#an insane level of stubbornness

[adrift-in-thyme]

How are you all out here writing chapters for every day of whumptober? Some of the prompts are so similar I'll be part of the way through a prompt fill and realise "oh, that actually fits this other day way better!" And then I have nothing for the prompt I'm meant to be working on 😭

They really are similar aren’t they?! I’ve done that multiple times. There are still some I’ve got plotted out for one day that I’m staring at going “hmm but it could fit this day’s prompts too…”

So far, I’m just pairing the fics up with whatever prompt they fit well enough that also is the closest to today’s date lol. Even if they would fit another day better I would rather have more time to work

[doingclownery]

the gagging noises?!?!?? hellooooo????!!!

[quirinah]

log

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

Curufin’s wife as Lady Macbeth

[jamiebluewind]

I have reblogged exactly ONE post about hyenas in recent memory, but Tumblr has decreed that this is my new thing because ALL the based on your likes posts are about the goobiers. Not that I dislike hyenas but holy crap Tumblr why is THIS my defining trait now dude calm down XD

[daincrediblegg]

hi egg!!!! ive seen the tag a couple times now and im just so curious who is lady terror 👀 an oc? a ship personified? can i peer into your mind for a second (the answer here can also be Who's to say or just NO)

YES! Lady Terror (real name: Genevieve Sinclair) is my sortof self-insert (though she’s gained a bit more of a life of her own now) OC for the Terror. She and Francis as the most disenfranchised from british empirical thought and good society are falling horrifically in love with each other over the course of the expedition in spite of their respective past romantic rejections and dejections and it being the literal Worst Time To Do That. And I tag them when I am… reminded (I’m certain some think I do this too often… but it’s my house). I’m painfully (and soul crushingly at times) trying to get the canon novel for them written (though I have an excerpt of the first chapter in my masterlist in my pinned, should that be of interest), which intends to have the most insane gothic jane austen vibes one could hope for, and I have like 20 au’s for them including a particular western au that is gaining increasing real estate in my brain recently. Loads of content in the “egg’s oc’s” tag if you wanna take a peek (I say mostly bc I’m exclusively on mobile atm bc my computer is in the shop and linking over isn’t very easy😭) and I have some mini fics for them in my masterlist as well!

[stoneclaw]

i wrote some today and then my friend strangled me about it (want more) so im writing more ig

[everything-is-applepie]

Here you can spot the normally elusive sneople( snake people) as they scream about their need to scrape off the full skin shed they produce each day, while some are able to simple to pull it off in a single large piece here we see demonstrated how many must work diligently to slough off their shed.

wait i’m experiencing white people culture shock on tiktok again

please rb i can’t believe this is real

[felidthing]

i just had a very long complicated dream about some very ooc homestuck kids. jade might be rooted in some form of fanon at least but i dunno

[redbeanjellysoul]

viktor is actually insane I just know he barely eats, showers, sleeps, while basically having leukemia and yet he still fucking invents. How. is that. actually possible?

[solxamber]

You Try to Sleep on the Couch after an Argument with: First Years (-Ortho)

Other parts: Housewardens ; Vice-Housewardens + Ruggie ; Cater, Floyd, Silver, Rollo

Ace Trappola

The argument wasn’t loud—no yelling, no dramatic walkouts—just tense words exchanged with a little too much bite. Ace had been his usual smug self, which, unsurprisingly, only made you more pissed off.

So, rather than continue arguing, you grabbed a blanket, stomped off to the couch, and flopped down with a huff. If he wanted to be insufferable, fine. He could enjoy the bed all to himself.

You had just started arranging the cushions when you heard footsteps.

Then, before you could even process what was happening, a pillow dropped onto the couch beside yours, and Ace casually sprawled out like he had been invited.

You blinked. “Ace??”

He glanced at you, completely at ease. “What? We’re sleeping here tonight, right?”

You stared at him, then at the couch, then back at him. “We?”

Ace, the menace that he was, patted the tiny sliver of space beside him like he hadn’t just hijacked your whole plan.

You gawked at him. “You have an entire bed.”

“Yeah, but you’re here.”

“That’s the point, Ace!”

He had the audacity to grin. “Exactly. So, obviously, I’m here too.”

You gaped at him, absolutely stunned at the sheer level of his nonsense. Meanwhile, he just folded his arms behind his head, getting even more comfortable.

You glared. He grinned wider.

Then, after a long moment, he scratched his cheek, his bravado slipping just a little. “...Okay, maybe I should’ve asked first.” He glanced at you, a little sheepish. “But, uh. I don’t like going to bed when you’re mad at me. So… can I stay?”

The worst part? He actually looked kind of earnest. Like he meant it. Like this wasn’t just another one of his schemes to get his way, but something real.

Your irritation wavered. Damn it.

With a dramatic sigh, you gave in, flopping down beside him.

Ace, the absolute menace, beamed like he had just won the lottery. Then, without missing a beat, he threw an arm around you and pulled you right into his chest.

