#also love how expressive he is in general

[kneebie]

there's a book i like that's called "When Prophecy Fails: A Social and Psychological Study of a Modern Cult That Predicted the End of the World." It's an actual study, with follow ups on a cult in Michigan, I think it was? It's hella dry, but it does a good job explaining the history of doomsday cults before diving into the modern ones

One of the first anecdotes of the story is the anabaptists, some four to five hundred years ago. When the bible was first translated, Martin Luther said, "hey btw your personal interpretation? That's also a correct interpretation, because it is a divine script," or something along those lines, and people went NUTS.

One particular experience is recollected in which a dude strolls into town after the second failure of the world to end, and a random villager calls out, "HEY, JOHANNES! WHERE IS YOUR WIFE? WAS SHE RAPTURED WITHOUT YOU?" which really goes to show Twitter has existed in us throughout all of the ages, even without the tech

And ALSO goes to show that the thing that kept those doomsday cults going was that, at the end of the day? People weren't there to hash it out. People were there to say fuck off with your heretical views, etc. And so a large amount of outreach was completely neglected because, like, why would you? They're silly. They're stupid. How could they even believe such a thing?

Except, and here's the thing, and it's all over this website: we are not immune to cults. People get caught up in echo chambers all the time, and it's nice to finally have that sense of belonging. You go out of the group, and what do you find? Oh man, people are HELLA mean outside your own ingroup.

This is basically what grifters and cults have in common. Some cults can be relatively benign. Grifters? Much, MUCH more rarely. And so, consciously or not, Trump's counting on the fact that when his tariffs raise the price of, say, eggs, we are all going to yell "HEY JOHANNES WHERE IS YOUR WIFE," all over again. And so people who are seeing signs of shit being bad will go OH, NOT SAFE IN THE OUTGROUP, GONNA GO BACK TO THE INGROUP, and reinforce their worldviews from inside their own heads, rather than with external observations. Cause the external observations are generally brought on by dicks and jackasses more interested in saying "I WAS RIGHT" than "hey man yeah, you're right, the price of eggs has gone up for those reasons and it does kind of suck."

Am I saying that every single Trump supporter needs to be courted with lovely words and woo-ed back to share the same reality? No. Trump's actively courted white nationalists and armed militia members, as well as the people sympathetic to those causes.

Which is to say, there's a spectrum of Trump supporter. There's the ethnonationalists. And there's the people who kinda just don't give a shit, and haven't, and he said some words in some soundbites that sounded like it'd help with everyday problems they're facing. That's what a demagogue does. Just says shit and some of it sticks.

So instead of being like "JESUS CHRIST YOU RACIST," try and open a dialogue first. Figure out if they're the sort of person who hasn't given it much thought, or was tricked because they trusted the wrong source, or if they're part of the Proud Boys. Doesn't usually take long to figure that out.

And even then, when you're about to go attacking that white nationalist? The Republican party is the party of grievances. That's why it's one hundo percent culture war one hundo percent of the time. Just give a thought to how far you're personally going to fuel that grievance, since dogpiling one Republican can then reinforce HUNDREDS TO THOUSANDS of other Republicans, with the way Shapiro and other talking heads work.

I'm not saying don't! It's now more critical than ever to express dissent, and to show that not everyone agrees with the fascist in charge atm. Just know how they work, and how they're going to use your own good intentions, and make your own calculations on whether it's worth it to be a dick to someone online

Might I give some advice:

Not everyone has (or needs to have) the energy to thoughtfully respond to republicans on the Internet. You do not have to do that.

But some people do, and can. And I think we gotta let them.

An example:

I have a former teacher, I'll call her Grace, who is an incredibly kind woman in her 70s. Devout catholic, had voted for various parties over the years, but has been pretty strictly democrat over the past 15-20 because that aligns with her values of kindness and service.

She shared a post about the pope's recent letter and expressed that she agreed with his concerns about how trump is treating immigrants. A friend of hers commented a long paragraph basically saying "dear Grace I care for you but I don't understand how you can be a Christian and a democrat. Blah blah abortion blah blah gender blah blah drugs."

Grace replied "I'm very busy right now but I am going to respond to you soon with my thoughts". When she did it was an incredibly generous, rational monologue that connected with this person's humanity, their shared religious values, and made a beautiful case for why she supports who she does. I didn't agree with a good half of what she said as I am not a Christian, but the result was an expression of values that I think put her on the side of justice and compassion.

The person replied and thanked her and said she had a lot to think about. It was probably the best case scenario for a Facebook politics conversation

You know what came very close to ruining it? A bunch of (mostly younger) people piling on with "fuck you you racist maga pos" and "no one has to explain anything to you, go to hell" etc etc. Even after Grace wrote that she intended to reply herself.

I watched this republican respond to all the easy, quick insults by saying "this is why I don't think any democrats can be Christian, this is how you all speak to me." If Grace hadn't put so much work into writing her response in a way that was tailored to fit this person, I would not be surprised if that person left Facebook doubly certain that Christian nationalism is the way to go.

I'm not saying we can't cuss out jackasses. I'm not saying everyone needs to respond to bad faith arguments like Grace did or use their time like she did.

But this was on Grace's Facebook page, and interrupted the work she already volunteered to do. Just so these individuals could feel like they "did something" and got a shot off at an enemy.

I think that's selfish and childish and unproductive. They could have said anything they wanted in their own space, but they made grace's job harder for no fuckin reason. And then "loved" her reply and said "that was beautiful Grace, thank you for sharing your thoughts"

Like... Buddies. Pals. If someone volunteers to scrub the toilet fucking let them.

[softtdaisy]

the right one - Charles Leclerc

summary. charles never forgot himself for letting you go. when arthur lose you, he is the one who has the heal your broken heart this time.

words count. 4,313

what to expect. it's the second part of the other one. I guess you can read it separately but some things might not make sense (specially the glue part). inspired by congratulations from Hamilton. mention of cheating, everyone is so sad in this story I'm sorry (im not) and arthur is terrible boyfriend

a/n. can you believe i told @monzabee about this fic in December 2023??? and it's finally out after all this time. I'm so happy I finally did it and gave these two another part, they deserve love and happiness.

F1 masterlist | general masterlist | request

When he first heard them, Charles didn’t want to believe the rumors.

For the winter break, he decided to go on a road trip in Italy with his best friends. For multiple reasons, he chose to get rid of any type of social media. Charles needed a real break after the season that had been more difficult than he thought it would. 

Also because a part of him still hasn’t gotten over you.

It was too difficult to see Arthur post pictures and stories with you all the time. And if he couldn’t escape it, nor you in the paddock during the season, Charles decided to leave all his bad feelings behind for a few weeks.

No matter how hard he tried these past months, Charles couldn’t get rid of his love for you. If he ignored you during the end of last season, even if he had your glue everywhere with him, he wanted to be nicer this year. 

Not like he had a choice if he wanted to keep a good relationship with Arthur, who still had no idea about what happened between you and Charles. He also wasn’t completely stupid: he knew it could look bad on him if he kept ignoring the photographer around the paddock. 

And it would be a lie to say that he didn’t miss you. Sure, a part of him was still aching when he was making you laugh and smile, thinking he couldn’t have the privilege to see that every day for the rest of his life because you chose Arthur over him. But he tried to be more mature and accept that if this was the best he could have, then he would appreciate it.

This was also one of the reasons why he couldn’t believe the rumors when he heard them. There was no universe in which someone would purposely hurt you.

The first time he heard about the rumors, it was because some friends from Monaco sent him a text. “What’s going on with Arthur? Is it true?” Charles was more than confused. What could be true about his brother? He didn’t want to sound stupid to ask them but still didn’t want to put his social media back on his phone.

So he turned to Joris. Because that man knew everything that there is to know. And because he knew that his friend would never lie to him. This explained the embarrassed expression on his face when Charles asked him if he knew anything about something Arthur might have done.

“You sure you want to know?” he asked him. Charles understood that something serious was going on. Even when the truth was ugly, Joris never asked him if he really wanted him to be honest. Not when Ferrari was not doing great, not when fans criticized him, not when everyone had something to say about his private life. But he didn’t hesitate a single second and agreed to hear the truth.

“Apparently…your brother cheated on his girlfriend.” Charles’ world went silent for a few seconds. That couldn’t be true. He couldn't believe it. People must be wrong and bored and choose to create drama because of the off-season. Right? 

“Actually…” Joris continued. “It’s not really a rumor since Arthur basically admitted it.”

It was a damper. 

Charles left for a few weeks, and his brother decided to ruin everything he gave up his own happiness for?

“Is it true?” He sent Arthur. No explanation.

“Yes.” He only answered.

It took Charles only a few hours to come back to Monaco. On the plane back, he opened his social media again, answered some comments and messages, and shared some Ferrari stuff. And looked at the mess Arthur created.

“Let’s review…” Charles started. As soon as he arrived, he asked Arthur and Lorenzo to come with him in the living room to discuss. They all stayed at the family house to deal with the major crisis. From what he learned, paparazzis were going around Monaco to catch any of you: Lorenzo, Arthur, and especially you. The victim of all this mess. 

Charles still hasn't seen you, though. Lorenzo’s girlfriend took you for a ride away from there, knowing Charles was coming back and that there would be a confrontation between the brothers. You didn’t need to hear about all that again. You knew the story. Well, you knew some parts of it. You refused to hear Arthur’s explanation. 

Charles knew it was for the better, but he still couldn’t wait to see you. Scared of how you would be. Scared of how he will react too.

He finally took a big breath before continuing. “This girl pretended to be pregnant with your child. And instead of just saying that you didn’t have sex with her, you said she wasn’t the one you slept with?” He chose his words wisely, taking the time to say everything correctly. Even if there were no good ways to talk about this situation.

“I panicked! What should I have done?”

“Don't say anything!” he screamed back, slamming his hands on the table. “You should have just shut your mouth and not said a fucking thing.”

“Charles…” Lorenzo warned him, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

He sighed and apologized, trying to calm down. His brother was right; there was no use being aggressive against Arthur. The harm has been done and couldn’t be undone. But when he gave his baby brother a look, he couldn’t handle it. Arthur looked like he didn’t understand why Charles was so angry. Like he couldn’t see the real harm in this. “Or better, you shouldn’t have cheated,” he added. 

Everything stopped around the three brothers. “Charles!” Lorenzo repeated, louder this time and with a more authoritarian tone. Like there was back in childhood when he had to play the big brother between the two younger brothers fighting for the same car. 

Except this time, it was for the same girl.

Charles knew he had to calm down and play it more cleverly. He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands, trying to think of a way to say things more nicely without making Arthur turn on him. He didn’t even know how he could do that: he was so mad at his brother for doing such a stupid thing.

“Aren’t you supposed to support me?” Arthur asked with a disdainful voice that made Charles look up immediately. He couldn’t even find the right way to answer this. Maybe Arthur could feel the disappointment, which is why he looked that angry. He was never the Leclerc who disappointed the family.

Lorenzo had a lot of pressure as the big brother, the one that had to be a model and perfect at any point. Charles had the celebrity pressure; being the most famous Leclerc, he had to behave perfectly. But Arthur? Everybody saw him as the baby, never accepting any bad decisions from him. Or even when he did, he was forgiven immediately.

He was not used to having people being mad at him. You were, which was already a problem. But Charles was too, and that he couldn’t handle. This explained why Arthur went upstairs silently. Well, as silently as he was, hitting the staircase loudly. 

Charles let out a loud sigh when Arthur disappeared. “You two need to talk.” Lorenzo told him, to which he agreed without the desire to deal with that right now. Instead, he started talking with his more reasonable brother about their holidays. He knew Arthur needed some minutes to calm down.

