#actually... if I edit out *my* swearing...

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ No Goggles!Mark Edition!～ꗥ❀

Pairing: No Goggles!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: Eh, mentions of series typical violence, nothing crazy

Tags: Hurt/comfort, but like, not in a fun way lmao

Word Count: 3,132

Synopsis: You couldn’t be minding your business harder as you tend to your garden, when suddenly he appears. It’s nothing but chaos and forced southern hospitality from there.

a/n: this literally ended up being the longest spin off so far but i swear no goggles really is the most fun version of mark to write for

you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～Here! ～ꗥ❀

The late afternoon sun settles over the treetops, casting that warm, amber haze across your porch and the half-wild garden patch just beyond it. The air’s thick with the hum of crickets and honeysuckle. You’ve got your gloved fingers deep in the dirt, coaxing a stubborn little basil sprig into place.

You sigh, brushing sweat off your brow with the back of your wrist.

“Now don’t y’all bloom all at once—Lord knows I only got two hands and a prayer…”

You barely get the words out before the air pressure drops—fast. Sudden. Not wind. Not thunder. Something else. You look up just as a figure slams into the yard like a meteor, sending up a spray of dirt and rock like it’s a confetti cannon.

He lands like a disaster. Tall. Blood-smeared. Wild-eyed—and grinning like he just won a prizefight.

No goggles. No pretense. Just trouble.

You stare at him, trowel still in hand. “The hell are you supposed to be?”

“’Don’t y’all bloom all at once’,” he repeats, twisting your words into a terrible impression of your accent. “That’s adorable. Are you seriously real?”

He says it like he’s seen ghosts before, but you’re the haunting.

“I said,” you snap, “who the hell are you?”

He straightens, chest puffed out in mock confidence. “Aw, shucks, reckon I’m just a tumbleweed blowin’ through… lookin’ for a sweet lil’ rose to pluck.”

Smack.

Your glove cracks across his cheek so fast you surprise even yourself. The hit echoes sharp in the still air.

He touches his face, stunned for all of two seconds. Then grins like you just handed him a gift.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, “do it again. That was incredible.”

Your lip curls. “You mockin’ me, boy?”

He tilts his head, stepping closer like a moth to a bug zapper. “I was—but now I think I’m in love. Seriously, what are you? You sound like you stepped out of a fairytale with a switchblade.”

You take a sharp step back, raising your trowel just in case. “You’re not right in the head.”

“Debatable.” He circles you now, hands behind his back, still grinning. “Say something else. Come on. ‘Hands and a prayer’—what else you got? Threaten me again, but like… with that sweet little drawl.”

You glare. “I could end you with this trowel.”

“There it is!” he nearly shouts, eyes wide. “Say it again. Slower.”

You exhale through your nose. “Bless your dumb little heart.”

He actually stumbles back, laughing like he’s been hit. “Oh my god. You’re killing me. This is the best day of my life.”

You stare, baffled, as he floats a few inches off the ground, just to lazily hover around you like a drunk balloon.

“What’s your name?” he asks, voice low and curious.

“…[y/n].”

“Well, [y/n],” he says, saying it like he’s tasting it, “I think I’m gonna stick around a while. Hope you don’t mind. I need to hear you call me stupid at least six more times.”

You raise your brows, unimpressed. “Only six?”

His smile goes crooked. “Oh, you’re perfect.”

You don’t answer. Just look him over, still gripping your trowel like you might chuck it at his head if he makes another dumb joke.

He hovers lazily a few feet above the garden now, turning upside down midair with all the grace of a sleep-deprived bat.

“What even is this place?” he muses. “Everything’s slow, and hot, and you smell like peach jam and dirt. It’s kinda great. Definitely weird.”

You fold your arms. “You done floatin’ and talkin’ nonsense, or should I go grab a fly swatter?”

“God, you’re ruthless.” He flips back upright. “Can’t decide if I wanna fight you or marry you.”

“Try either and you’re gettin’ buried in the compost pile.”

He laughs again—loud and sharp, full of teeth. You don’t know what’s wrong with him, exactly. But it’s something. Something tilted. Like the world’s just a little sideways in his eyes.

He lands again, just outside swinging range.

“Alright, alright. I’ll go,” he says, holding up his hands. “Multiverse business and all that. Gotta go break something somewhere else.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” you mutter.

He starts to turn, then pauses. “Say goodbye to me.”

You blink. “No.”

“Say it with the accent.”

“No.”

“Say ‘see ya later, darlin’, don’t do nothin’ foolish’ or whatever y’all say before a good ol’ murder.”

You sigh, hard. “Go. Before I introduce this trowel to your spleen.”

He grins one last time and takes off—so fast he kicks up dust all over your garden.

You cough, waving a hand. “Jackass.”

