#but it's really been dragging for some reason

[okwonyo]

YOU ARE THE BOSS ★ anything that you say

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐕 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗌

𝟏𝟐𝟗𝐎𝒾──── downbad!enhypen 𝗑 f!rea ✿ fluff 𓂋 mention of alcohol kissing skinship ❞ 𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆 ｡ ⠀

𝗥𝗘𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗚 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗔 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦

HEESEUNG

you drank a bit much tonight. heeseung smiles at the cute rose tint on your cheeks and your messy hair.

“woah, woah, calm down, baby,” you tend to get a little touchy when tipsy. heeseung find it cute, very attractive even. but it’s hard when he is trying to go get you water.

“where are you going?” your pout almost makes heeseung crawl to bed next to you.

his heart sinks when he needs to take your hands off of him, “i’ll be back, sweets.”

he innocently thinks he has tamed you for a second. then, your hand holds onto his tie when he is about to get too far from you. his mouth falls on yours without him realizing.

saying that he melts into the kiss in a millisecond is an understatement. his mind goes completely blank— kissing you back being the only thing he knows at the moment. he would let you drag him like this anywhere, any day and anytime.

“holy shit,” he is stunned. unable to move even five seconds after the kiss. he stays still, blinking as he tries to remember what he wanted to do at the start.

JAY

“do i look good?” he asks, stepping in the bathroom. he stands right next to you, observing his reflection in the mirror with a worried expression plastered on his pretty face.

seeing him through the mirror isn’t enough. you have to turn your head to his direction. you take a well needed time to scan his entire body: from his head down to his expensive shoes.

nothing goes past you, not even the tiniest details on his red cravat, not even the fabric of his white shirt or the buttons of his black suit.

however, as you take your time to admire what is standing in front of you for free, jay grows impatient, “is it bad?”

“are you joking?” you huff in disbelief. he seems quite serious to you and in need for some stress relief.

he is too distracted by his suit to see you reach for his red tie. he doesn’t expect to be pulled forward so strongly but he holds your hips still and kisses you harder.

“you look good,” you say against his lips, with your arms around his neck.

he hums, “look at you, princess.”

JAKE

he loves watching you dance. especially when you are a bit tipsy, when your dress turned whenever you do and when they play your favorite song on the big speakers.

amongst all the people on the dance floor, he thinks you stand out the best. perhaps, because he is obsessed with you. but he is sure there is a reason for that.

he drank a little too. he follows your order like a puppy when you give him the sign to join you with your index finger.

he tries to follow your move on but being around you when he is drunk makes him a little nervous. his dance moves are messy and ridiculous enough to make you burst out laughing.

his feels his entire face getting red at the sound of your laughter but he laughs back. his heart pulse rises when you wrap your fingers around his tie, his eyes grow wide with fascination the more you pull him closer to you.

the sound he makes when you kiss him is downright embarrassing. but you are goddamn hot and your lips taste too good to be true.

SUNGHOON

he isn’t even sure of where you are taking him or why you're guiding him like that. but he is enjoying it a lot.

you have been dragging him like this since you both stepped out of the car. with your hand around his tie, you make him trail behind you to your apartment’s door. let’s say you got him on a leash, quite literally.

he likes it. loves it, even. he follows you with a sick smirk drawn on his lips. wondering why you are so eager to get back home.

your hand doesn’t leave his cravat even after the door closes behind the both of you. sunghoon chuckles, “you really lov—”

soon enough the kiss you give him shuts him up. he groans inside your mouth, thick eyebrows furrowing at the intensity of the kiss. it’s like his dreams are becoming true.

his hands are well too comfortable moving all around your body for him to remember what he wanted to say.

SUNOO

playing with sunoo’s tie is always very fun. you like to twirl it around your finger like a wandering hair strand, to run your thumbs over it’s pattern or loosen it to tighten it after.

your boyfriend really doesn’t mind. he is too busy talking to you to get bothered by your silly antics. he is always so immersed in his rambles— which you find really cute.

now, your favorite thing to do when sunoo wears one of his pretty ties is to pull him close to you. he lets himself lean in without stopping to talk. you give him a kiss, he blushes, he continues talking right after you pull away.

you wait until he is standing straight to repeat the lovely game you made. over and over. kisses and kisses and rambles.

at some point, sunoo gets to red in the face and becomes unable to continue. he starts to avoid your eyes, a gentle smile spreading on his mouth before he hides his face in your neck.

JUNGWON

he is running late. honestly, he can only blame himself for this. no matter how many time you tried to wake him or get him off of you—and the bed— he groaned and readjusted his position.

he only got up when you told him what hour it was. he left the bed in such a hurry than he almost fell on the floor. his sleepy headed self bumped into every furniture on his way.

“are you not going to take breakfast?” you ask when he kisses you cheek. all dressed up and clean. suit hugging perfectly his body and cravat sitting so politely.

“i don’t have enough time,” he answers in a hurry, already ready to leave.

you won’t let him go away so quickly though, “ah, ah,” you grab his tie.

all the tension in his body seems to leave as soon as your mouths touch. he hums, sounding extremely content and soft at the contact of your lips.

he cups your jaw, tilts his head to the side, getting a little too much into it. “you have work,” “i’ll take care of you first.”

RIKI

“can you help me with this?” his voice is soft as he hands you his cravat.

you take your eyes off your phone to gawk at him— you swear you’ve seen him tie it on his own before, “uh,” you get up, taking the piece of clothing hesitantly, “sure.”

riki doesn’t look at how yours fingers work on the tie. he stares shamelessly at your face, which makes you nervous. he grins, “you suck at this.”

you want to give him a mean look. your eyes fall into his immediately, which makes your gaze more fond than not, “shut up.”

“no, baby, that’s seriously not how you tie a tie,” he laughs. he is lying for the pleasure of teasing you— you are doing it perfectly actually.

you ignore him. but he won’t shut up, still. “it’s too tight—”

his stupid grin won’t go away even after you yank him closer by his tie, “riki, shut up.”

“make me,” he whispers and funnily enough, he is the one who kisses you first. when he kisses you fervently like this, you understand it was all part of his evil schemes.

분지 ܃ i hope you enjoyed 🎀

taglist open 。

[ghouljams]

Okay… I hope this isn’t weird but I really do love cannibal kinks and the symbolism of giving oneself to the other for them to live but also… I like it when they’re deranged as hell.

I remember you talking about Ghost and how he’d definitely survive the apocalypse by going to cannibalism when food runs out and you’re so, so right.

I want to say he doesn't even wait for food to run out but that would be a lie, the man is utilitarian to his core. He stockpiles dry food, canned goods, he butchers the cow and deer he buys from farmers outside the city, stores them in his deep freeze (the one with its own generator). He has meat for months, rations for years, and yet as soon as shit hits the fan his shitty apartment in the city doesn't cut it the way he thought it would. There are too many people, too much noise, too much chaos. Not the sort he relishes in, the kind that crashes into buildings like a wave, attempting to shake their foundations like the horns of Jericho. It's a chaos he knows, the kind that always follows political upheaval, the kind that makes leaving the city feel less risky than sticking around.

So he packs what he can into his car, and to be fair he can pack quite a bit in there, and he gets the fuck out of the city. Takes the back roads, avoids highways and the city center. He pats himself on the back for getting something suited to rough terrain, remembers Soap complaining that he was bringing the military home with him. He finds a cabin out in the middle of the woods, remembers seeing a listing for it on some bnb website while the internet was still up, and hopes no one else had the same idea.

He avoids opening the freezer he managed to stuff in the back seat, digs a cup into a sack of beans, eats them just barely cooked while he checks the ropes on the generator strapped to the top of his car. He chews on jerky while he drives, tries to remember the farms in the area, reasons over whether or not he could nab a cow even just for the milk. Considers setting rabbit traps, nearly grabs a duck from a pond he drives past for the eggs, thinks better of it when he has the poor creature by the neck and isn't sure where he's supposed to put it in his crammed car.

All this to say he's fucking exhausted by the time he reaches the dark little cabin. Somehow all that sleep deprived insanity reaches a peak spotting your little sedan sitting between the trees, the flutter of someone peeking through the curtains... he hardly waits to unload his own vehicle before breaking the door down to see what a suddenly merciful God has granted him. Toys, he thinks to himself as you spit and kick and scream for someone to help, knew I forgot something.

The skin around his eye is starting to darken by the time he gets dinner on the table. Most of the fight went out of you at the promise of food, and you'd even been kind enough to help him get the freezer inside once he'd gotten the generator running. He'd have to get some of the trees around the place limbed up so the solar can keep it running, but he'll worry about that tomorrow.

"What's this," You sniff at the meat sitting nicely charred on your plate.

"Don't remember 'is name." Ghost smiles, the scars around his lips tugging the skin twisted. You grimace and push the plate away, your lip starting to wobble for a second time. "Eat," He tell you, "or it'll be you next."

You give him a long searching look, likely trying to see if he's serious. You must not like what you find, because you drag the plate close and start to pick at the meat. You do your best to hide the gag that nearly slips past your lips, choking down distinctly inhuman meat. Oh well, Ghost thinks, be easier to get you to eat it later.

[astirysk2electricboogaloo]

the godfather?! close, (ish) but ACTUALLY it's the looney tunes parody of goncharov from the early 2000's that got mostly scrapped because warner brothers didn't feel a childsafe version of goncharov was really possible or good to be associated with the looney tunes name, and the mess that was it's production.

and quite frankly, they were right. this thing has pretty much been buried and scrubbed out of existence. everyone that worked on it didn't want to be associated with it because the finished product was such a mess nowhere near the original after being handed off to three different teams that couldn't agree on anything killed it That Bad™. it has almost as many production hell issues as el terror, (the terror. b roll jack nicholson movie that is a HOT MESS) but somehow ended up way worse. by the time they got a finished product out, (at least as finished as warner bros was willing to keep spending time and money on) nobody wanted their name on this thing.

what did make it out in leaks cuts and adds so much from the plot of goncharov it may as well be an entire other movie. they also tried to add a few modern jokes but it really didn't match the tone this "parody" was supposed to have.

for starters, they cut out andre entirely and replaced him with some american woman named clara. clara's also a secret agent for the mi6, (and she's very southern. like southern as sweet tea.) who wants intel on the italian mob in naples to give to the us government, for some reason. this is supposed to be extremely significant and they never explain it.

also they put naples in australia. there's a globe zoom out where clara steps out of new york across the ocean into the middle of australia nowhere near italy. the next scene is her dramatically walking through a market where the background characters are speaking italian. one of them is a kangaroo.

goncharov and clara have an affair and it's very obvious. nothing explicit since this was supposed to be family friendly, but really obvious.

the clock scene takes place in front of a barbie pink version of big ben, in space, on the fucking moon. it's actually made of cheese and has a bite taken out of it.

apparently goncharov is actually an alien and there's an entire sub plot where he's sabotaging his superior's invasion of earth.

he's also in his original planet's military but got bored and hid on earth until "goncharen" found him. goncharen looks similar to him according to the script, but images leaked of her character are porky the pig in very oversized drag with double d's. kind of like bugs bunny but i guess since he's playing katya and clara, AND sofia they didn't want to seem too redundant. also she's his sister. this is mentioned briefly in a fourth wall break introduction of her by goncharov, (played by daffy.) and then her character literally vanishes and is never mentioned again. she fades out of reality with a wobbly ghost voice like she's giving him information from the great beyond.

there's a scene where katya and clara are arguing above an escalator. bugs accomplishes this by switching sides of the screen and outfits, even sofia who is watching this shit go down in the background from 15 feet away. he manages this for 11 minutes until he drops katya's shoe and watches as the stairs of the escalator lift up, form a mouth, and eat the shoe. it then catches on fire.

the scene then jumps to all of the characters screaming in some kind of argument with exaggerated hand gestures. it's a mess of yelling in italian, southern accent english, and italian again but in a british accent. one of the voice actors slipped "i am being paid peanuts for this bullshit. i am allergic." in italian into this scene.

the entire scene is also inexplicably on the ground floor. there was no explanation for how bugs got to the ground floor from the 9th.

daffy walks in struggling to eat a comically long piece of cheese off of a slice of pizza. he gets distracted by his three girlfriends argument with each other and everyone else, chokes on the cheese and fucking dies. (they also straightwashed katya and sofia.)

bugs is too busy arguing with himself and everyone else to notice until the room goes quiet with everyone having a somber expression including daffy who's fake dead on the floor. the only noise in the scene is coming from the burning escalator in the background. bugs starts screaming in a pitch only dogs can hear. the sound didn't change but it cuts to a group of dogs eating trash in an alley who perk their ears and all look to the left. this scene also looks like the simpsons and may be a reference to it.

it then ends with all of the characters singing some cheesy song about friendship (?????) and doing the can can behind daffy who's still pretending to be dead but now he has giant bug antennas on his head that has pink feathers taped to them. some of them fall off.

the credit music is a mashup of katya's song and everytime we touch by cascada.

they also cut out ice pick joe and did not give him a replacement. apparently yosemite sam was considered but they made him a sensei character that trains goncharov to fight. i still don't understand the point of this.

