#does it help if i only read volume one out of two

[writingfics-passingtime]

Endorphins

synopsis: you're working yourself to the bone in preparation for a big event, unwilling to take a break or de-stress, so Loki takes matters into his own hands.

pairing: Loki x female reader

wc: ~3400

cw: mostly a whole lotta fluff! but some swearing, tickling, and mentions of stress/burnout

minors DNI: this fic does not contain smut, but includes an adult-aged character experiencing attraction towards the reader; I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: a little fluff-bomb palette-cleanser after the intensity of my last couple of Loki fics. if you'd like to read more fics like this i'd love for you to let me know!

The common room of the residential wing of the Avengers Compound wasn’t empty, but it was quiet. The kind of lived-in calm that came after half a morning’s worth of coffee and sleep-laced banter.

A newscast flickered on the television with the volume mostly down, just enough for background noise. Steve was reading something on a tablet with that technology-induced furrowed brow. Bruce sat nearest the windows, flipping through a medical journal with one socked foot tucked under the other knee, looking up only when Natasha approached, all too quietly, and wordlessly refilled his coffee with a small, satisfied smile.

Others were scattered amongst it, all were uncharacteristically peaceful.

Except for you.

You were perched on the edge of the sectional with a stack of reports beside you, laptop open on the coffee table, pen cap clenched between your teeth. Your eyes were sharp, shoulders high with tension, jaw visibly set. You’d been like this for days - edgy, overworked, quiet, insular. Everyone knew why.

There was a summit in two weeks. A UN delegation. An avalanche of new diplomatic threads to untangle, several of which involved countries you’d gone on missions in recently. Your name was on every page of briefing notes and draft statements, and now you’d been snowed under.

"Hey. You good over there?" Sam broke the calm, directing his attention pointedly to the way your leg was bouncing.

You didn’t look up, but some kind of awareness flashed across your face and your leg fell still.

"Yeah. Good. Just focused."

Curt. Efficient. Not unkind, but final.

Loki, from his armchair, eyes appearing focused on the book in his lap, quirked a brow.

Bruce glanced up. "You've been at it for a while. You should really take a break."

"I was at the punching bag this morning."

Steve chimed in, not looking away from his tablet. "That’s training. Not a break."

"Feels like a break; I like training."

"You need to do something that isn’t work," Sam offered gently from his couch, falling easily into counsellor mode. "Take a beat. Do you have a hobby? A creative outlet would help."

You didn't look up. Just exhaled slowly through your nose. It was the kind of breath that meant I’m trying to be polite.

"I appreciate the concern," you said, very diplomatically, "but I have a pile of actual responsibilities in front of me, and knitting or bouldering is not going to rewrite the second paragraph of this response to the Wakandan delegation. If you'll excuse me."

You stood, gathering your laptop and papers, and exited the room with a measured grace that only barely masked how tense you were.

There was a moment of quiet as everyone waited for you to be out of earshot.

"She’s gonna snap," Bruce said, setting his mug down.

Sam sighed, arms crossed. "She’s in pressure mode. Doesn’t mean she’s angry. Just means she thinks stopping will make it worse. But we let it sit too long and it’ll turn into the wrong kind of burnout."

Steve sipped his coffee. "I’m watching it."

"She has been boxing," Natasha pointed out.

"She doesn't need more cortisol," Bruce muttered, "She needs a damn serotonin drip. Or something. Or someone. Honestly, just- someone make her laugh."

Natasha shrugged. "I could try."

Bruce winced. An unspoken: maybe it's best you don't.

"Wilson," Loki said aloud, not looking up from his book.

Sam turned. "Yeah?"

"You fancy yourself a comedian."

Sam's brow furrowed. "I mean... I am funny-"

"Then for Norns’ sake," Loki said, flipping a page with precise disdain, "do your job."

Natasha choked on a laugh.

Steve chuckled under his breath.

Loki felt his chest tighten.

The discussion annoyed him more than he expected. Not because of the concern - no, that part made sense. It was how they discussed it. They were talking in circles, wringing their hands, musing about serotonin and yoga, all while you were in the next room slowly grinding yourself down to the bone doing work that, if Loki wasn’t mistaken, concerned all of them.

Yet... you wouldn't allow a single report to be taken.

"Rogers." Loki snapped the book shut and settled back into his chair, perching his elbows on the upholstered arms. "Might I ask," he drawled, "are you the leader of this team or not?"

Steve’s brow furrowed slowly. "Excuse me?"

"You," Loki said plainly. "Stars and stripes. Human embodiment of a rousing inspirational speech. Are you in charge, or do you all simply loiter in proximity to each other?"

Sam raised his brows.

Loki didn't wait for an answer. "Delegate."

Steve sighed, long and deep.

"I’ve offered. But she’s protective of it; she cares a lot about the work, and her name is all over it. I can't just take it from her."

"Then order her to accept help."

"That's not how we do things," Steve said firmly.

Loki hummed under his breath as the others went back to their own little worlds.

Fascinating.

A room full of soldiers, spies, and scientists...

And yet none of them, not one, had the teeth to intervene.

The following morning, Loki found himself happening across an tiresomely similar scene, this time in the kitchen. The room smelled like toast and bacon and freshly ground coffee and the underlying tension of one person trying very hard to pretend they didn’t have basic human needs.

You sat at the island, dressed in your running tank and leggings, one foot planted on the stool, knee tucked to your chest. The thin veil of control you were clinging to was starting to crack, but you kept working, stubborn and relentless.

Sam leaned against the counter, nursing his coffee like it was a tactical manoeuvre.

"Just saying," he offered gently, "summit’s a couple weeks out. You could afford a break."

"I'll take a break," you said without looking up. "Once this section’s clean. It’s almost there."

Sam glanced over his mug, still trying to be gentle. "You said that yesterday. And the day before that."

"And when you said it Monday, it was 'just a few more paragraphs.'" Steve was crouched by the oven, checking on the bacon.

"I finally got a response I've been waiting for just before I was about to go for a run," you muttered, tapping a line of text and deleting it without mercy. "I'll go outside once I edit this section with this new info."

"Running is training. Training is work," Sam said. "You need something that’s not work. Something for you."

You sighed, long-suffering. "Something for me - something that'll make me feel better - is having this done."

"You know this is how burnout starts, right?" Sam’s voice was calm, but not soft. The therapist was peeking through. "You run hot for too long, you crash hard. You'll think better when your brain’s had room to breathe."

You gave him a look. It wasn’t angry. Just tired.

"And you think a watercolour landscape will clear my head?"

"You need fun. Your body needs endorphins."

"Exercise gives me endorphins."

"And cortisol. Which you've been running high on for almost a week. You need to let loose. Laugh. Give your body a break from the tension."

"I laugh," you said, with the driest tone possible. "You’re all very funny."

"Nope," Sam shook his head. "That’s not real laughter. That’s the social ‘ha.’"

"My ha is perfectly adequate," you snapped, deadpan, looking back to the screen.

Steve snorted.

From the other side of the kitchen, as his coffee trickled through the filter, Loki’s gaze narrowed on you, his eyes sharp as he observed the exchange. It didn’t escape him - your composure had cracks in it, the way your shoulders were wound tight, the way you barely breathed between sentences. His lips curled into a faint, knowing, endeared smile.

So stubborn.

Sam leaned his elbows on the island across from you, clasping his hands together. "What can I do?"

You raised a brow. "I’m not your responsibility, Sam."

"You’re my teammate."

You looked up. And to your credit, there was no venom in your eyes. Just that same brittle exhaustion that’d been following you like a shadow for days. You blew out a breath.

"I’m fine."

"You’ll think better with food," Sam coaxed.

Your jaw tensed. "I know. I'll eat in a bit."

"C'mon," Sam pressed, his voice light but serious. "Sit with us for half an hour, eat something, then you can get back to your 'almost done' report, and we'll all leave you alone."

You looked back at your screen. "I can’t tell if that’s a bribe or a threat."

"Bruce says the stress will kill you," Sam said, half-joking.

"Your jokes might beat it to the punch," you muttered back.

"Wow."

You resumed typing. "I promise, once this summit is over, I'll watch a Netflix special of your choosing and get more than my fill of endorphins."

Loki uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, smooth and deliberate. Unhurried, but with the weight of purpose behind them. He could feel the tension rolling off you, and for reasons he wouldn’t fully admit - couldn’t fully understand... he couldn’t stand it.

"Why," he began, his voice calm but with undeniable mischief laced beneath, "do you all insist on doing this the hard way?"

He rounded the island and approached you from the side, calm, not rushed, but without delay.

He had nothing to do with this - he told himself. This wasn’t about you or your exhaustion. This was just him solving a problem. A problem they were clearly too inept to fix.

Your shoulders didn’t move. You didn’t acknowledge him. You kept typing as he stood behind you.

His hands were on you before you registered the intent.

Loki’s fingers dug into your ribs, pressing and wiggling into the soft spots just beneath your arms with an expert precision.

You jerked, hands flying off the keys with a sharp sound of protest, an involuntary giggle bursting from your throat as you half-twisted, elbows snapping protectively to your sides.

Loki dropped his tickling hands, looming behind you like an impending storm, and let out a sharp and satisfied puff of air. "Thank the Norns."

And then, before you could gather your wits and react, he grabbed you around the waist and hauled you effortlessly off the stool.

You kicked and cursed in wild shock, flailing against the solid vice of his arm around your middle. "HEY!"

Loki looked to the others - their faces painted in quiet hesitance.

"Oh, don’t look at me like that," the god said with cool amusement, adjusting his grip as you writhed in his arms. “You’re all too bloody soft. Someone has to be the villain, and I rather enjoy the role." He then shot a sharp glance to Rogers. "You’re welcome."

He turned and started walking towards the living room.

"LOKI!" You snarled through gritted teeth, pushing at his forearm.

You were squirming like a snared hellcat in his arms, but your body gave you away. You were tired. Overextended. Tied in so many knots you couldn't tell where your own edges begin anymore.

"Let me go!"

"Yes, yes…" he sighed, striding into the large common room. "Once this matter is dealt with."

Bruce glanced up from his usual armchair, blinking behind his glasses. He took in the scene - you writhing in Loki’s arms, Loki’s expression impassive and focused, the faint storm in his stride.

From the threshold, Sam and Steve peered out with matching expressions of amused disbelief.

"Uh…" Bruce looked to the others, eyes wary and uncertain, coffee half-raised to his lips. "So we’re all just cool with whatever this is?"

Loki looked at the doctor briefly. "You said she needed endorphins. Laughter. Yes?"

"Well yeah but-"

"Lovely."

And then he threw you onto the couch.

It wasn't a gentle toss, but not cruel either. It was precise. Designed to disorient, and it did a hell of a job.