“You’re insufferable,” you grumbled against his hoodie.

“Mm. But cuddly, right?”

“…Shut up.”

He snickered, pressing a quick, lazy kiss to your forehead. “Love you too.”

And, annoyingly enough, you found yourself smiling as you drifted off��because, as much as he drove you insane, Ace Trappola was impossible to stay mad at.

Deuce Spade

The argument wasn’t a loud one—no shouting, no dramatic exits—just an exchange of clipped words that left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Deuce had been tense, his frustration clear in the way he crossed his arms, in the tightness of his jaw. You weren’t much better, snapping back at him until the conversation hit a dead end, leaving you both too stubborn to fix it in the moment.

So, rather than risk making it worse, you grabbed a blanket and went to the couch, throwing yourself onto it with the kind of determination that came from being just annoyed enough to stick to your decision. You adjusted the pillows, tucked the blanket around yourself, and ignored the way the room felt too quiet now.

Behind you, there was a pause. A shuffle of feet. Deuce lingered, but he didn’t stop you.

You shifted, trying to get comfortable. It didn’t work. The couch was fine, but it wasn’t your bed. And the silence—the weight of the unspoken apology hanging between you—only made it worse.

You half-expected Deuce to just go to bed, to let you sleep off your irritation. But then—soft footsteps. Hesitant, careful. He stopped just behind the couch, lingering for a moment before speaking.

“…Can you come back?”

His voice was quieter now, no longer laced with frustration, just uncertainty.

You didn’t move.

A longer pause. Then, softer, “I’m sorry.”

You sighed, already halfway to turning around, ready to tell him that you were sorry too, that this was stupid, that you just wanted to sleep—

Then you heard it. A quiet sniffle.

Your heart lurched.

You shot up, turning so fast the blanket nearly slipped off. Deuce was standing there, head slightly bowed, arms tense at his sides. He wasn’t crying, not really, but his eyes were red-rimmed, his breathing unsteady, his lips pressed together like he was trying to keep everything in.

Oh.

Your frustration vanished instantly.

“Deuce,” you breathed, already reaching for him.

He stiffened for a moment when your fingers brushed his wrist, but then, slowly, he let you pull him toward the bed. He didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate. The second you both reached the mattress, you wrapped your arms around him, tugging him close, feeling the way his shoulders finally relaxed under your touch.

His breath shuddered against your skin. He held onto you tightly, fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. You squeezed him in return, as he pressed his face into your neck, letting the warmth between you say what words couldn’t.

“…I’m sorry,” he murmured after a long moment, his voice quieter, steadier.

You ran your hand down his back, a slow, soothing motion. “Me too.”

His breathing evened out, his grip loosening just slightly. Neither of you spoke after that. There wasn’t a need to. You just held him, letting the warmth settle, letting the tension fade.

Jack Howl

The argument had been sharper than usual—words exchanged with too much heat, frustration lacing every syllable. Jack’s ears had flattened, his tail flicking sharply behind him, while your own patience had worn thin.

Neither of you had raised your voice, but the weight of it had been enough. Enough that when silence finally fell between you, it felt like standing on the edge of something unsteady.

So, in an act of pure pettiness, you had grabbed a blanket and stormed off to the couch, settling in with all the stubborn determination of someone who refused to be the first to cave. You curled up, pulling the blanket tight around yourself, pointedly ignoring the way the room still felt charged with unresolved tension.

For a while, there was nothing. No footsteps following, no hushed words attempting to fix things. Just silence. You shifted, adjusting the pillow beneath your head, exhaling sharply. Fine. If Jack wanted to sleep alone tonight, so be it.

Then—the faintest creak of the floorboards.

You blinked, turning over just enough to peer into the dim light of the living room. Jack was there, sitting stiffly on the couch opposite you, his arms crossed, tail curled loosely around the edge of the cushion. He didn’t look at you directly, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead, expression unreadable.

You furrowed your brows. “…What are you doing?”

His ears twitched. A beat of hesitation. Then, a quiet, gruff reply.

“Go to sleep. I’m just keeping watch.”

Something in your chest ached at that. Even after the argument, after the sharp words exchanged, he was still looking out for you. He always did.

You sighed, sitting up, the tension in your body already loosening. “Jack.”

He glanced at you then, ears flicking back slightly, wary.

Without another word, you stood, dragging the blanket with you as you crossed the room. Jack stiffened slightly when you reached for his wrist, but he didn’t pull away. You tugged, gentle but firm.

“Come back to bed.”

He hesitated. Then, slowly, he let himself be pulled up, following you without resistance.

The moment you both settled back onto the mattress, his tail curled around you instinctively, pulling you just that much closer. The warmth of it, of him, seeped into your skin, comforting in a way words couldn’t quite capture.

A quiet exhale. Then, low, barely above a whisper—

“…I’m sorry.”

You pressed closer, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt. “I'm sorry too.”

