#wow there is. not much to tag with this one

[autumnslance]

Even if OP is being a bit tongue in cheek (IDK honestly) prev tags:

#housing is very badly setup in ff14 #I think framing it as a money hostage situation is a bad take though #demolition is a response to people buying houses decorating them and then disappearing for months and years #leaving their homes to sit there and be pretty and empty #it's a symptom of the core problem not a designed intent

The lottery RNG is bad yeah - and is still better than what we had before! Which was first-come-first-served click on the sign as soon as the house became available and hope you got lucky over the jerkass using a bot to do it for them.

We also have had people buy up entire wards on their characters (before you could only own 1 a world regardless of alts) and hold those wards indefinitely as their own personal private playgrounds and housing showcases. Which, when the population was much smaller, wasn't so much of an issue. I think a few people still have those grandfathered houses.

The real problem with FFXIV housing is it's all bandages atop of bandages. They never expected to be one of the biggest MMOs in the world, they were just trying to survive after the disastrous initial release and revamp. Housing came in the ARR patches and has been iterated on and expanded and rules changed since to try to make it more fair to active players, instead of keeping people currently playing locked out of the chance for houses cuz someone who hasn't played since Stormblood has a house sitting there.

And when there are disasters or issues, they will turn off the demo timer in regions to keep affected players from losing their homes, like wildfires, hurricanes, earthquakes, etc.

Does the housing system need a revamp? Oh boy it sure does. But that's going to take a massive overhaul of the system, which is time and money that's hard to come by for a side feature. Hopefully WoW's coming implementation (taking pros and cons into account from multiple other MMOs) is a kick in the pants SE needs to do something about FFXIV's housing situation, but I wouldn't hold my breath on that, either.

As for people feeling held hostage to their housing: honestly, that's a sunk cost fallacy skill issue people have got to grapple with and accept on their own. If you're not enjoying the game and need a long break or to quit altogether and your house is keeping you there? It's pixels. The real money and your time and peace of mind is more important than a pretend house and game you are not enjoying or can't afford. I have seen some people willingly surrender their house to not feel beholden to subscriptions when they can't/don't want to play.

Also, apartments never demo. They're small and limited compared to a house, but still a place for one's character, easier to get one, and able to leave decorated as one likes for however long.

kids these days don't even know how good they have it. they don't even know about the final fantasy 14 artificial housing crisis

[belli5]

Bestfriend's bestfriend .ᐟ ೀMC⁷¹

╰ Synopsis Will’s best friend and his teammate start to fall for each other, during a family dinner, they sneak outside and finally share a kiss they’ve both been waiting for.

Tags/contains Fluff, Macklin Celebrini x fem!reader. Kissing(grow up pls??), light jealousy(implied), cute awkward teens in love.

➺ from Sera, to you 📨. The gif is so funny to me 😭😭. Also could you tell what is my favourite picture of Mack?

masterlist ᥫ᭡ please reblog this fic if you enjoyed it! Please do NOT rewrite/repost my work anywhere else without permission!

You and Will had been best friends since before you could even talk.

Your moms had met at a prenatal yoga class, back when both of them were pregnant, hormonal, and in desperate need of someone who didn’t judge their swollen ankles or chocolate cravings. That friendship bloomed fast and fiercely, so naturally, the moment you and Will were born just weeks apart, you were unofficially adopted into each other’s families.

Birthday parties were always joint, sleepovers were co-ed and entirely normal, and even when puberty made things awkward for about six months, your friendship never cracked. Will was the kind of guy who knew your Starbucks order by memory and sent your mom a Mother’s Day text every year. And you? You knew all his pre-game rituals and had listened to him rant about line changes since peewee hockey.

So when Will was drafted and moved to San Jose, it wasn’t a question of if you’d be visiting, it was how soon and how often.

You showed up with a duffel bag and an iced coffee for him the first weekend after he got settled in.

“You know, my teammates are gonna think we’re dating,” he told you, swinging your bag over his shoulder like it was nothing.

You rolled your eyes. “Let them. Maybe they’ll leave you alone.”

Will snorted. “Doubtful. These guys are vultures.”

He wasn’t wrong. Will had been drafted alongside another top pick, Macklin Celebrini, buzzed about constantly, hyped as the future of hockey, and Will had clicked with him almost instantly. Their friendship wasn’t much different than yours and Will’s, just with more chirping and endless hours of hockey.

Which is exactly why he was so excited to introduce you. “You’re gonna love Mack,” he said as the two of you walked into the team apartment. “He’s like… me if I was more Canadian, and way more obsessed with protein powder.”

You snorted. “Wow. Sounds like the love of my life.”

Will grinned, unlocking the door. “Don’t say that too loud. He might fall in love with you instead.”

You didn’t think much of it. Will always joked like that, teased you about guys at school or the poor souls who tried sliding into your dms. But the moment you walked in, Mack turned around from the kitchen, and suddenly, you understood why Will brought him up so much.

The first thing you noticed? He was stupidly cute. Tall, broad shoulders under a worn out hoodie, with messy hair and soft green eyes that lit up the moment Will said, “This is my best friend I told you about, Y/n.”

Macklin smiled at you like you’d just stepped out of a dream. “Hey.”

You gave a little wave, casual. “Hey.”

Will blinked between you two. “Okay. Weird energy.”

“No?!” you said at the same time Mack said, “Nice to meet you.” You were already fighting a smile and so was he. And from that moment, Mack was done for.

He didn’t mean to fall head over heels for you, but It just happened.

At first, he tried to be chill. You were Will’s best friend, and Mack wasn’t about to step on that. But then you kept showing up, after practice, for movie nights, to hang out on weekends. And every time, Mack found himself watching you a little too closely.

The way you laughed with Will, how you pulled your hair up when you got frustrated, the way you leaned against the kitchen counter with a juice box in your hand like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He was completely wrecked. “Dude,” Will said one night, catching him mid stare.

Mack blinked. “What?”

Will looked at him like he was an idiot. “You’re in love with her.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You look at her like she hung the moon.”

Mack shrugged, feeling his ears heat. “She’s cool.”

“She’s my best friend,” Will said, mockingly protective.

“I know that.”

Will narrowed his eyes, then leaned back on the couch. “Just don’t be weird about it. And don’t flirt in front of me. I’ll vomit.”

Mack rolled his eyes. “I’m not flirting.” But he totally was.

Little things, asking if you wanted the last slice of pizza (even when he really wanted it), remembering the drink you always grabbed from the gas station, offering to drive you home when it got late. He couldn’t help it, you were magnetic.

And the worst part? You were completely, blissfully unaware.

One night, after a Sharks home game, you came back to the apartment with Will and Mack to crash.

You were in your usual spot, Will’s couch, legs tucked under you, hoodie sleeves bunched around your hands. Mack watched you from the armchair, trying not to look too obvious about it.

“I don’t get how you guys still have energy after skating for hours,” you said, yawning. “I’d be horizontal for three days.”

“You are horizontal,” Will said.

“I meant in bed, idiot.”

Mack smiled, lips twitching. Will grinned, nudging him with his foot. “See? She’s violent. Not girlfriend material.”

You raised a brow. “Good thing I’m not dating you.”

“Ouch.”

Mack just shook his head, pretending not to be hanging on every word. Later, when Will dozed off halfway through a movie, you glanced over at Mack.

“He always does this,” you whispered, nodding to Will’s slumped figure. “I swear, his internal battery just shuts down.”

Mack laughed softly. “At least he’s predictable.”

You smiled at him and Mack felt it in his chest.“You’re really good for him,” you said. “He’s got a lot on his plate, but it’s nice knowing he’s got someone like you around.”

Mack blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah,” you said, voice gentle. “I can tell he trusts you.”

He looked at you for a second too long. “He trusts you more.”

You gave a soft shrug, like it was no big deal. “That’s different. We’ve been through everything together.”

“I wish I knew you back then.”

That surprised you. “What do you mean?”

Mack leaned forward slightly. “I don’t know. Just.. it would’ve been cool to grow up around someone like you.”

You paused, eyes studying him. “Well,” you said, smile tugging at your lips, “you’ve got me now.”

