#because he knows on some level that the answer is ‘because he’s me’

[shehungers]

IMPOSTER

possessed!scholar husband x reader |18+| 3.8k

in an act of self-preservation, your family marries you off into an exorbitantly wealthy family. it's a loveless marriage to a reclusive and reticent man. one day, he informs you of leaving to handle the last affairs of his deceased uncle's estate. when he later returns, you're convinced this man is not your husband...

story warnings; dark content, dubcon, explicit sexual details, masturbation (mc), mirror sex, implications of sadism, classism, animal death (mentioned briefly), grotesque details + body horror, murder, pseudo-victorian setting, I am well aware that this is not how Victorian marriages would've gone — bite me 👊🏻, detail + prose heavy, roughly proofread

this is a concept piece #1 for my upcoming project: the lord of phantasm. please let me know if you'd like me to post the other concept pieces!

reposted from my deleted blog: theoxenfree.

if you enjoyed, please leave feedback + reblog to help your girl out 💓

In the airless dark of your bedroom at night, you knew the man lying next to you under covers was not your husband. Once he had been, but now he no longer was.

The revelation had come to you before noticing the stillness of his broad frame in bed, certain stiffness which seemed more alike to rigor in a days old corpse rather than a man wrapped in the comforting spell of deep sleep.

His breaths were silent, if he even breathed at all, reminding you of childhood where the floorboards wouldn't creak so loudly if you sucked all the air out from your lungs into your throat, snagging it, holding it firm. Suddenly, you'd be lighter; effervescent; floating across the wooden slabs towards the kitchen past midnight, or out the front door during the years where testing your parent’s patience and fraying the head maid’s nerves was your favorite thing to do.

You’d learned later on, after the loveless vows and complicated legality behind joining your two families, that your husband had a knack for slipping away at night as well. Only, he wasn't at all the sort for flirtatious gallivanting and loquacious rendezvous with secret lovers in dim rooms, smells of mildew masked by a numbingly sweet, perfumey fog.

He was reclusive and reticent; one of those outstandingly brilliant scholars who believed the rest of the world was below him because he hadn't found an equal in conversation or thought. Social obligations—no matter the occasion or person—pained him to where he intentionally brought you as a buffer between himself and whomever was trying to speak to him.

Some of the talk was so astronomically beyond you that parroting the long-winded answers he spoke softly into your ear back to his audience made you burn under the collar from embarrassment and his proximity to you. His peers could not understand why he simply wouldn't talk for himself; meanwhile, they also wondered why someone without their level of formal education had even accompanied him.

At night, he became one with darkness and retreated to the depths of his study across the massive house you shared together. It was part of one of his family’s various estates dotted across the country and his favorite, due to its location near the university where he worked (at his leisure), and its closeness to his only relative he actually cared about.

“My uncle—he has passed. Of complications caused from tuberculosis, I've been told. I was the only family member placed in his will, therefore it falls to me to settle all remaining affairs he may have overlooked,” he said, letting you help him into his heavy, wool coat he left on a hook near the front door. At his side was a hulking suitcase; one he often used for trips that were days—weeks away from home, from you. “He was a far more private man than I, so there's no telling what I'll come across while I'm there. I cannot tell you how long I'll be away. I'm sorry.”

You expected nothing less from him. This man who had only ever touched you once, on your wedding day. He did everything that he was supposed to: tonelessly regurgitate scripted vows he committed to memory, hold your hands, and kiss you at the altar for more than two seconds but less than five, and then gently lead you away once both families were pleased with the performance.

Right after, now as newlyweds, he poured bourbon into exquisite crosshatch crystalware and examined the glistening amber under wan lamplight. He apologized for kissing you, that he wouldn't have had at all if it hadn't been so important for your families.

At the time, it made you feel very ugly and undeserving of the silk and ornate lacework decorating your body. The gold band fitted around your finger was a lofty symbol of acquired wealth, heavy and unforgiving.