You landed on your side with a sharp bounce, half-seething, pushing yourself up with both murder and a giddy sort of nervousness in your eyes. You twisted and moved to scramble away, but he was already there - moving fast and smooth, settling down beside you.

He sat side-on, one knee on the cushion, the other foot braced on the floor. His hip pressed flush to yours, caging you in where you lay half-twisted against the backrest of the couch. His torso leaned across your waist, the angle perfect for blocking your every attempt to curl or wriggle away.

"You son of a-"

You reached up, maybe to push, maybe to slap, maybe to claw his face off - but it didn't matter. He caught your wrist easily, trapping it in mid-air.

"Easy," he said, voice low and warm. "Let’s not make a scene."

"Don’t you dare."

You didn't stand a chance.

He released your wrist and his hands darted fast - intentional, no wasted movement - his fingers dragging and digging into the sensitive space between your ribs and waist, thumbs pressing with precision.

You slapped at his hands, trying to hold back your giggles, still trying to fight, but he already had you.

Fingers spidered across your sides, precise and ticklish, pressing into the spaces between your ribs, the grooves of your waist. You jolted like a live wire. And then-

"Nnn-shit!"

You broke.

Giggling laughter exploded out of you, bright and helpless, like it had been waiting days to claw its way free. You bucked against him, hands slapping at his chest, knees curling up against his back.

He smirked, not even looking up at you, just watching his own hands move, thumbs circling, working the lines of your waist like a musician playing a their attuned instrument.

"Gods above," he muttered with an exhale, actually smiling. "You’re so ticklish."

"Asshole," you managed an adorable little snarl between breaths, but the laughter didn't stop. You were so consumed by the giggles that your protest didn’t sound as defiant as it should. "I ha-hate you!"

He chuckled, low and dark, his voice so teasing. "Oh, you’re going to have to try harder than that."

You let out a squeal when his fingers dug under your arms for half a second - then lower, finding the softest edge of your waist. You shrieked, bucking again, and Loki's grin deepened. His hands settled there with ominous precision.

Oh, he’d found something.

The spot just under your ribs, where nerves tangled and skin jumped at the slightest pressure. He focused there, thumbs pressing maddening circles, fingertips dragging with infuriating care.

You gasped, laughed, cursed - tried to twist, tried to curl - but it was useless. Your muscles had gone soft with the laughing. Your hands pushed at his chest, but there was no strength in them anymore. You were melting under him. And gods, he liked it.

"That’s it," he murmured, low and amused.

You didn't respond. You couldn't. Instead, you started going boneless beneath him.

He tilted his head, fascinated.

So expressive, mortals. All heat and breath and sudden collapse.

You could be a fury incarnate at any waking moment - sharp-tongued, iron-willed, as comfortable with a combat knife as you were in geopolitical briefings. And just as precise.

You’d spent the last week grinding yourself into steel and silence, undereyes shadowed with exhaustion, soaked in irritation, swatting away gentle jokes and light-hearted concern.

And now - reduced to this. Caught somewhere between defiance and surrender. Giggling, shaking, flushed and boneless beneath his hands.

Adorable.

He narrowed his eyes.

When had that word started surfacing in his brain so often?

God of Mischief, he reminded himself. This was simply the application of chaos toward emotional regulation. A necessary correction. Nothing more.

And yet, he could not look away.

He was a trickster, schemer, a thousand-year-old weapon of mass destruction. He had absolutely no business finding a mortal this... this charming.

And yet, he did not want to look away.

What a ruinous little thing you were becoming.

Your slaps were weaker now, your kicks barely jostled him. Your body had given up trying to fight and was just reacting, all frantic little spasms and helpless gasps. Your hands swatted for a second more- then simply curled around his wrists.

Not to push him away.

Just… to hold.

Your knuckles pressed into his sleeves, clinging without purpose, your palms warm against his skin. You were laughing, really laughing now - wild and breathless and beautiful, the sound pouring out of you with no control, like your body had finally found a way to purge the stress.

He watched you unravel under his hands, and it did something to him. Bended something inside him.

The laughter had knocked the fight out of your limbs. You were still squirming, yes, but without aim now. Pure reflex. He could feel the tension in you - the pressure that had been building for days - finally start to release.

He slowed his fingers, letting them glide lightly now, teasing, drawing out that helpless warmth until your laughter turned soft. Sweet. Still squirming, but relaxed.

When you went completely pliant, Loki stilled.

He watched your chest rise and fall, fast but looser. He'd felt the fight seep out of your shoulders, the weight in your brow gone. Your laughter trailed off into a breathless smile, your lips parted, eyes dazed with that post-laughter glow.

"There you are," he murmured, low and quiet, brushing his thumbs gently over your sides, not tickling anymore.

Something knotted tight in his chest as he looked at you - you, who could break bones and weaponise words. You, who had glared at the others like you wanted to bite them for suggesting a break. You, who hadn’t smiled in days, eyes heavy and sleepless with the unbearable weight of caring so very much.

Now a flushed, giggling heap on the couch. Under him. His body curved over yours, his hands still warm at your waist. Your fingers still wrapped loose around his wrists like you didn’t even realise it.

He swallowed.

This had been about endorphins. About tricking your nervous system into resetting. That was all.

Just… good strategy.

Right?

He kept his weight over you, hands still in place, but his voice dipped - lower, closer, with that subtle edge.

"I think your teammates are perfectly capable of helping you finish off those reports," he said. "Wouldn’t you agree?"

You nod without thinking, eyes unfocused. "Yeah."

Loki glanced up. Met Rogers’ gaze. Held it.

Steve was standing there in the kitchen archway, arms crossed, brow lifted. Loki didn't say a word - but the look was pointed.

"Captain Rogers will have Sergeant Barnes review the response to the Wakandan delegation," Loki continued, speaking to you but keeping his eyes on the one apparently in charge. "The others can proofread the rest, and deliver you notes... tomorrow."

"Yeah okay," you sniffed, still dazed, still sputtering residual giggles, but fully aware of your defeat.

Steve's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

Loki turned towards the good doctor.

Bruce was still watching from his chair, coffee in hand, one brow raised. Loki cocked his head, gesturing to your giggling form.

"Well, Bruce? What’s your diagnosis?"

Bruce watched you for a long second - your loose limbs, your lazy grin, the visible ease now where tightness had controlled your frame just minutes before. The corners of his mouth turned down in an analytical frown.

"Tension’s down. Endorphins kicked in. She looks lighter. I’d say she could use... another minute or so."

Loki’s smirk turned feral.

You didn't even protest.

You barely registered it, not until his fingers at to your sides started tickling with that same precision, but just a little gentler now, and your body danced with a squealing giggle you didn’t know you had in you.

The couch shook with your laughter again, the sound of your heels thudding against the cushion. You were completely wrecked. And you let it happen. You let him ruin you with laughter, your body betraying you, all your sharpness and strength replaced by unguarded sound and colour and heat.

And Loki...

He was half-smiling down at you like you were dangerous.

Like he was just realising you might be the only thing on this wretched planet that could bring him to heel. That could... soften him. That could make him enjoy softening.

And that, in itself, was terrifying.

But your laughter hit that beautiful, breathless pitch - and he knew he’d be doing this again.

.

.

.

end note:

i need to be clear that the tickle fluff in this fic is not meant to present as the solution to the reader's stress; the delegation of work is. tickling can be fun and sweet and help with relaxation, but it does not fix systemic issues or mental health concerns. this may seem like a weirdly intense note to end on for a fun and fluffy fic, but it wouldn't sit right with me to leave this up to interpretation. lots of love xo

[mongoosemagazine]

Friends (Anti social medic reader x Smitten Ghost)

I am so honored by the support for this little one-shot, I only started recently with posting… I am so glad to be part of such a supportive community <3

part 2 of antisocialmedic reader & Smug ghost

Ghost stomped down the hallways towards the medbay holding a tray of meat and potatoes, he had purposely mashed up the potatoes more so there would not have been any lumps of potatoes left and grabbed the little salt packets for her, he turned a corner. Opening the door with his elbow and slipping into the room “Goodmorning, Mouse”

“Why are you here-” she slowly rotated in her chair to face him as he put food on her desk from the improvised med bay. He turned off her monitors as she moved to try to stop his hand from messing up her setup, he held her by the wrists and made her sit down“why? Why? Stop it i need-” he placed down the tray of food.

“You need to eat, doc.” he sat on the cot closest to her desk, “and you’re welcome…” he grumbled as he crossed his arms leaning back against the wall. 

“I need to work” he just glared at her, his eyes flickering between the food and her.

“Try again…”

She narrowed her gaze towards him and huffed crossing her arms, they two were locked in a staring match before being rudely broken off by the sound of her stomach rumbling at an atrocious volume. A gruff chuckle escaped him as he straightened his posture.

“Shut up” she mumbled as she picked up the fork and started feeding herself. He could see the little upturn in her brow as she found how smooth the mashed potatoes were. 

“So-”

“Be happy i’m letting you sit there, I don’t like small talk” she turned away from him as she ate, he smiled under his mask at her, he couldn't help but find her adorable.

“Trust me princess I am” he smirked at the new reaction as she went completely stiff in her chair. “Don't call me that” he spoke in unison to her reply. “See I know you so well already, no need for small talk.” 

“You don’t know me.” they spoke in unison again and she let out a look so deadly he almost swooned for her. “You like annoying me?” she grumbled as she dusted off half her plate. She went to reach for her water but he passed it to her quickly. “...thank you” her eyes lingered on him and his hand.

“What’s wrong?” she furrowed her brows as he posed the question rocking herself in her chair slightly. “Why do you keep coming back? Talking to me, I mean. I’m not a good conversationalist, I don't like people and I don't want you here.” she finally faced him again and he sat there with a stupid look on his face which she didn’t understand.

“Because I like hanging out with you.” she finished eating and stared at him with a very confused stare. “And frankly you need some more socialising.” 

“I-” she sat up straight, she didn’t like being read at all. “I am perfectly happy on my own.”

“You aren't, Mouse.” he leaned forward speaking in a low tone, he noticed how she shied back slightly and readjusted himself accordingly. “You lock yourself away all day, you forget to eat and sleep too little.”

“This is none of your business.” She cleaned up her plate and fork, putting them all back on the tray. “I don't need you. I am smart- independent-”

“I’m not saying you aren’t” he pinched his nose bridge and sighed. He sat up and ran through how to explain this to someone who was so antisocial and socially unaware. “It is good…for you..” she tilted her head. “You’re a doctor, you should know what loneliness can do to someone long term. You need friends to survive, mouse”

“So…you want to be my friend?”

“Yes mouse, I want to be your friend.”

“Does that mean I have to do small talk with you?”

“No mouse, we’ll be just fine without it.” he smiled fondly under the mask.

