#POV switch

[fanaticsnail]

https://open.spotify.com/artist/35l9BRT7MXmM8bv2WDQiyB?si=9utFoksgTxelGPQNegKVtg

The way she has singlehandedly plunged my mind into Zosan angst

Now, why would you do that to me, Anon? This playlist is gorgeous. In saying that, my favourite Zosan angst song is if there was initial mutual pining, but Zoro refused to make a move. He doesn't want to hurt Sanji.

Just imagine you're Sanji for a moment. You hated the swordsman at first. The way he was everything your family beat into you to be: the pinacle of masculinity all wrapped up in the broad chest of that stinky marimo. Then, almost out of the blue, you've noticed little things about him.

Has Zoro showered today? Is he wearing cologne? Why is he allowing you to borrow his sharpening steel for your kitchen knives? Why is he reclining and napping in the kitchen? Doesn't he know it's your domain? Who the hell does he think he is?

And why do you love him?

Now imagine you're Zoro. You're in love with Sanji the moment you first taunt him. He's so fun to tease, and his reactions are so explosive you simply can't get enough. You love having his face in yours, butting heads while enjoying an impromptu spar together. He's getting so close to you, it's almost impossible to not make a move now.

So why can't you? What's holding you back? Is it your solitary journey in becoming the world's greatest swordsman? It's too dangerous to bring him along, you shouldn't want to do that to him. Why do you want to? You can't. He could get hurt.

But you love him.

Now, imagine, after all that, that you're one firey, polite gentleman named Portgus D Ace. You show up out of the blue and immediately become smitten by the serviceable attitude from your baby brother's chef. He's gorgeous, and you immediately want to make a move. Is he straight, bi, gay, trans, anything else you haven't thought of? Doesn't matter. You know what you are, and you know what you want.

And what you want is Sanji.

So you flirt, and Sanji is initially taken aback by your approach. You don't pester him, you don't prod him, you are only ever always polite to him: the complete opposite to one Roronoa Zoro. And now, as you go to the kitchen and see the blonde chef completely alone in the kitchen, you can't help it. You just want to be close to him.

And Zoro has no choice but to gaze through the spherical window to the kitchen. His heart breaks as he witnesses you finally do what he has always wished he had the courage to do with Sanji. You kiss the damn cook.

So Zoro does what he knows to do when he wants to forget. He turns to the sake bottle and mourns what could've been.

NOW THAT I'VE SAID ALL THAT.

Here you go:

[saltymarshmall0w]

Danny is "in denial" about the Waynes being vigilantes

Danny is really grateful for the Waynes taking him in and all but it’s just… it’s really obvious they’re vigilantes. Do they WANT him to find out? Why?? To join their battalion?

Hell nah. He’s already got enough going on trying to keep in check the many shades in the city.

Danny simply pretends to be oblivious about the Waynes being vigilantes. That's a future Danny problem.

It turns into Kyle levels of denial, where he ends up pretending he thinks the vigilantes are actors hired by the city to cover up all the ghosts haunting Gotham.

And obviously, the city bases them on the infamously growing Wayne family. It's so sweet of the Waynes to volunteer to dress up as their character for public appearances.

Meanwhile, Bruce has banned outright telling Danny even though it's been nearly a year of him living with them. So what if Danny glows sometimes and has full conversations with invisible people in dark alleyways, everyone has their quirks! so, the Batkids have resolved to just "accidentally" leave their mask on after patrol or make tactical plans loudly about taking down Penguin's latest scheme with Danny a room over.

-

“Is Dick coming to the Gala?” Danny asked as his head swiveled between his phone and the mirror as he attempted to tie his own tie. How did his mom always make it look so easy?

“No, he is going out as Batman tonight, since Father is unable to.” Damian responded. He may as well be blasé about their identities, seeing as Fenton was obviously both completely aware of their identities and completely in denial.

“Oh, man. Does that mean one of the “rouges” are going to attack the gala?” Danny asked, “It’s probably going to be that Two-face guy, huh? He hasn’t made an appearance in a while and his character arc with “Brucie” hasn’t made any progress in a while.”

“Nonsense, there is no predicting the mindset of a criminal like Two-face.” Damian ignored Danny’s disbelieving scoff as he maneuvered his newest brother to face him so he could take over the task for him, else they would be standing there all night. “Besides, Drake is in charge of security for the gala and will do an adequate job securing the venue. If you are afraid remain by my side where I can protect you.”

Damian tightened the tie around Danny's neck and stepped back to let Fenton pull his own collar down.

"That's very sweet of you, Dami." Danny reached up a hand and mussed up Damian's newly-gelled hair, garnering a growl and a shove from the boy. "But you should do normal kid things during the gala, like accidentally saying rude things to old ladies, or complaining about how bored you are, and don't forget to prank all the evil billionaires."

...

The “I told you so.” Danny brazenly mouthed to Damian later in the evening from where Two-face held a gun to his head was as infuriating as it was distressing.

—

(Kyle Weston is the fanon brother of Wes Weston (also a fanon character) who’s whole thing is that he believes in conspiracy theories like Wes, but doesn’t believe in ghosts at all to Wes’s frustration.)

[isjasz]

ඞ amogus vod doodles

[somewhereincairparavel]

maybe if jason's or just everyone's pov in heroes of olympus was written in the first person's, they would've been liked way more? i swear I feel like if jason's pov was written that way, it would've been way more hilarious, and would've made his dry offhand remarks alot more funny? (like say, percy's 'i said hello to the poodle' it's sort of the dry kind of thing jason says in his chapters all the time, but they're not considered funny because it's told through third person limited) and even leo's humor would've been tripled. it was, in my opinion, a wasted opportunity truly.