He needed them too.

He only decided to go upstairs when he saw the car parking in front of the house. You were back. 

And he couldn’t face you right now.

— 

“Thank you for coming.” Charles stopped what he was doing after that sentence. He had finally gone to see Arthur after you came back home. He waited just a minute to hear your voice, even if he couldn’t see you. He had no idea if he should accept some good or bad feeling from hearing you. He was torn between the fire that lit up again in his heart from your simple words and the hurt of knowing he was only there because of his and Arthur's bad decisions.

After he entered his brother’s room, the one he assumed you shared with him, they both stayed silent for a moment. Charles was dealing with his social media when Arthur finally decided to speak. 

And Charles was more confused than he should be. What did this mean? He turned around to look at Arthur. He was still standing next to the window, watching you outside talking with Lorenzo’s girlfriend. There was something on Arthur’s face that Charles didn’t like. Almost like he couldn’t understand why you came back. Why were you still around? Like he was waiting for you to go away after what happened. 

“I don’t know how to deal with that. I needed you here.” 

This time, it was Charles that couldn’t truly understand what was going on. Actually, no, he can. He loved his baby brother with his whole heart and would have done anything for him. To protect him. To save him from whatever situation he put himself into. But now, looking at him with the whole situation going around, Charles realized something. 

Arthur knew. He knew that Charles would have always come to his rescue. Sacrifice things for him. Do anything for his brother’s happiness before his. And that’s what he was expecting from today too.

“No.” Charles first said, mostly for himself. But it made Arthur turn around too, curious. For the rest, it came out more confidently. Like a part of him had been waiting for ages to finally say these words. “I’m not here for you.” 

He heard Arthur’s nervous laugh, and he took a step back. He wasn’t even scared of his brother; it would have been stupid for many reasons. No, he was more scared of his own mind right now. He still couldn’t believe he said it. Out loud. What he was thinking from the start.

You became his priority. 

You had been for so long. 

But Arthur didn’t let him go away with him and took this step forward and some others. “What do you mean?”

“You fucked up, Arthur.” Charles started, pointing at the window. Pointing at you. “You cheated on your girlfriend. She was willing to give up everything for you; she already did in the past. And you thank her like that? By sleeping with some other girl you don’t even know? Do you seriously think that’s what she deserves?” 

Arthur looked at him blankly. With just a smirk. Not a fun or laughing one. No, a mean one. One that Charles had never seen on his brother. It was almost like he was discovering a new face for his baby brother. And the worst was yet to come.

“You still love her.” Arthur said with an emotionless voice. And it was a real hit in the heart for Charles. He never thought that Arthur knew about his feelings. Sure, he had never been more discreet when it came to his heart. And the way he went from praising you to ignoring you during the weekend said a lot. Maybe the worst part wasn’t much that Arthur knew about his feelings. It was that he knew and let Charles sacrifice himself for him. “I should have expected it. She’s hard to forget, I guess.”

“You’re going to learn now.” Arthur laughed at this answer because it was the truth. He played, and he lost. Just like Charles did last year, technically. If Charles gave up, Arthur lost at his own game. The game over wasn’t the same, except for the fact the lost prize was the same: you. You and your heart. You and your beautiful smile were maybe gone for longer than it should have been.

Charles couldn’t handle it anymore. The more he stayed in this room, the more he was getting hate for his brother, and it was definitely not the family dynamic he wanted. So he walked to the door, ready to leave. Or to finally do what he wanted from the beginning. 

“Can I ask you a question?” 

Charles turned around one last time to look at his brother. But Arthur wasn’t looking at him. He took his place back, near the window. Watching you. From there, it looked like he was trapped in some kind of prison. One he was to blame for being in. But maybe the real story behind this was that he was the watchman and you were the prisoner. At least for now.

“Why did you let me date her?” 

“Sometimes you love someone so much you accept to put their happiness before yours.” Arthur gave him one single look. One that said everything that needed to be known. He wasn’t the one Charles gave up his happiness for. He did it thinking it was the right decision for you.

— 

When Charles went outside, you were still there. Alone this time. You sat on the swing seat, your eyes locked on your own shoes, not giving any interest to the environment around you. Charles’ heart broke a little at this sight. The sun wasn’t supposed to stop shining on the people around it. You weren’t supposed to stop being this joyful person. 

Even if he tried to walk slowly and not scare you, you jumped when Charles sat next to you. “Sorry,” he immediately mumbled. You offered him a small smile while he was trying to find a good seat. Ironically, he was making it move even more and making it harder to sit.

You were the one holding on to the structure to slow the movements. “I’m not great at this.” He laughed nervously. Charles didn’t know how to act around you. It wasn’t easy most of the time. But now it was even harder. They never teach you how to act around the woman you loved and let go, but even less when this same woman got her heart broken by your brother. 

“Thank God you’re better behind the wheel,” you replied, now looking straight in front of you. You couldn’t meet his eyes. You felt guilty. Sure, this whole situation wasn’t your fault; nothing could ever make you think that. But you hated that Charles had to comfort you now. After what happened between you last year, it didn’t feel right. Or fair. 

Charles shrugged, purposely hitting on your shoulder while doing it. “Well, you’re not seeing him when I sit in the car.” You turned your face to him and couldn’t contain a laugh when you saw his proud expression. In the dark, his smile was the small light you needed to not break down. It made you feel like there was still hope out there.

So when Charles stopped smiling, naturally a tear fell from your eye. “I’m so stupid,” you sighed, playing with your fingers. Immediately, he grabbed one of your hands and started playing with them too. You remember how it was something you did to him back then, when there was still something building around you. When he walked out of the car, he wasn’t very proud of what he did.

You both had the same habit of playing with your hands to avoid eye contact and focusing on something else. 

You also both had the same habit of grabbing each other’s hand to help ease the anxiety. 

“I never thought Ar…he would break my heart like that,” you confessed in a quiet and broken voice. A voice that was like a knife right in Charles’ heart. “You said it yourself, he has a pure heart. So why did he change? What did I do wrong?” 

You started crying again. And Charles was fighting to not break down too. He hated seeing you like this. He hated that he was the one pushing you into Arthur’s arms. If Charles didn’t cause the pain, he was the triggering factor. If only he had been more selfish and kept you for himself, this wouldn’t have happened.

He got up, making the structure move again, but this time you didn’t have the strength to hold it. But the swinging didn’t last long. Charles immediately kneeled in front of you, grabbing your legs to stop you from swaying. And once you were stable, one of his hands moved to your face softly. You didn’t hesitate a single second before cuddling against it, even if it meant your tears would now fall on his fingers. If you didn’t want to share your pain with him, that was all Charles was asking. To take it with him so you would feel less hurt.

“You have nothing to do with Arthur’s mistakes, ok? I hate to say that, but I was wrong. I really thought he would treat you better than…” He stopped for a second, closing his eyes to consider what he wanted to say. But he was tired of holding back his words. “Better than I would. I never imagined he would do that; otherwise, I would have never pushed you in his arms. You deserve better, ok?” 

You were absorbing every single word he was saying. Trying to remember every millisecond of his monologue so you could recite it before going to sleep that night and all the following ones when you would remember giving your heart to the wrong brother. 

“You deserve the world.” Charles pursued. You watched as he put a hand in his jacket pocket to get something. “And I hope one day you’ll find the strength to open that glue too and accept the help from someone to heal your broken heart.” 

He handed you the glue. The very same glue you gave him for his birthday. You weren’t quite sure Charles had healed his heart; he wasn’t sure himself. 

The fact he kept it this whole time—more than that, that he had it with him tonight—was the forward thrust you needed.

You thanked him silently, with a smile that he understood immediately. Charles stayed like that for another minute, brushing away the tears that were still falling and caressing your knee in the softest way you’ve ever felt.

Then he sat back on the swing seat, with more precaution this time. For the next ten minutes, he tried to change your mind by speaking of the last season and what was coming. You didn’t speak much, except for some reactions here and there. The conversation wasn’t the real distraction in the end.

It was seeing Charles so full of life, something you’ve waited to see since you’ve met him. Deep down, you took it as proof that a better future was coming.

“Let’s go inside.” Charles offered after noticing the shivers in your body grow bigger. “I can escort you to your room.” He knew that you were staying in the guest room. It wasn’t hard to guess anyway, as all the brothers took their own room, and there was no way you would be sleeping with Arthur that night. 

A part of him wished he could comfort you to sleep anyway. 

Especially after you grabbed his hand to follow him inside. So lightly that he could let it go easily if he didn’t pay attention. But enough for him to feel the contact of your skin together and feel the heat growing in him. 

“Goodnight,” you whispered to him, closing the door. Charles hated how he only noticed now how your makeup had actually been ruined through the day.

___

Charles was taking his shirt off when he heard slight bangs on his door. He was clearly not expecting anybody, especially not now and not in his family house. 

His mom was already asleep; Lorenzo was never the type to come when the doors were closed; Arthur still hadn’t come back from what he knew. So it didn’t leave many possibilities.

As he could expect, you were the one behind the door when he opened it. Charles found it sad that you were still wearing the same pajamas you probably brought for your holiday: an old shirt that he recognized from Arthur’s wardrobe and a short that was showing too much leg for his own good. 

But what made him even sadder was the expression on your face. If he thought you looked sad earlier, it was nothing compared to now.

“Do you mind if…” You didn’t even finish your sentence before your voice broke down. Charles moved aside to let you come in, giving a look in the corridor to make sure you were alone. Even if he didn’t have to explain himself if anybody saw you. 

He would never let you be alone in the situation. Nor ever, now that he thought about it.

What he didn’t expect was that the moment he closed the door, you would fall in his arms. You didn’t show much attention to him except for accepting the one he gave you earlier. But you were the one who initiated it. Compared to now.

“I'm so tired of this, Charles,” you mumbled against his naked chest. The first thing that came to your mind was how you never felt more safe and comfortable than right now, in his arms. Not even Arthur could make for his big brother natural reassurance. 

It was something that has always been true about Charles. People, friends, members of the team, family, and anyone who needed to feel comfort knew they could go to Charles for this. If he felt like he wasn’t always finding the right words, it seemed to work enough for people to feel better when they left.

Maybe that was always true about him too. People never seemed to stay.

“He’s not planning on coming back, and he left alone here, in your family house? What am I even supposed to do here by myself?” You started again, sounding angrier now. “I can’t fucking sleep in his bed because it makes me sick. Sleeping in the guest bed makes me feel bad because I don’t belong here. I feel bad because he’s not here. But he’s the one who fucked up. Why do I feel bad? Why do I feel guilty? Charles, I…”

Every word you said was like a knife in the heart for him. Hurting more than the punches you were hitting on his chest.

With each hour passing from this morning, Charles felt worse about the decision he took months ago. He should have never let you go. He would have never treated you this way. 

When you broke down, Charles held you harder against his chest. He was humming, trying to calm you down. His head was above yours, and at some point, he naturally started kissing your hair. He was trying to create a peaceful bubble where you would feel at ease. Less sad.

“You can sleep here,” Charles offered in a whisper. “I don’t mind.” 

It wasn’t until you were lying in his bed that you asked the question. Charles’ idea was to let you sleep in his bed and for him to sleep in the guest room. At least you didn’t risk Arthur coming at night, and he could deal with his brother. It never occurred to you that you would ask for the situation to be different.

But you grabbed his hand after he moved the sheet up your chest. “Would you…can you stay with me? Please?” 