—

You’re halfway through a slice of pie on the porch when the screen door creaks and you hear it again—that whoosh.

And there he is.

He doesn’t stick the landing this time, slamming into the dirt with a grunt then immediately going still for a beat.

“Are you serious?” you hiss, standing up quickly, pie forgotten. "You again?"

He groans, hand clutching his side. He’s bleeding more now—his suit dark with it. Face smeared with dirt. Hair a disaster. Still smirking, somehow.

You storm down the steps, apron flapping like a battle flag.

“You bleedin’ on my tomatoes now, is that it?” you snap, glaring down at the heap of superpowered insanity curled in your garden.

Mark props himself up on an elbow, wincing slightly, and shoots you a crooked smile. “Missed you too, darlin’.”

“You’re leakin’ like a busted faucet, darlin’,” you fire back, crouching beside him despite your better judgment. “And don’t think callin’ me sweet things is gonna keep me from usin’ this trowel again.”

He wheezes a laugh. “God, I knew you were dangerous.”

You eye the gash running down his side, brow pinching. “You need a doctor.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Got one right here.”

“I plant basil,” you deadpan. “I ain’t a trauma center.”

“You’ve got clean hands and good instincts,” he murmurs, quieter now. “That’s more than most.”

You blink. There’s something under his voice now. A crack in the static. Just for a second.

“…what the hell happened to you?”

Mark shrugs—or tries to. “Ran into someone who didn’t like my sense of humor.”

“Well, sugar, neither do I,” you grumble, already pressing a clean corner of your apron to the wound. “Hold still.”

He hisses at the contact, but stays quiet. Watching you.

You try not to notice how close his face is now. How he’s still got that half-smile, but it’s lazier. Sleepy. Tired in a way that doesn’t match his usual cackling energy.

“You got a name?” you ask, voice lower now.

He watches you for a moment, eyes unreadable. “Mark.”

You blink. Somehow you expected something fake. Something stupid, like “Omega Cowboy.”

“…Mark,” you repeat, testing it out. “Well. That’s almost normal.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he warns. “I’m still very much a problem.”

You press the cloth harder, and he hisses through his teeth.

“Yeah, well,” you murmur, “I’ve wrangled worse.”

He grins at that—slow and feral. “That right?”

“Mmhmm.” You narrow your eyes. “Now quit smilin’ like a possum in the trash and hold that tight. I’m gettin’ the kit.”

As you turn, he watches you go, head tipping back against the dirt, eyes slipping shut for just a second.

“…peach jam and dirt,” he murmurs again, like a prayer or a punchline.

And for once, he doesn’t laugh after.

You’re only inside a minute—maybe two. Long enough to grab the dusty first aid kit from under the kitchen sink and curse yourself for getting involved.

But the moment you step back onto the porch, you freeze.

Mark's slumped sideways now, face pale beneath the grime, body too still.

"Mark?"

No answer.

You drop the kit, heart jolting. “Oh, no you don’t, you lunatic—hey!” You rush to him, dropping to your knees in the dirt. “Don’t you go dyin’ in my garden, I just fixed the soil!”

You shake him once—twice. His head lolls. You slap his cheek gently, then a little harder.

“Mark, dammit, wake up!”

He groans, eyes fluttering open, unfocused.

“There you are,” you exhale, relief punching through your chest. “Come on now, get up.”

“Mm… m’up,” he slurs, trying to roll but only managing a half-hearted twitch. “This the part where you kiss me back to life?”

You glare at him. “This the part where I drag your dumb, heavy ass into my house so you don’t bleed out in the beans.”

He grins—dopey and dazed. “Romantic.”

“Shut up.”

With way more effort than you’d like to admit, you haul one of his arms over your shoulders and heave him up, grunting as he leans heavily on you.

“God, you’re built like a fridge,” you huff. “What are you even made of?”

“Sex appeal,” he mutters into your hair.

You elbow him in the ribs and he groans in a way that might be exaggerated. Might not.

You stumble inside together, kicking the screen door open and half-dragging, half-carrying him through the hallway until you reach the only place remotely suitable—the bedroom. You don’t have a couch big enough for all of him, and you sure as hell aren’t laying him down on your kitchen table.

You guide him down onto the mattress as gently as you can. He flops onto his back with a dramatic sigh, arms spread like he’s just been martyred.

“Well, well,” he drawls, eyes closed, “this is moving way faster than I expected.”

You toss a pillow at his face. “You’re bleedin’ out, not gettin’ lucky.”

“Shame,” he says, muffled by cotton. “I’m very charming in a near-death state. Some women are into that.”

You shoot him a look as you open the kit. “I’m into clean sheets and peace of mind, which you’re actively ruinin’ both.”

He laughs—wheezing, ragged, but real.

