#I doubt it will happen but it would be nice..

[cressidagrey]

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Chapter 11

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes: 

Mention of epilepsy and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Lizzie barely had time to take in the Quadrant studio before a guy launched himself across the room like he was personally greeting a royal dignitary.

“Oh my god, you actually brought her,” he gushed, stopping just short of throwing himself at Mara’s paws. “Lando never lets us meet his friends—”

Lando sighed theatrically, rolling his eyes as he led Lizzie inside. "Because you're all lunatics."

The man grinned, unfazed by Lando's comment. "Yeah, but we're your lunatics.”

Max Fewtrell, already grinning, lifted his phone. “Right, formal introduction time. Lizzie, welcome to Quadrant chaos. You already know me—”

“Tragically,” Lando mumbled.

“—but this is Ethan, who thinks he runs things, Ria, who actually runs things, and Steve, the only adult in the room.”

Lizzie grinned. “Nice to finally meet you all.”

“Oh, we’re making this official,” Ria said, practically vibrating as she rummaged through a box on the table.

Lando groaned. “I already hate this.”

Ethan smirked. “Oh, you will.”

With a dramatic flourish, Ria pulled out a small fabric bundle and unfolded it.

Lizzie blinked.

It was a Quadrant dog bandana. Black with neon streaks, the brand’s logo stitched neatly in the corner.

“You made her merch?” Lizzie asked, trying to hold back a laugh.

Lando let out a long-suffering sigh. “Okay, listen. I can’t be seen walking a dog wearing Ferrari merch—”

"You could just walk her," Max chimed in.

"Shut up. Anyway.” Lando picked up the bandana. “And I highly doubt Lizzie would let me put McLaren papaya on her—”

“Not happening,” Lizzie confirmed.

“So this is a compromise.” Lando gestured at the bandana like it was the only logical solution. "I thought she’d want a little Quadrant flair too.”

There was a beat of silence as everyone seemed to process his logic.

Then, everyone started laughing. Loudly.

"Oh my god." Ethan shook his head, grinning. "Lando Norris, dog-walking fashion expert. Who would have thought?”

Max snorted. “Honestly, I get it. The internet would never let you live it down.”

Lando shot him a look. "Exactly. Have you checked Twitter lately? They already think I'm the biggest Ferrari fan in the history of ever. I don't need to give them any more ammunition."

Everyone else laughed harder. Ria was trying to catch her breath. "Oh my god, Lando, you're such a drama queen."

Steve, the supposed only adult in the room, was the only one who didn’t laugh. Instead, he studied the bandana with a considering expression. “Honestly, it is a good look. The orange would have clashed with her coat anyway.”

That set off another round of laughter, but Lando looked oddly appeased by Steve’s assessment.

Max clapped his hands together, grinning. “Right, Mara needs to try it on. Lando. Do your thing.”

Lando rolled his eyes, yet he knelt next to Mara. The Labrador seemed to realize this was important, because she sat perfectly still, her eyes trained on the bandana.

Lando wrapped the bandana around her neck, adjusting it until it fit snugly.

“There we go. She’s a Quadrant girl now,” he said, ruffling Mara’s ears.

 Lizzie crouched beside her.

“What do you think, girl?” she asked. “You like it?”

Mara gave a single wag of her tail.

“Oh, that’s a yes,” Ria confirmed, nodding sagely.

“100%,” Max agreed.

Lando stood, hands on his hips. "Of course she likes it. I have good taste."

Lizzie suppressed a smirk, trying (and failing) to hide her amusement at the ridiculous scene unfolding before her.

"And he's modest too," she joked.

Lando shot her a look, though there was no real annoyance behind it. "Hey, I'm just stating facts."

Max snickered. "Lando Norris, humble as always."

"You all just wish you were as humble as I am," Lando shot back, rolling his eyes.

Ethan gave an exaggerated sigh. "I know. It's tragic really. If only we could be as modest as the great Lando 'I'm a better driver than everyone in this room' Norris."

Lando flicked him off in response.

"So, this is where the magic is gonna happen?" Lizzie asked curiously, staring around the warehouse. "It looks..."

"Like an abandoned warehouse?" Max suggested drily. "It's for the aesthetic of the photoshoot."

"And what is that aesthetic?" Lizzie asked. "Where to dump a body?"

Lando shot her an amused glance. "Dark, edgy, abandoned industrial-chic, I think."

"Yeah, it's our 'we're really cool and don't care' vibe," Ethan chimed in.

Ria nodded. "And it's cheaper than renting out an actual studio."

"Not to mention we have the freedom to set everything up exactly the way we want," Steve added.

"You know...for the vibe," Max said, wiggling his fingers in the air.

"I think the aesthetic choice is very 'Lando','" Lizzie mused, eyeing Lando, who looked offended.

"What does that mean?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Hmm..." Lizzie tapped a finger against her chin, pretending to think. "Rich, edgy, slightly obnoxious..."

"I am none of those things," Lando protested.

Lizzie stared at him. "Lando, you literally bought a Range Rover on a whim. Now you are sitting here,  in front of the dog, whose bandana you had custom designed as we debate the 'aesthetic' of your photoshoot in a warehouse."

Max snickered, while Ria and Ethan tried to hide their smiles. 

Lando huffed. "Fine, I see your point. But it's still a cool aesthetic."

"It's definitely unique," Lizzie conceded.

Max's grin widened as he turned to Mara, who had been quietly observing the entire exchange. "And what do you think, Mara? Do you think Lando has a cool aesthetic?"

The Labrador simply sat there, with her tongue lolling out, blissfully unaware of the debate about Lando's cool factor.

Lizzie smiled. "I think that's a solid 'yes' in dog language."

"Alright, alright. Enough making fun of me," Lando complained, though he didn't look particularly bothered. 

Steve, who'd been watching the whole exchange, finally spoke up.

"You know, I have to say, this is already more fun than most photoshoots."

Granted, Lizzie had managed to get through her life with literally only three photoshoots unless one counted random selfies with fans, so she tended to agree.

It was quite fun that she got to watch the whole thing go down though, shooting Lando's newest merch collection, while Mara happily took a nap on her feet. It was...interesting to see this side of him. 

Lando, as it turned out, had a knack for modeling. He effortlessly fell into different poses, morphing from nonchalant cool to charming casual without breaking a sweat. Lizzie couldn't help but admire him.

Ethan, as the photographer, seemed to be having the time of his life. He directed the shoot with enthusiasm, barking instructions like the self-proclaimed art director. "Okay, Lando, give me intense stare. Yeah, that's it. Now, throw in some smolder."

Max, playing the role of the hype man, didn't hesitate to boost up Lando's ego.  "Damn, mate. You were made for this. When are you gonna ditch racing and become a professional model?"