[retrogamingblog2]

[littlespoonevan]

thinking thoughts about how eddie from buck's pov is so bright and vibrant and takes up so much space and how buck from eddie's pov is so settled and sure of himself and quietly calm and how buck sees the parts of eddie he's tried to squash down for so long and eddie sees the parts of buck that buck himself doesn't even always realise exist and it really does all come back to 'to be seen, to be found, isn't that what we're all searching for' y'know???????????????????

[blindmagdalena]

All of a Sudden, There You Are

3k. homelander x gn!reader. pining. pure fluff! an older fic that desperately needed cleaning up. rewritten for a consistent perspective and added 600-some words. gif credit. AO3 link.

As Homelander's stylist, it's your job to ensure he looks his best, whether he's saving the world or saving face in front of the cameras. After nearly a year servicing him, things between you change abruptly.

Familiarity and consistency feed a base need in all of us. So much of what is best in us is bound up in the permanence of those around us that it becomes the measure of our stability. For Homelander, there are precious few things in his life that offer him any such quality of solidarity. People come and go. It's the nature of the business that has always been his life.

He's stopped paying attention to the PA's, interns and other worker ants that rotate in and out. Their faces blend together in a bland sea of normality and mediocrity. They're little more than cogs in the machine of his contrastingly extraordinary life.

Funny, then, that you should catch his attention amidst the insectoid buzz of it all.

It happens quite abruptly. He's just sat down before a brightly lit vanity where it's your job to style his hair and makeup, as it has been for the last several months. You greet him good morning, as you do every time, but for whatever reason... He notices you today.

"Remind me, what's your name again?" Homelander asks, watching you draw a comb from your kit.

That visibly catches you off guard. You offer only a dumbfounded stare for a moment before snapping to attention, smiling sheepishly as you introduce yourself. The name doesn't sound familiar to him. Had he never actually asked? Probably not. There’s rarely a point in bothering.

He hums contemplatively. "You've been styling me for a while.”

"Yes, sir. About eight months now," you say, using the comb to begin working product through his hair. He’s fairly certain this is the most he's ever spoken to you in all that time.

That sounds like both a long while and yet no time at all. It's nothing in the grand scheme of his life, but in terms of the people he sees consistently, that puts you in a shockingly small pool of individuals. Inevitably they move on, whether by choice or because they’ve found a way to irritate him enough that he has them dismissed.

He can recall his last stylist not by their name or face, but by the way they’d always manage to spray product in his eyes. They hadn’t lasted two days. The one before that he can’t bring to mind a single detail of.

Typically humans only become exceptional to him for how they grate on his patience. You’ve somehow managed to avoid making yourself noteworthy in that regard. Before today you had served as little more than a properly functioning gear in the well-oiled machine of his life.

Now it's as though you suddenly exist to him. Blood, flesh, laughter and all.

"Gooood morning," he greets you the next day, once again triggering another flare of surprise in you. He’s aware of the strangeness of his initiation, but behaves as though he isn’t. He flashes you one of his trademark Hollywood grins.

"Good morning to you, sir," you say with an answering smile that catches his eye. You sound pleased, which tickles something pleasant in the back of his own mind. He likes how well you’re mirroring his shift in mannerism.

He waves his hand dismissively. "Please, Homelander is fine. You keep it awfully formal."

You're actually quite pretty, he notices. Not exceptionally so, not like the celebrities and figures of social influence that someone like him brushes shoulders with on a daily basis, but... pretty nonetheless. He doesn't remember you being this pretty before, and speculates while you work whether you've changed something about yourself. He cannot put his finger on what exactly that may be, though.

He’s perceptive when it comes to the things that matter. Until yesterday, you hadn’t.

You laugh sweetly, pushing your fingers through his hair. His eyes flutter shut as you do. You’re good with your hands, much better than the last stylist. He’s sure he made note of that at some point, but in the same way someone notices when a door stops squeaking. You take it for granted after the first time.

"I'm a creature of habit. Might take me a couple tries to adjust," you warn, covering his forehead with your palm as you spritz product into his hair. You never let any of that sticky crap get on his face, much less in his eyes. You take measures to ensure his comfort, even though he’s never scolded you. You seem to do it entirely out of reflex simply because you care enough to.

"Well, you've made it this far. You've got time to adjust," he says. Now that he's seen you, he finds that he doesn't care for the thought of you being gone. More than that, he starts actively looking forward to the time he spends in the chair with you. What used to be a monotonous aspect of the celebrity side of his life becomes a comforting ritual. 

The two of you chat with surprising ease, like old friends made new. He tells you about himself, vents to you about work and personal business alike. In turn he learns about you and the life you live beyond the time you share with him. It’s nothing extraordinary–not like his–but it's yours, and for some reason, that’s enough to make it interesting.

The more he grasps that you are an entire person outside of the service you provide him, the more he wants to know. He doesn’t give a fuck about your elderly cat, but he does like the way your voice changes when you talk about it. His mind drifts when you tell him these little anecdotes, and he wonders what you tell the people in your life about him. He wonders if your tone similarly changes when you do. Do you speak fondly of him? Days turn to weeks. Little by little, Homelander discerns small changes in himself. There’s a slight pep in his step these days. The sun feels a little warmer, the thrum of crowded events less irritating. His attitude towards interviews flips; even the ones he used to dread he begins to anticipate. He knows you’ll have him looking and feeling his finest. He knows that regardless of what awaits him, you’ll have something to say about it that will make it easier to smile for the cameras.

Thinking of you is sometimes all it takes.

When he has nothing on his schedule to be styled for, he sulks. On those days, he misses your laugh the most. 