Charles looked at you with confusion but also hope. A hope that lowered over the months but that never died. He replied with a simple nod and sweet smile. A reassuring one. In a home where you probably felt unwelcome, even if it wasn’t entirely true, Charles wanted you to know you were at the right place right now.

So he didn’t waste another minute and went to lie next to you. The boundaries were pretty obvious with each of you sleeping at the end of the bed and with a gap between your bodies. While you were facing the wall, he was on his back, trying to organize the mess that had been that day. 

Right when he closed his eyes to try to sleep, he felt the mattress moving. He couldn’t resist giving you a look. You were now facing him with your eyes open. “Charles?” you whispered. 

He was obviously awake, yet you were scared of disturbing him. But he gave you that smile. The one he only had the secret. The one that opened the door to his life, his head, his heart. 

“Will it be ok?” 

You knew he would understand what you meant.

When you met Charles, he was so heartbroken that he chose to put all the good things in his life aside because he felt like he didn’t deserve to be happy anymore. And even if his anxiety was still a battle he had to fight every day, it got better. A few months ago, he probably would have ignored you because he would have thought it wasn’t his place to comfort you. To be the good person in your life.

But there he was, sharing a bed with you. Thinking that maybe tomorrow could be better. And that two days later could be even better.

He knew.

That was why he took your hand, the one resting on your pillow next to your face. He held it until you chose to intertwine your fingers together. A contact you both needed. To heal the past and the future.

Charles moved to lie on his side, facing you. And with his thumb brushing your skin, he gave you the only thing you needed to hear that night.

The only thing he also needed to say. 

“It will. I promise."

[xoxochb]

this is post sweet girl diary entry bee tee dubs :)

——— ౨ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

“perseus! oh how I missed you!”

you don’t allow him a second to place down the bowl in his hands before your arms are thrown around his shoulders and your mouth is placed on his cheek.

but you pull back quickly because you want ice cream.

“you said you’d only take five minutes.”

he places the bowl down on your lap (or more so the four blankets atop your lap) and slides himself underneath the blankets beside you once again.

“I was trying to find the peanut butter ice cream because I know you like to mix that one with oreo. but then I also found cookie dough so I mixed all three of them and added sprinkles.”

you squeal and take a generous bite of the ice cream mixture. it’s as delicious as he makes it sound. you place the spoon down for a minute and kiss his cheek once more.

“I love you!”

“I love you too, sweet girl.”

percy takes his own bite of the ice cream— a much larger portion than you unsurprisingly. if he keeps eating as much as that the bowl will be gone within seconds.

“stop hitting my spoon with yours.” percy smirks. almost immediately you know he is going to make a dirty joke out of it. “don’t answer that.”

“aw,” he whines with a frown.

you shake your head but the smile gracing your lips gives away your mood. you bite down on your bottom lip to hide it from percy’s gaze but you should have known better— his green eyes had already been trained on you since your mouth opened.

his expression mirrors your own softly. it’s a domestic moment you wish to engrave in your brain forever to keep and hold close.

instead you both finish the ice cream mixture within the next few seconds and you’re able to hold percy close instead. but only once the bowl had been placed off the bed.

you tightly wrap your arms around his shoulders once again, tugging him impossibly close into you. though to his unfortunate dismay, his face does not collide with your skin— but your/his shirt.

he is on current punishment for breaking your new lingerie, part of that including you sleeping clothed until it’s over. but as long as he gets to lay with you at all, he’s happy and content.

so he sucks it up and nuzzles his face into your/his shirt.

“you can’t fall asleep yet, perce.”

his eyes close anyways. “I’m not sleeping, sweet girl.”

but he did fall asleep five minutes after saying that.

[scoutofmymind]

Momma I request a prompt inspired by a song of your choosing (: I L Y

Couldn’t Make It Any Harder — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: mental health issues, mentions of past trauma, TorturedArtist!Reader, Empath!Luigi, Luigi says “go birds” after flipping off a woman, confused feelings, situationship, reader is just Very Confused in general, angst, eventual romance.

Wc: 5,107

I couldn't make it

Any harder to love me

Oh, one day, believe me

You’ll want someone who makes it easy

This has been floating around in my asks for awhile, and I wasn’t feeling practically inspired by any songs lately until Sabrina released Couldn’t Make It Any Harder and I couldn’t stop thinking about writing it.

This work was done quickly between my other ongoing Luigi projects, so I apologize for any inconsistencies or skipped backstory (you know I’m a backstory bitch) but I simply needed to get this out of my system, and remembered that an anon had asked me to write something based off of a song quite awhile ago!

Also, how could I leave you hanging on Valentine’s Day? Even if I’m posting this at 2 AM….

It's 8:30 AM at your usual coffee spot — that tiny café two blocks from Luigi's apartment where the barista always draws terrible attempts at latte art, and you’re still wearing yesterday's mascara, not because you've been crying, but because you spent the night in your studio, channeling your frustration into a new piece that's all sharp edges and bold strokes.

"I mean, we had a great time!" You're gesturing with your coffee cup, nearly spilling it. "We went to that new gallery opening, and he actually understood my rant about contemporary minimalism. Then dinner, drinks, great conversation — and now? Radio silence. Three days of nothing."

Luigi, sitting across from you, is trying not to smile at how animated you are, his laptop open beside him — he's probably got a Slack channel blowing up with messages from his dev team, but he rushed to meet you for this emergency coffee session, anyway.

The startup's dress code might be casual, but he always manages to look put-together in that effortless way that makes other tech bros look like they're not trying hard enough.

"Maybe I'm just-“ you pause, stirring your coffee aggressively, "too much, you know? Too loud, too passionate, too-"

"Stop," Luigi cuts in, closing his laptop and fixing his gaze on you again, "You're not too anything. You're exactly enough. So don’t even go there with me.” He massages his temples, “Too early for it.”

"I know that," you say firmly, because you do. "That's the thing — I like who I am. I like that I can talk about art for hours. I like that I get excited about things. I like that I feel everything so intensely. I'm not going to make myself smaller just because some guy can't handle it."

"Then don't," Luigi says, and there's something in his voice that makes you look up from the foam disappearing from your cappuccino. "The right person won't want you to."

"Exactly! And you know what? If Jake can't handle a woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to say it-“ you trail off, reaching for your sketchbook. You start absent-mindedly drawing on a corner of the page.

“Ugh,” Luigi’s face screws in mock disgust, “His name was Jake?”

Putting down your pen, you lean back in your chair with a frustrated sigh. "But then again, if I'm so great, why does this keep happening? Three first dates in two months, Lu. Three. And they all end the same way."

"You mean with guys who can't handle someone who actually has opinions?" Luigi takes a sip of his coffee, his fingers tapping absently on his closed laptop. A notification buzzes on his phone — probably his team wondering where he is — but he doesn't even glance at it.

"No, see, that's just it," you lean forward, your hands moving expressively as you talk. "They love it at first. They think it's so fascinating and refreshing that I'm 'not like other girls', or whatever." You roll your eyes at the phrase, hating the taste of the words in your mouth. "But then it's like they realize I'm actually serious. That I'm not just putting on some manic pixie dream girl act for their entertainment."

Luigi's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Heaven forbid you be a real person with actual thoughts and feelings."

"Right? And I know — I know I'm not too much," you say, but your voice wavers slightly. You start fidgeting with your rings, a habit Luigi's seen a thousand times when you're wrestling with something in your head. "But sometimes I wonder if-"

"If what?"

"If maybe I should just- you know.. tone it down? Just a little? Just at first?" The words sound wrong coming out of your mouth, and you can see from Luigi's expression that he knows it, too. "No, you're right, forget I said that. That's stupid."

"It is stupid," he agrees, but gently. His eyes catch yours across the table again, his gaze steady and genuine. "Remember that installation you did last month? The one about authenticity?"

"Yeah?"

"What did you tell that bag of bones professor who said it was 'overwhelmingly honest'?"

A smile starts to spread across your face. "I told him that was the whole damn point."

"Exactly." Luigi checks his watch and starts gathering his things — he's definitely late now. "So maybe the problem isn't that you're too overwhelming,” he pats the top of your head, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “maybe they're just underwhelming."

•

You're standing in front of your last piece, forcing a smile that feels like it's splitting your face in half, as another guest explains to you what your own art means.

Behind you, you can hear snippets of conversations that make your skin crawl.

It's a bit... aggressive, isn't it?

Not quite gallery standard... these nepo kids..

Experimental, but perhaps too experimental..

Your hands are shaking, so you clasp them behind your back. You've been doing this grim waltz for two hours — nodding, smiling, explaining yourself over and over to people who look through you rather than at you, and the gallery owner keeps shooting you these looks, these little disappointed glances that make you feel about two inches tall.

You catch Luigi's eye across the room.

He's been watching, you realize, while pretending to be deeply invested in a conversation with some tech entrepreneur who probably thinks art is a good investment opportunity, and he tilts his head slightly — a question.

You shake yours — you’re not okay.

"The brushstrokes here," the current patron is saying, pointing at your most vulnerable piece, "they're rather — well, chaotic. Unorganized. Muddy. It’s strange to see. Was that intentional?"

Something inside you splinters.

"Excuse me," you manage, your voice surprisingly steady for how the room is tunneling, how your fingers begin to tingle, how your lungs have lost the ability to draw in a full breath. "I need some air."

You make it through the gallery, past the whispers and the stares, past the owner who starts to say something about maintaining appearances, past the front desk and around the corner to the back alley.

Then your legs give out.

You're gasping, trying to remember how breathing works, your back against the cold brick wall. The dress — that stupid yellow dress that Luigi said was his favorite — feels too tight. Everything feels too tight.

You tear at your collar, needing air, needing space, needing- "Hey." Luigi's voice, close but not too close. "I'm here."

"I can't-" you choke out. "I can't breathe, I can't-"

"Yes, you can." He moves slowly into your space, hands hovering but not touching. "Look at me. Just look at me. I’m right here. It’s all good.”

You shake your head violently, sliding down the wall. "They're right. They're all right. I'm not- this- This isn't-" Each word feels like it's being ripped from your throat, bloody and raw and dishonest and horrific. They aren’t right. You know they aren’t.

"Bullshit." The sharpness in his voice makes you look up. He's crouched in front of you now, his tie completely undone, his eyes fierce. "They're not right. They're not even close to right. They're looking at fireworks and complaining about the noise. Old fuckin’ bunch’a assholes.”

A sob catches in your throat, half laugh, half cry. "That's a terrible metaphor."

"Made you look at me, though." His voice softens, his hands resting on your clammy shoulders. "Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe."

You try to match his exaggerated breathing, your hands still shaking. "I put everything into this show," you whisper after your second deep breath. "Everything."

"I know."

"And they just- they- they just-“

"I know." He shifts, sitting beside you against the wall, careful to leave space, but still your shoulders bump together. "But. Want to know what I think?"

You turn your head to look at him, makeup probably ruined, dress definitely stained from the alley ground, but you’ve already abandoned ship, you’ve waved your white flag — there’s no use in pretending you haven’t crumbled in a New York alleyway now. "What?"

"I think they're terrified of you."

That startles a real laugh out of you, “What?"

"You heard me." He's looking straight ahead, but there's something fierce in his profile. "You walked in there with your soul on full display, unapologetic and raw and real, and they don't know what to do with that. People like that, they're comfortable with art they can hang in their dining rooms and forget about.” You watch him blink, gathering the words, “Your shit doesn't let them forget. It makes them feel things they don't want to feel."

You nudge him gently, a laugh flaring your nostrils. "That's a lot better than the fireworks metaphor."