[anonf1writer]

“but please shut up” — ln4

summary: from the SINGLE PARENT UNIVERSE and based on THIS request, I present to you 2k words about the moment Yn first said the three words to Lando, and then told him to shut up (or something like that). (I am reposting this because I didn’t like the first version, so... yeah. no more yn now)

──────────────────

You and Lando had been dating for no longer than six months when the words finally slipped out of your mouth. 

It was a Saturday morning. A sunny one, to be precise. One of those rare occasions that normally meant peeling Olivia away from the TV and getting her ready for a picnic at the park, or for riding a bike, or for doing just any activity that allowed you to soak the sun as much as possible. 

On that particular Saturday morning, though, the clear sky wasn’t the only rare thing happening in London.

For starters, you weren’t at your place, but at Lando’s apartment. Something that had never happened before. Not in the morning, at least. Not as a result of spending the night there. 

Then, of course, because you weren’t at your own place, there was also the fact that Olivia wasn’t there, with you. Instead, your sister had taken her to Bristol so she could spend a fun weekend with her cousins. And so you and Lando could have some time alone. 

So, yeah, of course—things were different that morning. 

And yes, maybe you could have sensed that something else would happen, something you didn’t see coming because it also normally never happened. 

But you didn’t.

All you did was wake up wrapped in Lando’s arms, kiss him good morning, and drag yourself out of bed. On your way across the bedroom, you grabbed one of his hoodies and put it on. Warm, oversized, and smelling like him. Exactly how you liked it. 

Once you made it to the kitchen, the space opened into sunlight and sleek surfaces. Fancy. Clean. Organized. Looking not even one bit like the messy tiny home you owned. With no crayons forgotten on the table, no mermaids and unicorns in the mugs and cups and plates, no colorful drawings stuck to the fridge. And yet just as comfortable and cozy in its own Lando Norris’ way. 

It made you smile, for some reason. A smile that you kept on your face while trying to decide what to make for breakfast, and that only grew bigger when Lando finally joined you in, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder while you cracked four eggs into a small bowl. 

“Hmm,” he murmured, his morning voice sending chills down through your spine. “You look really nice in my kitchen… Wearing my clothes… Smelling like me…”

You tilted your head slightly, leaning into his curls as he kissed your neck and just settled there, keeping up with your movements—with the whisking of the eggs and the soft clink of the fork echoing in that quiet morning. 

You could tell Lando was happy with that setting, with spending the morning together after also having spent the night together. Something you couldn’t really do very often, considering you still weren’t ready to add him into Olivia’s routine like that. Not without making sure—making fully, fully sure—that this wasn’t just a temporary thing for him. That he was staying in for good, and that he was actually willing to have a role not just in your life, but also in your daughter’s life. 

Which, to be honest, was becoming more and more easy to see as time went by. 

Like when he stepped away to grab the milk from the fridge and very casually asked, “Talked to Liv yet?”

“Not yet,” you said, then waited until he had splashed a bit of the milk into the small bowl to keep going. “Told my sister I’d give them a call after breakfast.” 

You sprinkled in a pinch of salt and went back to whisking, meanwhile Lando got himself busy by grabbing a pan and dropping a knob of butter into it. 

“I hope she’s having fun,” he said, distracted as he switched on the hob and placed the pan above the humming heat. “Y’know, I was thinking about what it’d be like to take her to the beach.” 

You paused. 

You paused and stared at the bowl. Right in front of you. 

And Lando laughed. 

And the butter sizzled gently. 

And then the smell of it filled the space. 

Warm. Comforting. 

“Sandcastle chaos, for sure,” he added.

Still chuckling. 

Still nonchalant. 

As if mentioning he had been thinking about your daughter and about how it would be to spend time with her didn’t bring this funny feeling to your chest. As if it wasn’t a big deal. As if it was normal. 

You swallowed.

To be fair, when it came to Lando, it actually wasn’t weird. Because he did that a lot—dropping how much he cared in the most subtle, random ways. In the little things. 

But this morning, for some reason, it seemed to happen more than usual. 

He did it again, for instance, as you were sitting around the small table and having breakfast. As he was telling you about these new clothes he had bought online. Casually, randomly. Just by asking, “Purple’s her favourite, right?” 

To which you furrowed her brows and mumbled a simple, “huh?” 

“Liv’s.” He scraped the fork against his plate, gathering the scrambled eggs, and shrugged. “I saw these really cute tiny trainers that made me think of her.” He scooped up the food and shoved it inside his mouth. But he didn’t stop, he just chewed as he talked, muffling the words. “They were… Mmph… Puh’pul… Yeah?… Puh’pul’s her fav’rite… Innit?”

 “I—Yeah. Purple’s her favourite color, yeah.”

He smiled, swallowed and nodded, all proud of himself. 

“I knew it.” He took a sip of coffee, then focused on the beans still left on his plate. “Didn’t get them though…” He shoved the fork back into his mouth. Words mumbled as he chewed again. “Didn’know’er size, so… Oh!” He swallowed and shuffled on his seat. “Shit.” He coughed, choking a little around the food that had gone down his throat. “Um… Just remembered… Did I tell you about this… About this new idea we had for the next collection? I didn’t, did I?” 

“Um… I don’t think so, no…”

“Right. Yeah. So, listen to this…” 

And so he rambled about something else. 

And you listened. 

Trying to absorb as much as possible. Trying to understand. Trying to make sense. 

But then, as you were putting the dishes in the sink and talking about the next few weekends and how busy his schedule would be, he did it again. 

He brought her up again.

“I’ll try to come home as much as I can,” he said, “but y’know, if you ever want to come to a race one day, I’d love to have you there. Not just you, but Liv, too. Like, not now, of course, but later, when you’re ready. I’d like that.” 

And like a cherry on top, while you had your hands submerged in warm soapy water, he asked, “Hey, is it weird if I frame that little drawing Liv made the other day?”

You stopped.

And blinked at the plate you had in your hands. 

“The one she said was for good luck?” Lando added, pacing in the kitchen. Not in a nervous way, but in that very particular excited version of him. Full of caffeine. Hair sticking up in three different directions. Hands moving along with his words. Babbling. 

Always babbling.

“Or maybe not frame it but put it on the fridge or… I don’t know… Something. Just… Somewhere I can always see it… Y’know? Would that be weird?” 

You blinked again.

“Because I won’t if it’s weird… Don’t want to make it weird…”

“Lando…” you mumbled, eyes still fixed on the dish in your hand. 

“I mean I don’t know what the protocol is here… I know you said you wanted to take things slow when it comes to her, and I totally get it… I mean you know way better than I do, so I trust your judgment… It’s just that she’s so great, y’know? And that drawing is so cute. It’s been back and forth with me for weeks now, but I wanted to check with you because I—”

“For the love of God!” You dropped the sponge and the plate and turned around, water dripping from your fingers as you glared at him. “Lando, I swear I love you so much, but can you just please shut the fuck up for a moment?”

Lando stopped. 

No. Lando froze.

Mid-step. 

Not even looking at you.

Just.. Hand reaching into the cabinet. Eyes fixed ahead. Blinking to the clean tableware. 

And you didn’t even notice, so you just sighed. Loudly. Dropping your shoulders. Grabbing a tea towel to wipe your hands. And then trying again.

“Sorry. I don’t mean like, shut the fuck up, but just… Y’know, give me a minute to think? You’re like… Nonstop right now! Just going on and on and on about Livie and it’s just—”

“What did you just say?”

You looked at him.

He was still facing away, still frozen on the spot.

“That you’re going on and on about—” 

“No. Not that.” He dropped his arms to his sides and turned towards you. “Before.”

You frowned, searching inside your head for whatever you could’ve said that made him look like that right now—pale, shocked, terrified. On the verge of freaking out.

“I don’t know. What did I—”

“Love me,” Lando murmured. “You said you love me.”

“What?”

“You said,” —he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if gathering the strength to say the words— “Lando I love you so much but can you please shut the fuck up.”

“Oh.”

“That’s what you said. You said you love me.”

“Shit. Lan…”

You stepped forward. 

And he stepped backward. 

“Nuh-uh.” He raised one finger, pointing it at you. “Nope. Stay there.”

Your lips tugged up.

“Babe… C’mon.”

“You love me.”

“Mhmm…”

Lando dropped his arm.

Then opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

And then he looked away, dropping his posture like he had just been punched in the stomach.

“Holy shit,” he said. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—wow. Wow. Ok. Okay. Yeah. That’s—That’s just… Ok. I mean, did you—You really meant that?”

At that, you laughed. 

“Lando…” You dropped the tea towel on the counter and took a step forward, a tiny one. Just to make sure you could. That he wouldn’t run off. “Baby. Just breathe, okay?”

“I am breathing.”

“You’re also sweating.”

“I’m not—” He raised one hand, touching the back of his neck. And then he shook his head. “Maybe, who cares. That’s not the point.”

“Right… Then what’s the point?” you tried, softly this time. Stepping just a bit closer.

“That you love me.”

“Okay.” Standing in front of him, you placed your hands on his chest and nodded. “So? You’ll get used to it.”

Lando snorted and looked at you, his own hands instantly finding your waist. Almost involuntarily. As if they belonged there. As if it was the only natural reaction when having you so close to him. 

“You’re just… You think this is funny?”

“A little, yeah.” 

“I’m freaking out here.”

“I know. I know you would. That’s why I’ve been holding myself from saying it out loud.” 

He pulled you closer, and yet also flinched. Chin and head jerking back slightly while he made sure your body was as close as possible to his. “Why would you ever do that?”

“Why?!” You laughed and slid your hands up his chest, then up his shoulders and neck, until you were able to link your fingers through the short curls on the back of his head. “Did you see your reaction just now?”

“So? Just because I’m weird and freak out like this sometimes doesn’t mean that I… Y’know… That I don’t… I mean I just…”

“I know.” You nodded and launched yourself forward, kissing his cheek before landing back on your feet. “I know you do, babe. So whenever you’re ready. That’s okay.”

He sighed and leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. 

“Bloody hell I do. But now I’m gonna wait until you least expect it. Freak the hell out of you, too.”

You laughed and arched forward, barely lifting off your heels as you reached for a kiss.

Lando reacted quickly, closing his eyes and kissing you back.

And then, around his lips, you murmured, “Bring it on, babe. I dare you.” 

──────────────────

[pomegranate-eater]

cw: yandere, forced relationship, reader is pressured into kissing Phainon’s cheek to erase another person’s lips from his skin.

“I demand one more,” Phainon says with his hand on your hip, tapping his foot with agitation. You squirm as he readjusts you on his lap so the side of his head rests against yours, before his reverent yet shaky hands move to trace circles on your lower back.

“… One more?” You don’t want to have your echo confirmed if the bits of exhaustion are tearing their way into your voice.

The late evening is begging you to rest and yet this is still not the moment for the end of your torment. You’ve given him a bountiful of affectionate cheek smothering by now — if you can call the lip jabs you forced yourself to muster as such — and now he wants one more kiss… predicted by you to not be the actual postlude yet.

Your predicament is because of one, more vivacious woman that kissed his right cheek in the gratitude for his help with something in the earlier hour. The gesture had no romantic affiliations, only conveyed a polite affection for his kindness.

However, when Phainon has returned home after managing his duties in the unreachable for you outside, his agitated state painted the illusion of the event being much more tragic. You were subjected to watching him wipe his face with the sleeve to the point it was red from from the friction, next washing his face, until he dragged you to the chair to sit down with him and began urging you to smooch his face over and over, self-aware you wouldn’t want to watch him lose his mind whole night.