He makes sure the products he keeps at home are the same as the ones you use. The smell of them reminds him of the smell of you, of your knock-off Dior perfume that fades too quickly after you apply it, which makes it just perfect for his keen sense of smell. The humble subtlety of you, your sincerity and gentleness, have become a boon against the unfeeling corporate reality of his life. On the days he does see you, he begins to miss you before he’s even left you. Now, as he walks to his next scheduled appointment with you, he’s painfully aware of the beat of his own heart. His stomach is twisting in on itself, though he isn’t hungry. If anything, he feels a little nauseous. The closer he gets to the door, the louder the cacophony inside of him becomes. Is he sick? That shouldn’t be possible, but he can’t understand what’s happening to him. Pausing just outside the door, he takes in a steadying breath.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Taking a moment to collect himself, he gives his face two quick pats on either side, shaking his head. Get it together, he tells himself, stepping into the dressing room. 

“Gooood morn–” Homelander cuts himself short, looking around the empty room. His brows pinch. He isn’t early. Pursing his lips, he takes a brief stroll about the room, clutching his hands behind his back. He peers down the hallway, cutting through the layers of wall with his vision. No sign of you on the grounds yet. He clicks his tongue. 

You’ve never been late. Unable to settle, he paces for a while. He has the thought to call you, but he realizes he doesn’t have your number. Why doesn’t he have your number? It seems such an obvious thing to have despite the fact he’s never needed it.

He’s just pulled out his cellphone to track it down from Ashley when the door suddenly opens and his head snaps up. The initial relief he feels is cut short, turning cold in his chest when the person who steps through the door is most definitely not you. “Good morning!” the woman greets him, her voice chirpy and grating in his ears. She’s not really happy to see him. She doesn’t know the first fucking thing about him. At most, she’s another sycophantic drone who’s only pleased to breathe his air. In his upset, she looks freakishly distorted, her smile overly wide and fake. His leather gloves creak as he curls his hands into fists. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks, voice as measured as he can manage it. His anger hits in an unreasonable surge, hot like lava from a volcano. This woman’s only crime is the fact she’s not you, and yet it’s enough to make him want to rip her head off her shoulders, spine and all. The woman hesitates in the doorway, her chipper demeanor flipping to a fearful one. “Uhm, my name is Lisa, I’m supposed to style you to–” “Where is my stylist?” he interrupts her, prowling towards her like a hungry predator. He says again, louder this time, voice full of anger and anxiety in equal measure, “Where the fuck is my stylist?!” “I– I don’t know!” Lisa yelps, stepping backwards from him. “I was called in as a last minute replacement! They said– they said there was an accident, or–” Homelander pushes her roughly out of the doorway, blowing past her with a frustrated growl. She hits the wall hard before crumpling to the floor like a lifeless sack of potatoes, but he doesn’t even register it. He calls Ashley, stalking down the hallway, his footfalls loud with fury. Why the fuck didn’t anyone think to tell him? “Ashley!” He snarls into his phone the second she answers. “Tell me where the fuck my goddamn stylist is.”

Homelander is at the hospital within minutes. The staff puts up a meager effort to enforce protocols, but he’s The Homelander, and after a lie or two, they eventually let him through. He hates the smell of hospitals. The sickly mix of bleach and illness, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. They never should have brought you here. You should be in Vought’s med ward.

You should be with him. When he finds you, you’re sitting with the hospital bed halfway reclined, wearing nothing but a hospital gown. The vibrant reds and blues of his suit paint a sharp contrast to the stark white walls of the hospital room when he steps inside. You have a pudding cup in your hand, though you nearly drop it when you see him in the doorway. His hair is woefully unstyled, splayed loose in every direction from his flight. “H-Homelander,” you sputter, choking on your bite of pudding. You swallow, clearing your throat. He’s walking towards you. The closer he gets, the faster your heart beats in his ears. “What are you doing here?” “Are you okay?” He asks, blowing off your question entirely. He blinks and his vision flickers through your clothes and skin alike. He scans your body for internal damage, for broken or fractured bones. You’re not wearing a cast or anything, but he needs to be sure. You nod, clutching at the blanket, wearing your confusion plainly on your face. “Yeah, I’m okay, it’s probably just mild whiplash, but I’m getting an x-ray to be–” “You’re fine,” he breathes more to himself than to you, his relief palpable. He can hear the flustered patter of your heart clearly. With the adrenaline wearing off, he’s beginning to feel that sickly familiar feeling that he had experienced in the hallway; butterflies rampant in his stomach, battering their wings frantically inside him. His jaw feels tight, his tongue too big for his mouth. Staring at you now, frail and precious as you are in this ugly hospital bed, he realizes what’s the matter–what has always been the matter–he is deeply and incurably in love with you. “Are you okay?” You ask, taking in his tortured expression, his wildly wind-swept hair. The obvious concern in your voice and in your eyes churns his already twisting gut. “No,” he says, the response knee-jerk. Even though the room is still, he feels as though the world is spinning around him. “No, I think I’m in love with you,” he says, expression twisted up, like he’s figuring out each word as he says them. Your heart skips a beat, your breath catches in your lungs. It’s as if the words have paralyzed you. Homelander laughs. It sounds a little hysterical. 

“I’m telling you all of a sudden, but it isn’t new with me,” he says, reaching out to cup either side of your face in his gloved hands. “I love you,” he says, voice firmer now, the realization setting in fully. He looks slightly delirious with it. He’s discovered a secret that he should have known all along, that seems so obvious in hindsight. Of course he loves you, because you love him. The gentleness in your hands as you touched his face, the care in your fingers stroking through his hair far longer than both of you knew you needed to. You dedicated yourself like no other to showing him reverence in service of him, and is that not love in its purest form? And yet, you don’t look to share his elation. You look like you’ve been struck by lightning, expression wide and bewildered. You still haven’t taken a breath. Homelander’s smile falters. “What’s the matter?” He asks, tone dropping a touch. “This is good news! Great, even.” For every second that you do not speak, the beat of his heart feels heavier in his chest. Why don’t you look happy? Finally, you suck in a shaky breath. He watches you with all the intensity of a viper poised to strike.