Neither of you said anything after that. There was no need to. The steady rise and fall of his breath, the solid weight of his arm draped over you, the way his tail tightened slightly before finally relaxing—everything else could wait.

For now, this was enough.

Epel Felmier

The argument had spiraled out of control so fast that you barely remembered how it even started. One second, it was just a disagreement—sharp words exchanged, but nothing too serious. And then, all at once, it was a mess, voices raised, frustration bleeding into every syllable.

You had hit your limit first. Not because you didn’t have more to say, but because you were just too tired. Too tired to keep fighting, too tired to keep letting the hurt simmer in your chest. So, without another word, you had grabbed a blanket and settled on the couch, turning your back to the bedroom.

The anger still sat heavy in your stomach, but beneath it, sadness gnawed at the edges. You hated arguing with him. Hated the way silence felt like a wall between you now. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to just sleep through it, to let the exhaustion pull you under.

It worked—for a while.

Then, the sharp clatter of pans yanked you back into consciousness.

You blinked blearily, registering the soft muttering, the sound of something nearly toppling over, the distinct smell of something cooking. Still wrapped in your blanket, you dragged yourself off the couch, stumbling toward the kitchen.

Epel was standing at the stove, back turned to you, gripping a pan with slightly unsteady hands. His hair was still messy from sleep, and even though his voice was quiet, you could hear the edge of frustration in the low curses under his breath.

You hesitated in the doorway, taking in the scene. The counter was a mess, a dish towel discarded haphazardly, the remnants of a nearly-spilled carton of eggs sitting precariously close to the edge.

At the sound of your footsteps, he stiffened slightly. Then, without turning, he muttered, “Go back to bed. I’ll bring it to you.”

His voice was rough, but not unkind. Just strained.

You stepped closer, noticing the way his shoulders were set too tight, the way his fingers clenched the pan handle like he was trying to steady himself. And when he finally turned just enough that you could see his face—he still wouldn’t meet your eyes.

Your heart clenched.

Without thinking, you reached forward, gently prying his fingers from the pan. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. The moment his hands were free, they hovered awkwardly at his sides—until, in one swift motion, he grabbed you and held on tight.

His arms wrapped around you, his grip desperate, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go. His forehead pressed into your shoulder, breath warm against your skin as he exhaled shakily.

“…I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice thick with something heavy. “I shouldn’t’ve pushed you that hard. Shouldn’t’ve let it get that bad.”

You softened instantly, guilt pressing at the edges of your own frustration. You wrapped your arms around him just as tightly, hands smoothing over his back. “I’m sorry too.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just holding onto each other, letting the warmth settle between you.

Then, after a pause, you murmured, “C’mon. You’re gonna burn the eggs.”

Epel let out a small laugh against your shoulder before finally pulling back, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, alright.”

You nudged him toward the stove, settling beside him. Together, you finished making breakfast, the quiet weight between you easing with every passing second.

Sebek Zigvolt

The argument had been bad. Worse than usual. Sebek had always been intense, but tonight had been different—his voice sharper, his stance rigid with frustration, his words carrying the weight of something neither of you had been willing to back down from.

So you had done the only thing you could think of before either of you said something you’d truly regret. You left.

Grabbing a blanket, you stormed off to the couch, body still buzzing with leftover adrenaline. You barely managed to settle in before you heard heavy footsteps marching straight toward you.

Then, a firm voice cut through the quiet.

“Take the bed.”

You cracked an eye open, already exhausted. Sebek stood at the edge of the couch, arms crossed, expression unyielding. His stance was as rigid as ever, but there was something beneath the surface—something uncertain, something hesitant.

You exhaled through your nose and turned over, pulling the blanket higher. “Go to sleep, Sebek.”

“I will. Once you’re in the bed where you belong.”

You groaned, but before you could snap at him, he was suddenly kneeling beside the couch, eyes burning with unshaken resolve. His voice dropped lower, quieter, the sharpness softened at the edges.

“A knight cannot allow their beloved to sleep on the couch. It is unbecoming. Please.” His jaw tightened for a moment before he exhaled and added, “I… I should not have let it get this far. I should not have raised my voice at you.” His head bowed slightly, shoulders stiff. “I am sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard. Sebek was loud. He was brash. He was stubborn beyond reason. But kneeling there, humbled in the quiet glow of the moonlight, his apology raw and unguarded—you felt your own frustration ebb.

Slowly, you sat up, watching the way his hands clenched against his knees. And then, instead of answering, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his.

Sebek froze.

Then, before he could react, you grabbed the front of his shirt and tugged.

He let out a startled noise as you dragged him onto the couch, his balance thrown as he landed beside you. The couch was too small—he was too tall, too broad, and neither of you fit properly. But you didn’t care.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, pressing against his chest, letting his warmth ease the last remnants of your anger.

Sebek let out a strangled sound, arms hovering as if unsure whether to hold you or allow you to push him away. When you didn’t, when you simply curled closer, his hesitation melted.