Now he does look at you, a small smile playing at his lips, his cheeks blushed crimson from the wine he’d gulped down just to make himself a bit more sociable. "Yeah, well, I've had three glasses of their overpriced wine. I'm feeling poetic."

Another laugh bubbles up, watery but real. You let your head fall against his shoulder, just for a moment. "I don't want to go back in there."

"So we won’t." He doesn't move, letting you lean on him, his head leaning atop yours. "Let's go get real drinks instead. You can tell me all the things you wanted to say to that guy who tried to explain color theory to you."

"God, he was the worst." You straighten up slowly, wiping at your eyes. "Did you see his socks?"

"I was trying not to."

•

You're standing at the open bar, counting the minutes until it's socially acceptable to leave, when Madison — a college friend you haven't seen in years, who always seemed to help herself to open bars beyond her means — sways over.

Her champagne sloshes dangerously close to your dress, but for some reason, you don’t step back.

"Oh my god, it really is you!" Her voice carries just a bit too loud, and you can feel a few heads turning in your direction. "I almost didn't recognize you without, you know-“ she gestures vaguely at all of you, that sick smile still on her blush pink lips. "All the paint and shit all over you.”

You take a long sip of your drink, hoping it would wash away the rising tide of anxiety in your core. "Good to see you too, Mads.”

"So,” She leans in conspiratorially, her breath smelling of booze and mid-tier champagne. “I heard about your gallery show last month. The one at The Maxwell? God, that must have been-“ She trails off, eyes wide with what looks like concern but feels like something else entirely.

Your hand tightens around your glass. "Must have been what?" Your lips tighten into a line, “It was an- an honor to have the opportunity.”

Words your father had always said to you growing up echo in the far depths of your mind; Honor and Integrity.

There’s a humility in it, in accepting such a nightmare as privilege.

"Well, I mean — I saw that article that was going around Instagram. About how you just up and left? In the middle of opening night?" She takes another sip of champagne, watching you over the rim with her big, stupid brown eyes. "Is that true? That you didn't even come back to collect your pieces? God, that's crazy!"

The word crazy hits like a slap, and you can still feel the panic from that night, the walls closing in as people whispered, pointed, discussed your work like it was a car crash they couldn't look away from and did nothing to aid.

"It's not exactly-"

"And after everything with Matt, and then Jason- ugh,” She shakes her head. "I mean, I get it. Using art as therapy. But maybe actual therapy would be — I dunno — you know, beneficial?”

"Madison-"

"I'm just worried about you," she continues, reaching for your arm and her fingers feel like serpents, coiling around your skin, suffocating you. "We all are. First the whole thing with your poor father — god, remember how he used to say you were just too-"

"Don't." Your voice comes out sharper than intended, your brows furrowed at her like she’d backhanded you. “Don’t you fucking say another word.”

Madison almost gasps, clutching her necklace. “See? This is what I mean. All this reactionary stuff. The anger. The intensity. Have you thought about getting help? My therapist says sometimes when we've been through things-"

The garden somehow feels too small, the fairy lights too bright, the music too loud. Across the room, Luigi is trapped in conversation with the bride's uncle, but somehow he must sense something because his eyes find yours, his head tilted at you, his usual question.

Everything okay?

This time, you look away from him.

"I’m going to leave this conversation before-“

"No, wait, listen." Madison's grip on your arm tightens, slithering, sneering, hissing. Fangs, poison. “That show — people were talking about it for weeks. How raw it was. How fucking uncomfortable it made everyone. One of the pieces — the one with all the broken mirrors? Someone said it looked like a cry for help."

You can feel your pulse in your throat. "It wasn't a fucking-“

"And then you just disappeared! Like, who does that, girl? Just leaves their own show? The curator had to pack up your pieces himself. That's what the article said. Is that true?" She may as well have a microphone beneath your trembling lips, taking on the role of some cheap reporter for a local shittalking magazine.

Of course she read the article.

Everyone read the article.

The one that called your work a disturbing glimpse into a clearly troubled mind. The one that suggested your artistic breakdown was inevitable given your history of emotional instability.

It was laughable, truly, and anyone that knew you well enough had known so much to be so very far from the truth.

"I had my reasons," you manage, but your voice sounds distant even to yourself. “I had reason for leaving the way I did.”

"Obviously you did. That's what I'm saying. Maybe if you got some help, you know, dealt with all this and found ways to properly cope-“ She waves her hand vaguely again, like swatting away a pesky fly. "Then maybe you could make art that's more you know.. accessible. Enjoyable. Less-“

"Less me?" The words come out before you can stop them. “Bullshit. You wouldn’t know, Madison. You haven’t seen a single one of my shows, haven’t shown yourself at any of my gallery openings-“ your cheeks burn red hot, your glass of wine discarded and your hands balled into fists. “You’re lucky I don’t fucking pop that smirk right off your-“

"That's not what I-"

“It is exactly what you fucking-“

“No, it’s not! Look at yourself!”

"Hey!” Luigi's voice cuts through the rising panic. He's suddenly there, solid and real. "Sorry to interrupt, but we have that thing that we have to get to-“ he loops his arm around yours, and he swears he can feel the heat radiating off of you, hot and quivering like a volcano deciding if it’s time to erupt just yet or not.

Madison blinks at him, her nostrils flared at the sudden interruption. It seems as though this is exactly the reaction she wanted, and was pissed the show had called curtains so quickly. "What thing?"

"That very important thing," Luigi says firmly, already guiding you away. "Great catching up. Green is not your color. Go Birds.” As he turns you both, he raises his middle finger behind your back — not because you needed defending, but because that's who Luigi is; all sharp edges and fierce loyalty, a guard dog with his teeth bared in your honor, though, you catch the gesture in a reflection, and something warm unfurls in your chest.

Not because you needed saving, but because he'd always take your side, no matter the circumstances. He didn’t need to know why you were barking at this girl he’d never met before — he already knew you had good reason to do it.

You make it to the venue's back garden before your legs give out, and the fairy lights blur through tears you refuse to let fall. "Did you— fuck,” Your voice shakes as you reach to wipe away the tears before they even get the chance to glide down your cheeks. "Did you actually hear what she was saying or just see it?”

"Caught the greatest hits." His jaw is tight, his hand resting on your lower back as he hunches forward, clearly concerned but approaching all of it carefully.

You can’t help but wonder then how many times you’ll find yourselves like this — Luigi rescuing you from yet another mishap, and that alone could become a new reason to feel sorry for yourself.

And him.

"The article." You wrap your arms around yourself. "She read the fucking article."

Ironically, you had originally taken the article well.

Too well, in fact.

You'd invited them all over — Luigi, Anna, Theo — for what you called A Reading of My Professional Obituary. You'd spent all day in the kitchen, channeling your grandmother's stress-cooking legacy; bouillabaisse simmering for hours, Tarte Tatin caramelizing to golden perfection.

The good wine came out, the kind you'd been saving for a real occasion.

Perched in your chair like it was a throne, wine glass dangling from your fingers, you'd performed dramatic readings of the choicest quotes. "Sources close to the artist describe a history of emotional instability," you'd intoned, affecting a pompous art critic voice that had Luigi choking on his wine. "An unsettling collection that seemed less like art and more like a cry for help.”

The evening devolved into a tipsy game of "Guess the Snitch" — everyone taking turns suggesting increasingly ridiculous candidates for the mysterious source. "It was Gabby, in the gallery, with the emotional manipulation!" Theo had declared, wielding his bouillabaisse spoon like a gavel.

But Luigi had watched you through it all — the way your hand shook slightly when pouring wine, how your laugh got a little too loud to be genuine, and how you'd spent three hours making a perfect French dessert like your life depended on proving you weren't falling apart.

"We all did." Luigi reminds you, his voice gentle but firm. "Christ, we turned it into dinner theater. Remember how Anna did that dramatic interpretation of ' the unsettling collection'?" His hand finds your knee, squeezing. "And it was shit. Not only was it shit — it was cowardly. Didn't even have the spine to name you."

You tilt your head back, using the stars as gravity's help against the tears threatening to spill. The fairy lights from the wedding garden blur into little halos. "I know, but — these people, Lu." Your voice catches, and you hate how it betrays you. "They believe it. They're all walking around thinking I'm some unhinged artist who needs to be sedated and locked away from sharp objects." A laugh escapes, but it's wet and hollow. "God, I wish I'd understood what that article would do. I wish-"

But there's no point in wishing.

The damage was done with surgical precision.

They hadn't needed to use your name — everyone knew exactly whose exhibition had opened at Maxwell Gallery on August fifteenth.

Yours.

•

The hotel room feels smaller with each passing hour.

You've mastered a careful choreography — sliding past each other in the narrow spaces, maintaining precise distances on the king bed as you both pretend to watch some mindless cooking show. But sometimes, despite your best efforts, you slip. His hand brushes yours as you both reach for the room service menu, your feet touch under the shared blanket; each accidental contact sends you recoiling like a startled cat, though you used to fall asleep during movie nights without a second thought.

When your knee accidentally bumps his as you shift position, you jerk away so violently you nearly fall off the bed.

"Okay." Luigi mutes the TV, turning to face you. "We need to talk about this."

"About what?" But you know exactly what, can feel heat creeping up your neck and it makes you want to run.

"About how we used to share my twin bed during college when you crashed at my place, but now you act like my skin is fucking toxic." His voice is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of hurt that makes your core ache. "Remember that road trip to Detroit? You slept on my chest the whole way back because the car heater was broken.“ he looks desperate, grasping at the last straws of you. “I feel like we hardly look each other in the eyes now.”

You stare hard at the geometric pattern on the duvet, picking at a loose thread. "Things were different then."

"Were they?" He shifts closer, and you fight the urge to move away. "Or are you just scared they weren't?"

You get up abruptly, needing to put physical space between you and that question, the Chicago night spreading out beyond the window, a constellation of lights blurring through unshed tears; each one feels like a witness to this moment, to your cowardice.

"You know what changed," you say finally, arms crossed tight against your chest like armor. "After Maxwell, after the article, after everything became public consumption — I can't be that person anymore.”

"Why not?" His voice is closer now — he's moved to the edge of the bed, but he doesn't approach further. Giving you space while refusing to let you run.

Very classic Luigi.

A laugh escapes you, bitter and dry. "Because now everyone's watching. Waiting for the next shoe to drop. And you-“ You turn just enough to catch his reflection in the window, superimposed over the city lights. "You're too important to me, Lu.”

"So you'd rather just — what? Keep pretending?" There's frustration in his voice now, raw and real. "We both know that's not sustainable. Not when we used to-“ He trails off, and you recall the many countless nights on his cramped couch, your head on his chest, his heartbeat your lullaby to the most restful sleep you’d ever known.

"Maybe not," you admit quietly. "But it's safer than the alternative."

"Safer for who?"

The question almost knocks you off your feet.

Because he's right — this careful distance isn't protecting him. It's protecting you. From vulnerability. From the possibility of loss. From the terrifying reality that despite everything, despite all your jagged edges and dark corners, he's still here.

Still looking at you like you're something precious instead of precarious.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with all the things you're afraid to say, all the ways you're afraid to need him, and even more terrified of the way he needs you.

Eventually, you turn from the window, facing him. "It can't be simple. I won't let it be." Your voice catches. "I push and I pull and I keep everyone at arm's length until they prove me right by leaving."

Luigi stands slowly, like he's approaching a wild animal. "You've been trying so hard to make it impossible," he says softly. "Creating distance, convincing yourself I'll give up." He takes another step closer. "But loving you has always been the easiest thing I've ever done."