And he was screwed, after that night.

He found excuses to be around more when you visited. He started replying to your Instagram stories, reacting to your TikToks, sending you memes and dumb hockey jokes. Nothing serious, but enough that you started texting him too. Inside jokes formed quickly. You even got in the habit of stealing his hoodie when Will wasn’t looking.

When you both got really, really closer, it was when Will invited Mack to your both family dinner. It was tradition, Smith family dinners were a sacred thing.

At least once a month, your family and Will’s would get together for a big meal. There was always too much food, too many voices talking at once, and at least one heated debate over a card game by the end of the night.

This time, it was Will’s mom who hosted and this time, Will invited Macklin.

“Wait, you’re bringing Macklin to family dinner?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you helped your mom pack up containers of pasta salad and garlic bread.

“Yeah, why not?” Will said casually. “You guys are obsessed with each other anyway.”

You stopped scooping salad. “We are not.”

He didn’t even look up from his phone. “You literally are.”

“You’re delusional.”

Macklin showed up looking painfully cute, clean hoodie, hair styled like always, a shy little smile when your mom hugged him like she’d known him for years.

He sat next to you at the dinner table. Not across, not near, but right next to you, thigh brushing yours every time either of you moved. And he didn’t move away and you didn’t either.

Everyone was in a good mood, your parents chatting with Will’s, the table loud with laughter and wine and the smell of roasted chicken. Will was busy challenging your dad to a ridiculous trivia game, which left you and Mack to yourselves for a moment, quietly stealing bites of dessert off the same plate.

You had asked Macklin if we wanted to step out with you, because you couldn’t help but seek the feeling of being alone with him.

You slipped away from the table without much fuss, everyone too distracted by dessert and wine refills to notice and the two of you wandered toward the side of the house, where it was quiet and cool and just a little bit dark. The sky was still holding on to the last hints of orange, stars barely starting to show.

You walked in silence for a few seconds until you both stopped at the edge of the driveway, leaning against Will’s dad’s parked truck.

At one point, he leaned over and said quietly, “Kinda feels like I’m crashing a family holiday.”

You smiled, bumping his shoulder with yours. “You’re not. They love you.”

His voice dipped lower. “What about you?”

You sighed, avoiding his question. “It gets kind of crazy in there.”

Mack nodded. “In a good way.”

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

He hesitated. “You.”

You turned toward him fully now, heart kicking up just a little. “Oh?”

He shifted on his feet, suddenly bashful in a way you hadn’t seen before. “I was just trying to figure out if I should kiss you or not.”

You blinked. “Why would you even question it?”

Mack let out a breathy laugh, looking down at the space between you. “Because you’re Will’s best friend. And I didn’t want to ruin anything. But honestly?” He glanced up again, eyes soft and searching. “I’ve kinda wanted to kiss you since the day I met you.”

You stepped closer, just enough for your shoes to bump. “Mack,” you whispered, “just kiss me already.”

And he did, slow and gentle, his hands gently moving up to touch your jaw like he was scared to mess it up. But his mouth was warm and careful against yours, like he’d been waiting, like this meant something. And to you, it did.

When you pulled away, it was barely an inch. “I’ve kinda wanted to kiss you too,” you murmured.

Mack grinned, the nervousness falling away. “Okay, good.”

[certaimromance]

✶⋆.˚ Blue Moon.

“Traditionally, something that happens (to you) rarely or never.”

Spencer Reid x Mystical!reader

next chapter | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Spending time with your new partner on the road can reveal surprising things about him that you didn't know before.

Words: 2k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. mentions of serial killers, victims, religion, high school trauma. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I want to say thank you all for the love you give to the first chapter! I didn’t expect it, and I hope you like this and all the chapters that are coming. I’m putting all of myself into making this funny, deep, and romantic at the same damn time.

You’d been in worse cars.

There was the beat-up stakeout sedan where an agent chewed gum like he was waging war on his own mouth, jaw snapping and smacking with such ferocity it sounded like a percussion section gone rogue. There was the suffocating silence in Hotch’s car, where the weight of his presence felt like ten extra pounds of gravity pressing down on your chest, making every breath a conscious effort. And who could forget that cursed van with Morgan’s playlist—Hits to Impress Women Who Know Better—on an endless loop, like a bad joke without a punchline.

But this?

This was an entirely new flavor of hell, and it came with the soft symphony of rustling paper and nervous energy. It was a punishment that your boss had refused to lift until he deemed it necessary.

Dr. Spencer Reid sat beside you in the passenger seat, knees folded awkwardly like some twitchy origami sculpture, his long legs seemingly too big for the cramped space beneath the dashboard. His worn messenger bag rested between his thighs, overstuffed and fraying at the edges, the faded fabric begging for retirement after countless semesters of academic battles.

He was fully engrossed in the case file.

Correction: completely obsessed.

His thumb was constantly wet with saliva, delicately licking the paper before flipping to the next page with the precision of a surgeon handling a scalpel. Each turn made a faint, incessant shhhk, a tiny but relentless soundtrack to the drive. He scribbled quick, neat annotations in the margins, little hieroglyphics of his own devising, before resuming his careful reading.

You gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, knuckles whitening under your gloves, and forced your gaze back to the stretch of highway unwinding through the cold gray afternoon. Outside, the landscape was blurred by a thin mist that clung to the bare branches like ghosts, and your breath still fogged up the inside of the windshield despite the heater’s best efforts.

The heater’s warmth was a pale consolation, fighting a losing battle against the creeping chill that seeped in around the edges of the window.

“Okay,” you said, without looking away from the road, “I’m pretty sure it’s a federal offense to make that much paper noise before noon.”

Spencer didn’t even glance up, his eyes scanning the pages like they held the secrets of the universe. “It’s 12:07,” he answered matter-of-factly, voice soft but precise.

You shot him a flat, accusing look. “So you’ve chosen violence.”

Another shhhk, another scribble, then a pause long enough for you to seriously consider pulling over and asking him to finish his entire dissertation before you hit the school parking lot.

“Seriously,” you sighed, adjusting your grip on the steering wheel as you flicked on the turn signal, “do you need to read it right now? We’re already on the way to the crime scene. The school isn’t going anywhere. You’ll have plenty of time to wow the locals with your encyclopedic recall of obscure footwear tread patterns and locker combinations once we get there.”

“I’m reviewing the psychological profiles of the victims,” he replied calmly, barely lifting his gaze. “Also, none of them wore shoes with particularly distinguishable treads. One pair of Vans, two Converse, and one generic off-brand sneaker. Very common.”

You blinked, incredulous.

“You actually remembered that?”

He finally looked up at you with a blink of confusion, like the question itself was weird. “Yes?”

Damn it, you knew he was a smart guy, but you never paid enough attention to notice that he was that smart.

You stared back at the road ahead, exasperated beyond words. “I swear to God, if you weren’t so painfully smart, I’d accuse you of being a sleep-deprived alien wearing a human skin suit.”

A long silence stretched between you like a taut wire.

Then, faintly, his voice cut through: “That’s…surprisingly specific.”

“It’s been a long week,” you muttered.

A brief pause.

Then, shhhk, the relentless rustle of paper again.

You finally slammed your hand down on the radio dial, cutting off the academic soundtrack with decisive force.

Classic rock burst through the speakers, slicing through the car like a warm knife through frostbitten silence.

Spencer blinked, momentarily scandalized.

“Do you mind if we keep it off?” he asked, voice small and defensive, like you’d just interrupted his morning meditation.

You gave him a long, slow look, one eyebrow arching in skeptical disbelief. “Right. God forbid Stevie Nicks interrupts the pure sanctity of your brain chemistry.”

He blinked again, clearly unsure whether you were teasing or serious.

“Music with lyrics,” he elaborated carefully, “engages the language centers of the brain. It splits attention.”

You slowly withdrew your hand from the dial as if you were putting away a weapon. “Right. No music then.”

He stared at you.

You stared at the road.

The heater wheezed.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you added a brand-new note to your mental dossier titled How to Annoy Spencer Reid in Confined Spaces. You wrote:

— Play Fleetwood Mac.