[colorisbyshe]

my library does a lil summer reading raffle where each book you report as read counts as an entry

does the BL manga i took out and read yesterday... count as summer reading... should i log it on my summer reading account

[authorhjk1]

How does BP gives head?

Ps. Yes I read the cr*****e one more than once

Jisoo

You melt into the seat of her car as Jisoo gently sucks your cock. She's bent over so she can easily access your cock and you can't help but stare at her amazing midriff. Her muscles flex as she takes you deeper.

When the school bell rings, you look at the building, hoping that her son will take a while before he gets here. Jisoo is not doing this because to get her son's grate up or anything. She just wants to "have fun". To put into her words.

"Mrs. Kim..."

You groan, one hand slightly pushing her head further into your lap, while the other holds onto the handle of the door.

A moment later you finally unload inside her perfect mouth. Your head spins as you feel Jisoo expertly swallowing your cum, before gently letting her tongue roam your cock again. Now you can see her son walking out of the school, while Jisoo continues to clean your shaft.

Jennie

You realize that Jennie doesn't care at all as she ruins her face on your cock. She doesn't care about her ruined makeup. She doesn't care about her soon to be angry stylist. And she doesn't care about her performance in 10 minutes.

She's just happy to take your cock down her throat. She loves the way you groan, sometimes even whimper when she makes you feel so amazing. Like you're in heaven. Just as much as Jennie is addicted to giving head, you're addicted to receiving it.

"Jennie..."

Your involuntary groan only encourages her further. You feel her throat tightening around your cock. The tears running down her cheeks eventually mix with her saliva. Her once smooth, silk like hair is a mess.

You know it's only a matter of seconds, until she makes you bust down her throat.

Rosé

You can't wrap your head around how your girlfriend can be sexy, cute and shy at the same time. Her tight pajamas show off every single curve of her body as she kneels in front of you, leaving gentle kisses all over your cock. Everytime you let out a groan or say her name, she blushes, but doubles her efforts. It's a fun mix of both sides of her personality.

Looking down on her, you don't just see her beautiful face, but you also have a great view of her ass. You can't help but reach down and grope her cheeks, which only makes Rosé moan around your cock. She does her best to satisfy you, her lips wrapped around your dick, both her hands stroking your base. And yet you slowly turn it around. She begins to moan more and more as you continue to let your hands wander along her curves.

"Show me your tits."

Rosé quickly reaches for the zipper of her top, excited to show you what she's got. She reveals her small, firm tits to you and you gently play with them as she continues to worship your cock.

Lisa

Lisa looks like she's walking around the city in only lingerie. You flew to Paris for your vacation, where the two of you met by chance. She isn't your girlfriend or anything, but the two of you have history from the last time you went to one of Blackpink's concerts.

She lead you into a small, cozy alley and is squatting in front of you. You hold her head with both your hands as her lips glide along the length of your cock. You're only gently fucking her face while she holds onto your thighs.

As time passes, Lisa's blowjob doesn't just increase in pace, but also in volume. The valley fills with the sounds of her slurping on your cock. The occasional gag here and there makes you shudder when you feel her throat tightening around you.

She looked gorgeous when you saw her at breakfast at the hotel this morning. But now she looks breathtaking. Just wearing something close to white lingerie, squatting in front of you in an empty alley, sucking your cock...

You wonder if heaven could feel any better.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Sibling shit Dante and Vergil defiantly did do: a volume by a stressed and perpetually tired you from dealing with twins who share a brain cell when in proximity to each other:

Dante would get bored of reading his magazines, go to vergil’s room, stand in the doorway until his brother looks up from his book only to see that Dante was flipping him off with the smuggest grin on his face before leaving the room.

Vergil retaliates by doing the same shit not even five minutes later by standing in front of Dante’s room, waits for him to look up from his magazines, only to flip him off with the most deadpan expression and stabbing him with a sword and leaving without a word.

You were there for both instances in a referees outfit and a whistle incase you had to facilitate a fight and keep count on who was winning, you weren’t helping but this was better then saying ‘I’m not your babysitter, please stop asking me to referee your fights because neither of you can count and leave me in peace from your chaotic bullshit.’

While they might not like what the other eats, but they will wholeheartedly eat the others food when extremely petty.

Vergil ate half of Dante’s pizza because he wouldn’t give his book back, grimacing at the greasy and fatty food but has too much pride and continues to commit to the bit.

Dante eats whatever the hell Vergil had -if he ever eats- whenever he felt like pissing him off, he does this shit for the love of the game and it shows very evidently.

Asking you who the favourite sibling is; NEVER GET INTO THIS WITH THEM, it’s never fun seeing a half demon sulk like a child when you insinuate that you like one more then the other, it’s honestly the most stressful thing you’ve ever been put through and the worst thing was; no one was gonna help you out of it, you were on your own. Using the ‘I like the both of you equally’ doesn’t work, it’s a cop out to them both.

If there was an instance you favoured Vergil over Dante, then Dante would pout and huff as he stands in the corner and loudly question what he did to deserve this cruel, cruel fate all the while looking over you at times to see if you’d come for him. He’s a loud whiner and make it everyone’s problem, probably overused the phrase ‘I dunno ask Vergil since you like him more then me’

If you favoured Dante over Vergil, this man was silent as his face gave nothing away, but his actions were like that of a little kid trying to guilt trip you into feeling bad about not getting them candy when you should’ve. He’s not sharing his books with you, he’s not sharing his makeshift study with you, he pretty much withholds everything from you until you retract your statement even if you haven’t said it aloud. Huff and puff too but don’t tell him that Dante does the same thing, just don’t.

These were two fully grown men, powerful men and yet whenever they were within the vicinity of each other, they were children again and whenever they couldn’t come to a conclusion, these two powerful men would come to you like a pair of little ducks who’ve imprinted on a random stranger.

You weren’t getting paid to basically babysit two overgrown half demons, it wasn’t your job description, but it might as well have becuase everyone should be fucking thanking you that these two weren’t brawling out on the streets. You were basically pulling them both away from each other by their coat tails and saying ‘come on, keep it moving, we’re not fighting here there’s too many casualties and we don’t get paid enough to make the reparations needed after one of your fights.’

You love them both, you really do, but the moment someone calls you when you were away saying ‘I know you’re on holiday but-‘ you knew Dante or Vergil or both were too much for that sorry soul to handle and you were forced to cut your vacation short and come home to reign in the chaos twins with a simple ‘what are you two doing!?’

They’re smart, charismatic, strong, the pinnacle of what a half demon should be and talented within their own fields, but they lack caution and care when paired together and that spelt out trouble for whoever was on the receiving end because after all they were two siblings who loved to fight one another. You could easily see the care in the other’s eyes, but knew they’d never say it, so they let the fighting talk instead.

[thehelltingvilleclub]

Bill Dickey - Comic & Ego Extraordinaire

Welcome to the club, why not meet the president?

William ���Bill” Alan Dickey [04/13/80] | [5'11.5 (that .5 is real Important*)] Secretary of Comics | President of the Eltingville Club AOL / Online Users: [greedo318] | [DarkxKnightx] Theme Songs: What’s My Age Again? - blink-182 | My Own Worst Enemy - Lit | Brutal - Negative 25 Favorite Shit: Stan Lee, The X-Men, Complete Runs, Signed Editions, The Joker, Emma Frost, The Batman, Alternate Earths, Variant Covers, Crossovers, Torrent Sites, Action Figures, Statues/Busts, Alex Ross, Bondage Covers, First Printings, Continuity, Cosplay Chicks, “Headlights”.

In the ripe year of 1999, Bill Dickey couldn't be any more... Tired? Annoyed? A lonely piece o' sh-- But that's fine, everything is fine, right guys? .... Guys? The fact he's managed to keep the club together is baffling at best (and all thanks to Jerry, and May.. er.. Mr. Osewai, actually), and completely unbelievable at worst, but he's still got his friends (kind of) and they still like him (eh..) He's a nice guy, honest, just.. don't turn on your brain.

Variants Under the Cut--

Oh Captain, My Captain

His @ greedo318 account got banned essentially in the first two weeks of him getting it on Messenger about a year back, as May and Pete helped Josh essentially spam report it when he started to harass Josh there too. Hence the new name that he actually uses.

Mrs. Dickey is still trying to force him to get a job, and while he has applied, he flops any and every interview he lands with his stupid need to be the loudest asshole in the room.

This man's ego is absolutely the size of the sun, it's almost immeasurable I assure you, HOWEVER--

Show him some ⋆｡°✩spunk~✮⋆˙ show him you bark back just as harsh as him and he *might* just keep you around.

Someone please just get him a better acne face wash and a steady form of income that isn't his mother's paychecks bro please for the love of god--

He was actually one of the first in the group to get a car, but he never has money for gas so he like never drives it. It was a "gift from dad" according to his mom, but he doesn't believe her for a minute. (He's convinced she bought it for him to get him to move out.)

His mom watches Titanic every year on his birthday after 1997 and he HATES it to the point he has threatened to disconnect the breaker if she kept playing it at full volume.

He is still convinced that he has a shot with May (Despite her telling him repeatedly no) and is INSISTENT about it like a possessive little weirdo (news flash, he doesn't but he's delusional so it's fine)

^^ This absolutely pisses Pete off but he can't say shit cause he's a baby that won't ask her out so--

The night of the Destruction of Joe's Fantasy World, Mr. Osewai had tried to stop in and pick something up for May when he walked in on.. well, Dickey on fire. His paternal instincts kicked in and managed to help the kids and smooth some things over with the families (and.. may or may not have threatened to rip out Joe's tongue but like it's fine).

Dickey has a strong sense of gratitude for the guy, even if he expresses it in the WEIRDEST ways, 'cause at the end of the day the guy kind of saved his only group of friends from his own bullshit.

When he does eventually land a job, it's essentially a generic gas station attendant, but they let him read his comics on the job when he has to work nights so that's a plus?

Guh guys I hate this man so much can someone please explain why I have so much fun drawing him please please please--

also... this somethin' y'all want?

[lozeyart]

What am I doing in the year of our lord 2025 drawing Junjou Romantica fanart

Goodness me, I got into JJR back in 2008 when the anime aired and then I got into the manga that same year. At the time, I wasn't really drawing people, I was drawing animals, but I was OBSESSED with this yaoi with my whole heart and wanted so badly to draw fanart for it. So now here it is! 17 years in the making! Btw, trying to interpret anime hair logic with my style is easier said than done, but I did my best lol. All just colored sketches and then some scribbles for funsies.

But I definitely have some complicated feelings about this manga/anime. More below the cut (its A LOT, I'm so sorry).

JJR was one of the first yaois I ever got into, and back in 2008 when I didn't realize being gay was an option, this silly little manga/anime felt like an escape for me. Well, it's now 17 years later and upon rereading this manga (I still have volume 1-12, I could never get rid of them, they mean to much to me) I realize that it has aged POORLY.