"Don't." The word comes out choked, your hand pressing against his chest in hopes that he’ll back away. "Don't say that when you know how complicated — how- how difficult-"

"Difficult?" He's close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, stood firm but not inching any closer. "You want to talk about difficult? Try watching you date other people. Try sitting across from you at coffee shops for years and watching you cry over them. Try fucking loving you quietly through every gallery opening, every crisis,“ his brows furrow, his nostrils flare, “you don’t get to tell me what loving you is like.”

Your breath catches as he reaches for you.

"You think you're pushing me away?" His voice is barely above a whisper, his hands finally cradling your face, tears dampening your cheeks that blaze with warmth. "I've been yours since that first night you fell asleep on my shoulder during finals week. Everything since then — it's just been waiting."

You clench your jaw, your heart a wild thing against your ribs. This tightrope you and Luigi have been walking for years — this delicate balance of almost-but-not-quite, of maybe-someday-but-not-now — has finally frayed beneath your feet. All those careful steps, those perfectly maintained distances, those nights of pretending your skin didn't burn where he almost touched you.

They’ve led you here, to this hotel room in Chicago, where the fantasy of staying safely suspended between friendship and something more has finally given way to gravity.

And what, you wonder, has Luigi seen in you to make him want to dive deeper into your chaos?

He's already witnessed the 3 AM phone calls when your mind won't quiet, the obsessive cleaning episodes that leave your hands raw and your apartment sterile. He's held you through the tears that come without warning, weathered the anger that burns hot and fast like summer lightning.

You're no manic pixie dream girl — you're the real thing, messy and unpredictable, with a heart that bleeds all over everything it touches.

He's either a storm chaser or a fool, you think.

Some hopeless beast tamer who hasn't realized that some creatures aren't meant to be gentled, that some storms leave nothing but wreckage in their wake.

But that's the thing — to Luigi, you've never been a storm to weather or a beast to tame. He doesn't look at you like you're broken machinery in need of repair, doesn't treat your edges like something to be smoothed away.

Instead, he's spent years matching your pace, stepping back when you needed space, stepping forward when you needed anchor. And now, finally, the weight of all that careful patience has brought him here — raw and honest in this dim hotel room, asking you to either meet him in this space between what you are and what you could be, or lay him to rest.

"Touch me," he says, the words falling soft but heavy in the space between you. His eyes hold yours, steady and sure, "Or let me go.”

The city lights paint his silhouette in gold and shadow, and you realize you've never seen him look so vulnerable, so stripped of the careful composure he always maintains. Your Luigi laid bare — not the patient friend, not the steady shoulder, but a man who's finally reached the end of his endurance.

"What if we break?" The question slips from your lips, small and honest, carrying all the weight of your fears that kept you at such a distance all these years — shattering to pieces, left broken by the man you’d loved the most.

Luigi's eyes soften, and something like a smile — sad and sweet and knowing — tugs at the corner of his lips. "Then we break," he says simply, his thumbs swiping away the tears that slide down your cheeks. "But I'd rather that than spend the rest of my life whole and wondering."

His hands haven’t moved. Patient, steady Luigi, who has never pushed but never fully retreated, either. Who has somehow found this perfect middle ground between staying and going, between asking and waiting.

And maybe that's what finally does it — the realization that he's offering you both beginning and end in the same breath. That he's standing here saying yes to all of it; the possibility of breaking, of shattering, of ending up with nothing but deadly carnage between you.

That he knows exactly what he's asking for, and he's asking anyway.

Your hand moves before you can think yourself out of it again, crossing the space between you like a prayer finally answered. When you cup his face, the scrape of stubble against your palm is both foreign and achingly familiar — like a song you used to know by heart, now half-remembered.

His eyes flutter closed at your touch, and you feel the slight tremor in his jaw, the way he leans into your hand like he's been starving for it.

His breath catches, shaky and soft, and when he speaks, his voice is rough with emotion. "There you are," he whispers against your palm, like he's greeting someone long lost, like you've finally come home after years away. "There you are."

His lips brush your palm once more before he lifts his gaze to yours, eyes dark with something between hope and heartache. "Tell me to pull away," he whispers, voice rough. "Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll go. I'll understand."

But his body betrays him — the slight tremor still present in his jaw under your touch, the way he's still leaning into your hand like he can't help himself. He's offering you an exit, even now. Steady, selfless Luigi, always making sure you have a way out, even when it's killing him to do so.

And that's what breaks you finally — not his touch or his words, but this endless capacity of his to put your needs first.

To stand here offering everything he has left and the chance to walk away from it.

His hand finds your waist, fingers pressing into soft flesh with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. That small sound seems to undo something in him — his control fractures, and suddenly he's pulling you down to him with a urgency that matches your own, your hands bracing against his chest, feeling the thundering of his heart beneath your palms.

"I've thought about this," he confesses roughly, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes heat pool low in your stomach, his thumb tracing a burning path along your hip bone. "Having you like this.”

You can feel the tension coiled in him, the way he's still holding back despite everything. Even now, he's giving you the chance to set the pace, to decide how far this goes. But you're done with hesitation, done with the careful distance you've maintained for so long.

You lean down, letting your lips brush against his ear. "Show me," you whisper, and feel him shudder beneath you. "Show me how you wanted me."

He moves with a swiftness that steals your breath, flipping your positions in one fluid motion. Now he's the one hovering above you, his forearm braced beside your head, other hand still at your waist.

The weight of him, the heat of him so close — it makes your head spin.

"Like this," he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. "Just like this." He holds you like you’ll run from him — just like he’s watched you run from everything before that doesn’t run from you first.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the way he's trembling slightly despite his strength. "I'm here," you whisper back, one hand sliding up to cup his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."

[grecchann]

I'm crying T.T I ABSOLUTELY LOVED the sprites of the first game, the faces in particular. I feel like they were much more expressive and showed their different personalities much better... Like, -Ayato was more... bully looking? Idk how to explain myself, it's just a hunch from his expression... And also it conveyed better how he tries to feel superior and look down on you -Laito had much narrower eyes and looked more dangerous to me, also the stupid fedora was on tune with his whole stupid outfit -Kanato's smile was much more uncanny and unsettling, and his outfit felt more like he was stuck back in the past, childlike in that sense -Reiji looked cruel AF, that manic smile could sum up his whole personality istg -Shuu looked more like a leechy sloppy pervert, and had more of that older guy feeling... That suggestive half-smile of one of his sprites is just *drools*. Also I love that his outfit is basically pajamas -Subaru has a more proportionate head and red suits him sooooo well... Also goes perfectly with the rocker-emo vibes This became basically a rant lol TL;DL facial expressions were much more distinct and outfits went much better with their vibes and personalities, they did me so dirty in MB. I don't want generic bishies, I want to feel their sadism and depravity through the screen damnit

Hey there Akui-chan!~ Speaking of outfits. Do you prefer the Sakamaki's HDB casual outfit or MB ones?

*sway head around in circles in thought*  ☆ﾐ(o*･ω･)ﾉ Some I prefer their HDB and some I prefer their MB outfits. And for a few, I like both. Random images expressing my thoughts (；-◞౪◟-) //slapped. All are my personal, lighthearted opinions.

Ayato: Gotta go with the More Blood outfit. Though, I like his HDB outfit too.

Laito: His fedora looks out of place/doesn’t match with his More Blood outfit. HDB for him. PSST. The best time to wear a striped sweater, is all the time~

Kanato: I LOVE BOTH HIS OUTFITS. EVEN IF HE GOES HIPSTER IN MORE BLOOD.

Reiji: I think his More Blood one is better. The black jacket looks so bad ass. I like both though.

Shu: More Blood in a heartbeat. I didn’t like the cut of that blue sweater shirt thing he wore.

Subaru: HDB. He looks good in red (it matches his eyes //shot).Seeing him in all black is kinda ehhh *shrugs*. And I don’t like the cut of the black shirt, it seems short.

[meo-eiru]

Hello :3. I love Elias, from head to toe, that very dependent personality, the way he is only in love with us makes the possessiveness inside me triple ×10000. I love how he loves only us, that feeds my possessive side SO MUCH, my desire to mark him to the soul, to parade him around and show that he is mine and no one else's, rubbing it in everyone's faces indirectly, dressing him in so many ways; dresses, tops, skirts, suits, etc!

I love your art of him, specifically the art where he was home alone, the pose and expression are so.. 🔥💯👌, what makes me want to take him for hours, take him to heaven so much until he can't talk or walk for weeks, push him to the edge and deny him orgasm so many times that he's a whiny, crying mess, can't think of anything but me, make him call me "mommy" and other names, beg me to let him cum, and when he does I'd be there to wipe his tears and help him come down from that high of ecstasy and pain, tending to him like a princess, my princess. The good thing is that I don't like to go out much, so we would be together at home a lot, for better or worse.

But, unfortunately, sooner or later I would get bored :(. His dependence would sooner or later become annoying to me, in addition to his lack of "interior", Also, sometimes I would be incredibly clingy and loving, but the next I would take my distance (mostly to charge my "battery"), I don't like people taking my things or phone, I hate routines, etc., which would generate conflicts. so I would end my relationship with him, regardless of his threats or the fact that he destroys my entire social life. It's very sad :(

Tw: self harm, suicide

Elias would experience like 10 different emotions in the span of a minute reading this thing lmao

It's such an interesting situation, you've made him get used to constant pampering only to leave him at the end. I really don't think he can go on to live like a normal person afterwards.

If his attempts to keep you with him didn't leave him immobilized or something I can imagine him stalking and harassing you in a crazed state for a month or two. He would probably find ways to contact you no matter how many times you block him, sending you pictures of all the new scars around his body, saying "it's your fault look what you did to me"

He would refuse to work or meet people if it's not related to you, leading to losing his job. Constantly screaming at your door. He would be in ruins in all possible face except his face, he would try to keep his face as beautiful as possible. Though his skin would be paler and he would have eyebags

If you got a restraining order to keep him away from you for good he would break into your house one last time, a knife covered in dried blood at his hand.

He would place it next to neck, making sure you're watching, and cut.

You may have stopped loving him, you may hate him, you may not care about him... but now you will never be able to save yourself from the curse he placed on you. Until you too are closing your eyes to this world, Elias will make sure this image will be engraved into the deepest depths of your memory.

At the end that face of his was the only thing unscarred, because that's the only reason you even began to love him.

[demons-art-hell]

Lore expansion on Joel's role in gbau!

Exposition: Vampires, whilst a proven fact in gbau, are still rather mystic and generally unheard of Typically, they're thought of as near exitinct, when it truth they live under the radar in secret

Those with express features such as pointed ears tend to explain it away by being Elyian (very brief overview! I will get more into how vampires function in a seperate post)

Continued under the cut

Anyway, This being the case, there is lots of prejudice towards vampires, and plenty of blatantly incorrect information, particularly of old historical and/or fictional nature

After reuniting with Grian and Mumbo (and being introduced to Scar) at an unofficial homecoming (hosted by Gem & The Scotts because they wanted to show off perform), Joel takes an interest in writing about the project they're both a part of

Whilst there, however.. He notices how strange and different Grian is

First, and most prominently, his feathers have gold bands on their edges Now, Joel isn't an expert on hybrids, let alone avians, but surely it doesn't make sense for a feather pattern to suddenly change somewhere in adulthood

Following that, not only are his wings singed gold but so are his eyes... And they seem to glow with it?