When he hastily explained the situation to you and asked for your forgiveness as if he cheated, sprinkled with some anger at the woman, you understood just one thing really — he believes you to be the only one who could kiss him, as only you are his devotion’s beloved. You’ve been finding him quite irrational, if he is panicking over something out of his control, and definitely not something you’re mad about.

Now in the present, he remains being clearly more offended and worried than you, the unwilling (and currently annoyed) participant in this relationship, are. “Yes. I can still feel her lips on my skin, and I don’t want you to think that I—” he self-deprecates to the point his arms over you squeeze.

You immediately cut off his frantic train of thought. “Phainon, her mouth has been eradicated at this point, I’m sure. All you can do is wait for your skin to begin a new cycle if you think she sunk deeper,” you say dryly, accidentally mocking him a little. Since you're sitting sideways on his lap, you peel your head away from his and straighten your left side, swallowed by his chest, so you can properly peer at him while continuing to talk. “Not to mention, that kiss wasn’t to steal your heart.”

You don’t care about this one stupid event, thinking he’s overreacting — that’s the singular reason why you could say you’re disappointed. Not only you’d gladly give him away to that woman, you also are sure he’s only going to hype himself with even more paranoia if you let it roll.

He seemingly doesn’t appreciate your lack of sympathy or understanding, not with the way his brows scrunch together and his lips purse, almost hurt by your frigid insight. He wanted you to be more possessive too so you could prove you recognize him as your lover; however, your apparent lack of being shaken by this ‘disloyalty’ is soothing in itself.

“I understand how counterproductive this is, and I’m glad you’re not feeling threatened by her, yet… could you please grant me this last one erasure? I promise, no more kisses after, and if I lie, you can slap me,” he pleads with desperation, gliding his hands over from your hips level to your waist. You click your tongue when you feel his leg impatiently jump from below your bottom.

You huff at his rather maniacal theatrics and look at his face that’s red from both blush and irritation. “I don’t believe you. I don’t think a slap would have stopped you.” He’d take more kisses even if he’d have to be slapped each time, you’re pretty sure about that — he would take anything from the person who refuses to touch him willingly.

“Oh, I beseech you to not be so pessimistic. I promise, I swear, I’ll let you be afterwards,” he smiles and speaks softly, but with his anxiety, the smile is crooked into an uncanny illusion. His face inches closer to yours and you shiver with disgust at his hot breath and clear excitement.

You foresee you won’t be getting any sleep if you won’t choose to cooperate — he’ll just keep nagging you until he wears you down into submission completely. Begrudgingly, you finally land your lips on his right cheek, and he doesn’t break his promise, as it’s really only one more…

…Except, his palms crush your side against his chest, forcing your plushiness to linger in the awful action of it marking him on his stained skin, as he soaks in your lips’ size, warmth, and texture. The labored exhale of contentment lands on your neck and grazes it unpleasantly.

Naturally, you struggle; you try to push him away with muffled screams against his cheek, your legs dangling off of his left side kicking. Yet, the man dazed by your closeness, only uses his mind to paint the image of some nasty and oozing scar slowly disappearing under your kiss.

This unfortunate incident lasts good fifteen seconds and ends only when he realizes he might have overdone his fixing, based upon the wetness on his face manifesting the beginning of your tears. He lets you his arms leave you and wipes the moistness staining the softness of his precious birdie.

“Please, forgive me. I went ahead of myself,” while gentle, he doesn’t sound apologetic much. He senses his mind is cleared now, and it is his turn to kiss your cheek in poor attempt of soothing you, shushing and rocking you at that. The flinch you give him when you feel the intrusive lips is something he’s used by now, so once he’s done, he doesn’t question it.

“Fine,” you acquiesce. As his chest shrinks from the relieved breath and he looks pretty again with a happy smile, he helps you up on your feet and guides you to your shared room for rest.

Phainon simply couldn’t have helped himself. The idea of someone else touching him so intimately feels forbidden, because even if you didn’t ask for it, he is inclined to be yours only.

That’s just devotion, isn’t it?

It’s only a matter of time and opening your eyes until he gains your approval, even if the latter has to come forcefully.

[potatipejr]

Hopeless, but Happy

Spencer Agnew x F!Reader

Summary:  Spencer is out at a bar, not drinking, clearly pining for his girlfriend, and not even trying to hide it— despite all the teasing.

Word count: 3.0k

A/N: y’all i really thought i cooked with the last one, so yes i used ‘bakery employee’ as a callback

—————————————————————————

The music was too loud.

Like way too loud.

And not in the cool, pulsing-through-your-chest kind of way you’d expect at a concert or a club— but in that muffled, bass heavy way that made every sentence sound like it was being shouted underwater. A pop remix of a song from eight years ago blasted through outdated speakers, warped just enough to be annoying. Loud laughter, clinking glasses, and the unmistakable screech of a barstool dragging across the floor layered on top of it all.

Spencer didn’t say it out loud— he knew better than to complain when everyone else was clearly enjoying themselves. The whole Smosh team had spilled into the place after a long, chaotic shoot day. There had been confetti, numerous costume changes, and way too many retakes of a gag involving peanut butter. Everyone was running on adrenaline and caffeine and that strange buzz you get from knowing you pulled something ridiculous off. It made sense they wanted to celebrate.

The bar itself was nothing special— one of those places with sticky floors that gripped your shoes when you walked and booths you sank into whether you wanted to or not. It smelled like old beer and bar food grease, with just a hint of artificial lemon cleaner trying to mask it. The walls were lined with fake vintage signs advertising drinks that hadn't been cool since the '90s, and there was a broken pinball machine in the back that clearly had fallen victim to the angry outbursts by its drunken customers.

Spencer sat at the very edge of the booth, his shoulder half off the cushion, posture stiff and angled slightly toward the door. A nearly untouched Shirley Temple sat in front of him, sweating condensation onto the wooden tabletop. He stirred it idly with the straw, the red cherry long gone but the drink still full. He wasn’t really in the mood for sugar— he’d just needed something to do with his hands. Something that didn’t involve texting you... again.

He was checking his phone a little too often. Not in a subtle way either. Every couple of minutes, his hand would drift down like it had a mind of its own. The screen would light up with the same background, a photo you’d taken of the two of you in the park, both laughing, and then dim again when he realized, for the fifth or sixth time, that no, you had not messaged yet. His thumb hovered over your contact, paused above the tiny text bubble as if maybe just looking at it hard enough would make a notification appear.

It wasn’t like he was expecting anything major. Just a “hey.” Or a “made it home.” Maybe even a dumb meme, something you would’ve sent him just to make him snort in public and look around like he wasn’t falling in love. 

But the screen stayed quiet, and the party around him carried on without him.

Shayne and Angela were deep into a very dramatic argument about whether mozzarella sticks were the superior bar food. Courtney was at the bar ordering another round with Tommy, already halfway through some complicated drink the bartender had rolled his eyes at. In front of Arasha’s small digital camera, Chanse posed effortlessly, shifting every few seconds like he was born for it. Everyone was laughing, warm with alcohol and that looseness that comes after a successful day of chaos. It was the kind of night Spencer usually loved.

But not tonight.

Tonight, all he could think about was you— your voice, your laugh, the way your hand fit against his chest when you cuddled into him on the couch. He missed you with an intensity that surprised even him. It wasn’t that you were far away. You weren’t on vacation or in another country. You were just... not here. And for some reason, that felt like miles.

Maybe it was how long the day had been. Maybe it was the way the booth cushion had a weird dip in it and he kept sliding toward Shayne. Maybe it was the third couple he’d seen kiss in the last ten minutes.

Or maybe it was just you. The you–shaped space beside him that no one else could fill.

He took another sip of his Shirley Temple, more out of habit than desire, and sighed. His phone buzzed against the table, and his heart did an embarrassing lurch— until he saw it was a group text from Courtney, sending a blurry photo of Shayne holding mozzarella sticks like nunchucks.

Spencer forced a smile, thumbs-upped the picture, and set his phone down face-up.

Then picked it up again five seconds later. Just in case.

“Who are you texting?” Angela’s voice cut through the music with ease, sly and lilting, like she already knew the answer but wanted to hear him squirm anyway. She sipped her cocktail and arched a perfectly judgmental eyebrow over the rim of the glass. In her hand, she held a violently neon pink thing that looked like it could summon demons and smelled like it could strip paint.

Spencer blinked. He looked up a little slower than he meant to, still blinking at the brightness of his phone screen. “Hmm?”

Courtney leaned across the table, her forearms braced against the sticky surface with the kind of knowing look that only meant trouble. “Dude. You haven’t looked up in ten minutes. We’re beginning to think you’re secretly in a long-distance relationship with Siri.”

Spencer gave a small laugh, setting his phone down, screen up. No shame. No apology. “I’m texting my girlfriend.”

There it was: that telltale shift in his face. That barely-there, dopey smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth and made his eyes go all soft around the edges. He didn’t even try to stop it. He couldn't even if he tried.

Across the booth, Shayne dragged out a groan like he was on a fake reality show, flopping dramatically back into the seat. “Ohhh, here we go. Cue the Spencer Is In Love segment. Episode fifty of season four. Bring in the roses, the doves; I'll even throw a violin in there for you.”

“Wait,” Chanse said, perking up, “is this the same girl from the bakery?

“Yep,” Spencer nodded his head, a little too excited, which made everyone immediately cackle.

Angela pointed her cocktail at him like it was a weapon. “I knew it. You were way too detailed when you told me how you met. ‘Her apron had this little chocolate smudge right on the edge.’ Bro, that’s not a story. That’s a romantic novel.”

Spencer rolled his eyes and sank a little deeper into the booth, but he wasn’t even pretending to be annoyed. The teasing rolled off him tonight, feather-light, because they weren’t wrong. He was stupidly in love. Unapologetically. And he kind of loved that they noticed.

“She just got off work,” he murmured, almost to himself, glancing down at his phone again. “She said she might call.”

Courtney reached over and gently thumped her knuckles against his glass. “So that’s why you’re being the most sober person in this whole place. You’re waiting by the phone like someone’s dad in a G-rated Disney movie.”

Spencer laughed again, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I just… I like hearing her voice after a long day. Sue me.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re in love.” Angela said with mock exasperation.

“Tell her we said hi.” Chanse chimed in, lifting his beer bottle and clinking it gently against Spencer’s glass. He winced after the clink. “God, even your drink is wholesome. This is embarrassing.”

Spencer shook his head, grinning now. “She’s not on the phone, dude.”

“Yet,” Chanse added with a knowing smirk.

Arasha narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. “Wait, you’re not even drinking, are you?”

“Nope.” Spencer sipped from his straw and leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee. “Why would I? The only thing I want to be dizzy from is her.”

A chorus of groans met that line.

“Boo,” Chanse said, tossing a napkin at him. “Boo this man.”

“I’m serious!” Spencer protested, laughing. “I’ve reached full simp status and I am thriving.”

“You were always a simp,” Angela said, raising her eyebrows.

“True. But now it’s a two-way street of shameless simping,” Spencer replied with a proud nod.

He leaned his head against the booth’s cushion, smiling softly like he was thinking about something far better than dive bar lighting and stale beer. Because he was. You. 

“I just don’t get it,” Tommy said, more thoughtful now. “You used to be fun.”

“I am fun,” Spencer said. “I’m just not ‘blackout at 9 PM on a Tuesday’ type of  fun.”

Courtney gave him a playful nudge with her elbow, nearly knocking over his glass. “Be honest. If she called right now, like right now, you’d bail on all of us without looking back.”

Spencer didn’t even pause. Didn’t even pretend to be coy. “Yep,” he said, deadpan and proud. “I’d leave so fast I’d forget all of you existed.”

Chanse let out a dramatic gasp. “Cold, man. Cold-blooded.”

Angela took a slow sip of her toxic–looking drink, smirking over the rim. “And your dignity, dude.” she added under her breath, high-fiving Chanse under the table.

But Spencer just shook his head, unfazed. “Wrong,” he said, pointing a finger in mock-seriousness. “You don’t understand. I have never had more dignity in my life. You should see me when I show up at her place with Indian food in one hand and a romantic comedy queued up on my phone like a damn knight. I am the peak version of myself.”

Shayne leaned back and whistled low. “Damn. He’s gone.”

Spencer lifted his glass like a toast. “Oh, I’m absolutely gone,” he said with a grin. “Like, hook, line, and sinker. Unrecoverable. Doomed to be forever in love with the woman.”