You try not to think about the way that sound lands in your chest like a spark in dry brush.

You reach for the alcohol and cotton pads, muttering under your breath. “Can’t believe I’m patchin’ up some interdimensional jackass in my Sunday sheets…”

He just grins, head tipping to the side as he watches you work.

You move in silence for a moment, hands steady as you clean the blood from his side. It's worse than you thought—jagged, bruised, and deeper than any normal person would’ve survived.

But he’s not normal.

You catch sight of something under the blood—a line of faded scarring, old and angry, spiderwebbing across his ribs. You frown, hand pausing for just a second too long.

His voice is quieter now. “Yeah. That one’s from a different me.”

You glance up.

He’s watching you again. Not leering. Not grinning. Just watching.

You say nothing. Just keep cleaning, dabbing gently with the cloth.

“…and that one,” he adds, pointing lazily to a jagged scar near his shoulder, “was from some cape who thought he could moral-speech me into giving up. Didn’t go well for him.”

You shake your head. “You act like this is all normal.”

He shrugs—or tries to. “It is. For me.”

You don’t answer. Just reach for the bandages. The weight of it sits between you—his body littered with stories he tells like punchlines. But none of them are funny.

He shifts, drawing a long, dramatic breath. “Y’know… if you cared about me even a little, you’d be feeding me right now.”

You pause mid-wrap.

Lord help you—you feel it. That tug. That deep-rooted, bone-deep southern instinct that kicks in when someone so much as breathes the word “hungry” near you.

You purse your lips, trying to fight it off like a sneeze in church.

“…You just bled all over my garden,” you mutter. “That don’t make you helpless.”

He makes a noise—somewhere between a groan and a pitiful sigh—and slumps dramatically against the headboard like a man meeting his untimely end.

“Can’t lift my arms,” he says faintly, flexing one just enough to contradict himself. “Might faint. Again. It’s tragic.”

You roll your eyes. “You dramatic little—”

“Please,” he adds, and it’s way too sweet to be real. “Just a biscuit. Maybe two. A spoonful of somethin’. You’d be so good at it. I can tell. Bet you feed people like it’s a holy mission.”

Your jaw tics.

Because he’s not wrong.

You hate that he’s not wrong.

You huff and stand, muttering all the way down the hall like you’re not about to do exactly what he asked. There’s a plate of leftover fried chicken in the icebox, half a tin of biscuits, and some peach preserves you jarred yourself just last month. You warm it all up without thinking—like muscle memory, like praying over your food.

It’s not about him, you tell yourself. It’s about basic decency. Hospitality. He’s a guest. A half-dead, annoying-as-sin guest. Doesn’t mean you weren’t raised right.

When you come back, plate in hand, he perks up like a possum sniffing pie. “Oh my god,” he breathes. “Is that jam?”

“Peach preserves,” you correct, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Made it myself.”

He places a hand over his heart. “Of course you did. I knew you were perfect.”

“Shut up and eat.”

He lifts a hand weakly—barely. Then lets it flop back down. “Mmm. Can’t. Too weak.”

You stare at him.

He stares right back. All wounded pride and fluttering lashes like some Disney prince mid-meltdown.

You suck in a slow breath. “I swear, if you’re fakin’—”

“You’re really gonna let me die in here... biscuitless?”

You squint at him. “If I feed you one bite, you better not say a word.”

His grin returns, slow and gleaming. “Mouth shut. Hand to God.”

You take a piece of biscuit, slather a little peach on it, and raise it to his lips with more irritation than care.

He opens his mouth way too eagerly and takes the bite, eyes closing like he’s seeing visions of heaven.

“Oh my God,” he moans around it. “Marry me.”

You smack his shoulder—not hard enough to reopen anything, but firm enough to make your point.

“You said no talkin’.”

He holds up a finger, chewing. Swallows. Then leans in just a little. “But if I did die, this would’ve been the best last meal.”

You glare. “One more word and you’re gettin’ the rest of this on a paper towel.”

He zips his lips, but that smug look stays carved into his face. You feed him another bite—chicken this time—and he groans again, dramatic as ever.

You’re trying to be mad. You really are.

But the thing is… there’s a part of you that likes this. Not the flirting, not the chaos—but the feeding. The doing. The tiny flicker of comfort you can give someone, even someone as infuriating as him. Maybe especially him.

When you reach for a spoonful of jam, he murmurs low, voice all gravel and velvet. “Tell me I’m pitiful again. Right after the next bite.”

You stare at him.

Then you say it soft, real slow, like you’re talking to a toddler with a fever, “You poor, pitiful man.”

And it’s like you flipped a switch in him.

Mark’s head rolls back against the headboard, mouth slack, eyes fluttering half-closed like you just whispered something filthy in his ear instead of blessing him with pity.