“Write to me every once and a while,” was all you could think to say at present, managing your composure well enough as he gripped the handle of his suitcase and leaned into its heftiness on that side. “It'd just be nice to know how you're doing. If you find anything interesting. When you'll be coming home. It gives me something to look forward to.”

“I'll try to,” he said, but looked through you, pierced you, as though trying to see something else. You saw this look most often at events or parties where he'd fixate on a specific point (usually you) and seem to recede inside himself, into his thoughts, perhaps trying to dissect them or make them congeal into something linear.

“Uncle was an eccentric man. There's no telling what he's left behind for me to find. I must go. Be well, my dear.”

Once again, he left you behind without remorse.

Four months passed with agonizing, gripping slowness from the crisp mornings of late autumn into the icy vise of winter and a shimmering white-blue landscape outside your windows. In those days, you occupied yourself as best you could with guests and alcoholic merriment, whisked yourself away to parties and dinners after wringing out the invitations from friends, and spent many sleepless nights sprawled across the floor beside the fireplace coveting self-pleasure.

You imagined it was your husband there with you, immediately a renewed man after his return and finding you boundlessly desirable, fucking you with his cock rather than the freezing metal dildo you thrust inside yourself.

Even once you were finished, fucked out by your own hand and the object gaping you wide, you kept masturbating until you lost sensation, the motions and metal numbing you inside—until the intimacy and thrill of self-discovery had lost meaning to you.

Sometimes, you were found the next morning by a maid like that: thoroughly debauched with the phallus having rolled away nearby or still shallowly pressed inside. You only needed to threaten her livelihood once for her to never speak of it, pretend each time she hadn't witnessed a regrettable case of personal depravity.

It'd eventually become a frequent enough sight to her that she knew better than to look directly at you when she entered the room. Rather, now, she carried a laundered pair of trousers in with her. They were draped neatly over a bent arm, along with a warm and soapy rag in her hand, which she used to lightly clean you of dried fluids. Afterward, she helped you into the new garment.

“You have received a letter from the Master,” she said unexpectedly one morning, after fastening your pants and tucking your blouse inside them. “It's strange, though, because it doesn't feel like a letter. Not enough… substance. Shall I open it for you?”

“No! No, that's alright.” You took the long, pale envelope from her once she revealed it to you, realizing that she was right. There was nothing to it. Light as a feather, but completely sealed on the back with his personal emblem hastily stamped, or more appropriately, smeared, with red wax dribbling away from center towards the bottom of the envelope as if sudden jerkiness had unsteadied his focused pour.

You flipped the thing front to back several times, testing the way the opposite ends fluttered from nothingness within, and glanced aside to your maid.

She looked to be just as thrown.

“You're sure this is from him?” you asked, bemused. “Who delivered this?”

“Why, a courier on horseback, of course!” she said with conviction, so you knew she wasn't lying to you at that moment. It wasn't her habit to weave tales to get a rise out of her employers, anyway. “I even spoke to the courier for a while because I made a comment about it being so light. He wasn't sure about it, either, but the description of the man who hired him matched the Master almost exactly.”

You had found a letter opener on the desk nearby and made a quick cut under the wax to break the seal without ripping the envelope itself.

“Almost? What does that mean here?” you raised the intact flap with the messy seal attached, freeing all of the residual tracks of wax from the paper so that they fell to the hardwood below like pebbles shaken out of a shoe after a stroll through the yard. “The man was either my husband or he wasn't.”

The maid tried to subdue her intrigue of the envelope, turned, and moved onto bunching up the soiled sheet you'd spread out on the floor last night. “Please don't misunderstand. It was him. But, the courier described him as ‘a very interesting and friendly fellow to converse with’.”

“What?”

You were responding to two things simultaneously right then: what your maid had just told you, and the fact that the only content inside the envelope was a single shred of paper torn from an unlined journal.