— Songs with lyrics.

— Breathe.

You exhaled loudly through your nose, an exaggerated sigh of suffering, and beside you, Spencer’s pen paused mid-scribble. The scratch of it against paper stopped cold. Blessed silence.

For five whole miles, you drove in relative peace. The faint wail of a guitar solo played in your mind, like a nostalgic classic rock station providing a soundtrack that gave you some peace of mind. Outside, the winter light hung low over the highway, flat and silver, casting long shadows across the asphalt. Your knuckles were stiff on the steering wheel, fingers flexing every now and then to keep the blood flowing in the chill.

You didn’t know if it was the heater trying its best against the December air or the sheer absurdity of the last few days, but something in you finally began to unclench. Even your irritation with Reid—the fidgeting, the rustle of case notes, the muttering to himself like he was solving three crimes at once—had started to burn itself out. The silence between you wasn’t friendly yet, but it wasn’t hostile either. It settled around you like an old coat. Slightly itchy.

You glanced at the GPS, then at the man beside you: bookish and serious, perched stiffly in the passenger seat like someone who wasn’t sure how chairs worked. His profile was sharp in the afternoon light—cheekbone, nose, brow—a study in concentration and underlying tension.

Well. If you were going to be stuck with him for this case, you might as well entertain yourself.

“So,” you said casually, not looking away from the road, “we’re going to a high school. Want to talk about it?”

Spencer blinked, visibly startled. “Talk about what?”

“High school,” you said, waving one gloved hand vaguely through the air. “You know. Puberty. Locker drama. Tragic cafeteria food. Crying in the bathroom between third and fourth period.”

He shifted in his seat, his spine somehow growing straighter. “I didn’t go to high school in the traditional sense.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Meaning…?”

“I was enrolled in college by the time I was twelve,” he said, like he was just listing a fact about the weather.

Oh, another thing you didn't know.

You blinked at him. “Twelve.”

He nodded, clearly used to this reaction.

“You mean to tell me you skipped the universal rite of passage known as failing a math test and lying to your parents about it?”

“I taught linear algebra to undergrads when I was fourteen,” he offered, as if that cleared things up.

You made a wounded, borderline scandalized sound. “Oh my God. No wonder you’re like this.”

He tilted his head. “Like what?”

“Like someone who thinks emotional trauma is best solved with a bibliography.”

His lips twitched. Just barely. You couldn’t tell if it was amusement or mild offense. Probably both. That was kind of his thing.

“Did you at least go to prom?” You asked, half-mocking, half-genuinely curious.

He stared ahead for a moment, eyes scanning the horizon like it held the right answer. “No prom.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

There was a pause, and when he finally spoke, it was softer than you expected. “No one wanted to go with the weird kid.”

You blinked.

It hit you, not like a dramatic gut-punch, but something quieter. Smaller. The kind of thing that slipped under the armor before you even realized you’d let it in. Like a pebble in your shoe you hadn’t noticed until it started to sting.

Your eyes flicked back to the road. Asphalt stretched ahead in clean, empty lines, the midafternoon sky cold and overcast. The trees blurred past the windows, all brittle branches and leftover frost. Inside the car, it was warm, but not warm enough. You could still feel the chill in your sleeves.

You glanced at him again. He didn’t look wounded, just…far. Like he was watching a memory flicker across some old reel behind his eyes. Like he could still remember the way it felt to be on the outside of everything, like he still could feel it sometimes.

“Everyone was weird in high school, Reid,” you said, voice lighter now, threading warmth through it on purpose. “I think they were just too stupid to realize it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, barely, his mouth tugged upward. A small, reluctant smile. Not the showy kind. The kind you had to look for. The kind that meant something but not really.

And for the first time since the case started, the air in the car felt a little less cold.

He folded his arms, hunching a bit like he was trying not to look too pleased. “Alright, your turn. What were you like in school?”

You grinned, a little too proudly. “Oh, I was a total cynic. Textbook nihilist. Black hoodie, eyeliner, permanent scowl. Sat in the back row like I was contractually obligated to hate everything.”

“That…” Spencer’s brow lifted slightly, a smirk threatening the corner of his mouth, “explains a lot.”

You laughed—actual, surprised laughter that cracked open your chest for a second. “I didn’t believe in anything, okay? Not God, not fate, definitely not authority. I was a walking eye roll.”

Spencer turned his head toward you slightly, curiosity glinting in his eyes beneath the slow wash of gray light through the windshield. “So…what changed?”

You hesitated.

Outside, the sun flickered through bare branches like something was moving just behind the clouds. You focused on the road, your fingers tightening on the wheel.

“I think I just hit the wall,” you said after a beat. “Emotionally, spiritually, whatever. I couldn’t keep believing in nothing. It was like…I needed something. A reason to keep moving. So I started looking.”

He was silent, but you could feel him listening. Not just hearing, really listening. You glanced over. His brow was furrowed slightly, not in doubt, just in effort.

“And…did you find it?” He asked, his voice softer now.

You nodded once, eyes still forward. “Yeah. A pull. A pattern. A whisper, maybe. Something that told me there’s more happening than what we see. I don’t know. Some people call it energy or fate. I just call it necessary.”

There was a long pause. When you looked over, he was watching you, incredibly not judging, just…trying to get it.

“I don’t understand it,” Spencer said eventually, careful and honest.

“I know,” you said, glancing over with a crooked smile. “And I don’t get how your brain works either. I’ve literally seen you argue with statistics. Like, out loud. Passionately.”

“They were being misused,” he muttered, stiffly.

You nudged his elbow. “See? Look at us. We’re bonding.”

“I think you’re making fun of me.”

“Only a little.”

Outside, the scenery passed by in small-town stillness. Red brick schools. Chain-link fences. Yellowed grass and quiet sidewalks. The kind of place where people shove secrets behind front doors.

You reached out and adjusted the heater again. The hum grew louder, the vents huffing out warm air in tired bursts. Beside you, Spencer was shifting slightly, reaching down toward his bag.

You glanced at him, brow raised. “If I hear one more shhhk of paper, I will start singing witchy manifestation songs at full volume.”

His hand froze. Then slowly, very slowly, he retreated back to his lap.

Progress.

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @withloverosse @jisungchan

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

[slvbum]

ᤢ ♥︎⠀ ⠀‌⸻ ⠀ aperol spritz / theo’s surprise

content WARNING: Theo being Theo.

Maddy, Theo’s new nanny, stood by the playroom’s doorway, her phone pressed to her ear as she finalized a pizza order, margherita for her, plain cheese for Theo, with strict instructions to have it delivered before 7 PM. to avoid the kid carb curfew. She laughed at the delivery guy’s joke, distracted, unaware that Theo had slipped away from his drawing station, his stuffed shark tucked under one arm, his tiny slippers silent on the hardwood.

Theo had a mission.

Inspired by his talk with Maddy about his new sibling and how his mommy love them both, he wanted to make something extra special for his mommy; a surprise to show her how much he loved her and the baby. He toddled down the hall, past the grand staircase with its wrought-iron banister, and into his parents’ sprawling master suite. Theo’s gaze zeroed in on Y/N’s walk-in closet, a glittering sanctuary of couture and jewels he’d only peeked into before. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open, his shark flopping as he stepped inside, awestruck by the rows of dresses shimmering like fairy gowns, the shelves of heels, and the glass display of handbags that sparkled under soft recessed lights.

On a low shelf, within his reach, sat a small, pristine Hermès mini bag in blue brume leather, its gold hardware gleaming like a treasure. Theo didn’t know its name or its eye-watering price tag, only that it was “Mommy’s pretty bag,” perfect for his surprise. He grabbed it and scurried back to the playroom, his shark bouncing against his side. Settling cross-legged on the rug, he spread out his crayons and markers, the bag propped in front of him like a canvas. Humming a tune about sharks and dinosaurs, he muttered to himself, “Gonna draw me an’ Mommy an’ the baby. So she knows I love ‘em.” His tiny hands worked with focus, his crayons tracing a wobbly stick figure of himself. Next came Y/N, with her new haircut and a big smile, and a smaller figure for the baby, a blob with a heart above it. In the front flap, he scrawled “I LOVE YOU” in shaky, oversized letters, black marker smudging his fingers as he beamed, proud of his masterpiece.