With a deep exhale, he shifted, adjusting his position so he could wrap his arms around you. His hold was steady, protective, his warmth seeping into your bones.

“…This couch is entirely unsuitable for sleeping,” he grumbled, but his voice had lost its earlier edge.

You huffed a quiet laugh, pressing your face into his shoulder. “Then go to bed.”

A pause.

“…No.”

You smiled against the fabric of his shirt, and he squeezed you a little tighter. The couch was too small, the position awkward, but as long as he was holding you, it was enough.

Masterlist

[exopelagic]

actually tiny thing this time that I would just like to complain about so I can go to bed :/

[theorist-fox]

Perfect timing

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

18+

CW: filthy smut, PWP, piss, omorashi, soft dom Simon, brief CNC/dubcon. Simon's a bit mean but we love him your honor

Masterlist 🦊

There's an anvil on your chest.

Might as well be, considering Simon's bulk and how little effort he's putting into keeping his weight off you.

You're drenched in sweat but he doesn't seem to mind. The opposite, actually. Like he prefers it that way, with your skin glueing itself to his—inseparable, stuck until you can't tell where you start and he begins.

He's forcing your eyes on him. Or at least, your face. Doesn't really care whether you keep them open or roll them back—he seems more interested in watching you morph for him. How your face changes shape the more he thrusts in. A hand around your jaw, switching sometimes to wrap around your neck until your breath stutters and coughs.

You don't know how many orgasms he wants to take from you. Hell, before he pinned you to this bed, you didn't even know you could have this many orgasms. Instead here you are, with Simon's dick ploughing inside you and snatching your breath away, losing count at your third. You're so wet each movement causes a squelch that only gets louder when you cum—again.

Fourth, or fifth.

It starts to hurt sometimes, but as soon as your eyes twitch in discomfort, Simon changes tactics and it isn't painful anymore. He pulls out, stuffs his fingers inside of you instead and pumps a few times until the line between your brows smooths over. Rubs the pruny pads of his fingers over your clit until you're fluttering around nothing and your grimace turns into awe.

And then he slams back inside again. His hand returns to your jaw and his nose is brushing with yours. Simon leans closer, if even possible, and you can feel his heavy panting in your ear.

"Tired?" He purrs.

"Y-yeah," you croak. "Need a break."

His thrusts come to a slow rhythm, but he doesn't pull out. You can feel yourself flutter around the length of him and your heart pounding madly in your throat—same frequency as his, plastered to your chest. He shifts above you, planting a hand next to your head, his other one cradling your cheek. His face levels with yours, eye to eye.

"A break?" He cocks his head. "Reckon we barely started."

You snort. "You're insane. We're past started. We're past done."

He hums. "Dunno. Are we?"

"I'm pretty fucking knackered."

His lips twitch. "Are you now."

He's infuriating like that. When he takes control of you, your mind and your body, and changes your perception of things. You haven't barely started—you reckon you're pretty fucking over and done, and you'd like to reiterate that. 

But he has that look on him now. Those eyes narrowed into two cheeky slits, a hint of a smile pulling at his lips like he knows he's about to change your mind, if he hasn't already.

You mimic him. A game of stubborn stares between two people who ultimately want the same thing: for this to stop and yet never end at the same time. Feels too good to give up and too much to continue, ecstasy and fatigue clinging together like heavy chains wrapped around your chests and keeping you bound to one another.

It’s what you wanted, what you pleaded with your eyes as soon as you got home. Dark circles around them, etched by the longest of work days, and lashes fluttering as you asked if he could take care of you tonight.

And with a man like Simon Riley, what you ask is what he delivers.

He keeps rolling his hips in a comfortable, slow fashion that is soothing more than intense, like he's scratching the parts of you that you couldn't possibly reach by yourself.

"Did you even cum?" You ask in between breaths, brushing your lips with his.

He grunts. "Nah. Not yet."

Fucking hell. Might be torture at this point—for him, naturally. Bit for you as well, though. 

But to be frank you couldn't give two shits about discomfort and those zaps of overstimulation that make your eyelids twitch and your toes curl. This is anything but torment for you. You've never felt this boneless in your entire life, and honestly, you'd have paid good fucking money to experience this sooner; if only you knew it was a possibility, to have your overworked brains fucked into a soup of nothing coherent.

At this point you don't even need to cum anymore—you've done that plenty. You just need him where he is, doing this magic trick with his hips that has your insides churn and melt like hot syrup at the base of you.

He plunges in with a particularly harsh thrust and you gasp. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and your nails dig in, leaving what you’re guessing are going to be awfully deep scratches on his shoulder blades.

Simon falls still.

"F-fancy doing that any time soon?" You stutter.

And he rolls his hips deep, continuously, stretching out the moan that had already left your lips.

"Why the rush?" He asks.