“I…” You hesitate. You lift your hands and grip his wrists, squeezing them through the thick fabric of his gloves as if to convince yourself that he’s really there. Maybe the accident was worse than he thought. Did you hit your head? 

Panic swells in his chest. It hadn’t occurred to him you might not reciprocate. The thought makes him ill.

“I never…” your eyes turn glassy, welling with tears. “Say it!” he wants to shout, his own heart hammering loudly enough to nearly drown out your words.  “I never would have thought–or even dreamed–in a million years that you might love me back.”

love me back.

Like a dying ember roaring back to life, Homelander’s demeanor reignites, his faded smile broadening once more. 

“I realized it when I was worried fucking sick because you didn't show up,” he says, leaning closer to you. He’s brought the scent of ozone from the sky he tore through on his way to you, but all he cares about is the faint smell of pudding lingering on your lips.

He huffs a laugh. “They sent in some idiot to fill in for you. Like they could replace you. I almost tore her head off,” he says, giddy with euphoria. Your expression shifts, brows furrowing. “Wait, what? You almost-” “I’m gonna kiss you now,” he interrupts, his voice a low rumble. He can already taste you in the breaths you’re close enough to share with him, and he’s never been hungrier for anything–or anyone–in his life. You fall silent with a shiver, nodding minutely, eyes falling shut. “Please do.” His lips meet yours in a gentle press. He deserves a medal for not crushing you with the sheer magnitude of his desire. You all but melt against him, settling into his grip as smoothly as you settled into his life, his mind, his heart. When the two of you break apart, you make a breathless noise that shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. He feels hyper aware of your every sound and move.

God, how he wants to feel every part of you. 

You move your hands to touch his face and he leans into the softness of your caress. You’ve been close enough to kiss more times than he can count. The fact it’s only now occurred to him to do so seems like lunacy. Your eyes dip to his lips, your thumb brushes the bottom one. He catches it with a quick kiss and you laugh your sweet bell-chime laughter.

Pushing your hand into his hair, the wondrous joy in your expression becomes tinged with amusement. “And people wonder why I use so much gel,” you murmur, smooth the wild splay of his hair down with both hands, cupping the back of his head. Homelander smiles wide and boyishly, which prompts you to kiss him again.

“I’m not having some kind of brain bleed hallucination right now, right?” You ask quietly, the tip of your nose lightly pressed to his. He brushes his lips against yours between words. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he purrs, stroking your cheek with his thumb. Despite the ugly fluorescent lights and the dreadful hospital stench all around, you look resplendent in your joy.

He had been right. It was love that you touched him with. It had been subtle, imbued in your every movement, and for months he had soaked it up until, unbeknownst to him, he fell into it as well.

“Trust me when I say you’ll be seeing a lot more of me from now on,” he says, brushing your nose with his.

Maybe instead of tearing them limb from limb, he’ll send flowers to whoever the sorry son of a bitch that rear-ended you this morning was. Who knows how much more time he would have wasted before he realized he was utterly smitten with you.

[melodead]

nagi seishiro is a simple boy. he wants to win games. he dislikes preparing crabs. his first friend was a cactus. he’s in love with his second, not that you know.

you had pulled him into your orbit forever ago with eyes as bright as the sun and a love to match. from there, the rest was inevitable. inevitably, the sun rises in the east. inevitably, the universe will burn up in its brilliance. inevitably, you take his hand, and he won’t resist. through tokyo, through hakuho, through blue lock and beyond—that hasn’t changed.

nagi peeks up at you. the setting sun paints you golden like it wants to hold you too. he understands. it’s a fact of life that you were made to love—to be loved—and the world follows along to your whims because you hold it in your heart.

you melt into the couch despite the hundred-and-ninety-something centimeter soccer player in your lap. one hand runs carefully through his hair as the other holds your phone to the side. this is easy, he thinks, mind muddled by rest.

“can i get up now?”

“no,” nagi refuses, still watching you drowsily. “‘m still tired.”

“i can’t feel my legs, wonderboy. you know, a good friend wouldn’t interfere with my circulation.”

he hums, noncommittal. hypocrite. his heartbeat is faster than usual, but he’s not complaining about it, is he? for some reason though, the title of good friend sinks into his mind, trickles down into a scene from hours ago, and sets a question alight. what a hassle, he thinks to himself, but the ego that blue lock taught him demands an answer.

“hey,” nagi starts, “did you mean what you said earlier?

“mm? you’ll have to be more specific than that.”

nagi is silent, but his arms tighten just enough for you to notice.

“‘shiro?” you put your phone down. your hand buries itself in his hair as the other pinches his cheek—and you can’t help but wonder what he did in a past life to be blessed with such unbelievable genes. he leans into it, snowy lashes fluttering against his cheeks and casting shadows over unbearably soft eyes.

(nagi seishiro is an incredibly easy person to fall in love with and an unbelievably difficult one to be in love with, especially for you: the fool that has resolved to never tell him. sure, maybe you’re a masochist. sue you. you deserve a doctorate in compartmentalizing your crush.)

you tilt your head at him as your own gaze scans his face for anything that could give you a clue. the shapeless, white blob of a boy reminds you of that character he’s so fond of. “are you…”—you blink twice—“…pouting?”

“no.”

“you are!”