Maddy hung up the phone, the pizza order confirmed, and turned back to the playroom, expecting to find Theo adding to his paper drawings. Instead, her heart stopped as she saw him, blissfully scribbling on the bag, the once-pristine leather now a riot of red, blue, and yellow.

“Theo!” she gasped, rushing over, her socks skidding on the rug. Her eyes widened, horror sinking in as she recognized the bag— worth more than her entire savings for Paris. She knew she’d have to explain this, her stomach twisting at the thought of Y/N’s reaction, but Theo looked up, holding up the bag like a trophy.

“Look, Maddy! It’s for Mommy! Me, her, an’ the baby! An’ I wrote ‘I love you’!”

Maddy’s panic paused, her heart softening at his innocence. She couldn’t bear to scare him, not when he was so happy, his tiny hands smudged with marker. Kneeling beside him, she forced a smile.

“Wow, Theo, that’s… so beautiful,” she said, ruffling his hair. “Your mommy’s gonna love how much you thought of her.” She swallowed hard, glancing at the bag. “Let’s, um, put it somewhere safe for her, okay? So it’s a big surprise.”

Theo nodded eagerly, handing her the bag, oblivious to the gravity of his actions, already yapping about adding a dinosaur next time. Maddy set the bag on a high shelf, her hands trembling. She’d explain—beg, if she had to—.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun — written with love.

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

isekai and in over my head.

chapter three │ there's no wiki for this.

it starts with you waking up in what might be a coma, probably isn't a otome game, and is definitely not your life. It ends with five dangerously attractive men forming an unofficial committee to keep you alive, loved, and under constant emotional surveillance.

ABOUT │ 2.3 k words. f!reader x 5 Li (non-romantic so far). slice of life.

TAGS │ isekai. for shits and giggles. flirting. banter. fluff. survivors guilt.

NOTE: wow. absolutely wow. i went in to this not expecting anything. just writing for my own sanity. and the fact that you guys love it this much? fuck this community is amazing. thank you sm for the support!

INDEX │ chapter one ✧ chapter two ✧ chapter three ✧

chapter three │ there's no wiki for this.

THE DOOR CLICKED...shut behind Tara with a chirpy, “Rest up!” and the second her footsteps faded down the hall, I dropped the smile I’d been holding like a tray of drinks that had overstayed its welcome.

One beat.

Two.

Then I doubled forward, bracing my hands on my knees, and let out a noise I can only describe as part whimper, part wheeze, part this-can’t-be-happening-to-me.

Because I’d done it.

I had successfully faked normalcy long enough to be left alone.

And now—I was alone.

In an apartment I didn’t recognize but was apparently mine. Sleek. Immaculately organized. Suspiciously dust-free. The kind of place that came scented like bergamot and quiet breakdowns. Stainless steel accents. Dimmable lights. Not a single dish in the sink.

I was standing in someone else’s life.

Someone composed. Someone capable. Someone who didn’t show up to their interdimensional apocalypse wearing bloodstained pants and one sock.

I stumbled over to the coffee table—real wood, glass top, coasters no one ever used—and collapsed onto the couch like a marionette whose strings had just been very politely severed.

A framed photo on the sideboard caught my eye.

I blinked at it. Once. Twice.

It took three full seconds to realize I was in it.

Me. Smiling. Positioned neatly between Caleb and Zayne. All of us laughing like we shared inside jokes and complicated history and the occasional brush with death.

Which, sure, might’ve been sweet—if it weren’t borderline existentially catastrophic.

Because I didn’t belong in that photo. Didn’t belong in this apartment. Didn’t belong in this story.

Not with them. Not here. Not like this.

I grabbed a throw pillow and clutched it like a life preserver. The silence pressed in, thick and padded, the kind that didn’t care how close I was to falling apart.

My legs wouldn’t stop twitching. My heart kept thudding like it was trying to get ahead of something. I couldn’t breathe without noticing how weird breathing had become.

I wasn’t panicking. Not yet.

But the runway was cleared. Engines on. Takeoff imminent.

I leaned forward, pulled the pillow tighter, and muttered, “Okay. Okay. Let’s think.”

Which was optimistic, really—considering half my brain was still screaming about Zayne’s jawline and the other half was building an isekai survival flowchart using crayons and fear.

I shifted the pillow to my lap and reached for the notepad I’d found earlier—tucked beside the bookshelf like a secret. Cream pages. Gilded edges. It looked far too expensive to be defiled by my nonsense.

Naturally, I grabbed a pen and got to work.

The Isekai Disaster Log. Title at the top. Underlined. Bold. Possibly cursed.

Step One: Identify Method of Entry. – Truck-kun? No. – Fell into a book? Also no. – Video game glitch? Closer… but there was no dramatic boss fight screen-suck. – Summoned by higher power? Still pending.

I tapped the pen against my lips, trying not to think about how unhinged this all looked—sitting cross-legged in someone else’s apartment (mine, technically, fictionally), scribbling genre tropes like a conspiracy theorist with a soft spot for K-dramas.

Because that’s what I was, wasn’t I? A placeholder. In high-waisted pants.

Next Section: Potential Exit Routes. – Defeat final boss → unlock return. – Earn true love → reset cycle. – Regain original body → body-swap reversal. – Die → classic dramatic reset (not ideal). – Confess truth → universe implodes?

That last one I underlined three times. Then drew a skull. Then a frowny face. It made me feel slightly better.

I tossed the pen aside and flopped backward into the cushions, arms flung wide like a swooning opera widow. The ceiling stared back—matte, pale, too sleek to be real. Probably had hidden heating vents and mood lighting triggered by emotional instability.

I blinked.

“Okay,” I said to no one. “Let’s say this is an isekai. Let’s say I got pulled into the body of the character I’ve played for years. Let’s say I’ve overwritten her like some cursed save file from hell.”

I sat up again—faster than necessary—and seized the notepad like it had personally offended me.

New Heading: Ethical Implications. – I stole her life. – I stole her wardrobe. – I stole her contact list, her unread messages, and—oh my god—I stole her men. – Her SSRs. – Her entire romance arc with the most devoted, animated, emotionally generous love interests ever coded.

I scrawled across the page: I AM THE PROBLEM. IT’S ME.

Taylor Swift would be ashamed.

Some small, rational part of me whispered, It’s not like you meant to. You didn’t hit “Steal MC Identity” in the settings menu.

But that part was quickly drowned out by a louder, nastier voice—one that sounded suspiciously like the YouTube comment section under a spoilery reaction video:

You’re ruining the canon. They loved her, not you. You’re breaking the story. You’re just a fan with access.

My throat tightened.

I reached for the water bottle on the counter, then stopped. It wasn’t mine. Nothing in here was mine. Not the framed photos. Not the notes in my inbox. Not the half-unwrapped gift on the kitchen island with a tag that read:

Don’t open until tomorrow – C.

I didn’t even know if C was Caleb or someone else entirely.

The guilt settled in my chest like a paperweight—heavy, cold, polished by years of fandom, lore, and longing.

I was a reader who’d fallen into the game.

But I wasn’t supposed to edit it. I was supposed to cheer from the sidelines. Cry when the confession finally happened. Not be the one getting tackled mid-battle by Caleb or scanned under sexy-doctor scrutiny by Zayne.

I pressed both palms to my face.

What if I couldn’t leave? What if this wasn’t temporary?

What if I was stuck here forever—playing the part of a woman who had earned every bit of love this world gave her, while I just flinched every time someone touched my shoulder?

My hands dropped. I stared at the notepad.

Pages torn. Corners dog-eared. Ink smudged by my own uncertainty.

A new plan began to form.

Not an exit strategy. That wasn’t coming anytime soon.

But a coping mechanism. A survival guide. A soft reboot.

If I couldn’t leave—if I was here for the long haul—then I would be so nice. So harmless. So deeply inoffensive that if the real MC ever came back, she’d look at my log of wholesome side quests and say: Wow. You really took care of my save file.