The husk in his voice hints, however, that he might be in a rush as well. Greedy as always. Fill you up or paint you with it. Watch his cum ooze out of you, or witness it roll in droplets from the valley of your breasts down to your heaving belly.

"I need to pee," you breathe. "There's the rush."

Simon is unfazed. Moves like you didn't utter a word to begin with. Instead, what he does is leave your cheek and travel downwards, squeezing your breast in his hand as he passes by. He finds your clit and rolls idle circles that mimic the movement of his hips.

You throw your head back, muscles slack in your neck. 

"Fuck," you choke. Your eyes fall closed. The pressure builds and you can't quite tell if it's going to feel incredibly good or incredibly embarrassing. Or both.

Your voice rises in pitch. "Don't—"

He interjects. "Mhmh?"

You feel his hum vibrate with every inch of smugness down to your core. Your chest reverberates with it, and the enjoyment radiating from him seeps into you, effortless as osmosis.

"Why." He pulls back. 

"The." And thrusts in. 

"Rush?"

Your groan is feral. 

It scratches at your throat, dry and tasting of iron. You can feel your limbs turn gooey and powerless, your stomach contrastingly hard and contracted to stave off release.

"Fucking hell, Sim—"

"Come on, pet." He thunders above you.

"This isn't gonna end well—"

He chuckles and never falters with his fingers or his cock. Steady and precise, hitting right where you love it and touching exactly where you're tight. 

"Nah it ain't," he agrees—to an extent. "It's gonna end fucking perfect."

Your belly burns, coils, rattles—you can feel your legs shake around the thickness of his waist and your eyes tear up.

You whine. "Simon—"

"I know baby, I know." He whispers, voice low yet still thick like liquor. "Feels good, aye? Can feel it too."

You can feel it. Fucking hell you can.

His voice is soft, drawing out the vowels. "S’alrigh’. Breathe through it.”

You can feel it coming right up and it's gonna be a fucking disaster. It's in the sudden wetness rushing at the base of your belly, in the increasingly louder squelches echoing in the bedroom the more he thrusts in. 

"Cum for me, love," he purrs. You recognize the feeble stutter in his voice that hints at his own release, but he's stubborn like that and he'd rather have the most unsatisfying orgasm in the world than lose the battle he's started.

Competitive bastard even where there's no competition at hand.

"I can't—I'll—"

He predicts you. Switches his fingers so that his thumb is now rolling over your clit and the heel of his hand can press above your pubic bone.

"Make a fuckin' mess, then," he groans. "Let go, pet. Let go."

You see stars there. A shaky mess of colours shifting into unrecognizable shapes behind your eyelids, wired shut in your futile attempt to regain control of your body. You don't want it to happen and yet you do, you don't want to let go and yet you're just about to.

You try it all. Squirm away, but it only makes him drill in harder. Push at his chest, but he grabs your hands and anchors them above your head in a white-knuckled grip. 

Plead, if you like, and he'll drink your prayers with a kiss.

But it's useless. You surrendered your control to him: it's what you wanted, to be used until worn out, to feel good beyond repair, and without putting any effort into it.

He's delivering what you asked.

You whine again. "Please—oh fuck—I'll—"

"Fuckin' do it." He curses. 

His thrusts turn erratic, but the sudden switch in pace doesn't deter your orgasm from approaching. If you hadn't been so focused on tightening your abdomen, you would've noticed you were on the verge of cumming already.

"Cum all over me."

It's like a switch. Your body turns jello. You can feel your throat closing in as your mouth opens wide in a scream that doesn't quite make it through.

Simon's voice breaks in a groan that sounds like it’s coming out of the most delighted of grins.

Your orgasm is strong and gut wrenching. Body hot in bliss and shame, as a warm stream rushes out of you unbidden. It splashes down your ass and your thighs, wets Simon's legs and his pelvis. He makes it even messier by rapidly stroking his fingers over your clit, prolonging both ecstasy and embarrassment.

Wet sounds are dotted by his grunts growing louder and huskier, rough to the touch if you could brush your fingers over them.

"Fuck—" He groans. "Fuckin' perfect. That's my girl—My fuckin' girl."

He cums as well, but it's lost in the mess happening between your bodies, and your head is not quite there yet to witness it happening. You can only feel it, barely, as he twitches inside you and the grip on your wrists tightens a fraction—but the rest is as lost as you are.

Simon unceremoniously collapses above you as your breaths heave and pitch upwards, until your voice doesn't even sound like yours anymore.

His kisses, left unhurried and open on your collarbones, are what brings you back. You blink yourself back inside your body, back beneath his own—heavy and thick and sweaty. The air is pungent and smells of sex, with his breath tickling your neck and the droplets perspiring from your skin.

And even though you're feeling on cloud nine, your mind betrays the laxity of your body. You can feel embarrassment run hot through you, scorching you worse than any fire could.

"I fucking hate you," you breathe to the ceiling.

Simon chuckles against your chest. "Aye. Get in line."

"Not the time."

"Perfect time."