He lets out this low, broken groan—obscene for what was supposed to be a wholesome peach-preserve moment.

“Jesus, say it again—do it while feeding me the jam, I swear I’ll ascend—”

You snatch the spoon back, scandalized. “Absolutely not.”

He blinks his eyes open, wide and betrayed. “No—wait, come back—I blacked out for a second, that was the best thing I’ve ever felt—”

“You need help,” you snap, standing up and backing away like he’s contagious.

He makes grabby hands toward the plate like he’s being abandoned in a war zone. “Don’t go—please, I’m dying again—”

“I’m not hand-feedin’ you through your fake orgasm!”

He flops dramatically sideways across your quilt. “Just one more bite, I swear. I’ll behave. I’ll be good. You can even cuss at me while you do it—I won’t even moan!”

You squint. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

“…It might be.”

You sigh, hard, pinching the bridge of your nose.

This man is gonna be the death of you. And he’s smiling like he knows it, too.

You step back toward the bed, torn between pity and pure exasperation, and offer him one last bite of biscuit—mostly just to shut him up. He takes it slow, all soft eyes and syrupy theatrics, like he’s staring down the barrel of romance itself.

Then, faster than you can blink, he grabs your wrist.

Not hard—just firm enough to pull you closer.

“Don’t,” you warn, already knowing what’s coming.

But he’s got that look again—like chaos in human form—grinning just enough to be dangerous.

“I’ll be gentle,” he lies.

And then he kisses you.

Warm. Surprising. Way too pleased with himself.

You go rigid, eyes wide, taste of peach jam still fresh on both your mouths.

And then your hand flies before you even think about it.

SMACK.

The sound echoes sharp off the walls.

He flinches—but only just. Mostly, he laughs. Full-body, pleased-as-hell laughter like he just got everything he wanted and dessert, too.

“You kiss like you slap,” he says, dazed and delighted. “God, you’re a dream—where’re you goin’? No, no, don’t walk away—come back!”

But you are done.

You storm out of the room with a muttered, “Pervert,” and the sound of your bare feet on hardwood.

He calls after you, pitiful as a stray dog in the rain.

“Sugar! C’mon! Don’t go cold on me now—we were havin’ a moment! I’m injured! I’m biscuitless!”

Silence.

Then—

Click.

That distinct, unmistakable sound.

He stiffens.

You step back into the doorway holding Meemaw’s double-barrel shotgun like it’s part of your Sunday best. Hair mussed. Cheeks flushed. Voice calm as a lullaby soaked in arsenic.

“You put your mouth on me again without askin’, I’ll be scrapin’ you off the porch with a shovel.”

Mark goes perfectly still.

Then his smile spreads again, wide and wicked. “Oh my god. You are my dream girl.”

You raise the barrel a fraction. “Test me.”

He lifts both hands, still grinning like this is a honeymoon, not a warning. “Alright, alright—I’m behavin’. I swear. Just—leave the shotgun. For ambiance.”

You slam the door on your way out.

His grin doesn’t falter. Not even a little.

“... God I love this place.”

[the-internets-girlfriend]

Bittersweet Memories: Before the Frosting Sets

George Clarke x Reader (Series)

There was something sweet - until it all fell apart. Years later, a viral video stirs up a past neither of them ever quite let go of. In the city where they both changed, something is quietly rising again.

warnings: soft angst, emotional miscommunication, heartbreak, swearing, slow-burn

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series | masterlist | next part

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Part One: Before the Frosting Sets (1200+ words)

I still remember the way George used to eat sprinkles straight from the jar.

We weren't one of those couples who posted anniversary posts or had a shared Spotify playlist - we kept it quiet, happy living in our blissful moments. It was slower. The kind of thing that grows between late night train rides and shared Tesco snacks, where love doesn't announce itself so much as it simply stays.

George was still figuring things out when we met. He filmed little skits on TikTok - low-effort but effortlessly funny. His face was stating to show up of people's for you pages. A couple thousands likes here and there - a "wait, aren't you that guy with the sound in the garage?" in a coffee shop once or twice.

He would brush it off with a laugh, but I could see it - the hope curling at the edges of his smile. Like maybe, just maybe, this thing he loved could actually become something.

And I wanted that for him. So badly.

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We met at a bus stop in Clapham, standing under one of those flickering streetlights. I was holding a cake box for my cousins 21st birthday. He asked if it was from that bakery around the corner. I told him no - I'd made it myself.

He looked impressed, "like, properly made it?"

I nodded my head, "from scratch, as well." I proudly showed off my cake, allowing for George to look through the clear top lid.

That had made him give me an amazed "well you must be a wizard then."

"Only during the school term."