The maid fluttered back over to your side as you plucked out the slither of paper, letting the envelope fall freely from your hand to the floor. Leaning into your proximity, she read aloud the same three words that your eyes skimmed:

“Father Marius DuMonde.”

Just as you had done before with the envelope, you flipped the scrap back and forth as though trying to magically flip something into existence. Your husband's handwriting was recognizable in the lettering, but it was impatient; scrawled across a page in one journal in his vast collection like he hurriedly walked past, and then ripped it out.

Nothing else was revealed to you in the seconds after, nor in your long, contemplative stare.

“Who is that?” you asked the maid to alleviate a fast yawning gap of uneasiness beginning to make you fidget and fluster. “A priest?”

The maid beamed in awe of your fast deductive skills and nodded eagerly. “It would seem that way! The city has more places of worship than it does homes for the hungry and sick. Although, I suppose a church offers some of those services.” However, the lightness sank out of her face when you didn't reciprocate that enthusiasm whatsoever. “You’re unhappy? What's wrong?”

“My husband is a scholar. A rigid man of science,” you said, bending over to pick up the discarded envelope to closer examine the disastrous wax seal. “He denounces faith in all forms. Why did he write a priest's name to me?”

That maddening thought followed you for days afterward, sufficiently distracting you from all the regular vices you'd come to rely on to fill the void of your husband's absence. Fulfill the needs he'd never tried to meet even while he was around.

You spent your days brooding in the window seats in whichever room was warmest, molding against their domed shape while leaning a cheek flush to frigid glass, eyes bloodshot and watering against the sun’s searing neon reflecting off of a lawn of undiluted, glittering white.

Seldomly, a finch or small vermin would come into your view—hopping or lunging through the snow, making tracks, digging holes, disturbing your beautiful wonderland and almost arousing you into unreasonable outbursts which then inevitably became the servants responsibility to contend with, should any be nearby to provoke you.

It was the early evening during one of your normal watches, just after dinner and a glass of red wine, when a great clamor carried swiftly to you from the foyer of the main entrance. The servants’ voices were a feverish amalgam of nonsensical babbling, high-pitched, and accommodating in a way that made you think of groveling dogs with flattened ears, wagging and tucked tails, bellies upturned to their masters.

“Come! Come quickly!” called your maid from the sitting room door, her shrill, excitable voice a violent jostling in your head, scrambling your thoughts and anger with it. “Master has returned! He's asking for you.”

You delayed the reunion, waiting several minutes after she had gone before standing. You realized that the anticipation you felt swelling in your chest, rising like growth—a malignant tumor into your throat, thickening your tongue and fouling your taste and smell, was because you were uneasy, haunted by the cryptic message he had presumably sent you weeks ago.

A while later, you entered the foyer to see most of the staff had already dispersed and the ones left behind were your husband’s most loyal. There among them, speaking so unremarkably, so casually in a way you'd never witnessed, was your husband. His good spirits and animated gestures as he handed off all his things to many hands were an odd sight, staggeringly unlike his typical dour.

So, the rumor was true. There was something discomforting in that.

Whatever topic he'd been engaged in fell wayside once he took sight of you: standing, waiting, subtly shifting your weight, picking your overgrown cuticles to remedy how nervous you truly felt in that moment. You'd always been a little uncertain of how to deal with him as he was hardly affable, but this—

“Oh my… there you are, my sweet!” his voice was exactly the same, but his way of speaking was too jarring, almost lilting. Unnatural. No one else seemed to notice. “I was worried you may have been cross with me for being away for so long. As it turned out, uncle had far more beneath the surface to find than I once thought. But, all is well! The old man has been laid to rest forever. The estate is in the right hands. I've come back to you.”

Could this man really be your husband?

He came to you in brisk strides with a certain clumsiness to the way he moved, somewhat off. You thought about seasoned drunkards who could walk along a path, but never on a straight line without gently swaying on and off of it. Mostly in control, but never so well to appear normal.