"Never," Lando shot back, without even pausing in his poses. "I have too much dignity for that."

"Dignity? You?" Max laughed. "That ship sailed years ago."

"Oh, shut up," Lando retorted, but he couldn't quite hide his smile.

Lizzie watched all of this with amusement, her eyes fixated on Lando as he moved in front of the camera.

He was a different person in front of the lens.

Confident, charismatic, almost...intoxicating.

It was easy to lose herself in the view, especially as his gaze frequently met hers, his smug smirk sending tingles down her spine.

God, he was handsome.

After what felt like hours, the shoot was over.

The lights were shut off, the equipment packed away, and the warehouse slowly returned from a makeshift photoshoot studio back to an abandoned warehouse.

Lando, as if waking from a trance, wandered over to Lizzie, his gaze roaming over her in a way that she could only describe as hungry.

"You’re staring," Lizzie pointed out, fighting down a shiver as his gaze continued to linger on her.

Lando gave her a lazy smile, not bothering to look away. "Can you blame me?"

Lizzie’s heart did a little flip, her cheeks warming under his gaze. She was still getting used to this — the casual intimacy between them, the easy banter, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

She could hear the others packing up and chattering in the background, their voices a soft, background hum. But right now, her attention was laser-focused on Lando, his eyes still holding hers captive.

"We need to get going," she said, kinda hating herself fo having to say that. "Tasha will kill me if I am late to my own reading."

Lando nodded, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from her.

“Right, right. Can’t have Tasha coming after you with a pitchfork,” he said, his tone light but his eyes still holding that intense look.

She gave him a smile, but she promised herself that tonight…tonight she was going to take advantage of that massive bed in their hotel room. 

***

"We banned all flash photography and we'll had somebody tell them to just ignore Mara multiple times," Tasha said seriously.

Lando hadn't known that Lizzies best friend slash pseudo-sister also had the role as personal assistant slash point of contact for everybody that was involved in Lizzie's actual job...but he had learned that over the last few weeks.

Lando leaned back in his seat, watching Tasha as she talked. She was a force to be reckoned with, that much was obvious. He couldn't help but respect her dedication to making sure everything ran smoothly.

And he was also very glad that Lizzie had somebody with her at all times that knew the ins and outs of her epilepsy better than anybody else.

Tasha was a godsend, both a best friend and a safety net for Lizzie.

As Tasha continued briefing them on the night's schedule, Lando let his gaze drift to Lizzie, who was listening intently to her friend.

She was an absolute star to look at as always, but there was something different about tonight. There was a spark in her eyes, a hint of excitement, and a faint smile on her lips he really liked.

Lando was not the type to sit and listen to people gushing over books for hours, but given the way Lizzie looked, he was sure he could put up with it...

He had been to his fair share of movie premieres and gallery openings, but those were easy. He took a few pictures, flashed a charming smile...he was the center of attention. 

But tonight…Lando Norris was completely ignored. Because he was uninteresting. 

Elizabeth Treshton was the star. 

Lando Norris got to sit backstage and follow along from the shadows. 

And quite frankly, he found the whole experience fascinating, just because he got to see Lizzie's world.

The world of books, of words and imagination. It was utterly foreign to him, and yet he couldn't help but find it fascinating...especially with Lizzie in the middle of it.

She was the star here. She was the one people wanted to see. The world she had created, the characters that had been born out of her words on a page...millions of people had read these words.

And they loved them.

Lando found, to his surprise, that he couldn't take his eyes off her as she walked on stage, as she read a few pages, as the hall clapped, and as she answered the first few questions. It wasn't even about the words anymore, it was about the way she talked, about the way her eyes shined. About the way she was fully in her element.

He wasn't looking at a different woman...but he was looking at a facet of hers...that he hadn't yet gotten to completely see.

And he found himself wondering how many there were. How many layers he still had to uncover, how many things he still needed to discover.

He was a race car driver, speed and competition were his domain. He was living the life he'd always wanted.

But sitting here in this venue, watching Lizzie take the stage and make an audience of strangers hang onto her every word like the last light in a dark cave...he knew he was only scratching the surface here.

The rest of the reading, the Q&A and the signing went by in a bit of a blur. He was too busy watching Lizzie and the way her face lit up when fans came up to her and told her how her writing had moved or inspired them. And when she was finally finished, making her way towards him with a tired smile on her face, he couldn't help but reach out and grab her by the hand to pull her closer.

Her steps faltered for a second as he pulled her closer, but when she looked at him, her expression melted into a soft, tired smile. "You held out pretty well," she teased lightly.

Lando shrugged nonchalantly, his grip on her hand tightening. "I had a pretty good view to keep me entertained," he replied, his gaze drifting over her face with an intensity that belied his casual tone.

"Oh? And what exactly was so entertaining about the view?" Lizzie asked, amusement sparkling in her eyes despite her obvious tiredness.

Lando's smile widened into a lazy smirk. "Just taking in the show, Miss Treshton," he said, his thumb tracing circles against her wrist. "You were quite the spectacle up there."

Lizzie arched an eyebrow. "Spectacle, huh? Are you just trying to butter me up, Mr. Norris?"

"You are incredible, you know that?" he told her seriously.

She stared at him wide-eyed.

"And not just tonight," he continued, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice. "You've built a whole world with your words, Lizzie. And you've got millions of people wrapped around your little finger, myself included.”

[jungkoode]

OFF-LABELS | O7

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: Explicit, 18+.

→ DATE POSTED: February 26th, 2025.

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents, virgin!reader.

→ CONTENT in this chapter: House calls that go wrong, sweater weather complications, unexpected revelations that change everything, surgical precision used for mending more than just socks, and the kind of silence that speaks volumes. | emotional tension, domestic setting, power dynamics, moral crisis, medical ethics, complex relationships, emotional warfare, guilt and desire, medical authority questioned, professional boundaries, casual clothes, internal conflict, communication breakdown, ethical dilemmas, misunderstandings.