This yaoi is definitely a product of its time (2002/2003) and it SHOWS. I find myself disappointed in the dynamic between Usagi-san and Misaki and wish that Misaki would show Usagi-san SOME sort of affection outside of the bare minimum (cooking and cleaning for Usagi) and Usagi definitely has some... Issues of his own. Now, I'm an adult, and I can see that consensual non-consent (CNC) can be fun and exciting for a couple (you know, if agreed upon beforehand), and it can be fun for your partner to initiate things out of the blue, but Usagi definitely toes the line of what that is. Now, I know that this was the early 2000s and yaoi relationships tended to have that dynamic (One being the seme who didn't listen to "no" and the uke who said "no" constantly but actually secretly liked what was happening), like I said, this series is definitely a product of its time. But I don't know man, its not fun (for me) reading sex scenes where one of them is constantly telling the other one to stop over and over again. (I also think it'd be cute as fuck if Usagi-san asked Misaki if he could kiss him and Misaki shyly said yes instead of yelling at him like he always does).

I even went online to read up to volume 27, but all I can express is that same disappointment. Misaki rarely even likes to acknowledge that he's in love with Usagi-san, or is dating the man, or even likes him (it seems to be only under duress that he admits these things STILL. IN 2022 when that volume was released!)

I wish there had been more character development in the years since I stopped reading the manga, I wish we could see Misaki and Usagi-san acting like they actually like each other outside of when they have sex (yes there are small moments between the two, and a bickering couple can be a fun dynamic, but dear lord lets shake things up A LITTLE. I'M BEGGING).

Lets not even get started on the sketchyness that is (at the start of the manga) a 28 year old falling in love with an 18 year old (And we're not even going to TALK about Miyagi and Shinobu) -don't bring up the age of consent in Japan, I do NOT wanna hear it-.

Listen, I'm 29, and I would NEVER even DREAM about dating an 18 year old (or 19 year old) at my age. (Fuck, the youngest I'll date is MAYBE 23 but even THATS pushing it for me).

All of that to say is that I still can't help but have an extreme soft spot for this series, and there are still moments that I love from this (Volume 9, the Christmas chapter, am I right? Gets me EVERY time), and fuck, Shungiku Nakamura is probably still making bank with this series so who the fuck am I to say anything lol. I'm just a rando online with an opinion, you don't have to agree, and you can think that whatever Misaki and Usagi have is fuckin' AWESOME. I'm just an old fart

But, I dunno, I think it'd be interesting to explore Misaki's internalized homophobia, and Misaki slowly but surely growing more and more comfortable with not only accepting Usagi-san's affections and even reciprocating and initiating on his own, but also accepting HIMSELF and being happy with who he is instead of the constant self shame he puts himself through for being with a man. Let's be so real, he is gay, he can't stop looking at other attractive men and FAWNING over how hot they are (Nowaki, Todo, Injuin Sensei, the list goes on).

But who am I to complain, I went and drew fanart of these two anyway. Rock, meet glass house.

Unrelated, I love the art style in volume 3-6 a lot because its very "late 90s early 2000s" art and I think the art peaked in volume 9. And now its unpeaking. Bring back Usagi-san's yaoi chin so help me god.

I do have yaoi I prefer over this one a lot more, and involve older couples (which I find that I prefer), and have fun, cute stories. If anyone has read this far and wants those recs, lemme know (dear god I'm so sorry, this has gone on so long.)

Anyway I do want to redraw some of the sex scenes and post it to my bluesky.

[takeyrregrets]

Hi, I'm in love with your story. It's like they are real people for me and I thought your writing style will be great with librarian student reader x loud student. I really love that concept but not a lot of people use it. Again I love your story and can't wait for another.

-🌂

𝗦𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗕𝗲𝘁𝘄��𝗲𝗻 𝗦𝗵𝗲𝗹𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗕𝗼𝗼𝗸𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗢𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗟𝗼𝘂𝗱 𝗠𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝘅 𝗟𝗶𝗯𝗿𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗻 𝗠𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 This was really fun to write actually these two are cute:)

You know he’s behind you before he says a word.

The library’s quiet, always, but when he’s here the air changes. It feels warmer, closer, more alive in the way thunderstorms feel before they break. Even his silence has volume.

You don’t turn around. You’re holding a stack of novels in one arm and scanning the shelves for the right spot.

“Hey,” he says, like he’s just passing through, like he didn’t just deliberately trail you from the front desk to the back corner of the second floor.

“Need help carrying those?”

You glance back. He’s standing there with his hands in his hoodie pocket, like he didn’t just power-walk across the entire fiction section just to catch up.

“I’m fine.”

He nods. Stretches his arms over his head dramatically, like he just happened to be taking a stroll through this exact aisle.

You slide a book into place.

“Cool, cool, cool. I was thinking…maybe I could help you shelve stuff. Y’know, be useful. Like an intern. An intern who doesn’t get paid and only works when you’re on shift.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So not an intern.”

“A fun intern,” he corrects.

You stare at him. He stares right back. Then, slowly, you hand him a single book from the stack. Paperback, slightly bent spine, bright red cover.

He takes it like it’s sacred.

“Where does this go?” you ask, watching him.

He squints at the spine. “Uhhh…Patterson? So...P? That’s, like, halfway through the alphabet, right?”

You gesture to the clearly labeled shelf right behind him.

“Oh.”

He places it on the shelf backward, upside-down.

You blink.

“Deliberate sabotage,” he says. “I’m making sure you need me.”

You sigh, taking the book and placing it correctly. “You’re the worst intern I’ve ever had.”

“I’m your only intern.”

“Still the worst.”

He grins like you just handed him a trophy.

You continue reshelving. He follows you from section to section, carrying two books (that you handed him just to shut him up) and occasionally asking things like:

“Do people actually read this one? The cover’s just a dude’s foot.”

“Who decided to organize things alphabetically? Why not emotionally?”

“Be honest. You’ve definitely read that vampire book, haven’t you?”

You pretend to be annoyed. You’re not. You never are, really.

After the next few shelves, you pause, turning to him.

“You done wasting my time?”

He tilts his head, eyes bright. “Wasting? No, no. I’m investing.”

You scoff. “In what?”

He shrugs, but there’s something softer in his voice when he says, “Getting to know you.”

You stare at him, caught off guard, and he smiles like that was the plan all along—to make you stop, to make you see him.

You hand him another book.

“Then do it quietly. Or at least alphabetically.”

He grins, and you both turn back to the shelves.

The shelving is slow work.

Not because you’re struggling—but because your "intern" is still trailing after you, making terrible small talk and shelving books so crookedly you have to fix them the moment he turns his back.

He’s trying so hard to impress you. Failing miserably. But you don’t really mind.

You hand him another book without looking. He takes it without complaint.

“Man, you’re brutal,” he says under his breath, loud enough that a few patrons glance over in annoyance. He flinches, whispering theatrically, “Sorry! Sorry! Indoor voice, right.”

You huff a laugh through your nose.

He falls quiet for a moment, walking beside you. His hands brush against yours as you reach for the same shelf. It’s accidental. Probably. He doesn’t pull away right away.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

He’s looking at you again—the way he always does. Like you’re some riddle he wants to get wrong a few times before he gets it right.

Maybe it’s the late afternoon light slanting through the tall windows. Maybe it’s the quiet hum of the library around you.

But suddenly, something bold unfurls in your chest.

You lean in just slightly—so only he can hear—and murmur, “You’re cuter when you're quiet.”

The words are soft. Just barely there. But the effect is immediate.

He freezes.

Absolutely, completely freezes.

The book he’s holding slips a little in his hands. He fumbles to catch it, nearly dropping it, which earns a sharp shhh! from the 3rd year at the genealogy table.

His face goes red—not just his cheeks, but his ears too. A vivid, helpless blush spreading like spilled ink.

“You— I—��� He stammers, voice cracking embarrassingly. He coughs and tries again. “You can’t just— You can’t say stuff like that.”

You hum softly turning your head towards the cart, to hide the amused smile on your face. “Why not?”

He clutches the book to his chest like it’s some kind of shield. His grin is manic, desperate, wildly fond.

“I’m fragile,” he whispers dramatically. “You’re gonna kill me. Right here. Death by librarian.”

You smirk. Turn back to the shelf, sliding another book neatly into place.

Behind you, he’s still standing there, stunned, vibrating with silent, overjoyed panic like someone just handed him everything he ever wanted and then walked away like it was no big deal.

You pretend not to notice.

But your smile lingers, small and real.

[thatonesonicfanfictionwriter]

Shadow x sonic x tall!fox!reader who wished that they were shorter to kiss their boyfriends easier

“Tall People Problems”

Pairing(s): Shadow the Hedgehog x Tall Mobian Fox Reader x Sonic the Hedgehog

Requested: Yes (by @fernstarsblog ).

Description: Being tall was great! You could reach the top shelf, you- …well, that was about it. You always disliked being so tall; you could never properly kiss your partners. It sucked.

Notes: Even more poly stuff, heck yeah! I hope you enjoy!

(Reader will be gender-neutral.)

(Not proof-read/beta-read.)

– – – – – – – – – – – –

It was a pretty average day, with the sun shining outside and the birds chirping.

You creak open your eyes, blinking a few times as you adjust to the light.

The first thing you notice is the two warm, heavy bodies on top of you.

The second thing you notice is one of them snoring, that one being your partner, Sonic.

The other body, that being your other partner, Shadow, who seems to be purring, though it sounds more like clicking, which you’ve loved since the first time you heard it.

This was…nice.

You start scratching Sonic and Shadow behind their ears, causing Sonic to start purring with Shadow leaning into your touch.

You could get used to this.

…Unfortunately the peace doesn’t last long, with Sonic’s communicator blasting its ringtone at full volume, causing all of you to all but leap out of the bed, all of you on edge as Sonic answers his communicator.

“Yello?” Sonic says.

“Hi Sonic! Sorry for the early call,” the voice of Tails says. “I just wanted to make sure you remembered our morning hangout!”

“Oh yeah! Don’t worry bro, I’ll be there in a minute,” Sonic says. “Just let me say bye to my partners and such.”

“Okay, no rush! I’ll see you soon, Sonic!” Tails says.

“See ya soon, bro,” Sonic states before hanging up, letting off a huge yawn while stretching. Shadow, too, yawns, rubbing his eyes a bit with his ungloved hands. “Welp, guess I gotta juice. Love you both!”

Sonic gives you both a kiss on the lips, which causes Shadow to get flustered as it usually does, before zooming out the door.

“Typical Sonic,” you say, shaking your head. “Guess that leaves us to breakfast, eh?”