But, you didn't detect that stiff, hot, fermented reek of alcohol on his breath nor any subtle odor sticking to his clothes as he gripped you tight in an embrace. The only one he'd ever given you. Where you should have been over the moon in joy at his profound change in heart, the little sweetness was like an anchor—arms of a sinewy willow pinning you to an even stronger trunk.

“God, you're breathtaking.” He even sounded winded as he spoke, lifting your face up with both hands to see his dark, dark gleaming eyes. You startled from his cold touch, fingertips pinpricks of pure frost and ice as they pushed into your skin, but you felt trying to reach much deeper than that. “Come with me, my love. Let me show you just how much I've missed you.”

As if fantasy had become real, he fucked you relentlessly that night next to the fireplace, consuming you so completely that every orgasm made your insides churn in agony.

He laved at you with his entire mouth, tongue and teeth hardest at work while his hands bruised and fondled you, fingers thrusting up into your tight hole oozing his saliva and your arousal. It was shameful to think that it took this sort of handling from another person to get you off, squeal like a sow.

He fucked you however he could, wherever he could. Rutting you from behind and against furniture, pressing your bare chest flush to frosted over window panes to make your nipples erect and ache from the cold biting them. Then, you were settled on his lap in front of a mirror hanging adjacent across the bedroom, his thighs spreading you wide open before your own reflection where you watched his cock plunge deep, filling you to the base of his shaft, balls slapping your sticky skin.

“Touch yourself, darling.” His throat rumbled, turning over stones and shards of glass, overall sounding very husky. There was something of wheeze that trailed the end of his every word, like he’d been patched for a long time. “Touch yourself. Watch yourself while you do it. Fuck yourself like the whore you are.”

Although the things he said were horribly uncouth, unbefitting of a man of his status and who you'd known him to be, there was great allure in hearing him, obeying his wants. You'd only had one glass of wine that evening, but your head and body warmed and buzzed like you'd had several.

His voice was a raspy whisper in your ears, seeping deep into your mind; spreading; fitting the grooves of your brain like the slow sprawl of sap through the gaps in bark. You were hardly yourself those minutes, those hours onward where you witnessed your reflection stroking throbbing parts, moaning, weeping, cumming until it hurt, and then doing it all over again.

The person in the mirror seemed to be someone completely different, whether simply disassociation from yourself or some hallucination evoked by exhaustion and ecstacy. Your husband had faded into the background, his voice creating sounds and noises, holding the cadence of language while seeming entirely unprobable, unknowable to you.

You couldn't understand him, yet you could, and the things he said were vile and disgusting and moralless. He told you of every way he'd like to fuck you, watch you be fucked; but, mostly, he wanted you to fuck yourself with the bulbous bedposts, the metal phallus held under lashing flames to be inserted next to his own cock.

He suggested orgies where the servants could take turns with you. He had almost convinced you to call for your maid so he could watch you suck on her breasts and lick her clit, while he rammed you from the back. He suggested drugs and whores, robbing the mortuaries, and worse and worse and worse and worse…

The next morning, you were stiff and immobile, bedridden unless two servants came into your room to help you squat on the commode. Your abdomen was tender and your genitals were untouchable, forcing you to lie in bed without undergarments to alleviate the raw chafing that could happen with fabric.

“I'm sorry, my darling. I—I lost control of myself. I got carried away,” your husband confessed later on, his sallow complexion keeping a weird, waxy sheen to it. A mask that fits, but not quite perfectly. Some of his former somber nature had returned to him as he sat on the edge of your bed, caressing the side of your face. He was still ridiculously cold. “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't realize just how desperate I was to see you again until you were in my arms. And then—and then, it was like it was all a dream.”

You thought the very same. You could believe he forgot himself in an uncharacteristic blaze of lust, as men were never taught to be any other way, and most men couldn't fathom the level of restraint he’d had until last night.