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3,9k

→ MINI SERIES: PREVIOUS | NEXT

→ A/N: Okay, so FINALLY posting the drama chapter!! Before you dive in, I need to make something very, very, very (did I say very?) clear about what's happening here. This chapter is absolutely NOT about virginity or some gross purity kink. Like, I would literally projectile vomit if anyone suggested I was writing that kind of male-gaze "untouched flower" bullshit. We are not in Stephen King territory here, describing "pale creamy mommy tits" or whatever horrifying descriptors men think are sexy. 🤢 The actual issue is about psychological dynamics and consent. Throughout these chapters, Hoseok has been enjoying this cat-and-mouse game where Y/N is clearly attracted to him but constantly second-guessing herself. He's been deliberately keeping her in this state of "is he into me or am I imagining it?" because he gets off on her uncertainty. He likes the plausible deniability! He likes watching her squirm! The PROBLEM hits when he realizes she's a virgin, which makes his brain connect some horrifying dots: if she's never been with anyone before, she doesn't understand the psychological game they're playing. She's not pretending to be confused as part of the dynamic—she genuinely doesn't know what's happening. His visceral reaction isn't "oh no, she's pure and innocent!" It's "oh fuck, I've been psychologically conditioning someone who didn't even know they were being manipulated." He thought they were engaged in mutual psychological edging, but now he realizes he's just been breaking her down without her even knowing there was a game being played. And let me clarify something important—when I say "conditioning" or when Hoseok feels like he's been "grooming" her, this is NOT actual grooming in the predatory sense. These are two consenting adults (Y/N is 23ish? Hoseok is 27/28ish?) who have known each other for years (she's had a crush on him for FOUR years, and he's been playing this game for about two). She's in her first year of med school, he's a first-year resident. I've calculated these ages very specifically to keep everything firmly in legal, consensual adult territory. The issue isn’t the age gap—it’s him realizing she wasn't psychologically equipped to understand the mind game they were playing. He thought she was a willing participant in a psychological dynamic, but now he's realizing she was just genuinely confused and uncertain because she lacks the experience to recognize what was happening. THAT'S why he's disgusted with himself. Not because he doesn't want to be her first (he absolutely does), but because he thinks he's been essentially manipulating someone who wasn't a willing participant in the power dynamic. Anyway, rant over! Enjoy the angst! 😈​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

PLAYLIST

You’re standing on Hoseok’s doorstep.

Hoseok’s doorstep.

Like, his actual apartment. The place where he lives and sleeps and—

(No. Don’t think about that.)

Your fingers twist anxiously in the hem of your sweater as you stare up at the building. It’s ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a private balcony, a lobby that smells like wealth and white oak. This isn’t some cramped resident’s crash pad—it’s the kind of place reserved for surgeons who drive luxury cars, not first-years who live off caffeine and whatever snacks they can steal from the nurses’ station.

It doesn’t make sense.

But then again, nothing about Hoseok ever does.

Your phone screen still glows with the text he sent this morning, casual as anything, like this is normal. Like this is something you do—just show up at his penthouse on a Thursday afternoon. You’d spent twenty minutes drafting excuses, each one more pathetic than the last, until your brother had mentioned it over breakfast:

“Oh yeah, Hoseok said you’re helping him organize his research papers today?”

Your toast had frozen halfway to your mouth. “He… what?”

“For his residency portfolio,” Caleb had said, not even looking up from his phone. “Said he needs a fresh pair of eyes on it.”

The lie was perfect. Believable. Academic.

(Of course it was. Everything about Hoseok is perfect.)

“Right,” you’d managed weakly. “That’s… that’s why.”

“Want me to drop you off? I’m heading that way anyway.”

And that’s how you ended up here—heart thundering against your ribs as you raise your hand to knock. Before your knuckles can touch the door, it swings open.

Your breath catches.

Because this—this isn't hospital Hoseok or teaching Hoseok or even party Hoseok. This is... home Hoseok.

He's wearing soft gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a white t-shirt that's clearly been washed too many times, the fabric thin enough that you can almost see the definition underneath. His feet are bare against the hardwood floor, and his hair is slightly messy like he's been running his fingers through it.

It's so domestic it makes your knees weak.

"Come on in." His voice is warm honey, dripping slow and sweet down your spine as he steps aside. The movement makes his shirt ride up slightly, exposing a strip of skin above his waistband that you definitely don't stare at.

(You stare at it.)

Your legs feel like jelly as you step past him into the apartment. His scent is everywhere here—that clean, citrusy smell that haunts your dreams, but stronger now, mixed with something warmer. More intimate.

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft finality that makes your pulse skip.

You're in Hoseok's house.

Alone.

With him.

On a Thursday.

Oh god.

"Shoes off," he instructs gently, and you comply automatically, toeing off your sneakers next to his neatly arranged row of footwear. The sight of your beat-up Converse next to his expensive dress shoes makes something flutter in your stomach.

"This way." His hand settles at the small of your back, guiding you down a hallway lined with framed medical certificates. The touch is light—barely there—but it burns through your sweater like a brand.

You follow him in silence, heart thundering against your ribs as he leads you deeper into his home. Everything is exactly how you imagined it would be: minimalist but warm, all clean lines and rich woods and subtle touches of luxury. A doctor's house. A successful man's house.

(A house where your brother's best friend is about to—)

"Nervous?" His voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, tinged with something that might be amusement.

"No," you lie immediately, the word coming out too fast, too high.

His laugh is soft and knowing as he stops in front of a closed door. "Liar."

Before you can defend yourself, he's opening the door, and—

Oh god.

It's his study.

Of course it's his study.

The room is everything you'd expect: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive mahogany desk, leather chairs that probably cost more than your tuition. Late afternoon sunlight streams through tall windows, casting golden shadows across polished surfaces.

But all you can focus on is the way he's looking at you—head tilted slightly, expression gentle but hungry.

Hungry.

"After you," he murmurs, and the words drip like honey down your spine.

You sink into one of the leather chairs, the expensive material creaking softly beneath you. Hoseok settles into the chair beside yours, close enough that his knee almost brushes yours. Almost. The near-contact raises goosebumps across your skin.

"Notes," he says simply, voice steady and professional like this is just another study session. Like you're not alone in his house, surrounded by his scent, drowning in memories of his fingers and his voice and his—

"Right." You reach for your backpack with trembling hands, but the strap slips through your fingers like water. Before it can hit the floor, Hoseok catches it smoothly, his reflexes quick and precise.

(Of course they're precise. He's a surgeon. Those hands are trained for precision.)

"Chip." His voice is gentle—too gentle—as he steadies the bag in your lap. "You're trembling."

Your face burns as his fingers brush against yours, lingering just a second too long. "What's up?"

Everything. Everything is up. You're in his house. Alone. And all you can think about is the way his thumb had pressed against your tongue in the anatomy lab, how his fingers had curled inside you while your brother's party continued downstairs, how badly you want him to—

"Nothing," you manage, voice tight and unconvincing.

He hums—that low, knowing sound he always makes and somehow feels menacing—and suddenly his hand is gripping the edge of your chair. Before you can process what's happening, he's pulling you closer with one fluid movement, the chair sliding across hardwood like you weigh nothing at all.

Your breath catches sharply at the display of casual strength.

Because fuck—how can someone be this effortlessly powerful? This casually devastating?

Does he even realize what he's doing to you, or is this just how he is?