“I suppose it does,” Shadow states. “What are you thinking?”

“Probably just eggs and bacon, maybe with some sausage and coffee,” you say.

“Sounds good to me,” Shadow says.

The two of you head off to the kitchen, and you quickly remember that the counters are sort of small compared to you.

I mean, you’re only about a foot taller than your partners, but it still doesn’t help much with the fact that you’re, well, tall.

Regardless, you lean down, grabbing a pan and turning on the stove, placing the pan over the heat, grabbing the butter and eggs, spreading butter on the pan before cracking two eggs, cooking them to over-easy perfection, taking them off of the pan and onto a plate with your spatula.

Buttering up the pan again, you crack two more eggs, this time opting to scramble them for yourself. After they’re cooked to perfection, you use the spatula again to put them on another plate just as Shadow finishes cooking the sausage and bacon.

He places them on a plate and you give Shadow a kiss on the head, where his red streak ends, and he grumbles, a bit flustered.

The two of you eat your breakfast, chatting about whatever, with Sonic eventually coming back around noon, the three of you opting to go out on an afternoon hike before coming home once it’s dark, getting ready for bed.

While watching a before-bed movie (with it being some cheesy romance movie), you start to wonder what it would be like to be the same height as your partners. Being tall is great and all (hey, that rhymed), but you wish you were shorter so you could properly kiss your partners.

Sonic notices you sulking and he tilts his head to the side, confused.

“Everything alright, [Nickname]?” Sonic asks.

“Do you guys ever wish I was shorter?” you ask.

“Where is this coming from all of a sudden?” Sonic asks.

Shadow looks over at you as well, a bit of concern on his face.

“I just- Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind being tall, but…I wish I was able to properly kiss you both,” you state.

“Aw, but [Name], we love your tall kisses,” Sonic says. “And if you were shorter, we’d lose our huge cuddle buddy!”

“What the faker is trying to say is that we love you for you,” Shadow states. “Be it tall, short, or whatever. We love you regardless.”

You give the both of them a kiss, as if saying “Thank you.”

You loved these hedgies to death.

[riality-check]

Purpose (‘pər pəs) (noun): a subject under discussion or an action in course of execution

It’s been two years, and Jayce still doesn’t quite understand Viktor.

He’s never really been a people person. They’re a lot more complex and unpredictable than tools and machines, and while he likes them well enough, he prefers to spend his time in the forge or workshop with very few exceptions.

Viktor is an exception, probably because he is almost always in the workshop with Jayce. Two years into working together, and Jayce can count on one hand the days that Viktor has missed in the workshop. Meanwhile, he’s never come to visit Jayce at the forge.

He doesn’t know why. Jayce doesn’t know a lot of things about Viktor, actually. He hasn’t spoken about his time at the Academy - which is something the two of them can surely find common ground in - or his family, which Jayce guesses they can’t. All Jayce knows is that Viktor is from the Undercity, he’s the smartest person he knows, and he’s full of contradictions.

Example 1: “don’t ask for permission,” and yet, the first words out of Viktor’s mouth in the nearly four hours they’ve spent holed up in the Academy library searching through prior literature are: 

“Can I ask you a question?”

Jayce doesn’t call him out on it. His head swims from squinting at faded tables and figures, and the clock rings out an hour far too late for them to have not eaten since lunch. If he teases Viktor about this contradiction, they’d banter and promptly lose track of the original question in the process.

Source: too many confused blackboard scribbles to count.

So, he just nods and peels his eyes away from the writings of one Dr. Kovac, who should consider a career as a sleep therapist with how boring his studies on thermal conductivity are.

Viktor sets down his volume (Applied Physics, Vol. 3, Issue 6) and stretches out his legs. His face twitches briefly into a grimace, a blink-and-you-miss-it sort of flinch.

Jayce notices. You don’t work with someone for years and not notice that type of thing, he reasons.

“I will need some help in the next few weeks,” Viktor says. He stares at his hands, where he passes a small screwdriver back and forth between them. 

He has to hold something when he talks. Usually, that need is satisfied by his cane, but when he’s sitting down, he trades that for another object. Jayce noticed this months ago, and he doesn’t mind. He has to have something in his mouth while he reads. 

In that instant, he becomes shockingly aware of how stale his chewing gum has turned while they’ve been here. A quick scan provides exactly zero (0) trash cans nearby.

Ugh.

When Viktor doesn’t elaborate and Jayce realizes it’s his turn to carry the conversation, he asks, “What kind of help?”

“Cooking, cleaning, laundry.” Viktor counts them on his fingers, starting with his thumb. 

Jayce does it that way, too. So does Mel Medarda, and Caitlyn half (50%) of the time.

“So, you want me to be your housekeeper?”

He stretches his arms above his head - whoever designed the library chairs did so with zero (0) regard for the human body - and snorts when Viktor teases, “Smart-ass.”

“Hey, that’s what it sounds like,” Jayce defends.

Viktor looks up at him for the first time, suddenly far more serious. “I am getting surgery-”

“Surgery?”

“-and as much as I would like, I will not be able to do everything myself,” he finishes as if Jayce had never spoken.

“Shit, Viktor,” Jayce says, setting his own volume (Advances in Engineering, 5th edition) down on the nearest, highly overcrowded end table. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was not relevant.”

“Of course it’s relevant!”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. Jayce won’t admit it, but he’s jealous he can do that. He practiced in the mirror for months as a kid, but he can still only raise both of them, or none at all.

“How so? If I had told you any earlier, you would have fretted and worried, and that would have taken your time, energy, and focus away from Hextech.”

“We have plenty of time, energy, and focus for Hextech,” Jayce counters.

“True, but Councillor Medarda’s money is not infinite, no matter how well you get along with her.”

Jayce sighs. “You get along with her alright.”

“I do. She is a good investor, and I respect her very much for making something of herself in Piltover,” Viktor admits. “But you are more her friend than I am.”

Jayce runs a hand through his hair. Fuck, he’s tired, and scientific literature isn’t exactly riveting. The data is interesting - at least, the relevant stuff is - but too many scientists write with all the energy of drying paint.

“Aren’t you worried?” he asks, changing the subject. “You said you didn’t tell me because I’d be worried. But you don’t seem freaked out at all.”

Viktor stares at him. “Of course I am worried. They are taking apart my spine to straighten it out with rods and screws.”

“It’s spinal surgery?”

“This is why I did not tell you.”

“Viktor, that’s a major surgery-”

“Correct.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“Of course I was going to tell you.”

Jayce pinches his nose. A headache is imminent, he knows, between the lack of food and Viktor’s obstinacy. “When it became relevant?”

Viktor cracks a smile. “Now you are getting it.”

Jayce can’t help but smile in return. “When is your procedure?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Jayce leans so far forward in his chair, he nearly falls out of it.

“Well, tomorrow afternoon, around 3:00 PM, to be more specific.”

The sunset is just starting to fade to the blues and purples of dusk, but there’s just enough light for Jayce to catch the time on the clocktower centered in the window behind Viktor. They pick this alcove of the library for the view. It’s easier not to completely lose track of time when the bells toll every fifteen (15) minutes and the view remains unobstructed.

That, and because the undergraduate students don’t know about this spot. They’re everywhere. And far too loud.

Jayce takes a look at the clock. Less than twenty-four (24) hours until Viktor gets cut open and rearranged. 

Which hospital is he even going to? Should Jayce visit? Is he even allowed? What should he bring? 

“What if I had plans?” he asks.

“Plans,” Viktor repeats.

“Like dinner with someone.”

“You dine with Councillor Medarda on Tuesdays and your mother on Fridays. Tomorrow is Thursday.”

“Or a performance?”

“The ballet is out of season, and I do not believe you have tickets to the symphony.”

“Or vacation.”

Viktor bursts out laughing. His laugh is loud and a little abrasive, if Jayce is being honest. It’s harsh and imperfect, but he likes it. In a world where he got judged for wrinkles in his slacks as a student, he likes that Viktor isn’t perfect.

It makes him feel less alone.

“It’s not that outlandish,” Jayce mutters. Nevermind the fact that not once in the two years they’ve been working on Hextech has he taken anything close to a vacation.

“It is my sincere belief,” Viktor struggles to compose himself, “that if the words Jayce Talis and vacation ever inhabit the same sentence, a cataclysmic event will occur.”

Jayce pouts. Viktor laughs harder. A few undergraduate students poke their heads through the stacks, silently reprimanding them for the noise.

It is finals season for them, isn’t it? Oops. Jayce doesn’t miss those days.

“I assumed, seemingly rightly, that you had no commitments beyond Hextech,” Viktor says, finally serious again. “Much like me. So, can you help me?”

“Yes.” 

Jayce answers before his neurons have a chance to fire off a conscious thought. He thinks that might be instinct, but it’s been ages since he’s taken any sort of biology or psychology class.

“Yeah, I can help,” he follows up.

Viktor smiles. It’s a crooked, quiet smile, but that doesn’t mean it’s small. Nothing about any of Viktor’s expressions is small.

Jayce is grateful for that. It means there’s no guesswork as to how Viktor is feeling, unlike the vast majority of people in Piltover. It’s refreshing.

“Thank you,” Viktor says, and he looks directly into Jayce’s eyes when he says it, dead serious.

He fits perfectly here, if Jayce only considers his eyes. They’re the same shade of gold as the Academy roof.

“Of course,” Jayce says, and he means it with just as much seriousness. “Should we work out details now?”

“We can do it tomorrow,” Viktor says. He grabs his cane and pushes himself to stand. His brace creaks so quietly that Jayce thinks he’s imagining it for a moment.

“Your surgery is tomorrow,” Jayce says slowly. He follows Viktor’s lead and collects his own books. The ones he plans on checking out go into his bag, and he carries the ones he won’t in his arms.

He takes Viktor’s rejected volumes as well, without being asked.

“It is,” Viktor says. “But you’ll be in the lab tomorrow morning, no?”

They begin the walk toward the exit. Viktor’s cane thunks loudly on the wooden floor. The undergraduate students look up at them as they pass.

Jayce notices. He wonders if Viktor does.

“I was planning on it,” Jayce says, dropping their books at the front desk. Angelina, one of the younger librarians, gives him a friendly wave and checks their books out with lightning speed.

“Then I will see you there.” Viktor passes through the heavy wooden door that Jayce holds open for him and out into the cool night.

Jayce follows. “You can’t possibly mean you’re going to be in the lab the morning of your surgery.”

“Of course I will,” Viktor says, affronted. “I will be dreadfully bored otherwise.”

Jayce shakes his head fondly. “Get home safe.”

Viktor rolls his eyes. “You say that like it is dangerous here.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Viktor admits.

The bells ring for the half hour. Jayce’s stomach growls.

“9:00 AM sharp,” Viktor says when the silence has stretched on a little too long.