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We didn't rush into anything. It started with the exchange of phone numbers, and casual messages - like stupid memes and late-night facetimes. Then it became weekends together. Then it became toothbrushes kept at each other's place. Then it just...was.

I would bake my cakes for friends and family while he filmed. When his laptop battery dies, he would crash on my sofa. I would glance up from icing cupcakes and find him watching me - not in the intense way but it was soft...thoughtful. Like, he was learning so much about me in that very moment.

"People would love watching this," he said once, phone in hand. "You piping those little waves and rose things, or you explaining nerdy baking stuff - it's great content."

I laughed at the idea, "baking isn't content, it's a way for me to think - a calm space.

He didn't ague. Just nodded and went back to filming himself for a TikTok video.

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His follower count began to rise. Nothing wild - but just enough to start getting messages from small brands wanting free promo in exchange for a product. He made jokes about "when I hit 10k" but I saw it - the way he checked his notifications a little more often, the way his sketches got sharper, more edited, more curated.

I supported it. Of course I did. He was chasing something, and I knew what that felt like.

But somewhere along the way, our rhythms started to clash.

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He started getting invited to small creator meetups - nothing big, just a group of content creators going to a pub night together and doing group collabs. I usually stayed behind. Not because I wasn't invited - nut because I didn't know how to fit in there. I kept to my quiet kitchens and the sound of my kitchen aid humming, not ring lights and clickbait thumbnails.

"You should come next time," he said one night, grabbing his coat. "They'd love you - especially when you talk about cake stuff. And they've been dying to meet you."

I smiled faintly, "maybe."

He didn't push it.

And that was part of the problem - we stopped pushing. We both stopped asking and started assuming.

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One night, I brought up the bakery idea. Not a big place, just a small shop with pale pink tiles and a coffee machine. I'd been daydreaming it for years - but this time was different, I had actually meant it.

George was editing something on his laptop - he didn't even look up.

"I mean... that's a cute idea," he said, his focus still on the screen as he typed away. "But rent is brutal right now, yeah? You'd probably do better selling stuff online. Build a brand first. Like... be a bakery girl on TikTok or something." He said with a shrug.

It wasn't mean. He wasn't trying to crush anything. He just didn't see it the way I did.

And something about the word cute stuck like icing sugar in my throat.

It hurt.

I didn't say much after that. Just nodded and went back to folding cupcake boxes, humming a tune to myself to mask the sadness.

He didn't notice I stopped letting him taste-test new recipes. Or that I didn't ask him to film with me when I tried making a time-lapse of me baking to show my grandma.

We were still... fine. Still cuddling up in bed, still trading jokes, still doing all normal things.

But something was... cooling.

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The night we ended it - us. It wasn't dramatic. There was no raised voices. Just a quiet sense of something soft slipping through our fingers.

He was editing again - something about a collab with his new mates.

I was boxing up a batch of lemon curd cupcakes, too tired to pretend I wasn't hurting - hurting in my own home.

"You called my dream a 'cute idea'," I said finally, barely a whisper.

George blinked, looked up as if he hadn't heard right. "Wait-what?'

"My bakery. You said it was cute. Like a trend. A phase."

"I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly. "I was just being realistic."

"I know." I swallowed, "but that's the thing. You're chasing yours like it's already real...and you made mine sound like something I'd grow out of - like a child's dream."

There was a long pause. Then -

"I didn't mean to make you feel small."

"I know," I said again. "But you still did."

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We didn't say let's break up. It just happened.

He stayed the night. We held each other like people who weren't ready to let go yet, but already knew we had to.

He left the next morning with a quiet, "see you around," and the ghost of a kiss on my forehead.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

After that, life moved on.

I worked. I baked. I mourned. I stopped checking his page after a while. He kept growing - slowly, steadily. His face popped up on my feed sometimes, smiling over beers or filming chaotic videos with friends I never knew.

He looked happy.

I tried to be.

But sometimes, I'd catch myself icing a cake and wondering if he ever thought of me - of us.

Sometimes I'd see a jar of sprinkles and think about how he used to eat them, by the handful, from the jar.

And that was it.

Not a disaster. Not a betrayal.

Just a quiet goodbye between two people who wanted different things at the same time - and couldn't find the right way to say it out loud.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

hi all!

I hope you enjoyed the first part for my second series, and are excited to see what comes next!!