Laughter erupted from around the booth— loud, easy, unfiltered. Angela smacked the table once. Courtney buried her face in her hands, grinning behind her fingers. Tommy muttered, “We’re witnessing a whole love story in real time and I don’t know how to emotionally process that.”

But none of it was mean. Spencer knew teasing when it wasn’t good-natured— he’d gone to high school, after all. This wasn’t that. This was affection disguised as sarcasm. This was what it looked like when people liked you so much they couldn’t help but tease you. It was comfortable and familiar. Warmth in the shape of side-eyes and sassy one-liners.

He could take it.

Honestly, he liked it.

Because underneath the jokes was something real and genuine. His friends had seen him through worse— bad dates, burnt-out days, long weeks of weirdly timed shoots and barely-slept nights. And now they were watching him be happy, and all they could do was make fun of him because it was too sincere to say out loud.

And he didn’t mind being the butt of the joke if it meant he got to keep thinking about you.

If it meant he got to remember the way your face lit up when you opened the door and saw him standing there, movie in hand. Or how you always wore his hoodie when you got cold without realizing it. Or the way you texted him little things— baking playlist today is just Taylor Swift and chaos. please send help. — like you couldn’t not include him in your day.

So yeah, he lets them tease.

He smiled down at his phone again, screen still lit up with your last message.

And when Angela leaned over and whispered, “You’re smiling again, dork,” he just shrugged and took another sip of his drink.

“Can’t help it,” he said.

There was a beat of silence, filled by the music and the faint clatter of glasses from the bar. Spencer’s phone buzzed, and he glanced down so fast it looked like a reflex.

One new message: Just got home. You still out? Missed you <3

His grin grew impossibly wider the second his phone buzzed. It was instant like someone flipped a switch inside him. One second he was just sitting there, hunched a little over his drink, tolerating the sticky booth and the too-loud music. The next, he was glowing.

You could actually see it happen.

His shoulders relaxed. His spine straightened. He looked like someone who had just been handed a mug of hot cocoa after walking through a snowstorm. Warm, safe and a little stunned with happiness.

“Oh no,” Shayne groaned, slapping a hand to his chest like he’d been wounded. “There it is. That’s it. We’ve officially lost him.”

Spencer didn’t even glance up from his phone. He was too busy re-reading your message. Something about your finally getting home, that you missed him, and a single, perfectly placed heart. It was simple. But it knocked the wind right out of him in the best way.

“I repeat,” Shayne declared, standing up like a ringmaster. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing the look of a man who just got a text from his girlfriend. Call in the fire brigade! He’s combusting.”

Courtney, sipping from her cocktail like a queen unfazed by theatrics, just smirked and said, “Can’t relate.” She glanced across the table at her husband with exaggerated judgment. “Mine sends me TikToks of cats in costumes and thinks that’s romance.”

“Which it is,” Shayne replied from beside her, raising his drink proudly.

Angela, of course, leaned in with zero shame, trying to sneak a peek at Spencer’s phone screen. “What’d she say? Oh my God, did she really put a heart?”

Spencer blushed, quickly angling the screen away like it was classified intel. But he wasn’t fooling anyone— his expression said it all. Soft, dreamy, completely and utterly smitten.

Angela laughed, dramatically pushing her drink away. “You guys are disgustingly cute. I feel single just looking at you.”

“That’s because you are,” Chanse muttered.

“I said feel, Chanse,” Angela snapped, but she was grinning too. She was happy for her friend.

Spencer just chuckled and finally looked up. “She just got home,” he said, casually. Like he wasn’t glowing. Like he wasn’t already mentally planning how fast he could drive over to your apartment.

Tommy chuckled. “Wow. You’re at, like, level-ten simp energy right now. It’s actually impressive.”

“I aspire to this,” Arasha added.

“Okay, okay,” Shayne said, pretending to gag. “Wrap this man in a plaid blanket and drop him in a Nancy Meyers movie. This is simp energy on steroids.”

“Hey, you can’t really legislate for the decisions that your heart makes.” Spencer grins back.

“Okay, but real talk,” Arasha said, leaning over the table, suddenly serious. “How do you keep your cool when you like someone that much? Like, I get nervous texting a friend I’ve known for six years.”

Spencer shrugged. “You don’t need to keep your cool when it’s the right person. I don’t have to pretend. She knows what she’s getting.”

“And she wants this?” Angela gestured at him, mock-suspicious. “This lovesick nerd who drinks Shirley Temples and leaves bars early to watch movies with his girlfriend?”

Spencer smiled again— smaller this time, but deeper. “Yeah,” he said. “Apparently, she does.”

That earned him another round of laughter, this one warmer, less biting. No one could even pretend to roast him too hard anymore. He was too… content.

“I will cry if she sends you a selfie wearing your hoodie,” Courtney warned.

“She already did,” Spencer said, sipping his drink like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb.

The entire table erupted in chaos.

Angela screamed. Tommy dropped his head on the table and pretended to sob. Chanse clutched his chest and whispered, “I need a moment.”

And in the middle of that noise, he glanced down again at the screen.

Come over? I saved you the last cookie.

And that was all it took.

He stood up— not quickly, but instantly, with a kind of gravity no one else in the room had. He slid out of the booth, grabbed his coat, and gave them all a casual salute. “Alright. I’ve got a better date waiting.”

“You’re actually going?” Courtney asked, half-shocked, half-expecting it.

“Cookie,” Spencer said, practically halfway out the door already. “Love. Beautiful girlfriend. Priorities. Bye.”

Angela shouted after him, “TELL HER WE SAID SHE’S THE LUCKIEST WOMAN ALIVE!”

He just threw a thumbs-up in the air without looking back.

The cold night air hit him like a system reset. He walked faster than usual, practically bouncing with each step. A few blocks, a fast car ride, and some fidgeting at red lights later, he was standing outside your door.

You opened the door on the first knock.

“Hi,” you said, and everything else— the bar, the noise, the teasing, the whole world for that matter— fell away.

“Hi,” he said, just as soft, already stepping forward to wrap his arms around you.

You let out a small, content sigh against his chest. “You didn’t have to come, y'know.”

“I wanted to.” He kissed the top of your head.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “Your friends think you’re a simp.”

“I am.”

“You’re not even denying it.”

“Why would I?” He looked at you. There was so much feeling behind his gaze it made him feel lightheaded, like the air had thinned and the only thing keeping him grounded to earth was you. He didn’t try to hide it. He just looked at you as if seeing you was a privilege, and knowing you was something holy.

“Has anyone told you how beautiful you are?”

“Only you a hundred times.”

A smile. 

He leaned in, brushing your lips with his.

“Then one more time could not hurt.”

[p1astr81]

(I fully posted this before it was finished🙈)

Franco wasn’t the kind of guy to post you on his socials. Nor was he the guy to show you off. He was more casual.

Franco brought you to the paddock for the first time in Italy. Introduced you to his team.

“Ah, your girlfriend? She’s never in any of your posts though?” One of them asked.

Franco laughed. “Yeah, you know how it is.” He shrugged, throwing an arm around your shoulders.

The group of them laughed.

You, on the other hand, went rigid. Tight smile. A fake laugh through your nose.

Franco hadn’t noticed the shift in your attitude. Not until much later. After the race, back at the hotel room.

He noticed how you neglected to laugh at his jokes, or even smile at them—at him.

“What’s up with you?” He asked as you brushed through your freshly washed hair. The smell of your shampoo still flowed thick through the air.

“Nothing. Why?” Short. Disinterested.

“Come on, you’ve been acting weird today.” His hands found your shoulders and ran along the length of your arms.

You placed your hairbrush on the bathroom counter. “What was that supposed to mean? ‘You know how it is’?” You sighed, irritated.

He blinked, his hands paused on your arms. “It was- it was nothing. We were just joking.” He reasoned slowly.

Chewing your cheek, you laughed through your nose again. You shrugged away from him. “A joke.” You nodded slowly, then turned to him. “Is that what this is?” You asked, a finger gesturing between you two.

He stuttered before finding his words. “No!? What why would-“

“Seems like it to me.” You tilted your head. “I mean, you’ll bring me to paddock but when it comes to actually showing we’re together…” you shrugged.

He sighed and ran a hand down his face. “It’s not like that.”

“Really? What’s it like then?”

He took a deep breath before grabbing your hand. Attitude carried your every step as he dragged you into the room and placed you on the bed. You crossed your arms over your chest.

“I’m so serious about you. Like crazy insanely serious.” He paced in front of you. “I didn’t think you’d want me to flaunt you around like some prize I’d won.”

You furrowed your brows, offended at the comparison.

“Not- not- you’re not the prize. Well you are but not just some prize, you’re like the prize I guess-” You raised your eyebrows as he continued to ramble. “-but not like an actual prize because a prize is an object and you’re definitely not an object. It’s more like metaphorically and-“

“Franco.”

“-basically what I mean is that-“

“Oh my god, Franco I get it.” You sighed.

He finally stopped. Not only his words but also his pacing. His posture defeated, he looked at you for something more to come from your mouth.

“I get it. I should’ve just talked to you about it instead of overthinking it.” You nodded and stood, taking his hand in yours “I’m sorry.”

He sighed out of relief. “I’m sorry, too.”

Squeezing his hand, you smiled. “Okay, can we go to bed now? I’m exhausted.”

Franco laughed and nodded.

[thatchrollostan]

as this blog has stated countless times: Levi CANNOT flirt for dear life.

so when he finds out that he got a crush on you, and he has no idea how to start something with you, he thinks to himself, that, maybe he'll just give up and move on with life. life is better when love is not involved anyway, or so he convinces himself.

we'll, he's wrong.

months later, he's frustrated that he hasn't been able to move on and enjoy a better life like he planned to months back. he's still .... hopelessly stupid around you. he doesn't ask love advice to anyone, but of course Erwin and Hange somehow can sniff something is brewing

he doesn't take their advice, they're too... sappy. and cringe. maybe. he's questioning himself a lot. is it cringe? it IS cringe. is it? or is he just not used to romancing? Erwin and Hange definitely have more experience in this, so maybe he can ... try one of their advices.

You’re stuck on pantry duty with the rest of your squad, when Levi walks up behind you quietly.

“You really oughta change how you clean your furniture,” he says, deadpan as ever. “Dusting’s not always enough. You’ve gotta wipe it down with a damp cloth.”

He’s got that same unreadable expression plastered on his face, but inside, Levi reminds himself, smile, dammit. So, one second after he finishes his sentence, he does. Briefly. A second later, he regrets everything.

You catch the sudden smile out of the corner of your eye, and get a bit concerned. That smile was ominous for some reason.

“Got it. I’ll grab a cloth, Captain.”

“Good.” He clears his throat. He needs to bail before this gets more awkward. “Keep that in mind. Maybe then your quarters will look better next time I check.”

And just like that, it hits you. When he dropped by your room yesterday, he must’ve clocked every stain and speck of dust with those hawk eyes of his. He’s definitely calling you out.

“Sorry, Captain,” you mutter, already halfway to the supply closet. He stiffens at your apology.

“I’m not—” he starts, but you’re gone. He exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face before stalking off down the hall.

To hell with Hange’s idea. Never again.

the next day, Hange asks him if their plan worked or not, and Levi just says "dont ask" frustratedly and leaves quickly, still embarrassed to the bone.

but it seems the God of Love is merciful with him.

another opportunity comes when Levi spots you from across the mess hall. some cadet collides into you, splashing some of his black coffee over your crisp white uniform. he doesn’t move, just watches, his eyes narrowing like he might burn a hole through the poor kid. you talk with the cadet for a moment, clearly upset, then walk off, heading toward your table with a stormy expression

you pass his table without noticing him. he considers saying something. maybe offering help. but how? would that make him look stupid? sticking his nose where it doesn't belong? he’s halfway through overthinking it when you start getting farther away

then by some ridiculous miracle, you stop, turn around, and walk back toward him. he looks up, caught off guard as you offer a sheepish smile

“Sorry to bother your lunch, Captain,” you say, gesturing to the fresh stain on your chest, “but, uh… do you have any tips for getting coffee out of white?”

This is it. His shot. Blow it, and there won’t be a next one.

“…I do,” he says after a beat, voice level. “Meet me in the laundry room after lunch. I’ll show you how to do it yourself.”