Everything else, you'd wanted to believe, was simply imagined after drinking more than you once thought and getting inside your own head full of sinful indulgences.

Still, one thing bothered you: Father Marius DuMonde.

“I need you to go to the city and find him. And show him this paper. Explain to him everything that you know, you hear?” You'd handed your maid the old envelope and scrap of paper, and handed her a generous bag of coins from your own safe. She looked at you, everything else, in bewilderment. “Don't ask questions. If you're able, bring him back here. Beg him if you must. If it's all nothing, he will simply be an honored guest we feed well, house, and send off gracefully the next day. Should it be something…”

“Are you afraid of him? The Master?” asked the maid, perhaps out of faithfulness to him. Perhaps out of devotion to you the most. “What do you think happened at his uncle's estate?”

It would all be speculation and unjustified gossip without proof, of which you had none. So, you told her that you couldn't be sure of anything right now. “Wait until sundown. Take the old pony in the stables, the one that usually lags behind all the rest. Be silent. Be careful.”

The maid did as you asked and left right before the final light was extinguished by indigo nightfall. You were able to move to one of the windows, seating yourself gingerly, watching her lead the sluggish old pony into cover of tree tops and then nothing else.

But, five days later, the maid hadn't returned from her mission, nor had you received any correspondence from her, nor the priest that she was supposed to retrieve.

A week after that, it was revealed to you that neither she or the old pony had made it out of the woods. The details of the old pony were so gruesome you couldn't bear to remember them. But, the maid was found nearly decapitated, head twisted around to face backwards, her pale skin hideously purple and black and swelled where it had been stretched like a strap of wrung leather. It was mentioned she had been disemboweled as well, but you promptly burst into tears and ran from the room before the visiting coroner could finish speaking, leaving him to discuss the rest with just your husband.

That night, you lay next to your husband in bed. The deep silence of night filled your ears with static and crunching cotton, whereas a hum resonated inside your head, your chest, seeping into your bones like a cold blanket of rainfall. The black air took on weird shapes: imagined appendages curling, reaching across the ceiling towards the bed, towards you. Your eyes couldn't focus enough to ward them off, nor the depth of dark your husband's silhouette had at your side.

He was faced the other way, his clothes back to you, completely unmoving. You ventured closer to listen for the thin breathing of sleep, the automatic rise and fall of his body, and yet he could've been mistaken as one of the dead. As dead and gnarled as your maid.

“Who are you?” you asked him. Asked the swirling nothingness in the room. “Where is my husband?”

“You've nothing to worry about, my sweet,” he said readily, so clearly anticipating to have your voice ring out at some point in the night. “He is here with me. Such a selfish, unlovable man. I am the one worthy of this vessel and you. Not he.”

Then, he rolled on top of you and kissed you deeply. Your bedclothes were shucked from your bodies and he pushed your thighs apart to seat himself inside of you. He took you with greedy thrusts, face fitted against the arch of your neck where his breath left a moist film across your skin, but the rest of him was freezing.

Your whimpers of pains were dwarfed by his hot moans into your flesh, teeth suddenly sharper and sinking deep when he bit into your neck. You were trapped staring at the ceiling, wrapped in agony and pleasure, feeling his body under your fingertips beginning to distort and change into something far more monstrous.

a/n; the upcoming story is meant to be my take on the whole possession subgenre in horror. if you're interested in reading it, I suggest you stick around my blog bc I do intend to start working on the actual story here in the next month or so!!

also, father marius dumonde is the same priest from my vampire priest x reader fic—of flesh sin. so, father shaw will be making a reappearance in it.

[nameless-jamie]

✨💖 The vibes of your writing are immaculate. And I love your series and the new chapters. Would you ever write about an anxious/ shy reader?

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Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! shy receptionist reader

TW: cursing, kissing

A/N: Are you ready for a looooong one? Thank you for the request! I had a whole field-day writing this because I myself am pretty shy in real life. That's why it is veeery long. I actually also had another few paragraphs of the morning after their date, but I edited it out because I guess it would've been too long.