Just Hoseok being Hoseok, completely unaware of how every little thing he does makes you want to crawl into his lap and—

"Nothing?" he repeats softly, and now his knee is definitely touching yours, the heat of him burning through your jeans. "You sure about that?"

No. You're not sure about anything anymore, except maybe the way your heart is trying to escape your chest and the fact that you're probably going to die right here in this expensive leather chair, killed by proximity and the ghost of his fingers on your skin.

His gaze lingers on your trembling hands, head tilting the way it does during patient evaluations—assessing, calculating. 

“Your motor coordination's deteriorated since Saturday," he muses, leaning back in his chair with deceptive nonchalance. "We should address that first."

You open your mouth to protest, but he's already spreading his legs, the movement slow and deliberate. His sweatpants strain slightly over his thighs as he nods toward the newly created space between them. 

"Come here."

The command is velvet-soft, phrased like a suggestion but weighted like an order. Your heart stutters as his fingers drum once—twice—against his left thigh. A silent countdown.

"W-why?" The question comes out breathless, already defeated.

His smile could sanitize an OR. "Ergonomic alignment. You can't properly present your research if your hands won't stop shaking." He gestures to his lap like he's explaining a textbook diagram. "Center of gravity adjustment. Basic kinesiology, Chip."

Your feet move before your brain catches up, drawn by the gravitational pull of his casual authority.

The first brush of your knees against his inner thighs sends electric currents up your spine. He doesn't help you, doesn't touch you—just watches with that infuriatingly patient smile as you awkwardly try to straddle the chair.

"Proper support requires full contact," he chides gently when you hover uncertainly above him.

His hands finally land on your hips, guiding you down until every inch of you molds against him. The heat of his chest seeps through your sweater, his heartbeat thudding steady against your racing one.

"There. Better?"

You nod mutely, hands braced against his shoulders. His t-shirt rides up slightly under your fingers, exposing the warm skin of his collarbone. 

"Good." His thumbs dig into the divots of your hips—clinical pressure points that somehow feel indecent. "Now, synaptic transmission." His breath fans across your lips as he reaches past you, grabbing your notebook. "Start with glutamate receptors."

The pages blur as he flips to your highlighted section. His forearm brushes your breast—accidentally?—as he holds the notes up between you. 

“Focus, Chip. Unless..." His head tilts, smile sharpening. "...you need tactile reinforcement?"

His knee shifts upward beneath you, applying deliberate pressure where you're already embarrassingly warm. A gasp escapes before you can stop it, fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Ah." His tongue clicks in mock disapproval. "Seems we've identified the distraction." The hand not holding your notes slides up your spine, pressing you closer until his lips graze your ear. "Shall we... desensitize the stimulus?"

His lips find the frantic pulse beneath your ear first—a calculated strike at your carotid artery that makes you sigh.

“Elevated heart rate," he murmurs against damp skin, teeth grazing the spot he'd marked days ago. "Persistent symptom since..." A suckling kiss that pulls a whimper from your throat. "...Thursday's assessment."

Your fingers twist in his worn tee as he works downward, each open-mouthed kiss along your jugular notch methodical. Clinical. Cruel.

"H-Hoseok—" 

"Shh." His hand slides up your spine, deft fingers finding your sweater's zipper. "Need to auscultate properly." The zipper parts with a predatory hiss, cool air rushing over your heated skin. "No extraneous layers." 

The sweater pools at your elbows before he tugs it off completely. Your arms instinctively cross over your chest—a futile shield against his darkening gaze. 

"None of that." He catches your wrists, pinning them gently against his shoulders.

His breath stutters when he sees the bra. 

Candyfloss pink. Lace scalloped with tiny bows. Straps straining over the swell of breasts he'd mapped through fabric days prior. 

His Adam's apple bobs. 

“Well." The word comes out rough, sanded down at the edges. "This is..." His thumb brushes a satin bow between your breasts. "...exceptionally thorough preparation." 

You squirm under the praise—the implication—but his grip tightens on your hips. "I didn't—" 

"Shh." His palm cups your breast through the lace, calluses catching on delicate threads. "Look at these." His thumb circles your nipple, watching it peak. "Like cherries dusted in sugar.”

"Hoseok—" 

"Merely observational." His other hand slips beneath the bra's band, blunt nails scraping your ribcage. "Soft here." A squeeze that makes you arch. "Responsive here." His mouth seals over the lace, tongue swirling the dampening fabric. "Sweet here." 

Your head falls back with a choked moo, nails biting into his shoulders. He hums approval against your breast, the vibration ricocheting straight to your clit. 

"Still trembling," he notes, fingers walking up your spine to unhook the bra. The clasp gives with a snick that sounds obscenely loud. "We should stabilize your core." 

His hands slide around to your front, palms flattening over your bare stomach. 

“Deep breath in." You obey shakily. "Hold." His thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts. "Now exhale." 

You deflate against him, breasts pressing into his chest. His groan rumbles through you. "There. Better." 

His lips find yours in the space between breaths—not a kiss but a shared exhalation. 

“Tell me you planned this," he demands against your mouth. 

"Planned wh—" 

His hips roll up, the thick line of his cock unmistakable through sweatpants and your thin jeans. 

“The bows. The pink." A bite to your lower lip. "This devastating little bralette." 

"N-no, I just—" 

"Liar." He sucks the word from your lips, hands cradling your face. "You knew." Another grind that steals your breath. "Knew I'd want to ruin you in it." 

His teeth close on a strap, dragging it down your shoulder. "Knew I'd need to see..." The other strap follows. "...how pretty you look coming undone in pastels." 

The bra falls away. His pupils swallow entire galaxies. 

"Fuck." The curse is reverence and ruin as he palms your bare breasts. "Should've known you'd weaponize cuteness." 

Your retort dies when he lifts you slightly, mouth latching onto a nipple. The suction is brutal—claiming, corrective—as his free hand slides between you. 

"Let's see..." His fingers find the button of your jeans. "...if your panties match."

His fingers still for a second as a wicked smile curves against your breast. 

“Coordinated sets suggest..." The button pops free. "...premeditation."

You can't deny it—not when his hand slips into your jeans to find matching pink lace waiting. 

His laugh ghosts across your damp nipple. “Knew it."

"I didn't—" Your protest breaks on a gasp as his thumb traces the scalloped edge. "It's just—"

"Just happened to wear a complete set?" His teeth graze your collarbone. "Just happened to pick the exact shade that makes me want to..." He tugs your jeans lower, exposing more pink lace. "...devour you?"

Your face burns as his fingers map the delicate fabric. 

"Look at these." He hooks a finger under a tiny bow at your hip. "Like sugar spun into thread." His other hand cups your breast again, thumb flicking your peaked nipple.

"Stop—" you whimper, but his palm slides lower, cupping you through damp lace.