Possibly least importantly, the man isn't wearing glasses This, by itself, isn't suspicious, but knowing how Grian was in his teens, he HATED contact lenses, and Joel knows he can't see for shit without his glasses

When broached on this, Grian clams up about his wings, muttering something of it being medical, but as for his eyes, his excuse comes in the form of switching to contacts, and, while he's at it, choosing coloured ones

Joel is unsatisfied with this answer, as it doesn't explain the glow his eyes appear to have, nor does he believe Grian would ever get over hating contacts, but he doesn't press further

Later on in the night, he notices a fuss as Grian hurries out into the bathroom

When he asks, Mumbo, who'd stayed behind to make space for him to leave, responds that Grian started having sudden nose bleeds recently

Odd

This is all strange behaviour, but nothing about this sets Joel off to investigate until the day he actually goes in for his article

And sees distinct bite marks on Grian's neck Ones he flusters about and hides quickly

And the whole thing just snowballs from there

Glowing eyes in the dark? Suddenly not requiring glasses? Having 'nosebleeds' where he could be going off to do who knows what Finding someone to feed off of perhaps?

He can't explain the gold in the wings, but it sure only adds to his suspicion!

Joel begins making excuses to remain at their project's headquarters, spinning some story about wanting to make more articles as he (not so) subtly begins digging into Grian

He notes many things like how he always seem tired, sometimes even passing out around the building, and eventually scrounges up from somewhere that he changed jobs, abandoning his own project due to 'not being able to partake in the contruction' anymore

He notes how little Grian goes outside and, when he does, how little he flies compared to when he last saw him

Perhaps the sun makes him tired? Weak enough to not fly? He certainlly seems sickly enough for it

The more time passes the further into a hole he digs himself, noting how Grian appears to recover from injury too fast, how he turns to face people just a fraction too early compared to when they call him, and him knowing things he shouldn't

Such as where someone is in the building, even if Joel KNOWS he hasn't seen them all day

It gets concerning, in fact, how much he puts into this

I love conspiracy theorist Joel He's incredibly suspicious of everything Grian does now, believing it to be an evil vampire plot of some sort I will probably try and write something on the makeshift homecoming, so that I can introduce more characters and their roles/magic in this au Note on the comic: A plaster is a band aid Also I call this a homecoming, but the school system in this universe will be closer to the British schooling system than the American one. Because I don't know anything about it. It confuses me Second notes: The 'project' Grian Scar and Joel are a part of is a hermitcraft equivalent. Eventually I will get everyone moving into the area! starting with Joel convincing Lizzie they should start up a second branch of their cafe there And the project Grian worked on before the incident is a life series equivalent! Alright! Good day, good evening, good night!

[the-mandawhor1an]

Searching for the stars pt.3 | Marcus Acacius x f!Reader

Summary: You could have never guessed how much your life would change when you first looked into the dark brown eyes of a stranger who showed up at your work place one day, claiming to be a Roman general who presumably died 1800 years ago. 

Words: 2.1k 

Tags: Time travel; puppy Marcus; fluff galore; wedding; we might need tissues; no use of y/n;

(further tags omitted to not spoil the outcome)

Speech in italics indicates that Latin is being spoken.

Notes: Part 3 comes just in time for valentines and I did not hold back on the fluff. Happy end incoming. (Also there might be a prequel, who knows) 

Comments etc. are appreciated

Divider by @saradika-graphics

“Hey, wake up,” you were awoken by a raspy, sweet voice, whispered into your ear as soft kisses wandered all the way down the side of your neck towards your shoulder. You felt another body right behind you, snuggling against your back and one arm around your waist. “I’m awake,” you yawned and turned your head. “Good morning,” you greeted the man behind you with a soft smile, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Good morning, my love.” 

You turned your body around to face him, placing a kiss on his lips, which he eagerly returned. “What if I don’t want to get up?” you teased, running your fingers through his dark curls. “Guess we’re not getting married, then,” he concluded with a shrug, rotating his head to look into your eyes. You knew he didn’t mean it, but you joined into the discussion nonetheless. “No, that’s unacceptable.” “Well,” he hummed and nudged his nose against yours, “then you have to get up, my precious.” You let out a sigh in protest. “Fine.” A soft kiss later, you rose and got out of bed. 

It was still very early in the morning. You both had to get ready and you preferred to have enough time to prep just in case things didn’t go according to your plan. First, you hopped into shower, taking your sweet time to mentally and physically prepare you for the long day ahead. Fresh coffee greeted you when you returned to your kitchen. Marcus looked absolutely delicious in the black polo, casually leaned against the kitchen counter, a mug of coffee in his hand too. As soon as you had walked over to get your coffee, he wrapped his unoccupied arm around you, pulling you close to his warm body. “How are you feeling?” “Excited,” you replied, raising the coffee to your lips and taking a careful sip. It was still a mystery to you how he did it, but the coffee always tasted better when he made it. 

“Not nervous?” he asked, a smirk creeping up to his lips. “Not at all. I get to marry my best friend.” As soon as you had finished your sentence, his smirk had turned into a full-blown grin. Infected by his expression, you grinned as well, suspecting you knew why your reply made him grin like this. “I did it again, didn’t I?” He nodded. “You sure did. Even with the same facial expression.” 

You leaned in closer, allowing him to kiss your forehead while you hummed approvingly. “Isn’t it boring that I’m so predictable?” you asked, not really meaning it, though. Nevertheless, your fiancé refused to even entertain the thought. “You know that I would never grow tired of you.” With the bald patch in his beard just within reach, you kissed the heart-shaped spot and whispered against his skin “keep some of the sweet talk for your vows.” Marcus hummed as well, closing his eyes for a second. “I have plenty more.” “You sure do,” you said as you stole another kiss. Finally, you focused on your coffee and the schedule for the day. 

Instead of doing it like everyone would expect, you and Marcus got ready together. None of you believed seeing the bride before the ceremony would bring bad luck, so it just made sense. Besides, you were there to help him in case he needed it. He had gotten adapted to the 21st century quite nicely, but every now and then, he would get stuck and you were ready to help. Additionally, getting ready with him meant you could sneak in a few more kisses and spend time with him – as if you didn’t get enough with him. 

Curiously, Marcus watched as you did your own makeup, watching you though the open bathroom door. He had seen it before, but his fascination with you never ended. Every time you came out with a hand mirror to check if you looked horrible in natural light, he seemed completely hypnotized by the mere sight of you. Of course, the first steps looked a little weird, but with every in-between check, the vision of your wedding makeup became clearer and the love in his eyes grew. “You’re so beautiful,” slipped out of him, speechless otherwise so his brain defaulted back to Latin. “Says the handsome one,” you responded, lowering the mirror to give him a warm smile. It was as if you could the little hearts in his eyes. “Come on, I’m an old man.” You shook your head. “Stop that, you’re not.” 

Just some time later, you assisted him in buttoning his shirt up and adding the bow-tie. Technically he could do it himself, but it was hard to keep your hands off of him when he looked this good. “Do you remember when you did that for the first time?” You looked up to him, the same expression on his face now that had been there all this time ago. By now it felt like it was years ago. “It was your first full day here, of course I remember.” How could you forget? Your life project, the work you had put your everything in, practically coming to life and he was there, in your apartment, in all of his glory. “I thought about kissing you back then,” he confessed. How would you have reacted to it, you wondered. “Well, you can kiss me all you want now.” 

Taking the invitation, he leaned in and kissed you a bit hungrier than usual, causing you to pull back. “Careful, the makeup will smudge,” you reminded him, but it fell on deaf ears. “I don’t care,” he growled. “I do!” A soft chuckle escaped his lips. ”Save that for later.” You rolled your eyes in a playful manner. “Idiot.” “All your fault.” 

When it came to getting into your dress, Marcus of course helped you. “You’re so beautiful,” he swooned, not able to take his eyes off of you. “So are you,” you purred. Not wanting the opportunity to go to waste, you took a few pictures in your apartment, before wind might ruin your getup or tears that would surely come sooner or later could mess with your makeup. Marcus looked absolutely gorgeous in his suit and as persistent as he was in telling you you looked like Venus herself would get jealous, you thought he looked like the most beautiful man he had ever seen. 

The way to the courthouse was short, you and your husband-to-be holding hands all the way there. The courthouse was small and just minimalistically decorated, you weren’t expecting many guests. Your fiancé lacked family members and everyone you had invited knew why this was the case. As strange as it sounded at first, they had adapted to him just as he had to adapt to the modern times. The ceremony was relatively short, there was no need to mention religion and you would save your vows for the reception afterwards. Your hand was buried in Marcus’s when you listened to the officiant’s speech. 

Marcus never stopped looking at you, and a knowing glance was exchanged when the officiant mentioned intertwined fates. You winked at him, he gently squeezed your hand in return. When it came to exchanging the rings, Marcus tugged at your heart strings badly. With your shaking hand in his, he gently slid the wedding band onto your finger and softly said “I promise I’ll be the husband you deserve, in sickness and in health. Until my last breath.” As soon as he saw you tear up, tears sparkled in his eyes as well. “And I’ll be the wife you begged the stars for, until my last breath.” This was it for the vows, at least for now. You were sure he still had a lot more to say in private, and so had you. He kissed you gently, but pulled you in close, one hand in the back of your neck. A little protest escaped you when he pulled back. “Later, my love,” he whispered against your temple before he placed another kiss on your skin. 

The party after the ceremony was held in a back room of a somewhat fancy restaurant. You had cake, coffee, lots of fun and later in the day you also had dinner together. You had danced so much with Marcus that your feet felt a little numb and you were thankful to be sitting. Marcus looked so good in the gray suit, especially in the softer light the candles gave off. The silver threads in the fabric sparkled just like the grays in his hair did. He was so damn perfect and he was all yours. Your husband. It felt surreal, like a fairytale that had turned into your reality. It felt like yesterday when you first laid eyes on him; the general. Marcus Acacius, general of the Roman empire.

While you were having dinner, he had his hand on your thigh rather than holding your hand, you needed it to eat, after all. Still it felt so intimate with him, him never breaking contact with you one way or another. His love was so obvious, so pure. Despite your concerns for him, he managed to carry conversations all on his own, switching between English and Italian every now and then, sometimes mixing the two. It made you wonder if he had practiced in secret. 

Back at home, it was about 11 at this point, you slow danced on the balcony, still in your wedding dress, under the stars, with just him and you. “I love you, Marcus” “I love you too.” 

You looked up an him, there was a sparkle in his eyes, brighter than you had ever seen before. “We haven’t exchanged vows,” he reminded you, placing a kiss on your lips. “If you want to see me cry so badly, do it.” A grin crept up to his lips. “If they’re tears of joy I’m fine with them. Ready?” You nodded and cuddled up to him, leaned your head against his shoulder. You felt him take a deep breath before he started. “I promise to protect you and make sure you receive all the admiration, adoration and support you deserve. I want to make sure you know how precious you are to me and how much I love you.” With a soft hum, you raised your head and kissed his cheek. “and I promise to be there when you need me. I’ll take care of you and make sure you’ll never miss your old life.” 

He leaned his head against yours. “I thank the gods for allowing me to have a second chance, to fall in love with you all over again.” “Ubi tu gaius, ibi ego gaia,” you said and cupped his face in your hands. And there were tears in both of your eyes, but you knew he just teared up because you were crying. “I hope today wasn’t too much for you,” you added. Marcus shook his head. “It’s fine. You had fun and I had something beautiful to look at all day.” He grinned and you shut him up with yet another kiss. 