I nodded to myself. Out loud.

“I’ll smile more,” I told the wall. “I’ll bake muffins for Caleb, even if I nearly die turning on a space-age oven.”

And above all?

I would say nothing.

Not one syllable. Not a single whisper about who I really was.

Because this world had rules.

And I had read enough manhwa to know exactly what happens when you break them.

Best-case scenario? Narrative collapse. Worst-case? A tear in reality. Everyone dies. Caleb cries. The End.

So I was going to be good.

Like, really good.

I was going to smile at everyone like I’d graduated top of my class at the Hunter’s Association Charm Academy. I’d say things like “great teamwork” and “thank you for your service” with such radiant sincerity that even Zayne would log it as medically viable.

I’d become the kind of woman people described as “so lovely” and “just a joy” and maybe even “strangely polite given the circumstances.”

With that sacred vow in place, I folded the notepad shut, gave a resolute little nod, and stood.

Immediately tripping over my own foot on the way to the sink.

Because grace, it seemed, was not included in my starter kit.

Still, I rinsed my face. Brushed out the knots in my hair with something called an ionizing detangler. Changed into a pair of sweatpants I prayed were actually mine and not something the real MC had once emotionally bonded with. Every motion was deliberate. Precise. Good girl on her best behavior.

I was going to pass for normal if it killed me.

Which, frankly, it still might.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Polite. Almost apologetic.

I froze mid-sip from a pastel mug that read: Hunters Do It Better.

One gentle knock. Then another.

A beat. Then—

“Your lights are still on.”

The voice was deep. Calm. The kind of voice you’d hear during a power outage and just trust. Familiar, too—like velvet cut with steel.

I crept toward the door like it might bite.

Then—

“It’s Xavier.”

My entire soul left the chat.

No. No-no-no-no—

Because Caleb and Zayne coexisting in the same timeline made sense.

But Xavier?

The quiet, lethal swordsman with the voice of a lullaby and a gaze that could skewer you into next week?

That meant—

Oh god.

That meant they were all here. All of them.

Not spaced out by chapter unlocks. Not split across plot branches. All. Together. In canon proximity.

I flung the door open more out of panic than purpose.

Xavier stood there like a moodboard come to life—hoodie sleeves pushed to his forearms, hair slightly tousled, expression unreadable. One hand in his pocket. The other holding—

A thermos.

He blinked, slow and unbothered.

“I saw your lights.”

I nodded. Then realized I was nodding like a socially anxious bobblehead and stopped.

“I—yeah. Lights.” I cleared my throat. “They’re… on.”

Another blink. Another pause.

Then, tilting his head just slightly:

“You okay?”

Which, to be fair, was a complicated question.

Physically? Fine. Mentally? A patchwork quilt of anime tropes and impostor syndrome. Spiritually? Somewhere between “lost in a cutscene” and “actively dodging God’s gaze.”

“I’m great,” I lied. “Perfect, even.”

He gave a small nod—slow, deliberate, as if filing the answer away in a database for later review.

Then he held out the thermos.

“Chamomile.”

My brain short-circuited.

Because nothing in the romance route prep guides—nothing in the character notes or fandom wikis or fan-translated interviews—had ever warned me about this.

Not quiet night visits. Not sleep tea. Not the soft weight of care wrapped in a mundane gesture.

“Oh,” I said, brilliant as ever. “Thanks. That’s… nice.”

“I can stay.”

He said it without drama. Without loaded meaning. Just a simple, solid offer, like staying was something people just did when they noticed someone might need it.

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Then, very, very dramatically—

Shut the door.

Because this world didn’t make sense.

Because if Xavier was here, calm and lethal and handing out herbal tea like it was standard field protocol—

Then Sylus might be next.

And Rafayel.

And if that happened?

I really would die. Right there. On canon soil. Of romance-induced heart failure.

From the other side of the door, his voice came again—low, steady, perfectly calm.

“If you change your mind…”

I didn’t answer.

Just leaned my forehead against the cool wood and whispered, half to myself, half to the devs:

“Fucking hell, InFold. Are you trying to murder me?”

I stayed like that for a while.

Just breathing.

Forehead pressed to a door that had no idea how high the stakes were. That didn’t care about timelines or fan theories or character routes or the logistical nightmare of making muffins in a kitchen where you didn’t recognize the knives.

The air on the other side stayed still.

Eventually, footsteps.

Not angry. Not impatient. Just quiet.

Xavier didn’t wait for permission. He didn’t knock again. He simply left—offering space like someone who understood the weight of silence and had no desire to fill it.

Which was kind, really.

And also maddening.

I peeled myself off the door like a sticker someone had given up on and slumped back into the living room, thermos still in hand. The tea was warm—floral, faintly sweet. It tasted like a lullaby I hadn’t earned.

I sank into the couch and stared at the ceiling.

Plain. Elegant. Ambivalent to my suffering.

“I’m in a dating sim,” I muttered.

It wasn’t a revelation. More like a Google Maps reroute: You are here, even though I’d known for hours because nothing around me had changed. Except here, the landscape was made of heartbreak rendered in high definition, elite military uniforms, and a doctor who looked like the human embodiment of a soft-focus lens.

And they were all in love.

Not with me.

But with her.

The one who belonged. The real MC.

I looked down at my hand—the same hand Caleb had held, Zayne had examined, Xavier had offered tea to—and curled it slowly into a fist.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I whispered. “But I have it.”

So maybe I couldn’t fix it. Maybe I couldn’t undo the weird narrative tumbleweed that rolled me into this story. Or explain why no one could see through me. Or how I’d managed to fall face-first into the Super Bowl of boyfriend content without so much as a strategy guide.

But I could survive it.

One kind gesture at a time.

I would become the world’s politest interloper. The most considerate impostor. The human equivalent of a please and thank you wrapped in seasonally appropriate gift wrap.

I would make muffins. I would compliment everything. I would be so pathologically nice that if the universe did collapse, it would at least whisper, thank you for your service on the way out.

And I would say nothing.

Not to Caleb. Not to Zayne. Not to Xavier. Not to Sylus or Rafayel or anyone else who might appear in this dimension like it was just another Tuesday.

No world-breaking honesty. No selfish confessions. Just saintlike patience, passive support, and possibly chamomile-induced enlightenment.

“Okay,” I exhaled.

I curled into the corner of the couch, clutching the thermos like it held divine answers.

Lights still on. Ceiling still boring. Tea still warm.

“I can do this.”

Beat.

“I think.”

To be continued...

♡ taglist : @spicypomegrana2 @asilaysdead @sunshine-angel08 @demon-master-zero @mosscoveredmist @glassandhoney @adrasteiax @mentaltrouble2201 @inutrasha94 @aweebs @noxus123 @in-a-far-away-land @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t

[crying-ang3l]

× Princess Treatment ×

A/n: Heelloouu!! Here's a cute fic, enjoy! × no chocolate mentioned, it's clickbait. ×

×××××××× Genre: Fluff Warnings: suggestive scene Tags: Aaron Hotchner x gn!reader (2nd person, no y/n) × established relationship × age gap × a whole bunch of playfulness × fyi: paso doble, rhumba and jive are dance styles × He calls you: honey, baby. You call him a princess. And you both call each other perverts × Summary: Aaron agreed to undergo your skincare treatment and ends up being called—a pretty princess? W/c: 1.6k ××××××××

×Masterlist×

It was one of those days when you wanted to spoil him a little. Ease any worries out of his overworked mind, and preferably shut it down for an hour or two. Give him a nice rest while he’s still home.

So…

What should you and Mr. Frown Face do?

Let’s start with the where!

Spin the wheel! Win a prize!

×

×

×

It's a date at home!

Cozy!

What about the main attraction?

Give it another go!

×

×

×

Skincare!

Sweet!

Aaron’s skincare didn't expand beyond washing his face with a grey, unscented bar of soap and applying sunscreen, which wasn’t much, but it was a great start.