“m’not.”

a breathless little laugh escapes you, a wonderful thing that steals the air from his lungs. it’s unfair how easily it happens. he guesses it’s inevitable when his heart lies solely in the palm of your hand.

“i can’t give you an answer if i don’t understand the question,” you chide, rubbing circles into his face, but he can see you already running through the possibilities in your head. “tell me, please?”

nagi is a boy of few words, but a decade of friendship has trained you well. as such, when he suddenly decides to press the full force of his weight onto you, mumbling, you know you’ve struck gold (and possibly bruised ribs).

and then you pause. “reo…?”

nagi knits his brows together just the slightest, averting his eyes. “earlier, you said he’d be…”

your memory completes the confession for him. your jaw drops. “was it the boyfriend comment? seriously?” he won’t look at you, but there’s no hint of dishonesty to be found.

“i’m not repeating it.”

it’s over for you. “aww,” you coo. “are you jealous, ‘shiro?”

nagi is a simple boy. maybe it’s the way the light surrounds you, reminiscent of the day you first met. maybe it’s the lingering sleep clouding his system. maybe it’s his patience finally running out after the inordinate amount of time he’s spent chasing the sun in your eyes. he wants few things in life. one of those things just happens to be you.

whatever it is, it pushes nagi to admit, “yeah.”

you pause and laugh nervously, movements faltering for just a moment. “i think you’d probably be a decent boyfriend too, if it makes you feel better.”

“then we should try it.”

we. he’s always spoken like that—in terms of we. it’s always made your heart unbearably fond. “hmmm…well, reo probably knows someone.”

he huffs, and before you know it, nagi sits up and rests his head on top of yours. “that’s not fair. why do you keep talking about reo? you’re with me,” he whines, sneaking his long arms loosely around your waist.

“what’s wrong with talking about reo?” you retort. “you bring him up more than i do, and that’s saying something considering how much you talk. that’s not a lot, by the way.”

“so?”

you tug lightly at his hair. “so what, i can’t talk about reo but you can? that’s what we should be talking about if we’re talking about unfairness. anyways, if you’re suddenly so concerned about being single, i don’t think you’d have a hard time finding a date. long term? you’ll have to put work into it, obviously, but if you want someone—“

“i want you,” nagi interrupts.

you pinch him again. “i know i’m your favorite, but i’m really one of a kind. you’re not finding someone like me that easily.”

“but i don’t want someone like you.”

“then you’re being really unclear with what you want, seishiro.”

(oh, you’ll be the death of him.)

nagi sighs and meets you eye to eye.

“i want you,” nagi repeats, more awake than he has ever been, “and i want to be your boyfriend. that’s clear, right?”

…huh?

the world stops. your head spins and heat rushes up your neck. you must be feverish, or sick, or—or something. delusional, maybe? imagining, if you’re being nice, and you happen to be very good at imagining. you also happen to be very good at deflecting. (it was a required course to earn your imaginary doctorate.)

a nervous laugh, a little too high. your face burns. “you’re supposed to date people you like, seishiro.” your voice shakes.

“i like you a lot though.”

you try to say something—anything—normal, but your heart fails on you instead. your voice is stuck in your throat like a stone, and you can’t seem to dislodge it no matter how much you tell yourself to. oh, how does anybody ever do this?

nagi sees you, much more than he lets on. he has always seen you before. he sees you now. it must be why he says, quietly, “you don’t have to say yes. i’m okay with how we are now. we can pretend this never happened if you want, and everything can stay how it is.”

like dust. you see dust in the hazy daylight pouring in. you see it in old memories stored inside picture frames. most of all, you see it in the endless gray of his eyes—so, so close—threatening to drown you in your entirety and then some. embarrassingly, you know you’d jump in headfirst. haven’t you already? you’ve spent nearly a decade doing this, after all. but nearly a decade of this, and you have never once thought that he may feel the same. you wouldn’t have ever guessed.

many think that the eyes are the windows to the soul. you know that they are. you had seen as much in your youth and exponentially more in your time at blue lock. hunger. despair. hope. people can conceal and perform as much as they want, but the eyes will always betray the truth.

that's why you can’t deny it when he tells you his.

nagi hums, fingers playing with your sleeves. “your call.”

it’s such a nagi seishiro answer that you can’t help but laugh—and just like that, the stone is dislodged. “okay,” you affirm, out of breath and on the top of the world, “okay, yeah. we can—this—“ his hand squeezes yours. your chest stutters, but you don’t feel like dying. you take a breath, and then—the world begins to spin again.

(nagi seishiro is a simple boy. he wants to win games, so he does. he dislikes preparing crabs, but he’ll do it if you ask him to. his first friend is still a cactus. he’s in love with his second, and now you finally know.)

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 2; ghoap x reader) masterlist

-

The hard part is admitting to himself that he doesn’t know how to function on leave without Ghost’s voice in his ear.

Johnny’s two days into his annual leave when that stray thought crosses his brain. Out with chums even, packed into the booth of an old pub in his hometown, the leather well-worn and a match on the telly that he half watches while one of his mates goes up to the bar to order another round for them. In between his third and fourth pint of lukewarm mild, he thinks something like, wonder what Simon’s up to.

The thought comes and then keeps coming. Keeps cropping up when he least expects. At the pub (wonder what Simon’s up to), in line at the grocery store (wonder how Ghost takes his steak), drowsily puttering around the kitchen while making breakfast (no way he wears the mask at home), listening to some guy in front of him hack up a lung at the dry cleaner (Lt’d do his fuckin’ head in if he was here), and even in the shower with his head tipped back, rinsing out the suds (wonder if he’s got a girl tucked away at home). 