You frown. It's hard to breathe with him crushing your chest and you almost want to push him away, but that would mean to witness the mess you made on the bedsheets, so you decide that choking on air is a better fate.

You huff. You can feel your skin burn hot, so you use your hand to cover your face as much as you can, rubbing nervously at your cheek. 

"I didn't mean to do that."

"Glad you did," he huffs. "Cross my heart. Hottest thing y’ve ever done, pet.”

You grimace. "Eh, I don't think so."

He kisses your chest. Rises upwards until his lips meet the space beneath your lobe, and there he leaves a plain kiss that clicks softly in your ear. 

"I do." He whispers. You can feel his mouth twitch in a smile. "Bloody perfect when you relax. Should've taken a picture right there. Keep it in my wallet."

Blood warms up your chest and coils around your neck, touching your cheeks. Honest to God, this man is charming once a year and that single event always unfolds with the worst possible timing.

"Not the time to be a sap." You bite on your cheek to prevent a smile from blooming. "I just wet the fucking bed."

He snorts. "Not only the bed."

"Simon!" 

He sinks his teeth in your neck softly, as his whole body shakes with laughter. He's laughing at his own joke, and suddenly his single, charming moment of the year is over just as quickly as it began. Shame for you, that his laugh is also a rare event, and it’s as infectious as they come.

You laugh too.

"Not—" you playfully slap his shoulder. "The fucking time!"

But he's relentless, and his lips journey from your neck to your cheek. He lifts himself just enough to make you breathe, and just enough to kiss your lips.

He sighs in your mouth when you reciprocate. "Perfect time."

[netsuijae]

I would love to see what your hypothetical Kanade crash out would look like ngl (you don't need to draw for this if you don't want to a text explanation would still be awesome)

ok soooo this isn't exactly the crashout but rather building up to it i guess :P

the rest of this post is gonna be rambling and predictions ⬇️

alright this ask enabled me, im gonna just dump all my thoughts as of now on what's to come for kanade's story :) i could end up being completely wrong, but hey im just theorizing and having fun here while i wait very impatiently lol

To start, I don't think kana5 will be on the scale of mizu5 (i mean i might be biased but idk if anything will come close to that level of insanity again), mainly because there hasn't been as much build-up to a breaking point. Kanade's issues have been pushed aside (by herself especially) and not heavily focused on up to this point in the story. There hasn't been any increasing tension for things to reach a climax yet. Having her big break be in this next event would be too sudden and sort of unprecedented. For this event at least, I highly doubt that'll be the case. Instead, I think this event will start to touch on Kanade's buried issues more, and begin building that tension for something bigger. I can see this being a multiple event arc, similar to the events leading up to the climax of Mafuyu's story. Summarizing that, yes I think Kanade's got some real tough shit ahead of her, but that's why this won't be a one-off event story. I think it'll just be the beginning.

That being said, to touch more on my predictions for kana5 itself, I think Kanade will start to slip, and the others, Mafuyu especially, will take notice. I can't really predict anything specific, but I think something will happen that will make her question her ability to save people, or cause her to be harder on herself, as she has in the past, to keep composing persistently, neglecting her own needs and health. However, things are different now than they were before niigo. She has more people around her that will be able to see the damage she's doing to herself. But she also knows they all look up to her, and that her music lifts them up. She knows they all have a lot they're dealing with, and she needs to be there for them. She can't let them down.

Then, when Kanade pushes herself past her limits at the cost of her well-being, what will she do then? She meets with the others on nightcord every night, and Mafuyu is living at her place. She won't be able to rot away by herself anymore without people noticing. But she still feels this need to be the group's rock and to be the one to save everyone, so she'll try her damn hardest to prevent the others from worrying about her. She'll shoot down their attempts at trying to talk about it. I think she might be especially stubborn this time around, and it might cause niigo to have to figure out a way to help Kanade, since they won't be able to get through to her at first.

Kanade has shown in the past to get uncharacteristically aggressive when she's pushing herself too hard, as shown above. She starts to take on everything herself, and snaps at anyone who tries to stop her. I think this side of her will be shown more going forward, as she begins to go down this kind of self-destructive path yet again. At least, that's where I think her story will go. Her tendency to work herself to the bone hasn't really been resolved, and she's gone so far with it before to end up in the hospital after passing out. She doesn't care what happens to her, as long as she can save people. The only reason she has ((slightly)) gotten better at taking care of herself is so that she can be able to keep composing without ending up in the hospital again. Not because she cares about her health. Because she must keep composing. She still only does the bare minimum for herself. If it's her cooking, she's only having instant ramen, and most days she's probably not going to see the sun. She still doesn't sleep much, and Mafuyu has said that she's often falling asleep at her computer.

This might be getting a little rambley atp, but my point is that Kanade neglects her own needs in her determination to save others. I mentioned how she neglects her physical health in the last paragraph, but she also neglects her own feelings as well.