The AFC Richmond front desk was Y/N’s safe space. She had a whole routine. Come in early, set up at the front desk, answer calls, and avoid unnecessary conversations. She liked her job as a receptionist—AFC Richmond had always felt like a family, even if she sometimes felt like the quiet cousin at the reunion. She had her friends, though: Will, the ever-cheerful kit man, Roy Kent, who, for some reason, had taken a liking to her despite his usual grumpy demeanor and of course Keeley!

Most people in the club were kind enough to respect that she wasn’t the most talkative person, even though it is literally her job to greet people.

Jamie Tartt was not most people.

Jamie was… different. Not in the way Roy was—gruff but secretly soft. Not in the way Ted Lasso was—easygoing and goofy. Jamie was loud, confident, and impossible to ignore. And worst of all, he had somehow decided she was his new favorite person to talk to.

“Alright, love?”

She didn’t have to look up to know who it was. That familiar, cocky voice sent a nervous jolt straight through her. Slowly, she lifted her head, only to find Jamie leaning against her desk, arms crossed, signature smirk in place. It was too early in the morning for that level of handsomeness. Yup, Y/N had a crush on Jamie since she started working here. But, oh no, she would never make a move or even show it.

He grinned. “Hi, Jamie,” he mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “C’mon, you gotta give me more than that. Thought we were mates by now.”

Mates. Right. Because that was a normal way to describe their dynamic—Jamie showing up at her desk every day, teasing her until she was a flustered mess, then walking away like it was just another training session.

Y/N cleared her throat, fingers tightening on her pen. “Do you… need something?”

Jamie tilted his head. “Nah. Just here to check in on my favorite receptionist.”

She bit her lip. “I’m the only receptionist.”

“That’s what makes it so easy.” He winked. “Just wanted to see you.”

God, he was relentless. And it wasn’t just the flirting—it was how easy he made it look, how effortlessly charming he was. Her face went hot instantly, and she ducked her head, pretending to be very interested in the email she had already finished.

Every time he saw her, he had some new way to fluster her, whether it was winking at her from across the hallway, complimenting her dress, or just plain staring at her until she got nervous.

It wasn’t fair. He was a world-class footballer, and she was… well, the receptionist.

Before she could figure out how to respond, Will the kitman appeared, grinning. “Oh, is this the daily ‘Jamie makes Y/N blush’ session? Should I be taking bets?”

“Shut up, Will,” she mumbled, burying her face in her hands.

Jamie, completely unfazed, smirked. “You should. I’d win every time.”

Roy walked by just then, glancing at the scene before stopping. He squinted at Jamie, then looked at Y/N, who was still avoiding eye contact.

“What the fuck is goin’ on here? Is the prick bothering you?”

“Actually...Jamie’s bullying me,” Y/N blurted out and pointed at the latter, because she found it funny how Jamie shrunk in Roy's presence. She can be a tease if she wants to.

Jamie clutched his chest like he's been shot. “Bullying? Me? Love, I’m flirting. If I was bullying ya, you’d be crying.”

“I don't like any of you, but you,” Roy jabbed a finger at Jamie. “Quit makin’ her uncomfortable, Tartt.”

Jamie held up his hands in mock surrender. “She’s not uncomfortable. Are ya, love?”

Y/N hated that the question made her heart race. He was looking at her like she was the only person in the room, like her answer actually mattered.

“No! I mean—well—I—I mean, it’s fine,” she mumbled.

Jamie grinned like she had just told him she loved him. “See? She likes me.” Roy groaned.

Roy let out a long-suffering sigh. “You’re both fuckin’ idiots.” Then he jabbed a finger at Jamie. “Quit pissin’ her off.”

“Never,” Jamie shot back cheerfully.

Roy muttered something under his breath and stomped off.

Will snickered. “Roy’s gonna end up chaperoning your first date at this rate.”