Is it so unusual? Johnny can’t remember a time in his life when someone lived in his head night and day, but Ghost’s presence feels like an extension of his own these days. He’s cycled through girlfriends without a care in the world, without contemplating their existence for half as long, but they never cradled his life like a small bird in the palm of their hands and returned it safe and sound, did they?

Still, he feels it like a knot in his chest. Dreams about Ghost even; wakes up hot and hard, and scrubs his hand down the side of his face when he sits up in bed. Phantom memories of a body heavier than his weighing him down (just the duvet) and a thick hand curling around his dick (his own hand wrapped around his shaft, rubbing one out in his sleep). 

He shakes it off, but it follows him out into the real world. Looking at the door of a coffee shop and thinking absentmindedly, Ghost would have to duck under that. 

Johnny puts it out of his mind. As much as he’s able to, that is. Chalks it up to some kind of hero worship. He’s worked with superior officers before—plenty of times, hundreds of times—but there are few men of Ghost’s calibre, both in skillset and mystique. Not to mention the sheer size of the guy. And what is Johnny if not a moth to a flame?

Better not to ruminate. He casts the memory of seeing Ghost’s dick in the showers after their last mission (monstrous thing, uncut, pubes darker than the hair on his head, more than a mouthful—it’d give him lockjaw) out of his head. Doesn’t think about it. Laughs at a mate’s joke at the pub when he didn’t catch a word of it to mask the way he perked up at the sight of a wide-shoulder man until he turned around, giving Johnny a proper look at his face.

He’s not ready to think about it. Might never be able to really look at why he eats it up, why he struts around with his chin cocked just a bit higher than usual because he knows everyone else is watching him with equal parts envy and curiosity for being Ghost’s favourite. 

Then, one day, he meets a girl.

Johnny’s not winning an award any time soon for world’s best son, but he knows a thing or two. The first thing being chocolates and the second being flowers. His sisters handle the rest; they fuss about the party, get a gift certificate to the spa, send out the invites—all that fun stuff. He’s sent off for the bare essentials. Practically kicked out of the house by his oldest sister—nearly brains himself on the asphalt and tugs his windbreaker on when it’s thrown out the door after him a second later, grumbling about being the errand boy.

He picks up a box of chocolates from the corner shop (not fancy enough, his sisters will probably bitch, but that’s a problem for later) before heading down the road to the florist. There’s a bench out front stacked with tin flower vases, the only spot of colour on a dreary spring morning. He spends a couple minutes chatting with the cashier and flirting a bit halfheartedly (he thinks maybe it’ll be worth it if it gets him a discount, even five percent off) until the florist comes out from the back. 

“Jesus, who gave ye the right?” Johnny breathes, horse blinders on, vision narrowing on the object of desire coming out of the back in a linen apron and simple t-shirt underneath, scissors poking out of the front pocket. 

“The right?” she repeats back, blinking.

“To leave the house lookin’ so fuckin’ gorgeous. Glad I wasn’t driving when I passed you by—woulda been in a twenty car pile up.”

She’s not impressed in the slightest. It’s thrilling. By that point, the cashier is long forgotten. Probably not the best impression he’s ever made, but he’s made worse ones. It’s not every day he comes across an angel. Hard to be polite in front of a real life miracle. 

He wears her down over the week though, showing up each day for a new bouquet. His mam’s never liked him more, so at least there’s that. His sisters side-eye him whenever he ducks out of the house to head down the road to the florist’s, but even they know better than to bring it up and risk pissing off their mam. He interrogates her about flowers and her job, makes his presence unavoidable, a week long siege that ends with Johnny taking her out to dinner and then letting her take him to bed. 

He wakes up nestled in her cozy apartment above the flower shop, stretching out and making himself right at home. When she trades in her linen apron for a terry cloth robe and stands expectantly by the door, Johnny just grins. Shows all of his teeth. 

“Are ye just gonna use me and kick me out?” he pouts. Folds his hands behind his head and digs a foot into the sheets, trying to sink into the mattress. Little king in his castle. 

“You know, you don’t have to pussyfoot around with me. Weren’t you just trying to get laid?” she asks, brow arched. The disbelief thick in her voice makes it clear what she thinks of him. 

“No’ just some playboy, hen,” he scoffs. “I have feelings too.”

Her other eyebrow lifts. He’s tickled pink.

He plays the part well, he supposes. Lounges in bed and eats grapes all morning while she stares at him from the kitchen like he might dissipate at any moment. He’s used to leaving a false impression, like a lake that someone builds their house next to until years go by and someone says I think this was once a meteor. 

When she comes back to bed around mid morning, Johnny wastes no time pulling her up onto the bed until she plants her cunt over his mouth and sinks down onto his waiting tongue. 

Candy sweet pussy, he thinks blissfully, then says it out loud because he can never keep his mouth shut. It must tickle because she yelps and nearly pulls away from his face altogether, but he wrenches her back down, fingers digging into her ass cheeks a bit too forcefully. He’ll pay for that later. 

In the aftermath, when she collapses beside him in bed and rests her head on his chest while he plays with her hair, he itches in his skin to message Ghost. It perplexes him. They never text, he and Ghost; they don’t call, they don’t write, they don’t email. For all intents and purposes, their relationship ends at the perimeter around base, dissolves to nothing. It’s not Ghost’s fault he trickles into Johnny’s dreams sometimes. 

A week goes by. Calm the mind. He thinks of Ghost and his fingers tremble and the phone stays silent and he lets the thought go. Steady. Breathe in and out. His caryatid girl slips in and out of his sheets, hesitant always like he might leave. Johnny doesn’t know if she wants him to, wants to feel vindicated in her assumption, but of all her wants, that ranks the lowest in his mind. 