Still caged in his arms, you turned around so you could look at the stars together. “How was your first wedding?” you asked him, leaning your head against his again. “Bigger than this. Less formal. Way more alcohol and louder.” He chuckled. You could barely imagine what a wedding back then had looked like, but you were sure he had been just as happy as he was right now. “What about Astra?” “Strikingly beautiful. She was in tears more times than I could count on our wedding day. She was so happy.” With a sigh he kissed your temple and pulled you in closer. “We don’t have to talk about her any more. I know she is happy and safe. Whether it’s in my arms or in the afterlife with our daughter.” 

Speaking of… 

“Have you ever had a name for her?” “No, Astra wanted to wait until our child was with us before we would choose a name. She didn’t like the idea of just calling her Acacia after me.” “I really like the name Stella,” you said as you closed your eyes and let your body sink against his. Marcus’s chest rumbled. “Mh.” “You don’t like it?” “I do but why have you picked a name for a child you don’t –” 

As you opened your eyes again, you saw the expression on his face go from confused to surprised. His mouth fell open and soon enough his lower lip quivered. There were tears in his eyes and you knew there were about a million thoughts racing through his mind in this moment. “You’re…” You nodded. “We are. It’s a girl.”  

[strawberryflavoredvenum]

Ticcijack Valentine's fanfic

This is really late lol. Sorry about that, I had school and work!

Here you go!

Jack had never been a fan of Valentine's day. It's not that he was bitter, but more so indifferent. He was not too excited about holidays in general. He saw them as just another day. His love life was doa and he was never a romantic person to begin with. This year was different though. This year he had someone. Someone who loved holidays.

Toby was always the one putting in the most effort during holidays. Him and Lyra used to decorate the house and use leds to match whichever holiday was soon at the time. Now that he was a proxy, he still clung on to his traditions. The other proxies appreciated the sentiment during the holidays

Valentine's Day was different though. Toby has never been with anyone before Jack so he's never fully celebrated. He also knew that Jack didn't care for holidays so he didn't try.

That's what led to Jack's current situation. Frustrated and struggling to get the LEDs to stick to the wall. There was a table with a TV dinner and a Tupperware of kidney. The dinner was nothing special, the table cloth was dusty, the damn LEDs just won't cooperate. Jack signed when he looked at his poor excuse for a romantic scene. It looked nothing like the effort Toby usually put into holidays. Toby was away on mission but would be back soon.

Jack was about to tear the whole thing down and pretend he never tried when the front door jiggled and a tired and bloody figure walked in. He stopped in his tracks when he reached the living room and saw the scene. No reaction at all. Jack prepared for the worst.

Toby was in shock. No one has ever done something like this for him before. Jack even remembered the leds in red and pink. He didn't even know how to react.

He was bloody and gross, yet he sat down at the table. Jack did the same as he studied Toby's expression. Toby looked down at the TV dinner and smiled. "How long did this take you?" Toby asked. Jack shrugged. " Longer than I'd like to admit." Toby smiled as he removed his muzzle. "It's nice". Jack sighed. "You don't have to lie. It looks like a child made this." Toby frowned and looked around the room. Toby didn't see it that way. To him, it was charming and made him feel important to someone.

Toby grabbed Jack's hand and squeezed it. "You're the only person to ever do something like this for me." Jack squeezed his hand back and nodded. "You always put your heart and soul into holidays. I wanted to give you the same effort."

Toby was flushed and absolutely flattered. Getting Jack to be romantic or vulnerable was like pulling teeth. Toby didn't even have to try today. Toby dug into his dinner and Jack followed after.

After dinner, Jack picked up the plates and washed them. Toby got up and stretched. "Man I'm filthy". He said. He was still in the same clothes he went to his mission in. Jack couldn't help but feel sad that toby was going to shower. It marked the end of their date.

Toby made it to the hallway before stopping and turning around. "What are you waiting for?" Those words nearly killed Jack. This was a new step in their relationship. He guessed that it was HIS Valentine's gift. Jack quickly followed after. He already couldn't wait for next Valentine's day.

[stupidlittlespirit]

Just cuz I love all of your takes on Ford- what do you imagine a tipsy/drunk Ford to be like?

Thank you! And good question!

I know it's mentioned in TBoB that Ford doesn't drink much at that point but I firmly believe he grows to do it a little more later down the line. There's no way someone goes through all that trauma and doesn't resort to a few bad habits, no matter how smart you are.

I think it probably helps him loosen up and lowers his guard a little. He'd likely only do it in a safe place, like at home or whatever, I can't see him going to a bar or anything and getting drunk because he'd need to stay hypervigilant (yay trauma!).

I have some dialogue written for a scene in a fic that I want to flesh out eventually, and in it he stumbles over more simple words but is perfectly able to say something complex. (“God, no. I have autonomy, you know? I'm perfectly capable of making my own horrible deciss- decis-.... choices,” He settles on finally.) So he can use 'autonomy', but 'decision' is too much of a tongue twister for him in the moment. I think it's cute that he'd trip over his words when he's usually very well spoken. Also, I like the idea that maybe he just starts speaking in an alien language when he forgets the human word for something. The wires in his brain cross and he shorts out for a second haha

He'd continue to misunderstand literal things, too. If they don't make immediate sense to him (and they won't because he's pissed) then he misinterprets their literality initially.

But I can see him shedding some of his shyness. He's probably quite boisterous and he gets talking a lot easier. I can picture him absolutely going off about something he's passionate about more so than normal, even if he's slurring and wobbling. If I think back to some conversations I've had in pub gardens (the ones I can remember....), most often they tend to be very free and loose, and people find it easier to get into what's being discussed because they lose a bit of their social anxiety.

Again, because he'd probably only do it in a safe space or with someone safe, I like to think that he'd get a little tactile. He'd be more willing to touch someone as he spoke, like for example: He makes a joke or loses himself in a passionate point, and he places a hand on their forearm or their knee. Not in a sexual way to begin with (or with anyone who wasn't his partner) just in a friendly, personal way. I genuinely think his 'love language' is touch, and the barriers to expressing that are reduced with a bit of alcohol in the system, so he'd be inclined to reach out a little more.

In a more intimate way, I think he'd be more casual about displays of affection. Not like making out in the corner or anything, but he'd put an arm around a partner without even really noticing. Maybe he'd touch the back of their neck gently, just running his fingers over the nape without ever acknowledging it.

I can definitely see him being less 'straight laced', too. He would laugh a lot more and make jokes or be sillier without inhibition. I think when he's sober, he's still very funny and whimsical, but mostly in relation to his passions. When he's under the influence, he's a little more inclined to just be generally silly. He's not going to make a total tool of himself (and no one that cared about him is going to tempt him into doing anything that would make that happen), but he'd be more relaxed with letting go. The shyness would exist but he'd be less inclined to clam up totally.

Behind closed doors with a partner, he's going to go the horny route. Whether or not he'd fall victim to whiskey dick, given his age especially, I don't know, but it wouldn't stop him from wanting to be of use, if you catch my meaning....... I can see him using that lack of care over being tactile to ramp up his display of just how horny he is: The touches gradually changing from touching their knee to holding their thigh, or to using any excuse to put his hands on them in a PG context but with 18+ intentions, if that makes sense? So he'd ghost his fingers up and down his partner's bare arm but they way he looks at them suggests there's a lot more heat behind it than the actual action displays.

He'd be messy, too. Sloppy. Again, more relaxed and uncoordinated means his actions aren't quite as calculated as he thinks they are. I think this could give way to him overstepping once or twice, so he'd thinks he's being subtle with his touches but he's very clearly coming onto his partner in plain view because he's kind of forgotten himself momentarily. Nothing over the top, just more so than he would usually do. He's bolder.

And also, he'd be a cheeky smoker. Nothing tastes better than a drunk cigarette.

[orionhelluvaranting]

Debunking the Myth about Stolass' Lack of Awareness

Justifying Stolass' harassment by his ✨unawareness✨ is such a popular tactic of the stans. "He didn't know his behavior makes Blitzø uncomfortable!" they say. "He was sheltered all of his life!" they say. Some of them are bold enough to headcanon Stolass as autistic even.

However, what if I say there's the scene - the one single scene - that wrecks all those statements about Stolass' unawareness? And just the one shot expresses the whole essence of my point. Do you want to see it? Okay, here it is:

If you didn't comprehend it (maybe you forgot this moment from the series) that's fine. I was going to analyse this anyway 🔎

Here's the context: S2E4, "Western Energy". Stolass, Stella and Andre-blah-blah are sitting at the cafe for privileged jerks and discussing S&S' divorce. Then Striker breaks into the building and fires a series of shots at the prince (all missed the target). Right in the middle of the shooting Stolass turns to Stella, looks at her evil smirk... and he gets it all! Immediately! This is literally what's happening. Stolass understood that his wife has put a hit on him. And how did he come up with that conclusion?

He! Just! Read! Facial! Expression!

The line that's addressed from Stolass to Striker confirms this unambiguously:

So what is the unawereness we could talk about after all this? No, really! Stolass not only identified Stella's emotion (schadenfreude) correctly but also connected it to the current situation and his wife's general attitude towards him from which he deduced the reason for Stella's emotion (she craves his death, therefore she's the one who put a hit on him). And all this in a matter of seconds. To the whistle of angelic bullets!!! Like usually people become less analytical in moments of danger. But here's Stolass suddenly showing us miracles of emotional intelligence! Bravo!

So why can't he apply the same tactic to Blitzø or Octavia? Why is he able to grasp emotions of his abuser - who he hates and despises - very easily; but he stays unaware for so long when it comes to his loved ones? Why it took him almost a whole day to see that Via doesn't enjoy being in Loo Loo Land (although she openly said this from the very beginning)? Why it took him nearly a year (!!!) to see that Blitzø doesn't enjoy being his "impish plaything" (although he made it clear constantly)?

Isn't he able to understand them? Or maybe just doesn't want to?

Draw conclusions by yourself. And those of you who wants a few more thoughts of mine - I'm gladly inviting you under the cut!

You know what's the funniest part? This little detail doesn't have any impact on the story! At all!!! You literally could cut it off, change the dialog between Stolass and Striker a bit and TA-DA! Nothing would've changed. Because Stolass doesn't remember that his wife tried to kill him. He doesn't take any precautions even! Like, apparently, Via spends almost the entire second season with her mother.... and Stolass' totally OKAY with this?! Huh?!?

Why was that moment pushed into the series regardless? Well, I think Viv just wanted to praise her babyboy.* Like, "Oh, look how smart and cool he is, not like that stupid cow, Stella!" But ironically this decision has exactly the opposite effect.

I mean, it's a normal thing not being able to understand something in a few seconds in an emergency. Just a normal thing. Honestly, see no reason for judging. But if you, Stolass, have actually realised your abusive wife's desire for unaliving you and then you don't do shit preferring to chase your butty call while your precious daughter lives with that abusive wife of yours... Then I have a question:

Besides, as I just said, this all levels the whole "Stolass' unawareness" excuse to the ground. And you can't fix this by making excuses below your own video, Vivienne 🙄

If you want your audience to grasp something, then you should follow the "Show, Don't Tell" rule. Also it wouldn't hurt you to try and not contradict yourself. This time you had every chance to do so but you've just missed it... Congrats?

So what was the point?!

*By the way something similar was showed at "Oops" when Stolass stayed with Ozz (for some unclear reason) and explained to him - the Deadly Sin - how deals with the Deadly Sins are working! Yeah, what a nice fellow Stolass is, saved helpless dumb Ozzie from losing everything! Isn't that adorable everytime Stolass needs to look smart somebody must lose all of their braincells? Looks like somebody doesn't beat the Gary Stu allegations, huh?