See you next time,

mwah x

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

taglist x

@mothersversiononly @whisperturnedecho @lovingaphroditesworld @reidyourpalms @liz140569 @swizzlemynizzle @wherethezoes-at @clarkeyzzz @swiftlyjo

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

please diva stop starting things and never finishing, i'm dying re reading all over your fics and this sounds like a hate message but actually it is, i hate u! finish all ur fics now so i can sleep in peace at night i can't this feels like an addiction! i open ur page and hope that u posted but u posted something new THAT U NOT GOING TO FINISH we are in a toxic relationship, im sorry if u always give and i always take but i can't i try to find another writer that it's better than u but not of them have what u have but they finish everything and u write masterpieces but let me wanting more I CANT DEAL every time u post a new fic i just know u not going to finish it so i read with a hole in my heart

okay i think this was satire (i hope??) but waking up to it still kinda stung ngl 💀

just for the record, bestie: i do finish most of my series! the only open ones right now are malevolence and eyes too close to let me, and even those are in-progress, not abandoned, i swear. inviolable and don’t lie to me were completed—i just got inspired to maybe add a final part to them later. the colour!/lustre! series is a little more spontaneous, but that’s the nature of it.

i’ve been quiet lately because i’ve been slipping back into depression after a two-month stint of pure mania, where writing felt like a full-time job (which was amazing but also, uh, definitely not sustainable). so if it feels like i’m starting and not finishing—i promise it’s not neglect, it’s just me trying to recalibrate and not burn out. <3

i love that people care about the stuff i write (i love that you care about the stuff i write!!!) this much, but i also need space to take care of myself between posts. pls know i’m still here, still writing, still planning to finish things—just a little slower than before.

also!! the new series i just started—it’s a cruel summer—is something i’m genuinely obsessed with. it’s made me feel excited and motivated to write again, and i will be finishing it as soon as i can. i’m already deep in it and loving every second. so pls don’t worry—this one’s not going anywhere.

i love you guys so much. really. i’m sorry if it ever feels like i’m letting you down—that’s never my intention. thank you for caring, even when the delivery is unhinged lmao. <3

edit: i just need to add that i do also have a job that i have to work on behind the scenes, as well as a 4 year old son i'm raising. so this blog is kinda, my safe space... which means i am already spending all of my free time pumping out fanfic.

[mattslvrxo]

first series!!

{ secret addiction.. }

part { 2 }

꣑ৎ { famous user x chris sturniolo } ꣑ৎ

{ ! } contains: sex, stalking, nsfw content, adulatory , only fans, swearing, .. etc

based on the song

╰┈➤ ❝ . ۫ . “like an addict” . ۫ . ❞۫

by dj gummy bear

{ your pov }

tara didn’t tell me he’d be here. not that she owed me anything — i’d never said a word about chris. not to her. not to anyone. it was one of those things that lived in the privacy of my phone screen. the kind of crush that doesn’t feel like a crush because you’ve never actually met

— just… studied. stared at. obsessed over in silence.i just assumed she saw the ship edits i guess..

so when i saw him from across the living room — standing near the sliding doors, half in shadow, holding a red cup but barely sipping — my stomach dropped. it wasn’t butterflies. it was vertigo. i blinked once. twice. looked away. maybe he didn’t see me.

but i felt his eyes. even through the crowd.

like they burned. like they recognized. i tried to act normal. fake a smile at some guy trying to talk to me. sip the drink i didn’t even want. nod to whatever bullshit he was saying. but my skin was buzzing. my chest was tight. and every time i looked over — he was still watching.

not flirting.

not moving.

just… watching.

so i left the room. slipped into the kitchen like i was just thirsty, like my brain wasn’t short-circuiting. i stood at the sink, pretending to check my phone, breathing through the chaos in my head. and then he followed. i heard the door creak open. footsteps. his voice, soft and too unsure.

���hey.”

i didn’t turn right away.

my voice came out thinner than i wanted. “hey.” when i did face him, it was like facing a mirror you’d been afraid of for too long. he was nervous.

not cool. not cocky. not the version i imagined when i saw clips of him smirking on podcasts or laughing in his videos. no — he was awkward. shoulders tense. gaze darting from my eyes to the floor and back again.

i hated how much that made me like him more. “you’re friends with tara?” he asked, tone like he was forcing small talk. i nodded. “yeah. she’s kind of my handler at these things.” he smiled, almost — the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “same.”

i leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “you don’t seem like the party type.” he raised a brow. “neither do you.”

i let out a short laugh, dry. “guess we’re both faking it.”

a pause. the air went still.

he stepped closer — not much, just enough for it to feel deliberate.

then he said it.

the line i’d been waiting to hear, dreading and craving at the same time: “i’ve seen you before.”

my throat tightened. online, he meant. he had to mean online. but the way he said it — low, like a confession — made it sound heavier. like it meant too much.

“you too,” i replied, voice flat. careful.

i didn’t ask where. i already knew. he leaned against the other side of the counter, mirroring me. we weren’t touching. but i could feel it — the pull. like gravity just decided to fuck with us.