He spirals deeper into it, infatuated. She’s sweet but snippy, candy sweet with a sour kick—everything he’s ever wanted in a girl. Ever unimpressed, watching him with a small, hidden smile, amused despite herself. 

Johnny wonders if this is the universe waving its hand in front of his face. Yoohoo, missing something?

He looks pointedly away. 

It’s new, but maybe he’s like every other military man in the world, unable to go with the flow, dissatisfied with seeing where things go. He needs instant gratification, everything now-now-now, the certainty of commitment—he spills blood with everyone he knows, so why would his girl be any different?

Returning back to base is harder this time around. The last day of his leave is an exercise in restraint, tempered only by her smile when he sees her off at the door to her apartment, reluctant to leave. 

“C’mon, promise me you’ll call, hen,” Johnny mumbles into her mouth, catching her answer with a languid swipe of his tongue. His arms press her tight to his chest, digging his hands into her back pockets and giving a good squeeze, relishing in the way she squeaks. “How’m I gonna survive without ye, huh? They’re gonna have to jumpstart my heart after it gives out from missing ye so bad.”

“So dramatic. You have my number,” she says when he finally pulls back enough to let her speak.

“No, please, baby, please—promise me—”

“Oh my god, alright, fine—I’ll call. Now get going already.”

The drive back to base leaves him feeling bedraggled, lost. When he gets in, it’s straight to the barracks, an hour long nap before reporting to Price, dragging his feet the whole way over. Moping, for lack of a better word, until he rounds a corner and nearly collides with someone that stops him with a single hand on his shoulder. 

When he looks up to eyes rimmed in black paint, the world lightens. His shoulders lift. 

“Wipe that smirk off your face, Johnny.”

It takes Johnny awhile to bring her up with Ghost. Something keeps holding him back, choking him when he tries to say it outloud. He blames it on uncertainty (had to be sure she was the one, Lt, ye ken?) but he feels the truth at the core of him. When he does finally muster up the nerve to pass his phone to Ghost where her photo is front and centre, no mistaking his intentions, he waits on tenterhooks for a reaction. 

Only breathes out when Ghost asks to meet her. He can do that. 

“Aye, Lt. Just for you.”

[discard-celestia]

USE MOUTHWASH / DO NOTHING

[sluttymark]

YES FINALLY ANOTHER TOP MALE WRITER FOR INVINCIBLE, PLEASE FEED US, WE ARE VERY MUCH STARVING HERE 😭

YEAH!!! I'm starving out here trying to find a top ! male reader fic x invincible characters, I've seen a few but it's so little— I mean, bottom ! male reader fics are good enough but still...

Anyways, here's a small fic / hcs mixed together about mark and top ! male reader, pure fluff cos I'm not in the mood for anything just yet :3

To be yours, Is possible

tags: mark grayson , top!male reader , fluff x1 , sfw , fluff x2, bottom (?) mark , Top ! male reader is presented as a masculine guy with no feminine traits, multiple POVS because I'm indecisive, sorry!

AN: Mark Is portrayed as a boy who struggles to balance being a student and being Invincible! it's not entirely accurate to the comics or show, but hey, I tried my best!

ദ്ദി˙ ᴗ ˙ ) ..

Mark was given a gift by the heavens, which was you— a man who understood his flaws and insecurities, despite him being 'Invincible' and a wonder-boy in the publics eyes, he was vastly different In private, a boy who had personal issues of his own, and his thoughts battling with one another.

He was unstable, most of the time to say the least— but you loved him either way, because; that's what boyfriends are for! you love him with your whole heart, you didn't love him just because he was invincible, you didn't love him just for fame or his powers— No, you loved him as a whole. You loved the way he melted Into your touch, the way he felt around you, it just felt— right.

Now, going back— You had your arms wrapped around him, like you were afraid he'd disappear the moment you let him go, you truly loved him so much, you could burst with how much love you had for him.

“I love you, so so much. Fuck— I wanna die like this.” You said, nuzzling into his hair; the two of you were laying on the couch in the living room, both of you in your own little worlds, with mark lazily on top of you, face nuzzled into the crook of your neck— you could feel his heart beating softly, and god— this was romantic, no; this was love right here.

“love you alot too, reader.” Was all he replied, his voice filled with exhaustion, his arms around your neck, him wearing your hoodie, with the soft hum of the fan, it all felt comforting. And after all— It was a lazy and slow day, with him taking a break from being Invincible, and It was your rest day too, being a part time tutor and a student to support both of you.

You always took care of mark, and along with that— your attentive care of his injuries whenever he returned back home from a fight, usually with broken fingers, deep cuts and broken bones; yes, he can recover easily, but the process was pain filled, and that's where you come in, always helping him through it, pain killers, cold and warm baths, and cuddling, his form of medicine.

...Now talking about your public life, with you and mark as students, you were stereotyped as a 'jock'; though you mainly correct them by saying you only do sports during your free time, not all the time of course. Football? you're good at it, soccer? somewhat good but not that good to be considered as a professional, while mark? he simply exist, he has good grades, attentive in studying, but he'd get lazy most of the time, which you have to force him to do homework when the due date is tomorrow, basically— a lazy puppy and a productive puppy.

Talking about what he loves about you, he drools over your body— and you as a whole. But the part he loves you the most? Definitely your biceps, you weren't that jacked— but somewhat that could be considered as mascular, you somehow discovered mark loved being crushed by your biceps, maybe due to the experimenting you two do, or maybe something else? either way, he loves being close to you, and physical touch was one of them— holding hands? yeah, his shoulder touching yours? most definitely, he wasn't touch starved, but he does love physical touch, as it means so much to him.