"Why?" His smile is gentle poison. "When you clearly dressed for this?" His middle finger traces your slit through the fabric. "When you're already soaking through all this pretty pink?"

Your hips buck against his hand involuntarily. He tsks softly.

"Such a sweet little thing." His fingers press harder, making you mewl. "All wrapped up like candy." His teeth find your pulse. "Makes me want to unwrapyou. Slowly."

The word drips like honey as his hand slips beneath the lace. "See how many licks..." His fingers part your folds. "...it takes..."

Your forehead drops to his shoulder as two fingers slide home.

"...to get to the center."

You let out a shaky exhale at that. 

"Still so wet for me," he murmurs against your lips, two fingers pressing inside with careful precision. "Such a good—"

The rhythm of his movements changes subtly—no longer teasing but exploring. Something shifts in his touch, becoming more methodical. More... investigative.

You feel his breath stutter against your neck, the slight tension suddenly coiling through his body where it's pressed against yours.

His fingers curl slightly, pressing deeper, and you tense involuntarily at the unfamiliar pressure. It's different than when he touched you before—that night in your room when he stood behind your chair, his breath hot against your ear as his fingers worked between your thighs. This angle is deeper, more invasive, and your body responds with a reflexive resistance.

"Easy," he whispers, but the playfulness has evaporated from his voice. His free hand moves to your hip, steadying you as his fingers press more deliberately. "Relax for me."

You try, but your muscles tighten instinctively. The slight resistance—the way your inner walls grip his fingers—makes him go absolutely still.

His fingers withdraw so carefully it makes your chest ache. No teasing now. No slow, deliberate drag of his knuckles over your clothed heat just to watch you shudder. Just… absence. 

And when you open your eyes, his face is wrong. 

Too still. Too pale. His pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the brown. His lips part, then shut again, like he’s bitten through his tongue. 

The clinical terms evaporate. 

"Chip."

His voice is hoarse.

The nickname that always made your stomach flip—always made you feel small, breakable, something for him to toy with—now sounds like a curse.

Like a word he can’t take back. 

His thumb brushes your inner thigh, and—fuck, it’s trembling. 

"You’ve never…" The sentence trails off, unfinished. 

Your face burns as understanding clicks into place. Of course he can tell. Of course he knows. How many bodies has he been inside? How many women has he unraveled with those precise, knowing hands? Of course he can feel the difference.

"Not with—" your voice comes out too high, too thin, "I mean, I've done other things, but—"

"But never..." His gaze flicks down to where his hand still hovers near your thighs, then back to your face.

"I've used my own fingers," you blurt out, mortified but desperate to explain. "And that time in my room, when you—when we—"

"Different angle," he says quietly, almost to himself. "I was behind you. Not as deep."

You nod, humiliation crawling up your spine like ivy. Your thoughts scatter and race. Does it matter? Why should it matter? It's not like you're some precious untouched flower. It's not like you've been saving yourself. It's just—it's just—

(It's just that nobody has ever made you feel like you wanted to let them inside. Until him.)

"I didn't think it mattered," you whisper, the words tangling in your throat. "It's not like I'm—"

"Not like you're what?" His voice has gone dangerously soft.

"Not like I'm waiting for something special or—or saving myself or whatever stupid thing." Your words tumble out faster. "I just... nobody ever made me want to. Until now."

Silence stretches between you, taut as a surgical suture.

"Until me," he repeats, the words hollow. "Your brother's best friend. The one who's been deliberately blurring lines since the moment we met."

His face changes—like something has clicked into place. Like a puzzle snapping into its final, sickening shape.

But his expression. God. You've never seen him look like this. Like he’s about to be sick. Like you're the one who's done something wrong. 

"Don't." Your voice is barely a whisper. Your hands fly up to cover your face. "Don’t make it a thing." 

"It is a thing." 

His voice cracks. 

His voice cracks. 

And when you peek through your fingers, he’s staring at your thighs, at the damp lace beneath the unbuttoned denim. And his hands—fuck, his hands—are trembling as they move to adjust your jeans, tugging the fabric back into place like he can undo what’s already been done. 

"Christ," he breathes, hands fisting against the desk’s edge. "I’m your brother’s—" 

"Don’t." You sit up too fast, nearly headbutting him. "Don’t use Caleb as an excuse when you’re the one who—" 

"I know." The raw admission stops you cold. His knuckles blanch where he grips the wood. "I know exactly what I’ve done. What I’m doing." 

A short, bitter laugh punches out of him. 

"Manipulating your crush." His teeth click as his jaw clenches. "Abusing my position. Fucking my best friend’s sister in my—" 

"You’re not fucking me!" The words burst out louder than intended. "You’re—you're teaching me. Showing me. And I want it. I asked for it." 

His gaze snaps to yours, dark and devastated. 

"You don’t know what you’re asking." 

"Does it matter?" 

"It fucking matters!" His voice is jagged now, slicing through the space between you. "Because if I’d known—if I’d realized—" His throat works. "Christ. I let you choke on my cock. Made you take the whole thing. And you—" His eyes flick down, to your open legs, to the flush of your skin beneath the denim. "You didn’t think to mention—" 

“Say it.” Your voice is razor-sharp. “Go ahead. Diagnose me, Dr. Jung. What’s my prognosis?” 

His flinch is barely perceptible. 

"You’re actually—" His breath catches. His eyes squeeze shut. "Inexperienced."

The clinical term dangles between you, sterile and ugly.  

"So?" You lift your chin, daring him to look at you. "I wanted this. With you."  

His inhale is sharp. Like something being ripped out of him. His head tilts, his gaze drags over you—shaky, uncertain, searching. And then—

His face changes.

Like something has clicked into place. Like a puzzle snapping into its final, sickening shape.

"You don't understand what we've been doing." The words come out like they're being dragged from him. "All this time—the teasing, the ambiguity, the doubt—"

"I understand perfectly well," you snap, but he's already shaking his head.

"No. You don't." His voice breaks on the last word. "This whole thing—the way I've been treating you—it's a specific kind of dynamic. A power exchange. A mind game."

He pushes off the desk, runs his hands roughly through his hair.

"I thought you were playing along," he continues, voice rising with each word. "I thought you understood the game—that you were pretending not to know what was happening. That you were letting me seduce you, letting me make you doubt yourself because you liked it."

Your stomach drops as the implications settle.

"But you weren't playing," he says, voice hollow now. "You weren't pretending to be confused. You actually didn't know what was happening."

He staggers back like he’s been struck. One step. Then two. And then—

Oh, God.

He actually retches.

Bends over, a harsh, sick sound ripping from his throat, hands braced on his knees like he might actually vomit right there on the fucking floor.

Your stomach twists violently.

"Hoseok—"

"Don’t."