“this is weird, right?” he muttered, looking at the tiled floor. i nodded. “painfully.”

another silence.

then his voice, again — quieter this time, almost like he was admitting something he didn’t want to say out loud. “i didn’t think you were real.” i blinked. “what do you mean?”

he scratched the back of his neck, not meeting my eyes. “i don’t know. you just… you exist online, right? it’s like—every your life looks so filled and fun,and here you are.. at a party in the kitchen.. alone, with me atleast.. oh shit sorry that sounded weird— .”

i cut him off by laughing — really laughed. i looked down to myself. it broke the tension just enough to breathe. “sorry to disappoint,” i teased, rolling my eyes.

“no,” he said too quickly. “you don’t. you don’t disappoint.” i looked at him then. fully. eyes locked. and something shifted.

no smirks. no performance. just two people who’d been watching each other in silence for months, now face to face, finally feeling all the tension in real time. and it was worse. it was better. it was unbearable. he looked like he wanted to say something else. i did too.

but neither of us did.

instead, we just stood there — two addicts, one hit away from doing something stupid.

⸻

{ chris’s pov }

i couldn’t even look straight at her for the first five minutes. i’d spent months watching her life from a distance — stalking every move, memorizing every post, jerking off to pictures of this girl ive never even spoken to, screenshotting things i’d never admit to screenshotting — and now here she was.

in front of me. talking to me. laughing at something i said. it felt wrong. like touching something too expensive.

like breaking something beautiful on accident.

she looked better in person. that was the worst part. less filtered. less curated. more… real. and somehow hotter for it. i didn’t know what to say without exposing myself. so i kept it surface level. awkward. careful.

but when she smiled at me — not the fake, posing-for-the-camera smile, but a tired, human, off-guard one — i felt it in my fucking throat. i wanted to kiss her and run away at the same time.

i didn’t. i just stood there. locked in. already hooked.

written by adeline!! to be continued..

[thetruearchmagos]

Dunking On Some Fools

In Which I Whine About Star Wars, And Talk About Multi-Role Platforms (Mostly The Latter)

Yes, the none-awaited sequel to this post a few days ago has arrived! If no one reads this, I don't think I'd mind, but I am tagging @coffeexafterxmidnight since you asked and @theprissythumbelina because I vaguely recall you reacting positively to something star wars related a while ago.

Anyhow, more below the cut;

Now, the way I see it, a lot of the pro-LAAT arguments come from the perspective that using 'multi-role' vehicles, or 'platforms' to be technical, is inherently better than splitting those roles across multiple platforms in unison. These two comments, for example;

---

---

Now, I'm gonna start by saying that while I am a very big fan of most multi-role platforms (F-35 my beloved I never doubted you), I am of the opinion that the 'Low Altitude Assault Transport', or LAAT, is absolutely not a good example of one, and I'm here to explain why.

"Multi-Role' VS 'Multi-Form'

Basically, the way I see it is that it's a good idea to design one or a small number of platforms to be able to conduct a variety of missions as long as the ability to actually do that doesn't require making absolutely detrimental sacrifices in that platform's ability to fulfil its core functions.

Now, what does that look like?

This is a Nimitz-class nuclear powered aircraft carrier of the United States Navy, and in my opinion such platforms are an excellent example of what it means to be multi-mission right.

The base, structural form of aircraft carriers is basically a flat deck, a hangar beneath it, and all the engineering, navigational, and communications gear needed to make it go places and do things.

And what can an aircraft carrier do? Anything, depending on what you put on it.

Fight for and win air superiority? Launch fighters.

Bomb something? Send up some strike aircraft.

Hunt submarines? Sic anti-submarine helicopters on them.

And you don't even need to change the ship itself! There's not really a structural difference between a carrier that can 'do' air warfare VS one that can fight surface targets, and the same hold true in other domains. Modern missile cells on ships, or launch rails / bomb bays on aircraft, can store and fire many types of ordnance (if you've designed them to), allowing the platform with these systems to be easily re-tasked between various missions.

The exact opposite of this fortunate state of affairs can be seen when improving a platform's ability to do A actively weakens its ability to do B. This often happens when the structural components needed to carry out one task take up weight or volume while providing nothing to the platform's ability to do another.

Such as, say, having to have both a large transport compartment and all the lasers in the galaxy.

Where Does The LAAT Fit?

Now, to return to the vehicle that started all this.

I believe the LAAT is a flawed concept, and my proposition to replace it while retaining a similar level of 'orbit to surface assault' capability would be to divide the roles of 'fire support' and 'troop transport' between two separate platforms. Frankly, I'm more than a little sceptical of this whole doctrine to begin with, but I'm not gonna get into that.

The main problem here is weight. It shouldn't be controversial to say that in the air more than any other domain, weight is at an absolute premium, and speed is often your best protection. Just by stripping the basic hull of either the armament or the troop bay would give the resulting craft a good boost to speed or range, especially if you take the effort to make a more aerodynamic hull form. Alternatively, you could use the saved weight to cut back on thrusters / repulsors, or boost carrying capacity, armament (as if it isn't already armed enough), or shielding / armour.