Your relationship with marks mother, Debbie? oh oh, you absolutely loved her energy! how she cooks, the way she brought you embarrassing pictures of mark, and little gossips here and there, you're basically apart of the family now, she welcomed you with open arms, she was definitely supportive with your relationship with mark.

Talking about how you found out he was Invincible... It was relatively easy, Mark can be forgetful sometimes— which meant you always did everything around the apartment you two shared, and you did discover his suit thrown away at some corner of his room, poorly hidden; though, you didn't immediately freaked out, you were suspicious whenever mark disappeared and Invincible was out there saving the city. But either way, you didn't care— he was yours and nothing could change it, he was invincible? hell yeah but he's still your pretty boy.

END

Ughh, this is the end! thank you to whoever is reading this :3 ill be answering questions slow because I'm very much busy and I'm still suffering from writer burnt out, but I'll get back on track

[usertoxicyaoi]

"I'm not here today to do serious birdwatching with you. I came to discover what you enjoyed doing. I came just for that. Despite unexpected things, if today ends well, it would have been fun."

TAKARA NO VIDRO (2024). EPISODE EIGHT.

[isasweetie]

i need to know more about prissy and ruthies drama omg!

okok i’ll share the origin a bit !! <3

so, as we hopefully know, prissy is a girls girl to her core! it doesn’t matter their popularity or whatever, prissy is supporting every girl that walks her way. that included ruthie, at the start, so they got along for a bit. that made rafe veeeery happy, because they could go on double dates n such!

but there’s an instance where prissy walks in late on a conversation at the country club. she had left rafe, top, and ruthie alone to get a drink for her and a whiskey for rafe. all she catches ruthie say is “kiara carrera”, and assuming ruthie is as sweet as she is, and is only saying good things, prissy says, “oh, kie? i love her, she’s so pretty and nice!” as she sets down her drink.

ruthie visibly has a snarl on her lip as she rolls her eyes. “i’m sorry? you’re friends with that broke-ass bitch? rafe, you allow this?” prissy is lost at this point, confused as she glances up at rafe.

rafe, as much as he loves prissy, cares a lot about his reputation, and doesn’t want prissy messing it up. so he answers, saying, “uhhh, shit, i didn’t even know about it. we’ll have to talk about it at home,” only you know that he’s lying, that usually he does let you hang out with kie, the only pogue he tolerates.

at home, you’re instantly asking rafe what that was. he’s answering, talking about how “you can’t associate with pogues anymore” and “you’re gonna dig yourself into a hole if you yap about how much you adore the pogues in front of the wrong people.” you’re glossy-eyed the entire time, very confused.

“but i like kie,” is your meek answer.

“i know, baby, but this is important, okay? i’m trying to help you. can you do this for me?” and you nod. because as much as rafe is controlling sometimes, he’s always right for the most part.

you distance yourself from the pogues, listening to your boyfriend. ruthie has started to be less warm around you anyway, it seems one positive mention of the pogues flipped a cold switch in her brain. she’s not even bothering to talk to you about why she’s mad, and you don’t have a chance to explain that you’re not associating with the pogues anymore.

the next time you see the pogues is at the beach. rafe had brought you along to sit in the sand with him while his buddies surfed, and you were happy to come along and tan. conveniently, you’re set up right beside the pogues. you give them a smile and wave, unlike all the people around you who are whispering about them and glaring at them.

as the pogues are leaving a little while later and you’re all packing up to leave as well, ruthie, who’s already in the car, decides to scare them a bit and drift the car around the pogues and their things. in the process, the most devastating thing happens — she runs over a turtle hatch. you rush to go check on them, but rafe holds you back. you’re already tearing up.

“ruthie, oh my gosh— did you know what you just did?” you ask.

“yeah, who cares? they’re just turtles,”

that turns your upset expression into anger. “i— i’m sorry, ruthie, are you kidding?” ruthie’s head is turning back and forth at kiara, who’s now yelling too. “those were baby animals, and you just killed them! and— and everyone was so happy to see them, and they had a life to live, and you were a stupid asshole and you ran them over! and kie—“ she cuts off your rambling the minute that name leaves your mouth.

“ohhh, it’s all over kie, huh?” she sighs. “honey, i’m sorry i killed your little turtles, okay? is that what you want, an apology? want me to apologize to your girlfriend too, hm? you’re a sweetheart, truly, for pretending to care about those dumb animals— and the turtles too, i guess. don’t worry about kie, she’s a big girl, she’ll be fine.”

the obvious fake-kindness and patronizing tone makes the first tear spill.

“rafe, you really picked a sweet one,” ruthie continues, looking up at your boyfriend, still holding you from behind. “a pogue-loving ditzy cunt, you just won the lottery,” she says sarcastically, batting her eyelashes and smiling.

he says nothing, because if he argues then suddenly he’s not full-kook anymore, people will think he’s defending the pogues, when he just wants to defend you. he holds you tighter as he moves you to his side. “c’mon, let’s walk home, yeah? we’ll take the pretty way home,” he mutters, dragging you and your teary face away.

from there on out, you’re constantly attacked by only one girl for two simple comments you made. you’ve never been in a fight with anyone, let alone another girl, and you’re unsure how to act. but thank goodness that for now, until it escalates, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with some dick from rafe.

[digital-slvt]

perspective ☆

[marlborocrow]

kinky disabled people ily

kinky disabled people on disability ily

kinky disabled people with community supports ily

kinky disabled people with partners who are your full time caretakers ily

kinky disabled people who can’t socialize but can have sex ily

kinky disabled people who haven’t left the house in several weeks but have had kinky sex throughout, ily

kinky disabled people in 24/7 dynamics with your partners ily

kinky disabled people ily, you deserve to have good things, you deserve to feel good and enjoy sex like anyone else, including kinky sex.

[retrogamingblog2]