“I’ll bring your coffee,” Jayce replies.

With a nod, Viktor turns to walk home.

Jayce realizes, as he begins to make his own way, that he doesn’t actually know where “home” is for Viktor.

He supposes that’s question one (1) for tomorrow.

Second part right here.

[osamucide]

⊹ FOR SURE

RELATIVELY STABLE AND TENTATIVELY ABLE TO SAY FOR CERTAIN WHETHER THIS UNCERTAINTY IS FOR SURE . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 2k

cw: sad and probably ooc dazai but he’s my husband so i actually know how he falls apart, pretty straightforward references to anxiety+dissociation, references to self harm+suicidal ideation but nothing graphic, angst+hurt/comfort, dazai cries and then you feed him that's all

reid: a little spur of the moment something i started when i wasn’t feeling so hot a bit ago. ethel cain’s cover of this song has altered the course of my life anyway enjoy me projecting

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

He was quiet when he got home, which is uncharacteristic, unless he’s scheming. But there was no glint in his eyes and no menace behind his grin, only exhaustion. What’s more is there was no downcast expression, no particularly sluggish movement to suggest he was upset; granted, he would regularly go on performing his usual persona even if he was upset. He was always all moving puzzle pieces, all thick mask and mystery.

It’s a good thing you’ve learned to read him so plainly.

You owe it to the little shared space you’re in, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, reading a book of his as he shakes his coat off and tosses it across the small dining table with two chairs side-by-side at it instead of across from one another. Dazai usually hangs his coat up on the rack by the door, slips his shoes off mindlessly and comes to flop his entire body weight on top of you, but tonight he pulls his laces undone and leaves his shoes tucked neatly against the wall, walks by the back of the couch to press a ghostly kiss to the crown of your head, and heads straight to the bathroom, which he locks himself in.

You swallow as you hear the shower start. You had specifically picked out an apartment with a standing shower, no tub, when you moved in with him. You’d emptied it of razors a handful of times and you probably would a handful of times more, and you kept all of both of your medication in your bedside table. Still, you can no longer quite focus on the words in front of you.

So, you flick the television on. A little more noise in your brain helps tune out the shower that’s just that—a shower. He showers, most often, because he’s feeling strange and not because he needs to feel clean. Maybe he needs to feel clean, but not in a way that a shower will allow. He does it anyway. You wait.

When the water turns off and he doesn’t immediately bounce out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, singsonging which leftovers you should heat up for him, you turn the TV volume down a few notches. When it’s been five minutes or so, you find yourself in the kitchen putting day-old bibimbap in the microwave. When it’s been ten, you’re knocking on the door.

"Osamu?" Your voice is soft as your knock. "I waited for you to eat." Dirty trick, you know. But you also know he won’t otherwise; not on a night like this.

You hear a bit of shuffling before the bathroom door creaks open. His eyes are red, his nose flushed, and he’s rubbing his face with the corner of his towel like he’s just awoken from a nap. He’s got no bandages on. He nearly whispers, "You didn’t have to."

"Wanted to." You work the towel from his hands as he turns the light off. He’ll hide behind the darkness if nothing else, but it’s alright; you’ll let him. You pat water from his shoulders before you sling the towel around him like a cape. You whisper back, "I’ll get you clothes. Please get silverware, yes?"

You don’t give him much of a choice, but he’s in a state where he’s pliant enough to listen to corporeal orders. Getting silverware will be a marginally easier task than dressing for him right now.

After pulling a sweatshirt and pair of pajama pants out of your drawers—they’re his, or maybe yours, doesn’t really matter; what does matter is they cover as much skin as possible—you return to him on the couch, two bowls of cooling bibimbap with chopsticks stuck in them on coffee table. He’s got as much of his bare body under the towel as it will allow.

When you set next to him and peel the towel back he looks nearly catatonic. It spurs tears to your lash line, but you hold back. "Arms, please."

He shoves himself into the hoodie, tousling his wet mop of hair in the process, and takes the pants from you, which he stands robotically to step into. When he sits you wrap five fingers across the top of his flannel-clad thigh and press a short kiss to his cheek.

As if sparked by your touch, he curls himself into you.

You’re quick to receive him; you unlock his hands from where they latch behind your neck, gently, like everything else, and you lean back, back, until your head is hitting the pillow you were lounged up against earlier. His fingers scramble for somewhere to land; you will his weight down onto you, his shoulder and hip to tuck beside yours on the inside of the couch, his free arm and leg to sling across your body and his sweet face in the side of your neck. The water from his hair soaks through your shirt. You don’t care. You feel his breath; your fingertips trace circles along his spine, and your outside hand comes to tangle up with his. Eating will have to wait.

You don’t waste time asking if he wants to talk. If he did, he would’ve started by now.

So you focus on his breathing, and how lucky you are to have it ghosting along your collarbone. He’s gray, then white, then gray, then blue in the light of the TV as his thumb moves across the back of your hand, stiff, like it’s just been freed from paralysis.

You wait for his breath to shake; you know it will.

And he knows you know, because he squeezes your hand in a pulsing rhythm like a heartbeat. He hates this. He hates that you've seen him crumble so many times that you know exactly what he needs.

You say it so softly, again, almost a whisper: "I've got you, my love."

He doesn't want you to say it's okay or let it out or talk to me; this is another thing you know very well. He feels like he's floating away from what little sense of self he has to begin with and it's not okay, and he doesn't want to talk about it, he doesn't want to be told when to cry or not, but he does need reminded that you're here, and you're real, and so is he, and so is this thing that both have; you'll grab his ankles and pull him down out of the air. You always do. You always do.

So he cries anyway.

It's like hearing a foreign language leave his mouth. There's something so assured about Dazai even while he believes he's all smoke and mirrors and seeing—hearing—his voice jump between heaving breaths and cracking sobs has always jarred you in some way. Moreover, now that you're so attuned to the way he breaks, it fills you with a tired anger that you can't place on anything concrete. It's a frustration you're glad to shoulder with him, but a frustration no less. You would set fire to everything you could touch, strangle it all to death with your bare hands, if it guaranteed his peace. But you know he wouldn't want that, not anymore; you quell the rage inside you between strands of his hair, fingerpads combing over his scalp with all that anger channeled into love, pure love. For as terrible and rotten as he's convinced he is, he's truly turned you into something softer than you thought yourself capable of being.

You feel his heart racing double-time against yours; you briefly wish you had no chest, no ribs, no physical form to separate you from him, so that your heart could cradle his, give over to his troubled body the time of the breath yours breathes.

He's all jagged edges right now and you're holding him like he's made of cotton. It makes him worse, momentarily, and he tears his hand away from yours; he knows wrapping around you like this, like a boa constrictor around its prey, will make his arms lose feeling but he does it anyway, like he's worried you'll go up in a cloud of dust if he doesn't hold onto you tight enough. He knows it's probably uncomfortable for you, too, laying back on his knotted fingers while he shoves every piece of himself as close as he can get to you, but you don't say anything, don't even make a sound when he hyperventilates into your shoulder and pushes out pathetic whimpers between his stuttering. He knows his face is twisted into that expression he long ago deemed too ugly to look at in the mirror. He gasps like he's underwater, and you just press your cheek to his temple while you lose track of if the wetness on your shoulder is from his hair or his eyes. It doesn't matter. You love him so fucking much.

He weeps against you with his constraint surrendered, loud but muffled by your shirt, at least until whatever movie was on is over. When he finally lifts his head, your eyes flutter open. You hadn't realized you closed them.

You tilt to look at him; the seam of your shirt collar is imprinted into his cheek. His bangs have dried wildly; you push them away from his eyes which are raw with sorrow, and Dazai's hands unclasp from behind you, settling back to how they first were with one curled up into the couch and the other interlaced with yours. He's devastatingly beautiful. You can't help the ghost of the sad smile you wear; it's because he's so gorgeous, and also you want to let him know you're content to be here—not content with what's upset him, not at all, but content to pick him up and help him haul himself forward. He does not reflect the smile back to you. You don't blame him.

"Let's eat." You leave the please unspoken, but it hangs there anyway.

"It's cold," he complains, still distant, but with a glimmer of a pout you think may be him. He's not getting out of it, though.

You sit him up, keep him close to your side and pick up a bowl; it's indeed cold, but you take a bite anyway, as if to show him it's not so bad. When you hold sliced carrot and broccoli to his lips, he looks at you like you're trying to feed him dirt, but opens his mouth anyway.

And it may as well be medicine going down. Not that he particularly cares for reheated and recooled leftover bibimbap, but your fingers being at the other end of the chopsticks makes it appealing. More than appealing. Delightful, even. He never really understood how things like food, music, or art could be healing until he met you and you doodles silly pictures of him on slow Sunday mornings, sang old love songs to him while you shooed him away from the stove as you cooked dinner, fed him leftovers in your shared home, on your shared couch, surrounded by all the things that were both yours and his, sweatshirts, books, blankets, chopsticks alike.

And he tells you that in his own way.

"Heat it up again for me? Please?"

He speaks the plea this time, and you grin—not sad this time, but wholly, as he relights slowly in front of you. And as already established, you'd do anything for him.

"Mhm."

"I love you," he blurts. Tags it on. You stand, gathering both bowls, still grinning.

"I love you." No question about any of it. You press a kiss to the crown of his head. He unfurls the blanket from where you'd slung it over the back of the couch earlier, picking up the remote to flick through the channels, finally breathing steadily as he waits for you to return from the kitchen. Your kitchen, his kitchen. He hears the microwave hum, in another room, not on another planet. He knows he'll be alright.

[earthtooz]

x : QUIET LOVE :*+ﾟ

in which: neuvillette doesn't understand human emotion, but a quiet night after a bustling gala with you might help him.

warnings: fluff, gn!reader, pining neuvi but he doesn't know it, quiet walks along the beach at night, gentlemanly flirting bc it's neuvillette, hand kisses lol

a/n: sacrificial fic because neuvillette is not coming home, so i poured my blood, sweat, and tears into this, even if it's not all that. ALSO, this was inspired by a wip on @gum-iie's page (hi gumiie >_<), so i hope you all enjoy !! i tried my hand at the vision i saw.

Gatherings in Fontaine are nothing short of magnificent. The nation of justice will never shy away from a party that reeks of grandeur and extraordinaire, with crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, flowing gowns, and slicked-back hair. With an archon as dramatic as Furina herself, what else can the citizens of Fontaine expect?

Except for a long life such as Neuvillette himself, he has seen this scene one too many times. Gazing out amongst the sea of people, there is an ocean of unfamiliar faces, a sight that doesn’t bring him much peace. It’s not that Neuvillette does not enjoy interacting with humans- even if he’s not so good at doing so, but being amongst so many at once is the unpleasant part.