You light up at that, more than he expected. And when you nod and walk off again, looking oddly pleased, he lets the corners of his mouth turn up, just slightly.

that afternoon, he has a very pleasant time cleaning your uniform with you, that Erwin feels spooked when Levi passes by him with a ghost of a smile

[waterfallofspace]

A and B hanging out with a group of their friends, after having just gone out together, now back at someone's house eating a meal, playing some games, having fun~

the only problem is, the place they've just been really sets off B's allergies, which A knows, along with the fact B refuses to sneeze in front of people (whether for kink!reasons, or other ones)

glancing over at B, A can see how itchy they look, their hands keep touching their face, pinching or rubbing their nose, trying to sniffle as discreetly as possible

knowing they're too polite/shy to just get up and leave, A stands from where they were lounging, grabs B by the arm, and tosses some excuse over at the group, who for the most part doesn't even notice

dragging B into a bedroom/bathroom, A closes the door behind them, smiling fondly to themself as B immediately ducks down with a "nGt!- nXGt!- dXGt!-"

"let them out, love" A offers gently, grabbing up some tissues and handing them over, "you've gotta get it all done before we go back out there"

"thagk you-" B manages, with a relieved glance at A, before ducking into the tissues with a vocal, "ekt'chhh-oo!", starting to work their way through the allergy attack they'd been postponing for so long

with, of course, A offering blessings and rubbing their back through it all~

[nanamisbbygirl]

—☆ friends with benefits!

chapter 4. mary jane & co.

paring: geto suguru x reader

genre: college au, drama, smut with plot

summary: a pact of pleasure between friends runs the risk of ruining everything. passionate flames burn the hardest. you and geto care about each other, but what happens when sex gets tangled with friendship?

cw: marijuana use, toxic relationships and friendships, angst, smut, creampie, unprotected sex

a/n: hi! i just wanted to pop in and say that trust the process with this chapter! and also that the next one might take a little longer to come out as my schedule is very hectic for the next week! i hope though that i can at least have chapter 5 out in 7-8 days instead of 4-5! enjoy!

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Geto hated being home. He hated the quietness of the halls, he hated the smell of the carpets. He hated how the only time his mother was there, she would complain. She would taunt him, curse his father, complain how love is for idiots. Ever since the divorce she’d been keen on that fact. 

“Your father was a fucking asshole, never believe it when someone tells you they love you. Before you know it they’ll move onto someone else,” she would hiss, scanning her son with discontent. On other occasions, she would sneer at him, reminding Geto that he was starting to look just like him. 

It was the main reason he always hosted parties– it was a day to drown out the silence that haunted his house. It was an easy distraction, the drinking, the fun, the girls. He took his mothers words very seriously, realizing among all the sweaty teenage hormones, that no one knew what loyalty was, just like what his mother had warned him about. There was always some kind of drama and someone’s heart was always breaking. 

He stood with his best friend near the window of his room, feeling the breeze dilute the skunkish smell. Intertwined between their fingers was a perfectly rolled joint, and with every inhale they puffed smoke out the opening. Geto was feeling buzzed, and he could tell Gojo was even more out of it. He knew he should’ve been using the week to study– that was its intended purpose– but being home, looking at his bed, staring at his empty phone notifications, he felt as though there was nothing else to do. 

“This shit feels so fuckin’ good,” Gojo hummed, taking another drag, “we should do it more often.” 

Geto only agreed, fidgeting with the joint slightly, cautiously taking a hit. Judging by Gojo’s body language, he was much more loose, as though his thoughts had become unfiltered. 

“This year’s been so much fun so far– whoever said college was stressful clearly wasn’t doing it right.” He laughed, continuing with his gibbering nonsense. “And man, honestly I gotta tell ya– I thought I’d been fucking around hard once school began, but I think I’m fucking falling in love.” 

The black haired boy raised a suspicious eyebrow, intrigued on what else his friend would admit to him, “oh, really?” 

Before you know it they’ll be in love with someone else, ringing in his head at the thought of his best friend supposedly being in love. 

Gojo only nodded, “something about her, the way she laughs, the way she does her makeup, I don’t know I haven’t been able to shake it. We’ve gotten much closer in the past two months. I think I’m gonna give it a shot.” 

“Gotten closer?” Geto looks confused, “did you know her from highschool or something.” 

“Something like that,” Gojo mutters. He seems tense, like he’s unsure about what he’s going to say next. “I’m just worried that things might change too drastically, stuff like this gets messy.” 

Geto thought of you, about how it all started on the very bed that was next to him. Messy was an understatement. He hadn’t seen or spoken to you since that party, since you were cozying up with that other guy, since you broke off your friendship. 

“Do you think she likes you back?” He wasn’t sure why he was playing into Gojo’s delusions, but he couldn’t help it. 

“It’s hard to say,” Gojo huffs, inhaling his joint, “we usually hang out in group settings, but when we’re alone we always have fun.” 

“Worth a shot then,” Geto muses, “but probably best to not get your hopes up.” 

“Yeah but this girl is different.” He clarifies. “Trust me, if you knew who I was talking about, you’d understand.” 

“You’re saying that like I know this chick personally.” He laughs. 

However, Gojo stiffens. “You do.” 

Geto’s eyes narrow, trying to refocus himself on the conversation. Who the hell was Gojo falling in love with? 

“Shoko?” He questions, causing his friend to scoff, rolling his eyes. 

“Don’t be fucking dense.” Geto felt his face go pale, his breath slowing down as Gojo finished his sentence. “It’s y/n.” 

There’s a sinking feeling in his chest, although he tries his best to keep a straight face. Geto can feel the twitching of his heart, the way it’s trying to claw through his ribcage– it makes him nauseous, and he doesn’t know why. He thinks about your angered face, the way you stormed out on him just a handful of weeks ago. 

He didn’t know what to say, wondering how much time had gone by since Gojo last spoke. He wasn’t sure if his senses were being skewed because of the weed, or because of the perplexity of the whole situation. He figured it was the weed. 

A part of him wanted to tell Gojo about your friends with benefits situation, even though it had soured. He wanted to brag to his best friend about how he’d taken your virginity, about how he was the only one to see you in such a vulnerable state. It was twisted on how much he wanted to splice through Gojo’s little romantic fantasy, but still his lips moved without his brain. 

“Really? Her?” He said almost with a chuckle, taking another long drag. “You know she probably isn’t into guys like you.” 

Gojo hissed, “and what kinda guys is she into?” 

Geto could sense the devious little smile creeping up on his face, “she’s into the type of guys that make her work for it. She likes when they’re a little bit mean.” 

“And how the fuck would you know that?” Gojo asked, puffing smoke out the window, coughing slightly. 

“Because we’ve been fucking.” He admitted, even though it was him who suggested keeping your affairs secret. Geto’s lips were curled into a grin while he smoked, waiting in anticipation for how Gojo would react. 

“You’re full of shit,” he said, starting to raise his voice. It was obvious that Geto’s words stung. 

“Tell yourself what you want,” he told his best friend, “but I even took her virginity, right… here.” He said, pointing to his bed. 

Gojo remained speechless while Geto continued. “And the craziest thing is that we’ve been doing this whole friends with benefits shit, too, but she hasn’t slept with anyone other than me.” He couldn’t say the same for himself, though. 

“Yeah but you’re not anymore. Right? That’s why we haven’t hung out as a group for a while, isn’t it?” Gojo was always the bright one, and he seemed to have figured it out quickly. 

“Maybe,” Geto mumbled and Gojo only hummed. 

“Man, I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, but if you don’t give a shit about her, and she doesn’t give a shit about you, I’m still gonna fucking ask her out.” He boldly declared. 

“Sure you will,” Geto could feel his words slurring together, heart still thumping. 

“No kidding she broke things off with you, do you not see how much of a douche you are? Fuck, man, me and y/n are going to the bar tonight, I’m gonna take my chances, whether you were fuck buddies or not.” 

With that, Gojo stormed out, not looking back to see the expression on his friend's face. Geto was in awe about what had just happened, as if he hadn’t been the one to instigate the situation. He couldn’t believe that Gojo was so adamant on confessing his love to you. It seemed ridiculous– couldn’t he tell that you were his? Wasn’t it clear from what he had said? Even if you weren’t on speaking terms, he knew you’d come around eventually, he knew you well enough to know that you were a forgiving person. Yet, there was an inkling of doubt now. Why wouldn’t you pick Gojo over him? 

Remembering that fateful night, how he tore that guy off of you, the rage you directed towards him, the way you brushed off his advances, he wasn’t too sure anymore. He sat down on the edge of the bed, hand over his chest as his breaths became heavy. He could only think about your face, how you seemed to hate him– how he caused all of it. He never had regrets about who he slept with, but something about you was making a new sensation arise within him. Was it because you were friends first? A constant in his life? Before you started sleeping together, he could rely on you; you would listen to his woes, and make him smile. You were a mistake, he realized, and he had to let you know that. He had to put things back the way they were before.

He was standing outside your house, still not sure what he was possibly thinking. He thought about throwing pebbles at your window, but he figured that would only make you more upset with him. He pictured himself ringing the doorbell and the face you would make when it was him standing at your door. 

But, he had already dragged himself that far, he just had to push through.

Before his knuckles could even knock on the door, though, it swung open, as if his presence had already been anticipated. It was your mom at the door, although she was clearly in a rush to get somewhere. 

“Oh hi, Suguru, nice to see you,” she smiled, warmly. “I’m just running to the store, but y/n’s upstairs.” She turned to call for you, letting you know that a friend was at the door. 

“Tell them to come up,” you replied, although judging by how happy you sounded, you weren’t expected to see him standing at your door. 

You were seated at your vanity, starting to doll yourself up, wearing nothing but lingerie. Were you doing all this just to see Gojo? He felt his heart skip a beat, studying every inch of your body. The white lace; the way it perfectly framed your plunging breasts, complimenting your skin. You just looked so angelic, hair pushed back, innocently getting ready. Little did you know Gojo had every intention of confessing to you. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” You snapped at him, rightfully so. 

Geto was speechless, it felt like for the first time in his life, he was at a true loss of words. He stared deeply into your eyes, gulping before mustering up the courage to spew out his words. 

“I just needed to talk to you, now that we’ve both calmed down.” 

“Both? You think a week was enough for me to not be mad at you anymore?” Your eyes narrowed. 

“No- I mean I just at least wanted to tell you something, before anyone else got the chance to tell you this.” He explained, “When you and Satoru go out tonight, he’s gonna tell you that he’s in love with you.” 

Your expression softened, as if you were imagining the other man, filling your face up with some perfect little day dream. Geto could feel an angry grunt getting caught in his mouth before he continued with what he thought was the best solution to all of this. 

“And I think you should also know that I’m sorry.” 

“Do you really think sorry is going to fix it? You treated me like shit.” You huffed, standing up in order to get closer to him. As you looked up at him, Geto felt himself melting, almost as if the proximity between the two of you was affecting his judgement. 

“I know, I-I can’t explain what it is about me, but I can never get close to people properly. I always do something to fuck it up. I’m surprised our friendship lasted three years before I fucked it up-” 

“Are you saying sleeping with me was a mistake?" You interrupted, and Geto felt himself shaking his head quickly. 

“No,” he took a deep breath, building up the strength to continue, “I’m saying that I shouldn’t have done things the way I did. But, I will never regret sleeping with you. I just wish that I could’ve just been honest with you from the start.”

You’re practically standing face-to-face, feeling the intensity of his soul crushing down on you. He was being truthful, it was clear through his gaze, with the way his body was limp, like he had dropped every line of defense. 

“Honest about what?” Your voice was a borderline whisper. 

“Honest about the fact I’m in love with you. It just took me ruining everything to realize it.” His confession is swift, but heartfelt. You look up at him with starry eyes, wide and yearning for him to kiss you. 

“Su..” you say, your thoughts trailing off as you reach up to kiss him, entangling your hands in his hair. His arms hug your waist, bringing you into his chest. 

Everything felt like a blur, from the way you guided him to your bed, wrapping your legs around his waist, passionately kissing him with all the strength in your body. He feels it in the way he grinds himself against your white panties, and how he slips down your bra straps. You’ve never looked more beautiful, he can barely find words to describe it. 

So when you end up on top of him, cute little underwear pushed to the side, his raw cock teasing your entrance, he thinks he’s finally at peace with the world. You carefully ease yourself onto him, chanting out how much you love him, how good he is, it rings in his ears like a melodic symphony. 