He would never follow a 10-step skincare routine anyway. That would immediately get flagged by his brain as an unproductive use of time—a scandalous activity in his lexicon. But with you caressing his skin (with multiple layers of liquids and creams)? There was no way he could reject such an offer.

Now to sum up, we have romantic quality time with a glass or two of wine, vintage—not to say old—music ('respect the elders' they say), tender touches without taking your, or his, or the both of your clothes off—

“Let's see how long that'll last,” he chuckled and took a sip of coffee, leaning against the kitchen counter.

Rude?!

“You can deny it, but we both know how it usually ends.”

Excuse him? Maybe he wasn't wrong, maybe it was how some of the nights ended… or began—especially after, god forbid, a two-week-long–case—but that wasn't the point.

You tried to convince him of the innocence of your plan, but when you blurted out from pure excitement that you bought lotion that smells like cocoa, it only became an opposing argument.

“Evidence is speaking for itself,” he replied devoid of any surprise, placing the cup aside with a quiet thud and closing the distance between you.

You caught a glimpse of mischief dancing like a paso doble on his face before he turned you around, pressing his chest to your back.

“You're going to entice me with your delicious smell and blame it on me.” His whispered words caught you off guard, clouding your mind in a second. 

He didn’t know yet. 

That lotion was actually a moisturizer.

Nothing enticing here.

“That's not—you're a pervert. We're just going to… relax and enjoy each other's company.” Great choice of words, very convincing.

“Mhm, there it is,” he laughed, “See? You're already doing it.” He pressed his lips to your ear. “Blaming me like you're not a pervert yourself. Should I remind you how you asked me to—”

Wow!!! 

TMI!

Let’s just uh… get started with the night.

A very well behaved night—just like you promised!

×××

Surrounded by the low hum of music and the softest crackling of candles, he was sitting politely on the couch, leaned back, loosely holding you by your hips. You—straddled on his lap, dipped your fingers into a translucent container.

“I'm gonna put it on now,” you warned and smeared a grainy substance all over his face.

“Ah! It's cold!” He winced, tightening his grip.

“Shh, don't move. It's gonna get better in a moment,” you reassured him under your breath.

With precise movements, your fingertips massaged the soft tissue, circling his cheeks, tracing along the bridge of his nose up to the forehead, sliding through the wrinkles down to the temples and gliding further across his jaw and chin—closing the cycle and repeating it again.

“How is it now?” Your lips curled up, noticing his muscles relax.

“Coarse,” he stated blankly, but the smug glimmer of his gaze sold out his dry humor. Ha. Ha. You rolled your eyes.

“It's a face scrub. It's supposed to be a little rough,” you snorted with amusement and lightly shook your head.

“Is it supposed to scrub my face off?” This guy…

“Something like that,” you chuckled, “It's helping remove dead skin cells, but don’t worry about it, just relax. You can close your eyes, you know?”

“I prefer watching you work.” His arms flexed, pulling you closer so gingerly you didn't even realize it, too preoccupied with smoothing out his skin.

“You look so pretty, sweetheart.” His warm tone kissed your ears, spreading warmth through your chest. That's when you decided to look into his eyes— 

Two dilated black holes, enveloped with intertwined shades of brown and green—islands—washed by milky sea with red contorted seaweeds climbing out of its depth, were already staring into your soul.

You could tell all of his attention was on you, but you didn't know how truly gone he was.

How his temporary tunnel vision blurred everything exceeding the outline of your figure and deafened the surrounding world.

Mere five minutes was enough time to deconstruct him with nothing but your fingertips.

“Don't stop. It's actually very pleasant,” he murmured so softly it was almost a whisper, and when you didn't answer or move, his lips grew into an affectionate smile.

He knew he infected you.

Captured you in a singular frame of liquid time, stretching it through each beat of your heart, which subconsciously danced in the rhythm of jive with his own.

Now your own eyes reflected how equally intoxicated with adoration you were.

“Right….” Your mouth barely moved, chasing the shadow of the sound. Stilled hands slowly resumed its movement, lazily dragging across the tissue and awakening you from the hypnotized state.

“You're pretty too, Aaron.” The sweetness of your words dripped straight onto his face.

“Huh—?” He grinned, taken by surprise, momentarily straying his gaze, and shyly returning it back to you.

If it weren't for the exfoliant hiding his skin tone and reddening it in the process, you'd be able to spot a natural blush replying to your compliment. Instead, it was the ears that gave him away.

“I thought you were the pretty one in our relationship.” He accentuated his words with a squeeze of your hips.

“Well….” Your hands left his face, dropping to your thighs wrists up, not to stain your clothes. “Can't we both be pretty?” You smirked and added teasingly,

“My pretty princess?”

“What—did you just—?!” His laughter built up so quickly it cut him off with a loud cackle erupting from his diaphragm. 

His whole body started shaking, almost making you headbutt him in the process. Quickly, you grabbed his shoulders, holding on tightly while his eyes started to tear up from the sudden, intense abs workout.

Laughing along with him, you tried to take this opportunity to get up and grab a towel, when his hands swiftly outran you, clenching around your body and caging you under his grip.

“Oh, you're not going anywhere, honey. Not after calling me a princess! What was that? Are you feeling alright?” He pressed his palm to your forehead.

“Too much wine? I think you've had enough for the night.” 

“I'm not drunk. I'm spoiling you tonight, so you are my princess now.” A smug expression decorated your face only to be ruined by his next question.

“Is that right? In that case, you're going to fulfill my every whim just like I do for you, baby?” He raised an eyebrow

“Hm… uh… the options are… limited at this hour. I can offer you some moisturizer after we get this off your face.”

“Alright, moisturizer it is. Come here.” He grabbed your chin, pulling you to his lips like he wasn't coated in a mixture of chemicals with unreadable names.

“Wait! You can't kiss me now!”

He stopped, puzzled.

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not going to be spitting out the funny taste of whatever's inside this scrub. I'm not even sure if your t-shirt will survive it, so I'm not going to try.” You lifted your hands, revealing dark shapes of your fingers imprinted on the fabric.

“Don't worry about it. What happened to spoiling me tonight? Didn't you want me to be your princess?” His lips twisted through the last word.

“Oh…! I see what you're doing! You're not going to fool me, you cunning old man. Wash this off, and I will give you that kiss.”

He squeezed your hips again, distracting you from the way his mouth hung open for a split second, making sure not to spill out more than he intended.

“Kiss me now and… I might agree to another session of this.”

Your eyes lit up, muscles evacuated humor.

Was Aaron, the man who 'can deal with everything by himself and never needs anything from anyone,' the man you called your lover, asking you for more in his own struggling-to-admit-it–way?

It didn't matter if this was the wine speaking or if you were going to have to rinse your throat out for the next ten minutes. You were going to do it. You were going to give him what he wanted if only to reward him for taking one of his first any-kind-of-display-of-emotional-vulnerability–steps.

He deserved love and care, and you needed to let him know that.

Your lips, without any hesitation, met his, softly welcoming their familiar texture and tangling them with yours in the intimate rhumba. One of his hands traveled to the back of your head, playing with your hair and eliciting a sweet low hum from your mouth. A pleasant, grounding warmth filled your body, lingering even after you pulled away.

“I believe this counts as an attempted murder.” You wiped off tiny grains transferred from his skin.

“Honey, that would be suicide.” Deadpan as ever.

“Thanks, princess.”

“Don't overdo it.” He rolled his eyes like the corners of his lips didn't twitch upwards.

“Whatever you say… your highness.”

('respect the elders' they say... or don't)

𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭! 𝐈'𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤! ♡♡ ×𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭× ♡♡

[jamieroyjamieroy]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @bidisasterevankinard 💜

This has been sitting in my drafts for a little while and here is a snippet for you.

Tommy has seen some crazy shit in his time with the army, as a pilot and firefighter. Been part of some crazier shit *cough* stealing helicopters *cough* *cough* committing domestic terrorism *cough*. He’s also been dating Evan Buckley for over a year (this time around) so nothing phases him anymore. Nothing is too crazy to witness. Nothing is too crazy to hear. Nothing surprises him. Not anymore. Tommy has learnt to roll with the crazy and shrug it off.