He doesn’t even lift his head. His shoulders are heaving, and the fingers pressed to his lips are shaking, and fuck, fuck, fuck, what have you done?

Why does it feel like you’re the one who did something wrong?

"You got off on it." Your voice is quieter now. Less rage, more—god, you don’t even know. "You liked making me doubt myself. Pretending this was all in my head. But now that you know I’m actually—"

"That’s the fucking problem!"

His voice breaks.

Loud. Raw. A guttural, vicious thing ripped straight from his chest.

His hands are in his hair, gripping hard. His chest rises, falls—too fast, too sharp, like he can’t catch his breath.

"You were doubting yourself," he grits out. "Actually doubting yourself. You weren’t playing—you weren’t teasing, you weren’t pretending to hesitate—you didn’t know!"

You don’t speak. You can’t.

"You weren’t letting yourself be seduced." His voice drops lower, ragged. "I was conditioning you."

The room tilts.

"You didn’t need coaxing. You weren’t fighting it. You just didn’t know what was happening to you." His eyes are blown wide, almost frantic. "And I liked it."

The breath punches out of your lungs.

"I liked watching you get flustered. I liked seeing you hesitate." His voice is hoarse, unsteady. "I liked watching you struggle to figure out if it was real or in your head."

Something in your stomach plummets.

"But it was never a fucking game for you," he rasps. "You weren’t playing along. You weren’t playing at all."

Silence.

Thick. Suffocating.

His hands drag down his face. His shoulders are still heaving, like his body is rejecting the words even as he says them.

"I wanted—fuck." His fingers tangle in his hair, tugging hard at the roots. "I wanted to ruin you. In pastels, on your knees, pink lace soaked through because I made you like this. I wanted you pliant, desperate—mine—but I never wanted—I thought you knew this type of play—"

His next inhale is sharp.

"But you didn't know the rules at all. Because you've never even played the game before."

His face is ashen now, like all the blood has drained from it.

���Put your clothes on.”

The finality in his voice turns your bones to ice.  

And you realize—too late—that the real game is over.

You dress mechanically, fingers trembling on each button. He watches like a surgeon monitoring vitals—detached, analytical.

The car ride is silent.

Your phone buzzes at 2 AM:

𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙻𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔’𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍. 𝚄𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚐𝚕𝚞𝚎.

𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝: A photo of your sock, neatly mended.

𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢.

You stare at the message until the screen dims.

He’s lying.

He has to be lying.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @just-reading-dany @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7

© 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[sunflowersandscreams]

adansey kissing fic. i love them

set somewhere in early bllb maybe?

When Adam kisses him, it's like an experiment.

Gansey is doing what he does too often: running in futile circles as he chases Glendower down. Some nights he feels like a hound in pursuit of a fox; predatory, all instinct and no intellect. Tonight, he feels like August rain: sticky and hot, impending, causing misery.

Inexplicably, Adam is here, doing his homework on the floor. Gansey had offered him his desk, but Adam had only shaken his head and dodged all further attempts at chivalry. So Gansey sits in his desk chair, feeling rather like an especially pompous king looking down on his commoners. Then he kicks himself for thinking that at all, because that's exactly the kind of thing Adam would expect, and nothing like what Gansey wants to be.

"Gans, have you done the trig questions?" Adam asks. His voice betrays nothing, but something sticks out to Gansey.

Adam is, without a doubt, the smartest person he's ever known. For him to be asking Gansey for help with trigonometry is absurd. It has to be an excuse for something, but for what, Gansey doesn't know.

"Yes," Gansey says, his tone staying just as even. He fetches his mathematics workbook and goes to sit cross-legged beside Adam on the dusty wooden floor. The impossibly soft, 100% cotton pants that he wears to bed crease at his knees, curiously similar to Adam's sweatpants even though the other boy's are no doubt mostly polyester.

He leans over Adam's book - which oddly has all the questions completed - and Adam leans in to kiss him.

He does it in stages. First he looks at Gansey, eyes purposeful, maybe a touch of excitement in them - or maybe that's Gansey's imagination, projecting onto Adam - then he inches closer and lets his breath hit Gansey's mouth. Gansey has a moment to think, Oh, Jesus, and part his lips before Adam covers them with his own.

It wouldn't be a particularly remarkable kiss, except for the fact that it's Adam. Gansey's strange and wonderful best friend who has magic in his fingertips and a forest behind his eyes, whose eyelids slide shut as he kisses Gansey a little more insistently.

Gansey, for his part, throws caution and restraint to the wind and with too much enthusiasm throws himself into the kiss. It's suddenly getting very warm in this drafty room and he feels a flush creep up his neck like a sunburn, or a rash.

It's not a slow kiss, but it is languid in a comfortable and knowing way, the sort of way that makes Gansey think that Adam has been wanting this for a while. He wonders if he's dreaming before Adam's teeth pinch his lip and the jolt of sensation makes him certain he's awake, wide awake, and kissing Adam Parrish.

Adam's tongue slips over the pain and smooths it away, and Gansey is just thinking he might be about to discover the elusive and reportedly erotic French kiss when Adam pulls back with an audible noise.

"Hm," Adam Parrish says, as elusive and erotic as the French kiss is supposed to be, and Gansey finds himself tripping over his heart and stumbling into a hall of mirrors where every surface reflects his own exposed emotions.

"You are so brilliant," Gansey says, unguarded and thoughtless, not thinking about how the words might make Adam feel, if they will make him angry at Gansey for- for- anything. But Adam only pants and swallows, and Gansey hopes that it was nice for him. "Why did you...?"

Adam smirks, a minuscule one, that quickly flits away. Gansey wants to kiss it, wants to kiss him, again. "I wanted to see what would happen."

"If I'd let you," Gansey fills in. Adam seems a bit surprised that Gansey would get this, but also not surprised at all, like it's obvious. "Well. I hope that answered your question."

"It did." Adam nods, composed, and goes back to checking his trig homework.

That wouldn't do.

"Will you come here," Gansey says, trying not to make it an order and having it turn out as a plea. Adam smiles properly now, and Gansey takes his chin in his hand and guides it towards his mouth again.

The second time, it's less of an experiment, and more like the result of a proven hypothesis.

[theallianceofcelestials]

The comments here just make the wild ideas attack I need help

Imagine two timelines in both universes

One in the Eclipse scientist dimension where it turns out that the SCP family had one more member but since he wasn't locked up in the prison he was presumed dead due to things that happened when everyone was locked up. That would be Solar, and to Eclipse's surprise and utter confusion, he might find him by accident on some expedition where the company sends him to investigate something dangerous! While it would be a very emotional reunion for the family, I also think about the potential for angust because both Eclipse and Solar might think that Eclipse was a replacement for Solar, which obviously isn't true, but these two guys are so dumb and hate each other so much that I'm not surprised that each one ends up thinking things like that, Eclipse thinking that they only accepted him because he looks like Solar, and Solar thinking that since he wasn't around he was replaced by a physically "weaker" version but certainly smarter in some things and with more leadership attitude.