“Fuck Sugu, you feel so good,” you cry out, riding him without a care in the world. This is different from all the sex he’s had before, this one isn’t as lustful, the girls aren’t squealing out obscenities for him, not begging to be roughed up, or to be degraded. It’s genuine. He feels as though he could be in this moment forever. 

You bounce on his dick, hands resting on his chest for support, simultaneously pushing your boobs forward. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you pant out, giving him a warning before he starts feeling the intensity of your orgasm. You clench around him and he’s never felt better. He can sense that his own end is near too, but he doesn’t want to pull out. 

“That’s it pretty girl, cum for me, yeah good girl.” His hands find your waist, stopping you from squirming, “fuck, ‘gonna make me cum, fuuck I’m gonna cum so deep inside you, baby.” 

“Please Su,” you plead with him, “I love you so much, please cum in me.” And he does.

Although, it doesn’t feel as good as he thinks it would feel. 

That’s when he wakes up. 

That’s when he realises he never left his room.

He curses the marijuana for making him pass out, and he curses himself even more when he looks down and sees the stain on his crotch. It was just some fucking wet dream, he concludes, groaning as he rubs his hands over his face. 

Before he could reach for his phone, he took a deep breath, feeling the way his heart ached at the fact that he didn’t get to say those words to you in real life. Looking at the time, it read 10:47. Fuck. 

He thought about what Gojo was telling him early– that you were going to the bar. Which bar? He looked to see if his friend had posted any photos and luckily for Geto, he had. 

Roxxy Bar and Lounge. Posted ten minutes ago, it’s a picture of your drinks. He figures if he leaves now maybe he’ll make it in time, before Gojo drinks up the courage to tell you how he really feels. 

Geto knows that he, too, has some explaining to do. He needs to tell you that he’s sorry, he needs to tell you everything he told you in his dream and more. He can’t let you slip away, not like this, not when he was the one driving you away the whole time. 

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© all work belongs to nanamisbbygirl on tumblr, please do not plagiarize, repost or translate anywhere

[dcdreamblog]

So your recent interview with the Sandman gave me a question for you, as a historian, in your field of study.

Primary sources are considered the absolute gold standard for history, and most superheroes guard their identities quite closely, meaning you can't take any random person's word on who any given superhero is and what their real history is.

So with some superheroes, proof would be pretty easy. For example, there are comics that swear Superman has a secret identity and that it's Clark Kent. If that was true, Kent could prove his identity as Superman by demonstrating his physical abilities (e.g. lifting cars, flying). At that point you could theoretically make the argument "oh, he's not Superman, he's an unrelated metahuman who mysteriously has chosen to never reveal this for...reasons I guess," but there would be no logic behind that, so "yes, he really is Superman" would be the more logical conclusion.

But then you get into superheroes like Batman. If Bruce Wayne waltzed into your office in the cowl with the Batmobile parked outside and said "I'm Batman," all that would prove is that his cosplay budget is entirely unfair. At a stretch, it might prove that he knows Batman, or that Batman for some reason was like "Mr. Wayne, I need you to impersonate me" and Wayne said "okay sure, I see no way this could possibly go wrong."

So how would one go about determining the identities of heroes like this? Is it even possible to have a primary source for un-unmasked heroes?

Well first we need to settle a point of ethics that has been drilled into the back of my head since my college days.

Generally we do NOT go about determining the identity of superheroes behind their masks. It's not our jobs and most of us would not consent to it if it was. So called "identity sleuthing" IS a thing and it DOES happen but its the kind of community that really festers on the uncomfortable parts of Youtube and 4Chan where people are trying to drag superheroes out into the light for clout, or for personal grudges, or for bigotry, or because of some misguided sense of transparency.

People in my position don't CARE about who a superhero is behind the mask. That's not information we need in the moment to do what we do. Would it be easier to pontificate on a hero's actions if we knew who they were and where they were coming from? Sure, but the risks, not only the physical danger it would put heroes under but also the near certain chance of ruining their lives isn't worth it.

That being said, once we DO have a superhero's identity. How do we know? Well.

(A photo shoot Oliver Queen conducted when his identity as the Green Arrow was unveiled. No seriously, that was a thing he did)

The most publically prominent "unmasking" of a superhero in the modern day is certainly the reveal that Justice League perennial and Star City protector Green Arrow was actually billionaire and social activist (and politician, advertiser, Queen has done a lot of things) Oliver Queen. So, how do we know that Queen is Green Arrow?

Well, for starts the circumstances of the unveiling make it pretty clear. Queen turned himself in for the homicide of super terrorist Prometheus (that is an ethical quagmire for another time I assure you). He was arrested in the guise of the Green Arrow, while acting as the Green Arrow, while dressed in Green Arrow's equipment and carrying his weapons.

Like you said though, a lot of that is circumstantial, it could be that he was only acting with the Green Arrow's NAME using his vast wealth (one would truly wonder when bored layabout Queen somehow became a world class archer but that's beside the point) so, how else do we know?

In the face of his surrender to authorities, Queen knew that his secret identity would be forfeit. As such he didn't resist the attempts to corroborate his identity. Nor did his teammates in the Justice League when they confirmed his intentions (which tells US that they would, can, and probably already have obscured their members' identities from the public in other circumstances which I can't begrudge them for). The Justice League's records were unredacted on all public channels removing any covering of information that might otherwise have revealed his identity.

And then there's the most important kind of corroboration: Community corroboration. Now that its out in the open, his teammates, his friends, his comrades openly confirm that Green Arrow is and always has been Oliver Queen. While they COULD theoretically be lying about that its an Occam's Razor problem. If he's already walking himself out in front of the news camera, why wouldn't the League just say what it means?

And that's the best way to know. In my current profession I deal mostly with heroes whose identities have been known for years. Most golden age heroes unveiled their identities once the Keene Act was amended and the Justice Society reappeared. We know Wesley Dodds was the Sandman despite his lack of (visible) superpowers because he revealed himself as the Sandman, was refereed to as the Sandman by his fellow heroic colleagues, died and was then buried by that same community in the guise of the Sandman.

If you're looking for more than that you're digging down into a "what is truth" kind of argument I can't really help you with.

[illustrate-her]

@that-nerd-who-writes-fanfiction posted about wanting to read at Merlin/Musketeers crossover fic with Merlin in the 17th century timeline, and for some reason it just jumped into my head, and I wrote this thing in about two hours whilst trying to convince my stubbornly awake toddler to gtf to sleep.

Un-beta’d, very quick and dirty.

Tags: angst, insanity, mentions of serious injury, stuff like that.

___

Time slips on, and on occasion, Merlin will let his sanity slip with it. He keeps half a finger pressed against the magic inside of him, because he knows it will tell him when Arthur returns. Alright - he hopes it will tell him. His opinion on the trustworthiness of magic tends to ebb and flow with the years, and whether or not he is in a particularly bleak period at the time.

Merlin allows himself that too: a decade here or there to really wallow in the awfulness, the loneliness of it. After a couple of hundred years he begins to realise a pattern, that he makes himself Emrys when he is feeling miserable, and allows the hopefulness of his younger body to propel him back into purpose and the will to carry on. 

The sanity though, that is a different thing. Sometimes it just becomes too much to learn the new ways, to assimilate into the societies of the time and not look like, well, a lunatic. And when that happens Merlin seems to give a mental shrug and let himself descend into the swirl of magic inside of him, because when Arthur died, when the prophecy came to pass it was like all of the magic in the world came rushing through him like an open floodgate, and everything that made him Merlin got swept away in the deluge.

So the time slips on. And Merlin lives. Some times he lives better than others, though famine or self-inflicted starvation, injury or cold or despair doesn’t seem to hinder him for long.

Time slips on, but, he reflects one day, slipping almost implies a certain degree of speed. And the time fucking drags.

At some point around the 15th century he decides to leave the land that has now been named Britain: when Arthur returns it would do him well to be advised by someone who knows a little bit about the countries that now encircle Albion across the sea. Every year the world seems to expand, new places and people emerging from the mists, new foodstuff and materials and advances in technology and warfare and medicine and artistry. And despite his oft-experience malaise, Merlin cannot help but find it all absolutely fascinating: he had spent an interesting couple of years learning everything about astronomy and mathematics from a Moorish traveler, found himself moved to tears by the paintings of Caravaggio and the tragic love of Shakespeare. The marvels that can be wrought without even a scrap of magic are astounding, and often it is this undying progress of humankind and their relentless search for beauty and meaning that gives him a reason to keep living.

Sometimes around the early 17th century -  though he has lost count a bit. 1620? 1640? - he finds himself in France, and the magnetic pull of the great and rambling city of Paris draws him inexplicably towards it. It seems to perfectly represent everything that people are: disgusting and beautiful and kind and brutal in equal measure.

He doesn’t care much for the kings of this age, finds them venal and stupid and small-minded. And it’s because of this that the sadness swell within him once more like a horrible dark sucking of water behind his breastbone, because these kings are nothing - nothing - like Arthur, and he feels the loss of the man like an aching in the world. 

What a king like Arthur could do! What peace he could bring, what justice! To see these small men on their thrones when Arthur lies sleeping in Avalon feels like the most enormous of injustices, and Merlin feels the despair slip slowly into his lack of will to try, and his tenuous grip on his sanity loosens like a sail in the wind once more.

So it is in France, in Paris, in the early part of the 17th century - 1610? 1630? - that Merlin finds himself locked within the walls of some castle or dungeon or prison. He cannot remember if he has committed some crime - it does tend to happen, regrettably: an apple taken from a cart or an insult given without meaning, a lack of understanding of social mores of a time or that breeches must generally be worn in public, that sort of thing - but either way merlin is locked within stone walls and iron bars.

He could get out in an instant, of course. If he wanted to. If he had anywhere to go, something to do or anyone who was waiting for him.

Ah, there’s the despair again. What does it matter? He doesn’t need much to live on: the hunger cramps in his belly but he barely notices. It won’t kill him. 

Nothing will fucking kill him.

“Do I…do I know you?” 

It takes a long time for Merlin to respond at all, given that he is so unused to anyone speaking to him but the gaoler, who tends to spit on Merlin more often than speak to him. 

“I’m…I’m sorry?” Merlin says. He looks up, lets his eyes adjust. There is a man on the other side of the bars, clearly having paused whilst walking by this cell.

“Fuck,” Merlin breathes. It’s a word he’s learned of late and it seems to fit a lot of situations. Seeing someone who died around ten centuries ago is probably one of them.

The same brown eyes, that’s the first thing Merlin’s notices: brown eyes warm and lit from beneath like peat water in the sun, framed with lashes that always were a little indecent. He has a neat moustache and beard, fashionable at this time, and his hair is longer, reaching almost to his shoulders in places. 

“Your hair curls,” Merlin says, his voice croaked thin with disuse. “I suppose it was never long enough to before.”

Lancelot puts a hand up to his hair for a moment, his brows pulling low in a frown. “My hair…” he says, confused.

And everything just seems to crash around Merlin as if the whole ceiling were raining down on him because of course, of course: he’s mad isn’t he? This isn’t real. This is just some man. It cannot be Lancelot. 

“What’s your name?” The man who is not Lancelot says. He steps closer and Merlin can see that he is dressed practically but with a touch of frivolity, the lace around the edges of his shirt, the tooling on his doublet. The hilt of his sword is a swirled and elegant thing, just visible hanging from belts slug around his waist with a blue sash. And buckled at his shoulder is a leather pauldron, fashioned with some regimental heraldry that Merlin has not been bothered to educate himself on.

“What is your name?” The man says again, squatting down so that he is on the same eyeline as Merlin. His voice has gone soft, kind.

“Merlin,” Merlin rasps. “Who. Who are you?”

“Aramis. Of the King’s Musketeers.” The man doffs his feathered hat in a gesture of good manners, and his smile is warm and easing across his face.

His smile is not like Lancelot’s. Merlin’s friend had been shy at times, his smile a timid thing, though wonderful for its scarcity.

This man - this Aramis -  smiles too easily and with too much knowing.

“You’re not him,” Merlin says. He feels a lump of something hot and molten lodged in his throat, and only realises that he is crying when the tears scald lines down his cheeks. He doesn’t have the energy to feel shame anymore, dignity is such a pointless thing when you’ve lived as long or seen as much as Merlin has.

“I’m…I’m not him,” Aramis says kindly. “I’m sorry.” He reaches a hand then, through the bars, and lays it on Merlin’s arm without any guile. And Merlin cannot remember the last time that anyone touched him. 