Y/N let out a strangled noise. “There is no first date!”

Jamie, though, just smirked. “Not yet.” Then he winked and strolled off, leaving her an absolute, blushing mess at the front desk.

The next few days were worse.

Ever since Jamie’s little not yet comment, Y/N had been on high alert. She tried to convince herself that he was just joking, just messing with her like he always did. But then he started upping his game.

It wasn’t enough that he stopped by her desk every morning—no, now he had to wink at her across the hallway, greet her with a Good mornin’, love like he was starring in some kind of rom-com, and worst of all, he started waiting for her after work.

The first time it happened, she thought it was a coincidence.

“Oi, you’re taking really long,” Jamie said, leaning against the front doors of the clubhouse, arms crossed as she finally stepped outside.

She blinked. “What… are you doing here?”

“Waitin’ for ya, obviously,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “S’not safe for a pretty little thing like you to walk alone.”

Y/N nearly tripped over her own feet. “I—I always walk alone.”

Jamie frowned like this was a deeply troubling fact. “Well, that’s fuckin’ tragic, innit?”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Colin and Isaac, who where the last to leave besides the locker room, grinned. “Ooooh, bodyguard Jamie.”

Jamie smirked. “Damn right.”

“You’re not my bodyguard. He's really not.” Y/N muttered in her soft voice, slinging her bag around her shoulder.

Jamie only grinned wider. “Nah, but I could be.”

Colin gave her a pointed look. “You should just let him walk you home. You know he’s not gonna give up.”

Y/N sighed. They were both right—Jamie Tartt was nothing if not persistent.

So, against her better judgment, she let Jamie walk her home.

And then he did it again. And again.

And again.

By the end of the week, it was just a part of her routine, like he had wormed his way in without her even realizing. He’d meet her at the doors, hands in his pockets, waiting for her like he had all the time in the world. They’d talk, mostly about silly things—Jamie complaining about Roy, Y/N teasing him about his shoe obsession, Jamie trying to make her laugh.

And she did laugh. More than she had in a long time.

Which was exactly why it was terrifying.

Because Jamie Tartt was flirty, and charming, and kind, and so out of her league that it was almost funny.

And yet…

She caught him looking at her sometimes. Not in the way most guys did, not like she was just another girl to conquer. It was softer, something she couldn’t quite place. Like he actually liked being around her.

Which was ridiculous. Right?

She was still trying to make sense of it all when, one afternoon, the teasing from the team finally reached its peak.

She was organizing paperwork at her desk when Dani Rojas, Sam Obisanya, and Colin strolled past.

“Sooo, Jamie and the receptionist,” Dani said in a sing-song voice.

Y/N froze. Oh no.

Colin grinned. “Yup, they’d be cute together.”

“I think they are already together,” Sam added thoughtfully.

Y/N choked on absolutely nothing. “Uhm- No actually we are not together.”

Dani gasped. “But he walks you home every night!”

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

Sam and Colin exchanged a knowing look.

“But you like him,” Colin said, pointing at her.

“No, I don’t.”

“You do,” Sam said. “And he definitely likes you.”

Y/N opened her mouth to argue, but then—

“I definitely like who?”

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

The universe hated her. That was the only explanation for why Jamie Tartt had appeared at the exact worst moment, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

Dani beamed. “We were just talking about how you and Y/N like each other.”

Y/N wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

Jamie, to his credit, didn’t even blink. He just turned to her, a slow, smug grin spreading across his face.

“I mean, I do.” he said, then turned to her. “That true, love, you like me?”

Y/N clenched her jaw, face burning. “I don't like any of you.” She mumbled.

Colin grinned. “That’s not a no.”

Jamie chuckled, eyes locked on her. “Don’t worry, love. You’ll admit it eventually.”

And then, just like always, he winked and walked off, leaving her to suffer.

Dani patted her shoulder sympathetically and ran out the door. “You should just date him.”