Despite his distaste for these kinds of bustling environments, he still thinks it’s good manners to attend, even if he will leave after an hour or two. 

Yet, it has been half an hour past the two hour mark, and yet the Iudex still has not seen himself out because there is a particular someone that he is hoping to catch the eye of. Someone who is worth all this extra trouble and socialisation. 

The melusines frequently run back to Neuvillette, concern and curiosity animated in their expressions as they ask their beloved father figure why he is still present. Their questions get brushed off by the Chief of Justice, who merely thanks them for checking up on him before telling them that there is no need to be worried, he is merely waiting for something. Or rather, someone. 

Only at the third hour since the party’s commencement, does he get what he wants: your attention. 

“Monsieur Neuvillette!” A voice cuts through the crowd and straight to him, causing him to turn around, eyes dancing wildly around the room to search for the source. He effortlessly finds your gaze and watches as you come closer to him, outfit flowing behind you and he decides that the crystals of the chandelier are no match against the ones that dance in your eyes. You are more radiant than the purest diamond and Neuvillette can’t find it in himself to glance away. 

You are perhaps the most ethereal being he has ever seen in his long life. 

What Furina promised him has arrived. Neuvillette can enjoy the night happily now.

“Y/n,” he greets, curt and polite, but the smile on his face speaks volumes. It tells a tune of subtle delight and enthusiasm mulled over for the sake of appearances and composition, and it is a melody that you are deaf to. In fact, the melusines are perhaps some of the only souls who can read his silent song of adoration but instead of meddling, they have resigned themselves to the corner of the hall, watching their beloved Chief Justice.  

“I did not expect to see you tonight,” you murmur, placing your empty glass of wine onto the plate of a passing waiter. “What a pleasant surprise.”

He wants to say something charming, perhaps something like telling you how lovely you look tonight or how absolutely magnetic you are, but the words fall short and Neuvillette panics briefly, scrambling to continue the conversation. “It is important to keep up social relations, after all. Not attending would be problematic.”

“An utmost scandal for the Iudex, no less.” There is a teasing glimmer in your eye, one that most people keep away from him but you are an exception; you always have been with how you regard him. Many respect him but also fear him, he is revered but avoided by the public, people speak of him but never would do so causally to his face. It is a particular dance that Neuvillette has become accustomed to, and you have slotted yourself in a position that none usually take: right beside him. 

He doesn’t completely understand human emotions just yet, but you evoke one that he cannot describe. 

“How has your night been?” Neuvillette asks.

“Tiring, fleeting, boring,” you murmur, expression melting into something more fatigued. “I want to leave, monsieur, is that too frank of a confession?”

“No, not at all,” he sees an opportunity and scrambles to get the words out, “may I accompany you or will I be overstepping?” 

You blink at him before a small, cheery smile pulls on your lips. “I would love your company, but I only ask that we leave at this very moment because it is getting far too stuffy in here.”

“Then time is of the essence.” Neuvillette extends his arm for you to take and he relishes in the feeling of when you do. 

Leaving the venue and helping you down numerous flights of stairs, the lighting and allure outside is far more romantic than it is inside. The street lamps of Fontaine were made for functionality so that no citizen could walk around unassuming and unaware of the darkness, and never were they made with the intent of illuminating anyone’s beauty. Yet here you stand before him, radiant under the warm tones of the lamp with the evening breeze flowing through your hair. 

Moreover it is quiet out here. There is no one to bother the two of you, no melusines, no meddling Archon who lives for drama, no loud music and chatter, just you and him, together. It is a contrast so stark that he fears reality will shatter any second. 

Naïve to his internal turmoils, you tug at his arm gently. “Let us go for a walk along the river,” you propose. A muted feeling of enthusiasm flows through Neuvillette and he readily agrees to your suggestion, more than happy to indulge in the gentle kisses of the sea breeze on his face.

The stroll is peaceful and quiet, neither of you speak too much but it is not awkward in the slightest. Your gowns trail behind the two of you with each step, dancing in sync with the wind as your slow pace allows the two of you to bathe in the light of the moon. 

Although Neuvillette does not want the night to end nor to let you go, the amount of yawns you’ve suppressed since leaving is alerting him of your fatigue, and he’ll feel bad if he keeps you from your sleep any longer. 

Finally, with one long yawn that you were not able to shut away, he stops you in your tracks. “Tired?” The Iudex asks.

You look up at him with eyes forced open, wider than they usually would be. “Just a little, but the night has been lovely so far, I’d hate for it to end.”

“Please, if you need the rest then you should rest.”

“Thank you for your concern, however-”

“There will be no objections. Let me walk you home.”

The moonlight casts a shade of melancholy over your features and the last glance you give to the ocean is nothing but full of longing. You surrender reluctantly. “Alright.”

You two make it back to the last aquabus just in time, and you’re the only passengers onboard. There is occasional chatter with the conductor, as well as private conversations, but Neuvillette has no qualms just spending the ride in silence, admiring you whilst you gaze out at the beautiful landscape of Fontaine. 

“There are so many stars out tonight.”

He glances away from you. “So there are.” Then he makes a brave leap. “There is one right beside me, too.”

“Me?” Your voice is strained with disbelief and your hold on his arms tightens just a little. There is momentary silence before laughter- a quiet sort of laugh, shy and not at all mocking or condescending. “Thank you,” you whisper, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “I’m very flattered you think so highly of me.” 

It becomes quiet again after that but your hand never leaves his. If anything, Neuvillette feels you even more now, your warmth pressed up against his side is addicting, he cannot help but want more of it; he cannot help but want more of you. He wants more nights like this with you, days even- just as long as he can spend some more time with you, he’ll be grateful.

Humans and the complexity of the emotions they feel are something Neuvillette still can’t get a grasp of, but you fill him with something so inherently humane. Sitting beside you on an aquabus that is minutes away from its end is a bittersweet reminder of how little time there is until the evening ends, and this mesmerising evening becomes nothing but a memory. How irrational it is to yearn for something so temporary, but that is what makes it beautiful.

The walk back to your neighbourhood is quick, too quick for Neuvillette’s liking, but the smile you give him when you stop before your door is heartwarming. “Thank you dearly for walking me home, Monsieur Neuvillette,” you begin. “You have been the best part about this lively evening.” 

The Chief Justice has never had a way with words, rather, they have always been his enemy, so instead of speaking to convey what he feels, Neuvillette takes your hand instead and places a kiss on your knuckles. A gentlemanly act to many, but he holds and kisses you with such firm intention that it makes you dizzy. It makes you think deeper about whether or not there are underlying intentions to address, and it’s exhilarating questioning what exactly you are to the Chief Justice of Fontaine. 

For now, you’ll find contentment in the moonlight dream that was this evening, and he’ll engrave the feeling of you so close to him into his memory. 

© EARTHTOOZ 2023, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[fairyberkshire]

WELL, MY BOYFRIENDS IN A BAND | reading tweets with rafe . . .

The hotel room is quiet except for the comforter as you shift positions. The post-show exhaustion settles in, but neither of you is ready to sleep.

Rafe is sprawled out beside you, shirtless, with one tucked behind his head while the other absentmindedly plays with the hem of your oversized t-shirt (that was actually his, but whatever is his is yours).

You, on the other hand, are deep in the trenches of Twitter, feet kicked up, phone screen illuminating your face.

“Babe,” you murmur, nudging his side with your elbow. “Wanna hear what the internet thinks about us today?”

Rafe groans, shifting slightly. “Do I have a choice?”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t think so.” He exhales dramatically, but there’s a smirk playing on his lips, eyes still closed like he’s pretending to be uninterested.

You scroll for a second before reading aloud.

“Oh, this one’s good,” she murmured, tapping his chest to get his attention. “Rafe Cameron looks like the kind of rockstar who would get into a fistfight over his girl at a gas station and then write a love song about it.”

Rafe lets out a scoff, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “First of all, what kind of gas station?”

You blink. “Does it matter?”

“Obviously,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "Like, if it’s some random-ass one off the highway? No. But if it’s a fancy one in L.A. with, like, imported snacks and premium gas? Yeah, I gotta maintain my reputation."

“Your reputation is already something, Rafe...”

“And yet, you’re still here.” He smirks, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips lingering on your jaw.

Ignoring him, she kept scrolling. “Oh my God—“Rafe Cameron gives off the energy of a man who would dedicate an entire album to his girlfriend just to prove a point in an argument.”

He smirked. “First of all, I have done that. Second, did it work? Yes. Third, stay ready, babe. Volume two coming soon.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

He leaned in, resting his chin on her shoulder, peeking at her screen. “Find me a good one. Something that feeds my ego.”

“Oh, here’s one.” She cleared her throat dramatically. “‘Rafe Cameron 100% would be the type to get jealous of his girl’s fan interactions and then post a thirst trap with the caption ‘she’s coming home to me tho.’”

Rafe grinned. “Damn right.”

She nudged him. “You have done that, you lunatic.”

“Listen,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “Sometimes the people need reminding.”

“Oh here's another! Rafe Cameron looks like the kind of guy who gets banned from country clubs for ‘behavior unbecoming of a guest.’’

His eyes snap open. “Okay, first of all, that only happened once.”

“Rafe, they had you escorted out by security...”

“Because Topper dared me to see how many shrimp I could fit in my mouth at once!”

You burst out laughing. “Baby, that’s not helping your case.”

He nudges your phone. “One more,” he murmurs.

You clear your throat, scrolling until you find something fitting. “For all his chaos, Rafe Cameron definitely loves his girl more than anything in the world. Even if he’s feral about it.’"

His smirk falters for just a second, something warm flickering across his face before he recovers. “See? Now that’s a good tweet.”

He plucks your phone from your hand, tossing it onto the nightstand before pulling you into him, and tucking you under his chin. “Enough internet for tonight," he murmurs, voice slightly muffled against your hair. “I got better things to focus on.”

And just like that, Twitter is forgotten.

[104cadetlauren]

Levi Hoped That Hange Would Make It Out Alive After Chapter 132

I’ve read a lot of meta analyses about Levi’s pain in Chapter 132, and I agree with most of them. But I want to add something of my own.

I will try to use the manga and the anime to try to be as objective as possible. But be warned that this is head canon territory. The scene could be interpreted differently, depending on the viewer/reader.

Moving on…

Most interpretations say Levi hesitated to look at Hange as she stepped forward to buy time for the Alliance because he couldn’t bear to watch her die. What’s worse he couldn't do anything about it.

In the two panels below, Levi could be seen watching as Hange fights of Colossal Titans. When Hange managed to kill some of the titans, the others cheered for her (you can see Connie lifting his fist). He didn’t join the cheers. He just stood there. Watching.

