tells her about his dad.

and i don't know about you guys, but that's a very BIG DEAL.

tyler (even more than tay) canonically represses his trauma and internal problems and would go through lengths to either forget or just ignore things that would make him uncomfortable. the death of his dad is probably on the list of things this boy actively tries to NOT think about on the daily, and yet-

he tells ashlyn about his dad. and while it's just an offhanded comment about where he learned how to play guitar, it's still important to note that he purposely shared this information with her.

he trusted her enough that he willingly offered her a piece of his past- a look into his old life-unprompted.

so yeah, you could say this moment between them is very important when it comes to understanding ashler as a ship and why i personally find their dynamic so good, bc it makes so much sense AND is also equally compelling!

⭐ ship ask game

[front-facing-pokemon]