[lightningant]

OK, so we all kinda joke about that "monster." In Harry Stomach, That jkr writes about to describe Harry's "Jealousy" when he sees Ginny kissing Dean (literally wanting to rip Dean's Throat out or something along the lines.)

(It's been a hot second since I've read that part.)

which I find interesting because I used to headcannon Harry as being bi, but ever since I read (hollowed-theory-hall) article on his Sexuality I can only ever see him as gay....headcanon what ever you want though obviously.

But like it's also described as "swelling with pride" or "wanting to puff out its chest" or "Curling up in his stomach and purring in Content/Satisfaction"

Like, jkr be so fucking for real wtf 😐

BBUUUUUUTTT, hear me out......Dormant creature gene?

Like you can't tell me that it doesn't read as instincts or some shit without or even with context, or you can tell me it doesn't read that way. Your opinion is valid and something I value.

And if you are inclined to indulge me. What sort of creature gene do you believe he would have?

Dark fae? cù-sìth? Harpy? cat-sìth? Maybe, dear Tommy gave Harry some varey mild Naga genes along with parseltongue.

Who "knows"..heheh...get it?..like "nose".....i'll see myself out now..🏃‍♀️‍➡️...like his nose, lol..

Anyway, sorry for making this so long. Have a lovely day, stay safe and drink some water 🥰

girl i hate creature fics and I conversely wish they were more popular so they weren't so pigeonholed into some of my most detested HP fic tropes. There has never been a worse tree to bark up

I also hate anything that posits Harry is somehow a special little guy with a specialboy background, so this is a stacked loathing. The impulse to make a character innately ascendant in their qualities regardless of the themes practically beating you to death with hammers about how the entire point of the story is that Voldemort chose someone ordinary who used the things Voldemort demeaned as banal to defeat him. Every atom of my being rejects the impulse to go "actually, but he was extra special this whole time?"

It also grates to make Voldemort innately special, because his problem is that he refuses to believe he is a regular mortal man in a long timeline of extreme hubris, and his snake-like visage - which is expressed as a sort of a manifestation of his villainous progress in the dark arts - is both symbolically satisfying to him and a self-inflicted wound, which we see culminated in his horrible babymunculus body. He would adore having naga blood, he'd never let it go; we see what being a parselmouth did to him, we see what it did to the Gaunts in general. The viewpoint required to want to give him this would leave his hubris kind of dangling in the air unresolved, making him a very bland character and leave less windows open into his flaws as, you know, a right-wing extremist and vainglorious dictator.

Which is to say I personally believe the beast swelling inside Harry was his horcrux forcing him to experience what it felt like to be notorious bpd princess Tom Riddle at 16, a thought I would love to ruminate on at length

[brklynbxby]

Dan’s gaze lingered on her as her words filled the room, a quiet admiration softening his features. In the fleeting moments of their coffee date, their conversation had skimmed the surface, veering only into the casual, the safe. But now, as she spoke with such quiet conviction, her bravery in addressing the room revealed a depth he hadn’t yet glimpsed, and it drew him in, compelling him to discover more of what lay beneath. He didn’t answer immediately, allowing the weight of her words to settle, to ripple through the air like the subtle aftershock of a stone skimming across water. Her voice lingered in his mind as his lips curled into a small, thoughtful smile. When he did speak, his tone was warm, genuine, as though the conversation had taken a turn toward something more intimate, more real. "That’s an excellent point," he said, nodding ever so slightly. "You’re absolutely right. The Romantics, they were driven by a deep, almost obsessive connection to emotion—the kind of longing that transcends the self, searching for something larger, something eternal. And, as you so beautifully pointed out, Lana Del Rey—her themes of self-destruction and obsession mirror the darker aspects of Romanticism. Her music, the melancholy, the passion—it’s a direct echo of the emotions Keats and Wordsworth poured into their works."

His gaze held hers for a moment longer before he looked away, letting his eyes drop to the floor. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his beige trousers and began to walk slowly along the front of the lecture hall, each step measured as though contemplating his next words. "Now," he continued, his voice a little more distant but still rich with conviction, "let’s turn to poetry. Think of poets like Rupi Kaur—one of my personal favourites. Her work often explores love, self-empowerment, and the human experience, but what strikes me most is the deep yearning for connection and transcendence, which is at the heart of Romantic ideals. Kaur, like the Romantics, seeks to elevate the spirit, to find deeper, more meaningful connections beyond the surface, to reach for something sublime."

He paused, allowing the weight of the thought to settle in the room before continuing, his eyes now scanning the class as he shifted his focus to the new generation of poets. "There’s also something uniquely beautiful in the shift we’re seeing in contemporary poetry—writers are unafraid to explore themes that were once frowned upon, and that’s given rise to new forms of expression. The emotional connections in Romantic literature between women were often constrained by their time, unable to fully flourish. But now, we have voices like Courtney Peppernell, who weave their own stories, free of those limitations." As his gaze landed back on Jasmine, he stopped in his tracks. He studied her for a moment, his brow furrowed as he tried to find the right way to frame his next question.

"Tell me, Miss..." He paused, waiting for her to offer her name, a silent invitation to make this moment even more personal. Once she responded, he addressed her directly, a small smile tugging at his lips. "What do you make of this poem? What themes resonate with you, and what does it mean to you?" With that, he pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb lighting the screen as he scrolled to a note dated earlier that morning. He read aloud, his voice growing softer, almost reverent:

"I am thinking about a beautiful girl, her eyes like stardust scattered across a deep-blue sky. I am thinking about a beautiful girl, how I long to take her for coffee and spend afternoons at museums, cinemas, and libraries. I am thinking about a beautiful girl whose voice steals my breath away, how I would listen to her tell me her day over cheese and wine. I am thinking about a beautiful girl whom I would kiss every day, every hour, forever, if only she didn’t live so many miles away. I am thinking about a beautiful girl who deserves the universe, how just knowing her makes my heart burst."

His eyes lifted slowly from the screen, meeting hers with a subtle, unspoken question.

Jasmine's heart raced as she met his gaze. It was like time slowed down for just a second—an undeniable connection she couldn’t ignore. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she fought to steady herself, but the warmth spreading through her chest made it hard to focus. He’d smiled. It was small, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to make her feel seen. She quickly looked down, unsure of what to do with the sudden rush of emotions swirling inside her.

When his question lingered in the air, her mind scrambled for an answer, trying to calm the rapid beating of her heart. The lecture was still happening, his voice steady, but all she could think about was that moment, that smile. She wasn’t sure if she was brave enough to raise her hand, or if she should just stay quiet, but the spark inside her—no matter how tiny—urged her to do something, to speak. After a beat of hesitation, she raised her hand, her fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t the right answer, or the perfect one, but it was the only one that felt honest in the moment.

Her hand hovered for a moment before she forced herself to raise it fully, feeling the eyes of the room settle on her. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest, but she kept her gaze fixed forward, trying to stay grounded. The weight of the moment was almost too much, but she pushed through. Her nerves fluttered, but she took a deep breath and spoke, her voice steady despite the way her hands shook.

"Well," she began, her eyes briefly flicking down to her notes before she locked them back on him. "I think a lot of modern poetry draws on the same ideas of longing and emotion that the Romantics were all about. Like, a lot of contemporary artists—especially in the music world—are tapping into raw vulnerability, whether it's about love or loss or even identity. Take someone like Lana Del Rey, for example. She often sings about nostalgia and that longing for something that feels unreachable, almost transcendent, which reminds me of how the Romantics saw nature as a way to connect to something bigger, something eternal."

She paused, feeling the room's eyes still on her. "It’s like... even in today’s world, we still look for that deeper meaning, that emotional truth, in everything we create." She shrugged, unsure if she had gone too far or said too much, but when her eyes met Dan's again, there was a sense of relief. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real.

[gaybd1]

I would love to hear more about chinglish 👀

Yes I love it and find myself speaking it quite often but of course, because im supposed to teach in “proper English” at my job, it’s discouraged. Which. I kind of get but ugh.

Anyway here are some examples of Taiwanese Chinglish stuff I’d hear (or even say tbh) on a daily basis:

“Because yesterday is my piano recital, so I didn’t do my homework.” <- leaving off past tense of verbs and using conjunctions in ways that reflect how they are used in Mandarin

Similarly you’d often get something like “When I am little, I go to Japan.” <- lack of verb tense in Chinese means it’s easy for the listener to just know this is talking about the past without conjugating it that way

“He” and “she” are represented by different characters in Chinese but they are pronounced the same. Same with “his” and “her” so you get a lot of, “My mom will be so angry if you tell him that”

Articles aren’t really a thing in Chinese either so lower-level English speakers will use ‘the’ in places it wouldn’t be in other variants and also omit it randomly. Like when asked what they like to eat, maybe they’d say “I like the banana.”

In Mandarin, plural indicators are not always used, so even a more advanced speaker saying they like to eat bananas in general may still say “I like banana,” following that same example.

-s is also frequently omitted at the end of third-person verbs. For example, “My brother go to school in Japan.”

Many verbs in Chinese have multiple English meanings which can lead to sentences like:

“I know!” in response to an explanation that a speaker of another English variant would say “I see” for. (coming from 知道, to know / to realize)

“Do today have a quiz?” for “Is there a quiz today?” (coming from 有, to have / to exist)

“Can you say Chinese?” for “Do you speak Chinese?” (coming from 說, to speak / to say)

“Close the AC! I’m cold!” (coming from 關, to close / to turn off)

“I can’t see! Open the light!” (coming from 開, to open / to turn on)

“Yesterday I look TV” , “I like to see book” (coming from 看, to look / to see / to watch / to read)

Also modal particles like 啊,啦,吧 can be included at the end of a sentence that is otherwise in English, particularly la/啦 to express emphasis or commonly some sort of frustration. Similar to Singlish I guess:

“Stop hitting me la!”

“I already gave it to you la.”

“Yes it is ah!”

Lastly obviously there are always going to be loanwords or concepts like that:

I’ve posted about this before but familial words are quite common in Chinese. An auntie or an ayi is an older lady or perhaps some sort of domestic helper or nanny or something. An uncle is the same for men. (Sometimes younger people can be referred to as sisters or brothers but it’s less common in English. An old old lady will probably be called an ama)

Food words. Some food words just shouldn’t be translated. And people will try but it’s just. Dumb. Douhua will always be douhua, I don’t even know what it would be in English

Place names don’t usually have English translations but predictably even the ones that do might still be in Chinese when speaking English. Using “yushan” when talking about Jade Mountain for example

Swear words obviously. A lot of those are actually Taiwanese words people use in Mandarin that have now come over to English

I can’t think of any other specific vocabulary for Chinglish but just. Cultural stuff, you know. Like a lucky charm, it’s always going to be a pinganfu to me.

Anyway la, im sure there’s much more but it’s nice to get all this stuff down in one place. The point of English variants is that their features are common and intelligible, abd while there’s a huge push to teach “”proper English”” around here, I think people should be a little more lenient and understanding of local features and not be embarrassed to use them.

Taiwan is set to be the world’s first bilingual English-speaking country by its own free will by 2030 (I have thoughts on that lol but that’s in another post somewhere) so this is all fascinating stuff

[for-the-evulz]

hi i felt liek posting my favorite ash expressions. i Love when he goes wide-eyed

[mohntilyet]

did not play a rook de riva but the image of viago trying to be a bit cute just before the battle of their lives and going “you like my furrow :) called it the thinking man’s dimple ☺️❤️🙂‍↕️😁” before teia is like “…not in public i don’t” and then, looking 0.5 cm over his beautiful gf’s shoulder. to his horror. his protege slash sibling slash subordinate has just walked up to them and definitely overheard that