His co-workers sure like to try to get a reaction from him though. Coming up with more and more outlandish ways to spend their time off so when they share their stories with him they get more than a “oh wow” or a “yeah that sounds like a regular Tuesday for me and Evan”. The last one often accompanied by an affectionate sigh and a look of fondness.

It’s driving the Harbor team up the wall that nothing they do can ruffle the cool, calm and collected exterior of one Tommy Kinard. So much so that they have been banned from participating in extreme sports or activities by their captain (who was sick of having to find cover for the injured firefighters.)

No pressure tagging @chococara25 @atevanfool @beanarie @thevoiceofriesling @owlgirl495 @betterthanfakemouthstatic

[holy3cake]

WIP Wednesday!

Another week, another tag game! Please share your last sentence; or, if you don’t have one, share a plot bunny or idea! (OR sketch for your artwork!)

Thank you for the tag lovely @oddsnendsfanfics!

Wow okay so this week is determined to break me, I've never felt this much stress and sadness from practically nothing. So thank you to those of you for helping me stay afloat, it means absolutely everything to me! That said, I did manage to get a tiny bit of IHFF done, but I won't be sticking to the 2 week window unfortunately. My writing speed is like 2 words per hour at the moment, so forgive the slowness :''''') Here's an extract from chapter 23!:

On the other hand, Turketyl did not seem satisfied with a brush of tresses or gentle gallantry. Instead, he lifted his thumb and lightly drew a rune across his forehead. Osbert couldn’t quite work out the shape, but the pattern was too bold and intricate for a cross. Turketyl’s gentle caresses almost tickled, and he blinked in surprise at the feel of lips against his cheek. The plump instruments left a peachy kiss in the crease of his dimple, dangerously close to the curve of his smile. For a moment, Osbert was still and trembling, confused at Turketyl’s suggestive actions. But he pushed no further, simply stepping back and flashing Osbert a dazzling smile. Osbert let out a shaky breath, snapping back to understand the flirty behaviour. He’d temporarily forgotten that was how Turketyl showed his adoration, and it was not malicious or ill-intended. Osbert chuckled with mirth, planting an equally plush kiss on Turketyl’s nose to break his impending departure. Turketyl batted his face away, laughing wholeheartedly as his cheeks rivalled the fire in his hair.  “Write to us, darling. And take care of our restless King, I know how the two of you care for each other.” Turketyl beamed, lowering his voice as he leaned close again to purr.  “Perhaps if you and Aethelstan require a little more spice in your bed, invite Herluf and I to Bebbanburg.” He teased, smirking as Osbert’s eyes widened like fragile saucers.

No pressure tags: @grinningkatz @lancedoncrimsonwings @book-and-music-lover @errruvande @waterfallsilverberrywrites @bilbotargaryen @persephones-journey @whitedarkmoonflower

@kingslionheart @fabiochampioraro @ripmyfictionalfriends @thenameswinter99 @paula-in-dreamland

@corktheauthor @redacted-thething @thelettersfromnoone @beginning-writer @lord-aldhelm @lesbians4connorrhodes @oddsnendsfanfics

[spicywreck]

Season 4 AU where Mike leaves Rachel after finding out about the kiss but doesn't want to go back to Pearson Specter. He's done living as a fraud. Harvey, feeling guilty and sympathizing with Mike's pain, offers up his guest room to stay at while he figures out his living arrangements (Mike doesn't want to go back to his apartment because it was Rachel who made it look like a home... it all feels too much like Rachel.)

It's hard to live with Harvey because Mike knows that Harvey expects great things from him, but right now he's adrift, clueless, at times he doesn't know what he likes; did he ever know what he really wanted?

Harvey tries to make it easy for him: he doesn't ask for rent, offers to pay for groceries, buys Mike a new bike when his old one ultimately falls apart. Mike wishes to return his genorosity so he starts cleaning around the house, tidies up the place, makes dinner (his famous Grammy's spaghetti sauce) on the days he knows Harvey has had too much take out.

They build a routine, Mike and Harvey. They have breakfast together. They text each other throughout the day. They plan movie nights. They go out for drinks every Friday.

(tags for under the cut: domesticity, misunderstanding, love confessions, soft & yearning!Harvey, mild sexual content, Mike and Harvey are in love and meant to be, your honor!)

Mike doesn't even realize their dynamic has changed till he watches Harvey reject a pretty waitress, "It was nice chatting, but we're gonna have to go home pretty soon. Early morning."

Which is bullshit. Harvey doesn't have "early mornings", he arrives to the office whenever he damn well pleases. Mike confronts him when they get home (and when did he start seeing Harvey's apartment as theirs?), which Harvey first rebuffs as "letting the girl down easy". Mike calls him out on it.

"You haven't brought anyone since I moved in," Mike says, feeling flustered for some reason. "You haven't gone out with anyone, actually! You spend all your free time here—with me."

"Mike," Harvey warns, voice sharp and authoritative; so reminiscent of their old dynamic. "Just let it go."

"No. I'm not letting it go!"

Because Mike is stubborn. Mike knows Harvey is lying to him. Mike's brain won't let him forget Harvey's softness in the mornings, Harvey's easy smiles, Harvey's dorky nature behind closed doors. He can't. He won't—

"Just tell me if I'm an inconvenience to you," Mike finally says. "Just... You need to stop living your whole life around my comfort. I'm a grown man. I can find a job. I can get a new place. I can stop bothering you."

Harvey stares him down, face hard, unreadable. Mike's insecurities rise to the surface at that expression.

I have been bothering you, he thinks. And starts walking to the exit, keys in hand, mind racing for solutions: to get a new place, to save his friendship with Harvey.

Mike makes it about three steps before Harvey stops him.

"You were always shit at reading people," he says, still standing exactly where he is.

Mike turns back, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Mike," Harvey sighs, letting the poker face fall; letting Mike see the vulnerability in his eyes. "I didn't invite the girl back to my place because I didn't want her here."

"Because you need your privacy—"

"Because I haven't wanted to invite anyone back to my place since you've moved in," Harvey corrects. "Because... I want to take care of you."

Mike's mouth falls open. "...What?"

"I want to take care of you," Harvey repeats, drifting his gaze down to the floor; and wow, is Harvey Specter actually nervous? "I want you here, in our home, till— Fuck, Mike. I want you in my life. I don't want anyone else."

Mike continues to stare, dumbfounded. Till his brain finally clicks it for him.

"Oh my God, you're in love with me."

Harvey shrugs, too nonchalant for Mike's liking.

"Harvey—"

"You can stay as long as you like," he cuts him off. "And I don't expect anything, alright? If you're uncomfortable, I can find you a new place right away. But I swear, Mike, don't leave before you're ready just because I said—"

Mike strides across the room on a mission.

He grabs Harvey's cheeks, lifts them up, forces those deep brown eyes to look back at him—and spots the heaviness in them.

Mike won't ever forget. He wouldn't even if he had the choice. The great Harvey Specter, looking at Mike Ross with only love in his eyes.

"You're in love with me," he whispers, dazed. "With me, Harv."

Harvey's eyes twist in pain, and no, no, no— Mike won't allow that.

"You dumb son of a bitch," Mike tells him, which makes Harvey snap from the pain, even if irritated. "I thought you read people for a living!"

"Mike—"

"Harvey, I've been in love with you from the fucking beginning!"

It's Harvey's turn to look out of place, lips parting in shock, eyes softening at the confession.

"God, Mike," and he murmurs his name with so much longing it... Mike's mind is made up.

He cuts the distance between them, smacking their lips together. It's not a perfect kiss, by far. Their noses bump into each other. The movement was too brash, too hard. But he felt Harvey sigh against him. He heard his moan. It was everything.

Harvey's perfect manicured hands come to rest on Mike's hips, pulling him further into Harvey's space. They caress his waist. They find their way under his shirt. Mike gasps as Harvey's warm fingers grip his bare skin.

"Mike," Harvey moans, before his teeth come to pull on his lower lip. "Oh, Mike. We wasted so much time."