___

Aramis comes back the next day. 

“You know, it’s very strange. I do feel like I know you,” Aramis says, thoughtfully. 

“You look exactly like a man I used to know,” Merlin says.

“And where is this friend of yours now?”

“Dead. Twice over,” Merlin says to the ceiling, because it is too horrible, too strange to say it while looking at this man who is the very mirror of Lancelot.

“I am sorry,” Aramis says quietly. “It is terrible to suffer the loss of a friend. They say that time can heal, a little…”

He trails off because Merlin is laughing, uncontrollable heaves of laughter. “I’m not sure,” he hiccups, breathless, after a while, “A thousand years hasn’t seemed to do much.” He laughs again then, for quite some time. Aramis only sits, a puzzled sort of half-smile on his face.

___

He comes back again the next day.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he says, half to himself. And then he shakes his head as if to rid it of something, and settles down to talk through the bars once more.

“I brought you some food, Merlin,” Aramis says. “You’re terribly thin.”

“I always was,” Merlin says, but he accepts the food that Aramis hands him through the bars. “Arthur used to say that’s why my ears stuck out so much.”

“Arthur is another friend of yours?” Aramis smiles.

Merlin genuinely hadn’t meant to speak his name, hadn’t meant to summon Arthur up from whatever place he inhabited in the depths of Merlin’s heart.

“Another dead friend,” he says, with forced levity.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says. And then, “Will you tell me about him?”

For a moment Merlin hovers somewhere between the desire to keep Arthur close, safe and protected and unknown by this huge and dangerous world he finds himself in. But to speak of him might make him feel as though he were alive once more, and it’s this desire that wins the day.

“He was a King, actually.”

“Huh,” Aramis smiles, though not unkindly, “Like King Arthur himself.”

“What?” Merlin asks, frowning.

“Well, you know. King Arthur. And, who was it…ah…Guinevere?”

His eyes widen a little bit when he sees the look on Merlin’s face. “I don’t know anymore, really. My English is not so good, so I’ve not read it. But Athos sometimes likes to rave about English literature when he’s drunk enough Armagnac. Not wine, funnily enough - that just makes him maudlin - but Armagnac? That’s when we get the Shakespeare, the Chaucer, the rest of it…”

He trails off. “La Morte d’Arthur. It’s a book about a king from Britain called Arthur...” He clears his throat. “I’ve not read it.”

“Fuck,” is all that Merlin can say.

___

“Why are you in here, Merlin?” Aramis asks one day. “What did you do?” He looks as though he’s bracing himself for some awful reveal, but Merlin can only shrug.

“I don’t know. Can’t remember.”

“You…can’t remember?”

“I must have done something,” Merlin elaborates, Nothing, you know, awful,” he hastens to add. “But possibly something illegal. Or mad. It’s likely I’m here because I did something mad. It has happened before.”

“You’ve been imprisoned before?”

“Oh,” Merlin puffs out his cheeks with a sigh. “More times than I could count actually. Never for anything awful.”

“Just something mad,” Aramis supplies.

“Yeah. That.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin says after a while, and stretches out his long legs, and lets his head thunk back against the rough walls of the cell. “I could get out of here right now if I wanted to.”

“And you don’t want to?”

“Not really. I don’t see why I should.”

___

“I’m going to petition the Queen to have you pardoned,” Aramis beams one day, sitting on the floor outside the bars with an alarming clatter of pistols and blades.

“Why do you have so many weapons?” Merlin frowns, “Surely it just sort of gets in the way after a point.”

“I have exactly as many weapons as I need, thank you very much, and if I didn’t I’d be dead by now. Only this morning I narrowly avoided being shot through the head because I had this,” Aramis pats lovingly at a blade in his belt. “Besides, didn’t you hear me? I said I’m going to petition the Queen to have you pardoned.”

“Why would the Queen listen to you?” Merlin says, dubiously. “And did you bring me any more of that apple pastry?”

“No, Constance says there’ll be more tomorrow, and the Queen and I have…well, we are…we speak sometimes.”

Merlin sits up, a rush of something invisible and heavy suddenly falling onto his chest. “Aramis. You should stay away from queens. Take it from me.”

“You’re speaking nonsense,” Aramis says, waving a hand. 

“Frequently,” Merlin nods.

“She gave me this,” Aramis says, pulling out a small crucifix on a chain about his neck, and there is something small and tender in his voice and oh Gods he’s in love with her, isn’t he? He’s in love with the Queen. 

“Fuck, Lancelot,” Merlin moans, screwing his eyes shut. “You never learn, do you?”

___

Aramis doesn’t come back the next day. 

Or the next.

Or the next.

And then there is another man, tall and dark-skinned and looming.

“You him then?” He asks, voice gruff, as though throwing out a challenge before one can be made to him. “Merlin?”

Merlin opens one eye. “The one and only.”

“Huh,” the man says, “Barely more than a boy. You’re the one he’s been comin’ to see every day?”

“Aramis?” Merlin says, sitting up, “You know Aramis?”

“I do,” the man nods. “Yeah I do. He told me to come and see you. He was…he made me promise. Dunno why.” He scratches the back of his neck, awkwardly, and it’s only then that Merlin notices the stretched thin quality of this man, the way his face is drawn and tired.

“What’s wrong,” Merlin says, bolting to his feet. “What is it?”

“Aramis…” the man says, trailing off. He takes in a deep breath. “Aramis got…he was run through. Right in the gut.”

The world spins, settles to a point of excruciating clarity. 

“Is he dead?” Merlin asks, voice very still.

“Not yet,” the man says, and the yet dangles there like a hanged man because it is suddenly very obvious that yet means soon.

“Aliese.” Merlin feels his eyes flash gold, and it’s like a relief singing through his whole body to use his magic after so very long. The lock on the barred door clicks somewhere deep within its mechanism, he shoves it with his shoulder as he steps through. “Where is he?”

___

He can feel the wary shock of the man next to him as they hurry through the streets of Paris, hasn’t failed to notice how the man has one hand on his pistol and one on the hilt of his huge sword, both hanging from his belt, and uses his chin and a snapped word to indicate which direction they must go. 

They had walked right out of the prison. Merlin had only needed to cast a little spell, a small easing of things so that eyes glazed over him and attention settled elsewhere as he passed. They walked right out and no one even said a word, and is it testament to the fear and shock - not of Merlin but that Aramis’ death is imminent - that stops the big man who walks beside him from asking questions or demanding to know what exactly Merlin is doing.

He is led through a doorway and into an internal courtyard, up some worn stone staircase and into a suite of modest rooms. A young man startles to his feet beside the bed, and another is leaning heavily against the wall with his back to them and a half-drunk bottle of wine hanging from his lax grasp.

“Who’s this?” The young man says.

“Aramis’ friend.”

“Send him away, Porthos” says the man leaning against the wall without bothering to turn. “If he is truly his friend he will not want to witness what comes next.”

The big man - Porthos - crosses to the bed and drops to his knees beside it, and it’s only then that Merlin really looks. Aramis is lying there, his face a sweating and awful shade of spoilt milk. His eyes are closed and bruised around with blue shadows. His breath comes rattling and sullen.

“Aramis,” Porthos says, and his voice is horrible and filled with a false kind of easiness, “Aramis? Can you hear me? I’ve got someone here for you. Your friend. Merlin.”

The man in the bed does not move, shows no sign of hearing anything that is happening in this room.

Merlin can hardly breathe. He sees Aramis in the bed but he sees Lancelot, dead, laid out in the boat that he sent out into the lake. He sees it all and a thousand years is nothing, is nothing.

“Do you have yarrow?” Merlin asks, crossing quickly to the side of the bed and shouldering Porthos out of the way. “Ah…Achillée Millefeuille?”

“What would we do with that?” the younger man says, dubiously. 

“It’s an old wives tale,” the man leaning against the wall states in a monotone, “Said to stop bleeding.”

“It works,” Merlin insists, “Especially when I can help it along with magic.”

The room falls silent. “Magic,” Porthos says after a moment.

“Why did you bring him here?” Spits the older man, by the wall.

“Because Aramis asked me too, Athos!” Porthos says, jumping to his feet angrily. “Because he is Aramis’ friend and Aramis is dying’!”

“Don’t do this,” the young man says, his voice high with desperation. “Not now.”

“Fuck it,” Merlin says, and rips down the blanket over the dying man’s abdomen, and places his hands where there is a mess of dark blood and bandages. 

It’s not like with Lancelot, or with Arthur. Their deaths had been sullied by dark magic before Merlin could even think to help them. Aramis’ wound is deep and awful but it was made with a mortal blade, untouched by sorcery. 

Merlin couldn’t do it for Lancelot, or Arthur.

He will do it for Aramis.

He closes his eyes and reaches deep within himself, to that swirling maelstrom of power. He reaches further, pulls from the hewn timber of the floorboards that still hold some echo of the trees they once were and the vast forests in which they once grew. He pulls down deeper, reaching through beam and plank and flagstone, through to the earth beneath, alive with living things, alive with a magic that is so simple and so ever-present that it could never die, could never even be noticed.

“Come on,” he spits.

Merlin pulls. Merlin heaves. He feels his body shaking uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. He feels his eyes burning painful and hot with magic until he cannot see anything anymore through the sun flare glow of them. He feels all the air leave his lungs and the way they cramp around their emptiness because there is no room for breath, no room for anything but the magic.

All the glass in the windows blows out, and Merlin keels sideways. He doesn’t hear how the room erupts in shouts. He is unconscious before he hits the floor.

___

The dark is comforting, and warm, and friendly. He doesn’t want to open his aching eyes. He feels like every part of his body has been punched.

“Merlin,” says a voice. “Merlin. Are you with us?”

“Can’t I sleep a little longer Gaius?” Merlin groans, and then memory blooms like a flower, and he understands that Gaius is long dead, and that the man speaking to him was about to be.

“Aramis,” Merlin says, and tries to sit up but the room spins him back to a groaning horizontal. He screws his eyes shut again.

“Easy,” Aramis says. “I don’t know what in God’s name you did but I imagine it rather took its toll.”

“What did I do?” Merlin says, cracking one eye open.

“Well. I no longer have a hole in my stomach,” Aramis says, thoughtfully, “Which I…I don’t want to think about right now.”

___

At the Porte Saint Honore Aramis looks assessingly at him. It’s so much like the kind of look Lancelot would have given Merlin that he can’t help but grin back. It doesn’t hurt so much, anymore, and he’s not sure why but he is very grateful.

“Are you well enough to travel?” Aramis asks, dubiously.

“I’m fine, Aramis.”

“Are you an angel, Merlin?”

“An..a..no. No I’m not, Aramis.”

“Hmm,” Aramis says, assessing him once more. “Well, regardless, I will pray for you at the church of Saint Sulpice this evening.”

“You think I’m in need of saving?” Merlin is well aware that the attitudes towards magic - witchcraft - have not improved particularly despite the passage of time.

”I think you’re in need of protecting,” Aramis says, simply. “I think you’re quite extraordinary and I think I will pray every day for the Lord to watch over you because you saved my sorry, sinful life. Merlin.”

Merlin looks at those brown eyes, those same eyes. “I couldn’t save my friend. I couldn’t save any of my friends. I am glad to have been able to save you.”

“Where will you go?”

The countryside spreads out like a blanket around the city, darned patches of fields and woodlands. But Merlin can feel it again, that little tugging sensation somewhere inside his ribcage. 

“Home.”

“Britain?” Aramis says, and then makes a small moue of distaste at Merlin’s questioning raised eyebrow. “I assumed. Your accent is atrocious.” 

Merlin laughs. And it feels so good. 

“Yes,” Merlin says, “Britain. I can’t be gone for long. I’m waiting for someone.”

The countryside spreads out like a blanket, and time spreads out quite similarly, and perhaps there are bits darned here and there, mends and rips and added patches. Perhaps a person can come again, in a different place and a different time, and Merlin has to believe it’s true because that means he’s still holding on - somewhere, somehow - to the faith that Arthur will come again.

Time spreads out, and Merlin wonders if maybe all these years might be worth something after all, and that for a while at least, he might try being part of the world again.

[ominouslemonnade]

tiny rant

ok im just gonna ramble a bit here.