She minimizes her own problems or just doesn't even talk about them. I think she truly believes that her problems don't matter, that they only distract her from her goals. The reason she doesn't open up is likely because she herself doesn't believe her feelings are important at all. She doesn't pay them any mind, and she doesn't want anyone else to either.

Of course, I have to bring this card up. I think this is just a perfect visual representation of Kanade's feelings, and it's great foreshadowing for what's to come. Those feelings are buried deep within Kanade, yet to be addressed or solved. THIS is what we're getting into. Kanade, depicted as an angel, surrounded by death. I think this is related to her guilt surrounding what happened to her father, believing it was her fault. That she destroyed everything. But because of that incident, she told herself she has to keep composing, and never stop, in order to save people. She feels like she owes that much, and that that's her sole purpose. She won't allow herself to think otherwise. No matter how much it destroys her, she must be a savior for others.

Last thing I wanted to add, because I saw this reblog under a prev kanade analysis post, and they brought up great points. Especially how dangerous Kanade's composing grind can get. We wouldn't even have a story if Honami hadn't found Kanade unconscious!!! I think she might get to a really low point again like this, but having Mafuyu there especially, it won't be able to go unnoticed. I don't have much else to add to those tags though cus they speak for themselves 🙏

Finally, just real quickly going back to the little comic I drew, this is just a rough idea of how I think Kanade could act. She'll get noticeably worse, but will try to hide that fact from the others and deny any help from them. I also mentioned that I think we could see more aggression from her again, so I included that, as she feels threatened in a way by Mafuyu worrying about her. She can't let that happen. Also, Kanade's impending doom aside, I think this progression in the story may also spark some change in Mafuyu. She might show some more emotion in this or future events, and she may realize how much Kanade means to her, motivating her to do more for her. I think it'll be a full group effort to save Kanade, but I wanna see Mafuyu taking a bigger role in this. I just think this also has the potential to grow Mafuyu's character more.

Also, as for the Kanade crashout, I really don't know how they'll handle that. I can't really predict what they're gonna do with her climax. But I want her screaming yelling and crying !!! like she better go insaneeee 🙏 and I also feel like they have a lot of potential with her seiyuu/VA and stepping out of the soft quiet voice to do some crazy shit, maybe in the songs too pls pls pls give us loud kanadeeee

OKAY THATS ENOUGH YAPPING its 5 am i havent slept....

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

yk that clip of the interview where heeseung went "hi I'm handsome" okay WHAT IF before they were on camera y/n was pamper him and was like "u're so cute/handsome/fine/mine 🥰🥰" and heeseung was denying it but it flustered him an awful much.

#needthat #staydelusional

LOLOL WAIT OK ANON I LOVE UR BRAIN i can totallyyyy see this happening omg i love flustered!enha....i wanted this to be cute but it ended up having so much more tension than i originally planned OOPS also i wrote this in like 30 mins so pls don't mind any mistakes <3 #ialsoneedthat #imalsodelusional

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊ hi, i'm handsome⭑.ᐟ ── l. hs drabble

lee heeseung is cool, calm, and collected.

at least, he thought he was.

but apparently not.

because lee heeseung around you?

very much not cool, calm, or collected.

especially when you're standing this close—wedged between his knees in the cramped dressing room, bent slightly to meet his eye level as he's seated at the vanity, your hands playing with a few strands of hair his stylist just spent thirty minutes fixing.

and the look in your eyes?

heeseung doesn't know if you're about to kiss him or commit a minor crime.

"god, you're so handsome," you mumble, half to yourself, one hand cupping his cheek while the other continues to toy at a stubborn piece of hair. "like, stupidly handsome. unnecessarily handsome. i'm going to eat you."

heeseung blinks.

frankly, he's unfazed—he's heard worse come out of your mouth.

this is just a regular tuesday.

but still.

he swallows hard. the tips of his ears glow pink. his fingers twitch against your waist, tapping aimlessly.

"baby," heeseung mumbles, "people are literally in this room."

"so?" you pout, running your thumb along his cheekbone like he's precious, like he belongs to you or something (he does). "have they seen you? i'm allowed to gloat."

heeseung groans. his eyes dart towards the chaos in room around him. nobody's paying attention. thank god.

"can't believe i'm dating the hottest person alive," you hum casually, now straightening the mic clipped to his shirt.

this time—he lets out a broken noise.

he slumps forward, burying his face into the crook of your neck in a desperate attempt to hide the way his face is definitely a few shades deeper now.

"stop," he mumbles, his voice muffled against your neck.

"what?" you blink innocently, leaning back just enough to look at him, a small smirk on your face. "you don't like your own girlfriend calling you handsome?"

"i—i didn't say that," he mutters, tugging at one of your sleeves to distract himself from the way you're still hovering in front of him, all smug eyes and soft lips. "but if i show up on camera as red as a tomato, i'm blaming you."

you only grin before leaning in, and now heeseung knows his own girlfriend is pure evil.

you're inches away now—just close enough that if he tilted his chin up, you'd kiss. just far enough that it's driving him insane.

his breath stutters.

your voice drops to a sweet, but oh so evil whisper.