At the same time!! the version of this idea in the Solar scientist universe where Eclipse is the lost brother, there could be a kind of resentment of the family towards Eclipse because due to circumstances before the confinement, they could believe that he helped the humans to lock them up and because of that, although KC would be willing to accept his eldest son again, and perhaps Sun too, the rest would not, besides Eclipse would hate Solar for being "his replacement" much weaker, fragile, stupid and etc, things that someone who uses his ego to hide insecurities would say, when he hides that he feels pain when he thinks that his family prefers Solar for being kinder, patient and calmer. Meanwhile Solar could also suffer his moment of insecurity when he thinks that he could be kicked out of the family now that Eclipse returned, and in order not to prolong the process too much he can help Eclipse to be honest for once in his life and talk properly with his family to clarify what really happened when they were locked up.

Sorry for the long text but I needed to get this out of my brain at least in words. Have a nice day and happy belated birthday!

The angst with both of these is gold. Even if Mirror SEA fam wouldn't think Eclipse betrayed them. He made sure of that, and they all know it's only that human tribe and him. They'd think instead that he's dead.

So potentially what'd happen is Solar's walking alone in the woods, trying to get away from it all for a bit because it's too much, and he runs face to face with someone who looks creepily similar to how he used to look like in his previous body. Eclipse in this situation wouldn't be outright aggressive seeing as the guy probably has crutches or something, so he knows from the get go he's not a threat.

They may even end up befriending each other, and Solar just one day decides to take him home, and that's when he learns who Eclipse is. That's when it'd all start to go downhill, because he'd feel like a replacement and Eclipse would sure as hell attack him for being one.

So it's angsty, because this guy whom I've befriended now hates me, and rightfully so because I stole his life

Meanwhile in normal SEA Eclipse would try to fight it, but doubts would begin to creep in. He'd start questioning if they really do love him, he'd feel sideline, which he objectively understands is because they just got this long lost family back, but do they even want him? Did they ever want him? That'd probably be a really angsty way to start the second book, where he leaves before it can all be cleeared up and thus disappears just like he did back then.

I love these little scenarios if it wasn't obvious :P Also, don't worry about the length! Feel free to come talk to be about it more! I really enjoyed it myself! :D

And thanks! Even if I'm even later!

[ladyhre]

Rebecca absolutely would. There is no doubt in my mind. She holds so much pain over what happened to Rook, I don't she would be able to stop herself

Liza (A): It would depend on who they were and why they killed him, I think. Her whole mindset about her father is "i miss the possibility of who i could have been if he had lived, but I never knew the man, so it feels disingenuous to say that I miss him." She also does not love the idea of killing people unless she absolutely has to. And the idea of doing so as an act of vengeance isn't a great one. The most straightforward answer is probably not, but never say never.

Diana (N): This is a tricky one. I would lean probably. I mean, not if the person is sitting down in a chair in front of her, served up for her to kill. But if she's facing this person in a fight or any situation where she can convince herself that there wasn't another option... probably. She has her own level of rage about her father's death, not quite to the level of Rebecca, but it's there.

Callahan (M): No. She's not a fighter. Let's start with that she probably wouldn't even physically be able to if she wanted to, at least not in any sort of fair situation. But she also wouldn't want to. She doesn't want to kill people. She would want to seek justice in some other way. It's extremely unlikely that she would kill someone in that pursuit.

Theo (F): Yes. Full stop. Theo is a good guy, a great guy even. He's not violent by nature. He got into his profession to help people, not hurt them. But if you put the person who killed his father in front of him and gave him the option to kill them? He would take it. Theo doesn't hold onto anger about most things. He's never been the type to hold a grudge. But this, this is something that has been eating at him his entire life. He's ignored it most of the time and hid it when that didn't work. He wants the person who did it to pay, and if he can make them pay by his hand, all the better.

When answering this question, I really had to think about what would be an appropriate answer for each of my detectives. Theo's really surprised me. The others I kinda knew, Liza especially as she is the one I have done the most work fleshing out (she's my first and my favorite). But Theo... Theo was always a nice, sometimes goofy guy. He likes kids and parties, and in another life, he would be a chef. He and F are very similar in personality types, though i would say Theo is a more toned down version. But I was always aware that Theo had a hint of darkness in all of his light, and I was always aware that it surrounded his father's death.

twc question time!

if your detective ever had the chance to kill the person responsible for Rook's death - would they? plz elaborate in the tags, i want to know EVERYTHING. 🎀

also, bonus question: in your opinion, do you think Rebecca would if she had the chance?

[fightinggamegirlfriend]

sure it’s great vice and mature are next season dlc for kofxv but it would be cool if idk… KOF put some respect on the maximum impact series and brought back the meira brothers + luise for the 20th anniversary of maximum impact.

[vaguely-concerned]

I'm guarding my heart against expecting adoribull crumbs in veilguard because I really don't believe it's going to happen. I think that might be one of the sweet slender branches on the possibility tree that they'll gently and quietly prune away from relevancy, especially since it doesn't involve a player character. dorian will almost certainly be back (hey hiii bestie how have you been? stressed out of your mind I imagine), but I can't imagine they'll let you get too granular with setting up your world state, especially since after ten years they will be expecting to have a lot of players who are new to the series. like AT MOST I can imagine a little background detail implying an amicable bittersweet breakup rather than dragging out the long distance and danger of it all as tevinter politics heat up, if you're allowed to set them both as being still alive.

all that being said I still want it so fucking badly tho fhdskjfhas

[theodora14pines]

For my part of art trade with @devisopod and the theme we agreed to work being "winter", I decided to go with my feelings and some beloved characters.

With Yamcha on my brain all the time and thinking of Gravity Falls, I decided to bring in some warmth by combining the two and giving Yamcha the Mabel experience, kindness and love. And of course that her hot chocolate is something beyond normal and with some kind of punch.

Now all I can think about is how those two would interact and how Mabel would have a crush on Yamcha because he's handsome and sensitive, but also give him dating advice and a makeover, and him not having the heart to say no to her.

At least everyone is warm in this, despite the cold and snow.

[kirbo-kirbstar]

Oh man this kinda happened to me once.