Mike imagines brushing his hand down his hair, imagining how it might feel, how it would be like to caress the back of his head. Except Harvey is kissing him on the mouth with tongue. So he doesn't have to imagine anything. He does exactly what he wants, and is surprised at how soft his hair feels. How good it is to hear Harvey groan as Mike's fingers touch his head.

Harvey brushes his forehead against Mike's. And Mike smiles, knowing they can never go back; he doesn't ever want to go back.

"Let's not waste one more second then," he says, and brushes his lips over Harvey's warm neck, sucks a kiss right over his pulse—because if you're closing the love of your life, you go all in.

"God, Mike," Harvey moans his name like it means everything. Mike whimpers without meaning to.

At that, Harvey's hands drift below. Fondle Mike's ass.

Then pulls him up by the back of his thighs. Mike's makes a surprised sound—he did not yelp—and his legs wrap around Harvey on instinct.

Harvey looks up at him with more than amusement. A fondness, he thinks. Sees it.

Harvey smiles like he just won the biggest poker game in his life. Mike can't help but laugh at how soft he looks.

Which Harvey shushes quickly with a second not-so-perfect kiss; a bit too much tongue.

And delivers Mike to the main bedroom. Lays him down on the soft silk sheets. Kisses him, over and over; those kisses turning more perfect by the second. Harvey touches Mike. Makes him come to the point of exhaustion; so, so much, one orgasm after another, till his eyelids turn heavy and he can't help but fall asleep on Harvey's bed.

Which was totally the plan. Because Harvey wakes him with lingering kisses the next morning. Whispers, "I love you," into the back of his neck. Doesn't let him get up till Mike has had another earth-shattering orgasm given by the one and only Harvey Specter.

"I could get used to this," Mike croaks, once he finds the energy.

"Good," Harvey says, all too proud of himself. "Because I have no intention of letting you go."

The amazing Mike Ross snickers. Kisses the confusion off Harvey's face. Before proclaiming, "I was never planning on leaving either, dumbass."

Suffice to say, they don't leave their bedroom till much, much later, when their stomachs beg for sustenance other than each other.

[flaanon]

I've actually never gotten a single hate anon (I guess I'm just so loveable) so instead of that- I'm just gonna complement y'all! Yes, all y'all (excuse my southern stupidity). Not just Zero mod, everyone else in this little reblog chain. And more people honestly... I'm about to be really sappy under the cut, feel free to ignore if you don't wanna see my sleepy ramblings about how much I love y'all.

Some of y'all are silly, some of y'all are serious. Either way though, you've helped create and develop a character that genuinely makes this lil' fandom a better place.

Cannon character blogs are giving people the opportunity to enjoy a character in a whole new light, providing more entertainment than just the games, and leading to more characterization than Activision gave us. From those who died too early *cough* Soap *cough*, to those who didn't get enough screen time, and even just characters that people love! Mods? Thank you for letting us talk to our favorite silly lil' guys and thank you for giving us what the writers never will.

Oc blogs? OHMYGOODNESSILOVEYOUSOMUUUUCH. Sorry. I just- wow? Y'all are so cool?? Thank you for going out there and showing us your creativity. I've genuinely seen oc's who I love more than some of the cannon characters. Y'all are creative and smart and genuinely awesome people. Thank you. I know the world out here is... Blegh. Especially to oc's, but the fact you show up anyways and give us your art? You made this little guy, developed a personality and character and everything, and then let us interact with them? It's one thing to develop an oc, it's another to let the world see it. I even know a few of you who've developed the character *through* the blog, letting us be a part of your creation. Genuinely, thank you so much for sharing your original character.

I love all y'all tbh. I love cannon blogs, I love oc blogs, I love anons who interact regularly, and I love anons who send one message and then disappear. Thank you all for making this community more creative and loving. Those troll messages are bullshit, just sad people who are jealous that you can actually say nice things. Don't let them bring you down, y'all are too good for them <3

Okay, I'm gonna go pass out now. Sorry if this was repetitive or cringe, I'm half asleep and proofreading is dumb and I hate it. Might set this to post in the morning, idk.

Oh- lemmie tag some friends as well: @thomas-military-rp @angelotopinopinton

second absolutely lovely post on my first day back

the hate anons have decided to return!

If you think its okay to send death threats, if you think it is okay to go around chatting shit — to harmless blogs that you could simply block — behind your little anon cover, you are gross. you are weak and unable to admit your high key jealous! sorry not sorry, its simply the truth. if we seriously both you so much, block the accounts you dont like. MUCH LIKE EVERYONE ELSE ON THIS APP.

(please tag who i dont)

@goatgoesmbe @bunnybeaches @ask-chiefkatelaswell @ghost-ask-blog @ask-alex-keller @ask-philgraves @ask-roachsanderson @ask-soapmactavish @ask-phillip-graves @soapmactavish-blog @johnpricesmother

[wardinespurrit]

happy birthday 20xx

[nuclearanomaly]

Spite Loves...

[sadagios]

self indulgent doodle of scarian as characters from a comic i made in 2022 to cheer myself up

[archiepelago]

alternate surface au inspired by a few ive seen around on tumblr :3

[rafeandonlyrafe]

proper thank you

words: 600

warnings: 18+ only!, stepbro!rafe, sending nudes, stepcest, kinda dumb/baby reader???

“carry me up to bed rafey?” you coo at your step brother, fluttering your lashes as your pout turns into a giggle when he sighs, unable to resist your pleading face.

“you're the most annoying little sis ever.” rafe says, calling you the nickname just to tease you as he leans down, scooping you into his arms. he carries you like you weigh nothing, so easily slotting into the good older stepbrother role when your parents married, despite him being only a few months older than you.

“thank you rafey.” you say sweetly as he walks you up the stairs, your arms holding him around the shoulders, head leaned against his broad chest.

“yeah, you gotta give me a better thank you than that.” rafe rolls his eyes as he carries you into your bedroom. only once the door is closed do you press a wet kiss to his cheek as a proper thank you.

rafe plops you down on the bed unceremoniously. “there ya go.” he waves as he walks away, knowing it's not actually goodnight as you let out a whine.

“tuck me in?”

rafe hides his smirk before turning around, putting on his slightly annoyed act like he always does when you ask him.

rafe pulls the fluffy blanket out from under you. it's slightly weighted so it naturally tucks around your body anyways as rafe covers you, but his hands still move slowly, feeling your body as he pushes in the blanket until you're stuck tight underneath it.

“anything else? want me to tell you a bedtime story?” rafe says it as a joke, but with the way your eyes light up, he finds himself sitting on the edge of your bed, recounting three little pigs from memory the best he can.

“alright, you gotta get to bed now.” rafe glances at the clock on your nightstand as the hour hand ticks closer to midnight. “goodnight.”

“goodnight rafey.” you smile softly before letting out a yawn. “ill give you a proper thank you soon.”

rafe isn't sure what you mean until he makes it back to his room, scrolling aimlessly through his phone until a text message appears from you.

he clicks it to open up the image, his eyes widening and dick swelling as he sees you in a silky nightgown, the swell of your breasts clearly visible, nipples poking through the fabric. he recognizes the nightgown from a few days ago, but you clearly got further undressed.

rafes eyes bulge as the next image loads, the same pose, now sans nightgown, tits bare and thighs clenched together to make a delicious looking v that rafe wants to dive into.

a proper thank you ;) reads your text, along with one last image, this time with your legs spread, smile on your face as your cunt is on clear display. you took the marker tool to add to your lower stomach “property of big brother.”

rafe is in your room untucking you from your bed before the clock reaches midnight.

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @rafeyslove @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @wearemadeofstardust0 @leighbronk @starkeysheart @pradabambie @tobesolovelysstuff @alexiskirkland @rafestar @brioffthegrid @juniebugg @magicalyoura @cokepewpsii @mysticallystilinski @luvdella @aerangi @vogueprincess @yourenogoodforme @auryyz @mayhem-72 @thestarlithideout @marvelfanfics1recs @rafesgiirl @ditzyzombiesblog @chiaraanatra @tobiaslut

[latenightsundayblues]

What scream movie did yall watch