In that silence, I like to think something flickered to life in him—a sliver of hope. That maybe, somehow, Hange would survive this one too. Maybe that’s why he didn’t look away, why he watched her in silence. Maybe the cheers around him gave him that fragile, fleeting hope.

He only looked away when the plane was about to take off. And unlike the others, he didn’t rush to the window to watch her final stand. From keeping his eyes on her every move to suddenly refusing to look at all. It speaks volumes.

Before she left, Levi never said goodbye. He opted for ‘See you, Hange’, like they would still see each other again, soon.

Maybe... because he was still holding on.

And when he boarded that plane, I think that’s what he told himself. Maybe she’ll make it out alive. She always does.

We can’t blame him. Hange has her way of escaping death.

Let me site two of the major examples of Hange almost brushed her shoulders with death.

During the Uprising Arc, Traute Caven, a member of Kenny’s Anti-Personnel Squad, slammed her into one of the stone pillars beneath the Reiss chapel. It looked brutal. But she survived.

Then again, in the Return to Shiganshina Arc, there was the explosion when Bertholdt transformed. Levi knew Hange’s squad had been close to the blast. He thought she had been caught in it. He feared the worst. And just when he was at his lowest, thinking he had lost both Hange and Erwin on the same day, while fighting off titans and the Beast Titan alone. He was exhausted. That’s why Mikasa was able to pin him down. (Also, I don’t believe he would ever want to hurt her.)

Then, suddenly, Hange appeared, stopping Mikasa from pinning him down any further. He was relieved to see her because like I stated, he thought she was dead, but she survived (due to Moblit’s sacrifice).

In Chapter 132, when she stayed behind, Levi clung to a fragile hope—that maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be the end. That it wouldn’t be her final moment. That’s why he didn’t say goodbye, even as the plane lifted off. Even as the others pressed their faces to the windows, tears streaming, desperate to catch a glimpse of Hange, trying to see if she was okay. Levi couldn’t bring himself to look. Even as they wept in despair, he refused to ask if she was alright, because doing so would mean acknowledging the truth. And a small part of him still refused to believe she wouldn’t make it.

He never told anyone. He didn’t need to. Pretending she wasn’t really gone helped him keep going. Even when he was broken. Even when he was barely standing. He held onto that hope. There was no time to grieve. They had to move, to plan, to survive.

But during the Battle of Heaven and Earth, there were moments when you could see it. Moments where he almost gave up. Maybe it was the physical pain. Maybe it was the psychological one. Maybe both. He was tired. He was battered. He was near his limits. And yet he kept fighting. Not for himself but so that the Alliance could still stop Eren. So that they could make it out alive. He held on for them.

After the battle, when everyone reunited with their loved ones, Levi sat alone.

Armin had Mikasa. Jean had Connie. But Levi? He had no one. He was left alone to mourn. The exhaustion of it all is finally creeping in.

And then the mist came.

The veterans appeared, his fallen comrades. Among them, Hange stood in front. Smiling.

In both the anime and manga, her expression was warm.

When Levi saw Hange in the mist, alongside Erwin, Petra, Miche, Nanaba and Moblit, he finally confirmed what he was denying to himself: she was truly gone.

Any sliver of he had of her surviving is now gone. And it broke him.

Seeing Levi’s brokenness, there was a shift in Hange’s expression. Unlike Erwin, Moblit, Petra—Hange looked visibly sad. She was glad that he’s alive, but seeing his brokenness, it also broke her. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to leave him, but duty called, and she had no choice.

In this moment, it feels as though their gazes are speaking to each other, communicating a grief too heavy for words. Only in death were they finally able to meet each other’s eyes, to share a silent understanding that transcended everything else.

And only then, upon confirmation that he will never see Hange alive again, he did the final salute, and allowed himself to cry.

In the anime, his lips trembled quivered before the tears fell from his eyes. In the manga panel below, it looks like he’s still trying to control himself from crying, it was all too much, too sudden.

The one person he had hope would make it. The one he couldn’t say goodbye to. She was gone.

Everything he had been holding back, from the plane, to the battle, to the very last step—finally broke. And realizing this… this already devastating scene somehow became even more heartbreaking.

For me, no matter how many times I rewatch it, I still shed a tear.

theDogs playing in the background makes the scene even more painful, more depressing.

Do you believe that we can just kill them all?

Do you believe that we can conquer this?

Can't delete all the mess that I have see

Fall in the fire, but this burns will heal you.

Can we just give Levi a collective hug? He deserves the world.

[aliceinborderlandsquidgame]

Listen I dont write for Thanos but:

Thanos its a nerd.

Thanos x Nerd!Reader

No one really makes the connection. Well at least not seriously.

No one knows of the dusty comics he has at his aparment. Or the many hours he passed on forums detabing with other fans about his obsession with villains and super heros.

Its sad really. Sometimes he feels alone since his persona does not give out the nerd vibe, so he has no one to talk to about it.

"More green and we would look like Hulk"

Excusme, go back. Because what did he just hear ?

He sees you for the first time, pulling at your track suit as you talk with other players.

No, he must have hear bad...

"Wait you read comics?" "Yes, got a problem with that?"

Cross him in love because holy fuck a fellow nerd who is ready to throw punches ?

"So...Marvel right?" He casually asks as he steps away from his team while the second game starts.

"Of course. And Team Captain America"

"Marry me"

"What?"

Its safe to say you two becomes best Friends over your shared love for comics. Nights are passed by you two discussing about characters and theories and even thinking on the next volume or the last one you two did read.

"Sorry but Doctor Strange is stronger"

"No you are totally wrong"

"I will kill you next game for that"

"...pls punch me"

Migle game when the number went to 2 he was taking you with him. And what did you two did ? Do a debate on which character would win these Deadly games.

Honestly the guards that listen to you two believes you are nuts.

Does he wants you as a romantic partner?

HELL YES !!

He is not subtle at all during the games. Honestly everybody knows he has a big crush on you, only getting worse when you do a reference to one comic.

Some are so tired of you two.

When he returns from the bathrooms all bloody and with a sad face.

Oh! He sees his Angel there, ready to help him with his injuries.

"You are not worth on being on Captain's side"

Ok that did hurt more than the dam fucking stab with the fork.

"Thanks I love you too" He says joking.

"Yeah yeah, now stop moving so I can clean you up"

[lemonidae]

Coming-of-age BL Manga

Koimonogatari by Tagura Tohru

When Yuiji accidentally overhears his classmate Yamato confessing to another friend that he's gay, his perspective shifts. Seeing Yamato in a new light, Yuiji does his best not to let prejudice color his view, but he still finds himself overthinking his classmates' interactions now. He especially notices the way Yamato looks at one particular boy: Yuiji's own best friend. Even though he tells himself he shouldn't get involved, Yuiji finds he just can't help it; watching Yamato's one-sided love draws him in a way he never expected. At first, it's empathy, knowing that the boy Yamato has his sights on is definitely straight and has no idea. But as his own friendship with Yamato develops and the two of them grow closer through a mutual study group, Yuiji comes to truly care about Yamato as a person, regardless of his sexuality. He only wants Yamato to be happy, and to be able to express his true self.

Status: 2 Volumes (Ongoing)

Tagged: Drama, School Life, Slice of Life, Coming Out, Friendship, Insecurity, Unrequited Love, Romance

Kieta Hatsukoi by Hinekure Wataru

“Aoki, I didn’t know you thought about me that way.” Aoki has a crush on Hashimoto, the girl in the seat next to him in class. But he despairs when he borrows her eraser and sees she’s written the name of another boy—Ida—on it. To make matters more confusing, Ida sees Aoki holding that very eraser and thinks Aoki has a crush on him!

Status: 9 Volumes (Complete)

Tagged: Comedy, Romance, School Life, Bisexual, Misunderstanding, Romance

Hatsukoi Note by Amekiri

Shouya, a high school boy whose heart has never known romance, comes across an internet diary filled with wistful whispers of love toward the writer's same-sex crush. A photo posted to the page provides a hint as to the blog's owner: Tsubame, a fellow classmate known for being a lone wolf. Shouya realizes that his friend Ryuu is the object of the diary writer's affections, so he attempts to play matchmaker…but where will his own feelings take him in the process?

Status: 1 Volume (Complete)

Tagged: Drama, Romance, School Life, Yaoi, First Love, Misunderstanding

Smells Like Green Spirit by Nagai Saburou

Mishima, a student at a school in the countryside, is bullied by his classmates. The reason is because he's seemingly gay. In reality, Mishima does like guys so he doesn't resist their bullying, and instead, finds solace in secretly cross-dressing. One day on the rooftop, Mishima finds the lipstick he'd lost before in the hands of Kirino, one of the bullies… and Kirino was about to put on the lipstick that Mishima used on his own lips. This is the story of young boys looking for a place they can really be themselves…

Status: 2 Volumes (Complete)

Tagged: Drama, Psychological, School Life, Coming Out of the Closet, Countryside, Cross-dressing, Enemies to Friends

CW: Attempted Rape, Bullying, Homophobia

Doukyuusei by Nakamura Asumiko

Hikaru always thought his classmate Rihito was kind of a snob, until he stumbles across Rihito secretly practicing a song in an empty classroom. Hikaru agrees to become Rihito’s music tutor, and with each lesson the two boys grow closer. But when Hikaru realizes that he’s fallen for Rihito, will they stay classmates or become something more?

Status: 1 Volume (Complete) Has multiple sequels

Tagged: Drama, Romance, School Life, First Love, Opposites Attract

Blue Sky Complex by Ichikawa Kei

Narasaki only wanted a place where he could sit and read books in peace, but was blackmailed by his teacher into supervising a delinquent called Terashima while working at the school library. As they spend their days in silent but close proximity, they begin to feel drawn to each other. And then...

Status: 10 Volumes (Ongoing)

Tagged: Drama, Romance, School Life, First Love, Opposites Attract, Yaoi

Usagi no Mori by Enjo

Shunta and Tamaki are childhood friends with a year of difference, but Shunta feels something different towards his friend, an impure, not correct, dirty feeling. As this feeling grows stronger, will the relationship between the two friends also change ...?

Status: 3 Volumes (Ongoing)

Tagged: Drama, Romance, School Life, First Love, Childhood Friends, Psychological, Childhood Trauma, Yaoi

Monotone Blue by Nagabe

Hachi the cat finds most things monotonous, but at the top of his list is high school and all that comes with it. But when Aoi the lizard--a quiet, high-achieving transfer student--arrives, Hachi catches a glimpse of a brighter, more colorful life. If Hachi can help Aoi open up, unlocking new feelings in the process, maybe his life won't be so bland, after all.

Status: 1 Volume (Complete)

Tagged: Romance, School Life, Slice of Life, Anthropomorphism, Romance

This list on MB | more manga recommendations

last edited 19/dec/2024

Recommendations are always appreciated ^^