I was on a date with my first (and currently only ever) partner. At one point we had our first kiss, like I think the first romantic kiss ever in either of our lives? Anyway usually that stuff is hyped up in modern culture but I was kinda having ace squeamishness in the moment so it was more like a peck and I’m still kinda embarrassed that I couldn’t give his first kiss the justice he deserved lol 😬

Anyway he also eventually said “I love you” for the first time to me and I kinda had a little aro breakdown at that instant and immediately hugged him. Like, I really couldn’t do anything else. I couldn’t get myself to say it back because in that moment it didn’t feel true, but I couldn’t dare NOT reciprocate in some way. He was my best friend and I did love him indeed but I knew he meant a different love in that moment and I just wasn’t sensing I could generate it myself in that moment.

So yeah, I gave him a really big hug. He was a bit confused at first but he held the embrace. We stayed like that for who knows how long. He gave me words of encouragement about how I was a really great person and all that, and to this day I still appreciate that.

But yeah at the time I wasn’t entirely sure why I was feeling so off about intimacy, but I had my suspicions. He was very supportive the whole time through. We dated for nearly a year and I did my best to satisfy him even if I didn’t feel I had the same kinds of feelings. He was cool with it, but eventually we realized that actually he did need the feelings reciprocated after all. So even though that led to our break up, I’m glad we figured that out sooner than later.

Aaaaaanyway yeah I know at one point in the relationship I asked him if he ever thought I wasn’t loving him enough, and he said he didn’t feel that way, so yeah who knows how much of what I felt was my aromanticism was actually self doubt (the asexual thing became pretty obvious though so yeah he had good reason to split regardless). My mom did criticize me a ton for not being romantic enough though lol. Plus idk I feel like I only put him on like an ever so slightly higher rank than my other friends???? It’s been a while so I don’t remember, but ima be real my ideal relationship is just a guy friend that can kiss me sometimes 😭

But all in all, I think we learned a lot about ourselves from that relationship. We’re still on good terms though we don’t talk as much anymore (life is busy and naturally pulls old friends away). I hope he soon finds a good partner that’ll reciprocate all the endless love he had for me cuz damn that guy was such a keeper. Honestly I was into him because I liked him, not because I felt like I needed a boyfriend.

Though I guess it would be nice if I run into another chill guy to be with, but whatever I guess.

aro culture is dating as a teenager because you haven't realized you're aromantic and hearing your partner say "i love you" for the first time and awkwardly replying "thanks :)" because you don't return their feelings and don't want to lie to them

.

[ohitslen]

I am here, once again, with my Ao No Flag propaganda

These two specific panels of Toma were the thing that made me think over a year ago “Man. I want to be like that too” as in KAITO drawing expression because—

The subtle shift of emotion, it’s present all throughout the manga, but this is what sold it for me. For no particular reason, it’s not even the best example, it was just what sealed the deal to me

[shima-draws]

So my roommate is also into One Piece. I’m not sure if he’s watched any of the anime, I know for sure he’s watched the live action, but earlier tonight he came upstairs and watched a few episodes with me while waiting for a food delivery, and then he got hooked, and then he sat and watched MORE episodes with me without really knowing what was going on. But it was still wildly entertaining to him, esp since I’m right in the middle of one of the (arguably) best arcs rn, and now he wants to finish the arc with me LOL. NOBODY is immune to One Piece propaganda. Or Bon-chan 🥰

[autisticlee]

"me and the bad bitch I pulled by being autistic" meme, but it's just me holding my own hand because everyone I encounter in my life ends up hating me because i'm autistic, so I only have myself

[weirdestcornelius]

Okay dude where the fuck is my darker matters Cuddles

[constantvariations]

As much as I enjoy Neo, I think she was the wrong villain to drop into Wonderland with the squad. Her conflict with Ruby doesn't thematically lend itself to the current arc of self-doubt and weight of responsibility (plus any resolution of Neo's revenge arc will probably end up with her dead since the writers have no idea what to do with her)

Even if Neo calmed down long enough to somehow communicate her grievance of losing Roman, nothing would really come of it. He was an enemy who died in front of Ruby, not because of her. His death is a footnote at best considering two of her friends died in front of her within like, an hour. So, if Ruby tells the truth of Roman's demise, then there's only two outcomes. Neo either thinks she's lying (which would be dumb. There's literally nothing to gain from it) and keeps attacking her until one of them is dead/left behind in Wonderland or Neo believes her and...???

(Seriously where can Neo go after this conflict is resolved? She doesn't care about Salem's cause, there's no one who cares about her, and she probably can't return to her previous life of crime since she was based in Vale. Neo's entire existence revolves around Roman; take that away and you have even less than a ghost)

You know who would be able to excel in a chaotic world and take advantage of Ruby's mental instability? Tyrian

This guy is able to bypass the barriers that keep someone safe, both literally with his ignore-aura seblance and metaphorically. When the writers aren't playing up the "woohoo wacky crazy psycho" schtick, which gets real old real fast, Tyrian is one of the most adept psych-analysts in the entire show. This guy read Mercury and Emerald like the morning newspaper even though they kept their distance from everyone but Cinder

In her current state, Tyrian could pick Ruby apart petal by petal until not even a bud remains. Or better yet, try getting her to align with Salem

"It's so sad, isn't it? You put in all that work, did all that planning, and Atlas still fell. The relic lost. Your friend died.

"I know you did your best. But it wasn't good enough. You weren't good enough.

"Such a big burden placed on such young shoulders isn't right. You tried so hard to save everyone, but no one has ever tried to save you, have they? Everyone has failed you. Ozpin, Ironwood, Qrow, even your friends down here. Too wrapped up in themselves to notice your struggles.

"But you don't have to do it anymore, Ruby. No more fighting, no more betrayal, no more dying. All you have to do is help Mistress get two itty bitty relics, and it will all be over.

"After all, you didn't ask for this."

[ankewehner]

Dramatic Irony: Titan(ic) edition

OK. My brain isn't working all that well today, but let me try to...

A submersible, named Titan, went missing on its way down to the wreck of the Titanic.

The (probably 3) paying passengers on board had to sign a waiver mentioning that the Titan is an experimental vessel and "wasn't signed off by a regulatory body", and that they could die on the trip.

"Experimental" e.g. means the main control is a Logitech game controller, which is wireless (?!!?)

The CEO of OceanGate, the company running this whole thing, is on record voicing sentiments along the lines of regulations for passenger ships being too strict.

So to sum up, a submersible built by someone convinced it was safe enough even though it did not follow safety regulations went missing while diving to the wreck of a ship that is famous for sinking on its maiden voyage after being advertised as unsinkable.

File under "hubris", I guess.

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P.S. At first I thought this might have been the Titan's first dive, but no, that was in 2021, so I hope they at least did unmanned tests before that and urgh... I mean, after the "wireless game controller" thing, I wouldn't have been surprised if they never did an unmanned pressure test to the targeted depths before sending down people.

[skiddo-xy]

In the Nintendo Direct premiere chat these predictions are crazy...gamers never stop omg