A second point that I think is also relevant is that, by splitting these two conflicting missions and design requirements into different aircraft, you can now get away with adapting the new platforms into even more roles which their now non-contradictory frames might be better able to handle. The troop transport can also haul cargo or vehicles without wasting capacity on weapons, and on the flip side the gunship can carry out independent attack missions without subtracting from the transport fleet.

With these arguments made, though, I'd like to take some time to properly shoot the two YouTube commenters who started this right between the eyes. Their takes, I think, are dumb.

Take 1; 'Sequencing Bad, Actually'

Okay, well.

First of all, surely the idea of 'easily anticipated stages' applies equally to the approach best described as 'mass identical waves coming right at you'? Like, just using the LAAT is no less predictable the split idea? Military operations are always broken up into clearly defined stages for a reason, which brings me to my next point.

Let's say you send in the LAAT in your first, second, and third waves, as you'll need to because there's no way in hell you're getting a 'large' amount of troops down at once. The first wave will take the most fire since the defenders haven't been suppressed yet, and since the troop transports and gunships are the same, losing gunships while attempting to clear defences also condemns their passengers to dying with them.

Unless you mean to tell me you intend on dropping troops while the enemy's guns are pointing right at you. In which case, please watch Saving Private Ryan Opening Beach Scene on Holo-Tube.

On the other hand, breaking up the mission into discrete and sequential stages, and splitting attack and transport craft into separate roles, allows you to cut back on risk massively. Take the LAAT hull, leave the droops on ship, and replace all that weight with even more lasers (but preferably rockets or something), and now you have a craft for that 'first wave', which can hit defences with speed and firepower without risking a single ground trooper's life. Then, once and only once the Landing Zone is ready, you can send in the ground pounders to do their work.

Take 2; Muh Multi Role

Ah, screw me I guess.

Look, first of all, who the hell 'needs; to do so? Like, the video and commenter made a point of saying that there very much was no need to slap weapons on the blackhawk or Mi-8, so what exactly are you trying to say??

Also, the point about multi-role fighters is so stupid it spawned this whole post. In the modern day, where the divide between ground attack and air combat capabilities are summed up quite well by 'stick the bloody weapon on a launch rail and chuck it from beyond the horizon', the structural concessions you need to support both roles are much lower than having to accomodate, I don't know, a vacuum pressurised passenger compartment, and a absolute crap ton of lasers. So, yeah! You can't compare the two!

And with that... I don't feel like trawling through the video for more dumb takes. So, Arch out.

[seventh-district]

Figured I'd try my hand at some Redacted character post/text edits!

[ 1 / ? ]

Credit to @/sainthowlzon for all the Listener icons, and to @/elisacaleisa for their google drive with all the canon icons!

(slightly alternative version of the Solaires' GC edit below the cut bc i had a lil too much fun with what Vincent would name his contacts)

[y4rdbird]

Dr s2p1 save me

[fortjester]

gojo satoru & geto suguru from jujutsu kaisen vs. uncomfortably numb by american football ft. hayley williams

[ltlemon]

ok so now plastic beach deluxe is on spotify in the us

[independent-fics]

The Leverage OT3 in Every Episode

Leverage (2008-2012)

01x10 The Juror #6 Job

[wexhappyxfew]

judy x rosie girlies.....i have a sweet little something i've been working on for you all AND it is in fact in a certain captain robert 'rosie' rosenthal's pov !!!!!!!

me when rosie rosenthal pov:

[thatgoddamngingerundercut]

BTS Billboard Music Awards photoshoot (recolored) Suga

Unedited originals:

[kadens-a-bee]

I think I’m funny

[patheticwhimsy]

and you know, i should've known the people testing the alarms were going to show up when i was having a full on loud sobbing breakdown that they definitely heard through the holes in our floorboards that see directly into the basement

[theygender]

I wish cats were like dogs where you could take them to a cat park or kitty daycare or on a playdate and let them run around with other hyper energetic kittens for several hours and then you bring them back home and they're so played out that they're just chill the rest of the day. Astrid is in her preteen phase now and she has the most violent destructive zoomies of any cat I've ever seen. Our older male cat can't keep up with her when she really wants to play and neither can we. I just played with her until she flopped from exhaustion TWICE a few hours ago and she's already jetting around at near light speed knocking shit off every horizontal surface and doing kickflips off of us with her claws out again

[ohsweetflips]

somewhere on this blog there is a post that goes something like "what if i just start identifying as nonbinary and don't tell anyone and still go by she/her" and that needs to be marked as the day that pandora's box opened