So, to be honest, not really happy with the whole paywall thing slashfic got going on, every other painfully obvious important option that changes the course of the story's trajectory is hit with the hearts thingy, it kinda feels like the mc is being trapped in some sort of inescapable box . Ive noticed that everytime theres this "upcoming big moment" it leads to another downer and the authors are really milking and dragging it out for very long— by adding more characters that do not play a vital role to the main story, plotlines being stacked one after another ,it has gotten to the point that the whole of slashfic is getting difficult to keep track of, the storyline is messy with all these new plotlines, the character writing being done dirty. Despite all that, i think slashfic can *still* be made into something more interesting , something that is not as uncomfortable as the questionable ads they have...

Another thing— the development of relationships of mc with the main 4 is too quick, too forced i feel. Would've been more reasonable if the slashers slowly , and i mean by their own pace, gain trust in mc and not just literally jump right into "spice" .

So heres my conclusion to this: Slashfic has a very messy story, tricky to keep track of because of unecessary plotlines that add nothing to its supposed horror element. The whole mystery behind camp nevermoor, was working well enough JUST FINE. The settlers, the tree, lysa monroe and the cultists, and the involvement of the dunlaps with magic was a driving point.

And it got me thinking and brew more ideas.

1.) A comic, all things orgainzed into one. A comic where it gives us more insight, background or info/depth to camp nevermoor and the events that took place before the main conflict happened. This way, it could give more easy to navigate and understandable context to the main story and why it happened.

2.) A game, it has fun mechanics like a minigame and all. The game explores more on the main story, aka the recent events happening. This could also be an opportunity to see more into the lives of the slashers or camp counselors and explore their character by being given more information on each of them, be it their history or life growing up where you can play in their perspective to understand more, to feel the characters complexities and the nuances of why they are the way they are. For hearts, you dont have to pay, you earn them! Example: By playing into a sidestory of each character or do simple tasks that correlates to their preferences (Basically a whole grind system) So ; more hearts earned = increased bloodlust. As for the minigame, it could help build up your skills! (Stealth, agility, speed, strength, reaction) with each score adding to the percentage of each skill, and these skills helps you progress even more in the story.

Other games i played on dorian they were at a nicer level of decent , not too much paywall options and the story is consistent and progresses from its main point. Character writing is not very questionable but actually put into thought. Slashfic seems to be the leading game in the app but the way i see it, if the expensive paywall options and the excuse of supporting creators keeps going on coupled with not adhering to criticisms or suggestions , the game will be overshadowed by other games and it will soon loose its current spotlight because the way it is drives players further away from interest in playing because of its paywall problem. Each characters writing are just watered down blatant tropes and thats basically all that they are, its sad. I really thought slashfic would improve more on because the nevermoor story really did got my attention. Its a shame to see ive came this far along in the game to be met with a downgrade. But i still keep playing anyway and i do not know why, and honestly??? Im also starting to slowly loose interest having to wait so long and the episodes have gotten so short (lord spare me).

I already have art and redesigns in mind, these ideas aren't really much of a help to my motivation of finishing the plans i already have in motion😅

Anyway this is all!

@ xoxo-chrmy has a great concept for a slashfic rpg game! Check em out :]

[withering-daylight]

Hi! Would you be willing to do snotlout fic about him with a more shy/introverted reader

TOTAL OPPOSITES | SNOTLOUT JORGENSON x FEM!READER

(REQUEST) summery: reader is a quiet, calm person. She’s intelligent and good at flying with her dragon, but tends to keep to herself and nerd out with Fishlegs and Hiccup. Snotlout is the total opposite. He’s loud, doesn’t think when he speaks, and just flirts with any girl he sees. With that in mind, how in Thor are they even together?

Timeline: RTTE.

Warnings: none!

Word count: 750

A/N: I’m trying out a new layout and giving characters their own color for said layout because I felt like doing something different! Also this is essentially two drabbles smashed together.

You are a quiet person.

You weren’t one to be loud, nor cause arguments. You just observed and kept to yourself. The gang sometimes made remarks about your quietness, but they were never out of ill intentions. Beside, you didn’t care, really.

Snotlout was the exact opposite.

He was loud, energetic, bold, and, well, to put it simply: he doesn’t think before he speaks. He always made flirty remarks to you, and it was obvious he liked you. After a few months, you started to like him too.

Eventually he did ask you out during a patrol night when it was just you two. You said yes and now you’ve been with him for 3 months.

You were in the Clubhouse at Dragon’s Edge with the others. It was after dinner and you were reading by the center fireplace, occasionally looking up to observe the twins stupidity. Tuffnut was holding Chicken and telling her a story, and Ruffnut was annoying Fishlegs. Hiccup was making small changes to his hand-made dragon eye, and Astrid was practicing her axe throwing.

You were flipping the page in your book when you felt an arm wrap lazily around your shoulders, and the creak of a wooden chair beside you being sat on.

“What are you reading babe?” Snotlout asked, peering over your shoulder. He didn’t mind listening to your nerdy rambles, sure he didn’t understand half the things you said, but he’d still try to listen (or halfway listen).

“A book Fishlegs lent me, it’s about stormcutters.” You replied, not looking up from your book. Snotlout hummed in acknowledgment.

“Isn’t your dragon a stormcutter?” He once more asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Mhm.” You hum, flipping the page of parchment.

“But I thought you already knew a lot about them,” He said with a cocky grin, “does this mean you’re not knowledgeable of your own dragon?” He said in mock offensiveness. You simply rolled your eyes.

“I do know a lot about my stormcutter, but there could be more to know.” You grumbled, for once looking up from the aged parchment and glaring at him.

Snotlout took that as a sign to stop his teasing, and instead leaned in and kissed your cheek. Your cheeks flushed and you raised the book higher to hide the pink hue.

“You’re so smart.” He said, grinning, before moving away and playing with a strand of your hair. You sighed and curled up beside him, moving your gaze back down to the book and resuming your quiet reading.

The twins noticed this development and focused their attention on you and Snotlout.

“Has Snotlout always been this sappy?” Ruffnut whispered to Tuffnut, jaw dropping more and more every passing second.

“I don’t know.” Tuff replied in a whisper, looking as confused as Ruff.

Their whispering wasn’t exactly quiet because the rest of the gang looked at the two of you as well, a mixture of awe and disbelief painting each expression.

You and Snotlout didn’t notice, not when you two were in your own world. He was still playing with a strand of your hair, now with his head resting on yours and watching you read.

“So why are those two dating?” Astrid asked Hiccup and Fishlegs, watching as Snotlout dragged you into causing mischief with him and the twins. His reasoning being that you should get out of your hut more in your free time, and that you were too much of a goody-two-shoes and deserve to have some fun.

Hiccup gestured to you, “She manages to get him to read more and be involved in quiet conversation and activities,” he stated before Fishlegs continued, “And Snotlout gets her out of her shell and help her overcome her shyness.” He said with a nod.

“So.. they balance each other out?” Astrid questioned, putting a hand on her hip while her gaze was still on you, with you now holding Tuff’s chicken while he and Ruff hit each other’s heads, their helmets making a clink!

“Precisely!” Fishlegs said, snapping his fingers.

“I have noticed Snotlout being a bit more considerate, and he doesn’t even flirt with anyone now.” Hiccup mused before face palming at the sight of the twins both falling onto the floor in a daze.

“She’s definitely gotten out of her comfort zone a bit. She’s still quiet and reserved, but there’s a small change,” Astrid agreed with a nod. “They’re happy though, you can tell.” She added.

© withering-daylight — DONT CLAIM, TRANSLATE, MODIFY, REPOST, OR CREDIT YOURSELF FOR MY WORK ALL RIGHTS ARE RESERVED.

[murasakiyams]

cw: smoking, vaping, health concerns, no this isn’t me self projecting and trying to convince myself to quit. not proof read hey lol

a/n: hate how this turned out hey

Can’t stop thinking about Suguru and you trying to stop smoking or vaping together. You both decided to quit when you heard one of your friends got into some serious health concerns about vaping, and that spooked you both enough.

you both started off small, buying the stupid vapes with less nicotine, but it never enough, but you both know you needed to quit.

quitting cold turkey was hard, you’ve both knew this, one of the reasons why you both were so scared. till one day you came back home, with suguru standing at the kitchen counter, his hands on the counter like his life depended on it, two cups of water, and his vape laying next to it.

“suguru?” you called out, looking at him with confusion, “what are you doing babe?” you asked, coming closer to him, wrapping your arms around his waist, “i’m gonna do it.” he stated, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than you really. “and the other cup of water is forrrrr?” you dragged out, taking a hit from your stupid sweet watermelon ice vape, not really catching up to what suguru wanted to do.

“for you.”

“oh.”

“yeah, oh, dumbass.” suguru chuckled, and you looked at him with disbelief, “dude, this is kinda like….”

“hard, yeah i know.”

both of you sighed and you unwrapped your arms around him and stood next to him, holding your vape very tightly before without thinking, causally dumping into the cup of water.

“SHIT I WASNT-“

“OKAY FULL SEND!”

You watched in horror as Suguru full sent his plan, a gasp leaving him as the water started to turn a nasty brown, and you couldn’t help but gag a little.

“We’ve been putting that in our lungs?” You whispered, in disbelief, almost like the videos and doctors on tiktok describing how bad vaping was for your lungs didn’t say how nasty it was, Suguru only shook his head, not saying anything.

“This is kinda romantic.” Suguru laughed, looking at you, and you just deadpanned at him, not finding one bit of this funny, “How.” You asked, crossing your arms, “Cause we’re like quitting together, yknow? So we both know how hard the withdrawals are….” He stated, his voice going small towards the end, like he knew how corny he was…… and you couldn’t help but snort at him, shaking your head and uncrossing your arms to engulf him in a hug, “You’re corny.”

“And you like it.”

[calebslittlecrow]

Identity Loops Are Quietly Sabotaging Your Shifting Journey

Identity loops are basically just your brain running on autopilot. Your mind loves patterns, it is addicted to whatever feels predictable and familiar. Even when what is familiar (*cough* CR *cough*) feels absolutely horrible. Your identity, or ego, (the version of yourself you believe you are, what you think you are capable of and how you think reality works), is on a constant feedback loop. Your thoughts are feeding into your identity and your identity keeps feeding you the same thoughts. Around and around we go. It’s like you are duct taped to a carousel you kinda didn’t want to get on in the first place. And your subconscious is kinda standing on the sidelines, clapping along while you are trapped. Not because it hates you like some people say, but because it thinks it’s helping in keeping you safe. To your subconscious, change = risk and risk = danger. Even if shifting to a better reality is all you ever wanted, if your mind feels like it’s unsafe, it will hit the brakes. Where It Affects Shifting Let’s theoretically say you’ve been stuck in a loop that sounds like this: “I can’t shift. Shifting is hard. I tried everything and it will never work”. Congrats, that is part of your identity now. And the second you get close to breaking out of that loop, your mind violently flinches back. “Wait, we don’t shift. We try to shift but don’t do it, that is what we are. Abort mission!” Suddenly you are too tired to focus. Or you become aware of every tiny distraction your CR throws at you. Old, really embarrassing memories pop up, you start doubting, all that shit. That’s not a sign that shifting isn’t working or some divine power is saying “not your time yet, buddy”, that’s just your mind yanking every rope it can to drag you back to what is familiar. To the identity it knows best. Even if that identity is frustrating and you hate it, even if you are miserable. Familiar misery still feels safer than the great unknown of total freedom when you are stuck in that loop. People love to say shifting is as easy as stepping into another room. Sure, the mechanism is super simple, but that metaphor forgets something important: you are not just changing rooms, you are changing who you are. When you shift, you step into a reality with a new version of yourself, someone who probably thinks vastly differently, feels differently, sees the world differently. Your old identity is being left behind. If your current identity loop sees this as unsafe or impossible, shifting will feel like an uphill battle. Like you are doing everything right, but shit still doesn’t happen. This is kinda the reason why you’ll hear “You don’t get what you want, you get what you are” from time to time. If your identity loop is “shifting is safe and easy, I can do it anytime” and you are that version of yourself, things fall into place and shifting will be easy. But if your identity loop is “Shifting is hard. I’ve never done it. Maybe someday, maybe never”, your mind will drag you back to where that statement feels true again.

What Now? I think the goal isn’t trying to force shifting to happen. The goal should be to break the loop, or update it, if you want to call it that. Change how you see yourself first, and things will fall into place. Want to feel pretty? See yourself as pretty first. Want to shift? See yourself as someone who can shift first. That version of you exists, your job is to stop being loyal to the version that claims otherwise.