"so fine. so handsome. so mine."

and honestly?

heeseung is just a weak man.

his fingers twitch against your waist. his clothes tightens. he eyes dart helplessly from yours to your lips and back. he buffers.

"i hate you."

"that's a lie."

a sigh of defeat.

"yeah, it is."

and then—you lean in even closer, slow and smug, all before pressing a feather-light kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"break a leg, handsome."

heeseung blinks. brain empty. face flushed.

then, everyone's called to the set and he gives you one last look—a pleading look—and you just grin, proudly watching as he finally stands up from his seat and walks out with the rest of the group.

"alright, let's start with intros," the producer yells out before the cameras start rolling.

everyone goes one by one—it's easy, it's simple.

and then it's heeseung's turn.

heeseung—who's mind is blank.

heeseung—who's can only feel the lingering tingle of where your lips just were on his mouth and who can only hear your voice echoing in his head, so fine, so handsome, so mine.

heeseung—who opens his mouth, finally, and—

"hi, i'm handsom—"

record scratch.

then: absolute chaos.

"handsome?" sunghoon chuckles.

everyone is either wheezing or doubling over, the cameramen behind the scenes smile to themselves, and you?

your whole body shakes with silence laughter, as you cover your mouth, watching the way your boyfriend's face crumbles in real-time and turns absolutely red as he realizes the stumble of his own words.

he's mortified.

but then—his eyes land right on you behind the camera.

on you—who's giggling so hard with absolutely no remorse, no guilt.

on you—who really might be a menace to society, actually.

on you—who he's completely, hopelessly, and tragically wrapped around.

and honestly?

maybe lee heeseung is not so cool, calm, or collected.

but he's yours.

and that's so much better.

god i love writing flustered enha

[miumiaoomyzi]

AFTER AN ARGUMENT with seungcheol, you refused to talk to him or come back to the apartment. it may seem stubborn but seungcheol wasn't exactly the best to handle when it comes to arguments.

for a week, radio silence. none of you texted, called, or came to apologize to each other.

you were sat in your brother's house, phone in hand as your thumb stayed mid-air. as you were scrolling through your contacts to text your brother's wife, you stopped at seungcheol's.

he never removed your nickname nor blocked you.

rolling your eyes, you were denying the fact he might've been worried.

you sighed, slamming your phone down the table as you run a hand through your tangled hair.

your older brother noticed your current state, sitting down, "hey, hey. what's wrong?" he laid a hand on your back.

glancing at him, you groaned, head slamming into the table as he slightly flinches. "fucking choi seungcheol."

he stifled a laugh, seeing your pathetic state. "if you're not gonna do something i'm gonna find tolerable, piss off." you pushed him away from you, earning a laugh.

a few minutes passed and you almost fell asleep, until your brother spoke up, "seriously. what happened? weren't you just texting me about how much of a good boyfriend seungcheol was like.. weeks ago?"

"emphasis on the weeks ago." you spoke with gritted teeth.

lifting your head up with a heavy sigh, you stand up. "i'm gonna break up with him."

eyes widened your brother grabbed you by the shoulder and sat you back down, "are you out of your mind?!— you can't do that!!" he whisper-yelled.

"oh trust me. i can." pushing him away, you took your phone and made your way to the apartment.

as you climbed up the stairs, you finally arrive to your floor. hurriedly, you started rummaging around your pockets to find your keys.

until a familliar voice rang into your ears, "babe..?"

whipping your head to the direction of the voice, you immediately glared at seungcheol.

as you were about to speak, you were cut-off by the sudden crashing of his lips into yours.

as he slammed you into the door, you tried to push him away, yet he was too strong.

pulling away, you were quick to catch your breath. "..shit. i missed this." he groaned.

suddenly, he pulled the collar of your white shirt, placing kisses onto your collarbone.

"c-cheol. not here." you tried to pry his face away from your neck but didn't stop.

"somebody m-might see us like this..!— fuck-"

"where were you?" he growled as he pulled away, eyes piercing into yours.

his gaze then softened, "shit.. i'm so sorry— 'm sorryimsorryimsorryimsorry-" he leaned in, pulling you in as your bodies got closer.

"let's just." you paused, covering his mouth with your hand.

"—go back inside. 'kay?"

he nodded, removing your hands from his mouth then gently placing kisses on them.

he needed you so bad. weeks without you, he almost went insane. his sanity levels were dropping down everytime he scrolls through his gallery, full of pictures of you.

as seungcheol unlocked the door, he suddenly picked you up bridal style, running to his bedroom door as he kicks it open.

he gently throws you into the bed, then crawling to you as he throws your legs into his shoulders.

"let me show you how much i've missed you.. baby."

let's just say the night ended with both of your clothes on the floor (oh and a broken bed frame) 😁