“I should just quit,” she muttered to herself.

But we all know she wouldn’t.

And maybe—just maybe—she didn’t really want to.

Y/N had two choices this next week:

Continue pretending that Jamie Tartt wasn’t blatantly flirting with her every single day.

Accept that she was completely, undeniably screwed.

She tried to go with Option 1. She really did. But then Jamie started making it impossible.

It wasn’t just the daily morning greetings anymore. Now, he even brought her coffee.

“Dunno what ya drink, so I got three different kinds”

He sat across from her at lunch even when she definitely did not invite him, and—worst of all—kept finding excuses to touch her.

A light hand on her shoulder when he walked past. A nudge of his knee against hers when they sat near each other. Once, when she had been carrying a heavy box of paperwork, he had taken it right out of her hands, smirking at her grumbled protests.

It was driving her insane.

She was still overthinking all of it when she got to work one morning and found Jamie already there, leaning against her desk like he had nothing better to do.

She frowned. “Why are you here before me?”

Jamie grinned. “Missed ya, didn’t I?”

Her brain short-circuited. “You—what?”

Jamie just shrugged like he hadn’t just sent her into cardiac arrest.

“I have missed you, did I not." he repeated himself doing his best to talk accent-free, as if she didn't understand him the first time.

"Also, I might’ve left my headphones in the gym. But mostly the first thing.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “You… are insufferable.”

“Yeah, but I assume you love it.”

She did not. Except—okay, maybe she didn’t hate it. And maybe, just maybe, she had started to enjoy their little routine. Fuck, she loved it.

Which was exactly why it was so unfair that Roy Kent had to go and ruin everything.

Because of course, right as Jamie was giving her one of those stupid flirty smirks, Roy appeared out of nowhere like a grumpy, swearing bat signal.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Y/N groaned. “Roy, Hi! Jamie was just—”

“No,” Roy cut her off, pointing aggressively between her and Jamie. “I cannot watch this anymore.”

Jamie blinked. “Watch what?”

Roy let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “This. The fuckin’ pining. The flirting. The lookin’ at each other like a couple of lovesick puppies.”

Y/N’s soul left her body. “We do not do that.”

“You absolutely do,” Roy grumbled pointing at Y/N. “ You're doin' it right fucking now! It’s disgustin’.”

Jamie, to his credit, didn’t even pretend to be offended. He just raised an eyebrow at Y/N. “So, you have been lookin’ at me?”

“I—no!”

Roy groaned. “Oh my fucking God.”

“Alright, alright,” Jamie said, laughing as he held up his hands. “I get it. You think we should just shag and get it over with.”

Y/N choked. “Jamie!”

Roy looked physically ill. “That is not what I’m sayin’.”

Jamie smirked. “So, you want me to take her on a proper date, then.”

Roy stared at him like he was debating whether or not to commit actual murder.

“I hate you,” Roy muttered. “But yeah, you’re both bein’ fuckin’ stupid, so someone’s gotta do somethin’ about it.”

Jamie turned back to Y/N, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You hear that, love? Roy Kent’s givin’ us his blessing.”

Y/N buried her face in her hands. “This is a nightmare.”

Roy let out another long-suffering sigh and turned to leave. “Just sort it out before I retire, yeah?”

Once he was gone, Y/N peeked up at Jamie, who was still smirking at her like she was the most amusing thing he’d ever seen.

“You do like me,” Jamie said smugly.

She groaned. “I am going to throw myself into the Thames.”

Jamie just grinned. “Nah, you won’t.”

Y/N didn’t know how it happened. It was the day after the incident.

One second, Jamie was teasing her at the front desk like usual, and the next—

“So, what time should I pick you up tomorrow?”

She blinked. “What?”

Jamie smirked. “Our date, love. Thought we should make it official, yeah?”

Official. As if this wasn’t already the most humiliatingly obvious crush in all of AFC Richmond. As if half the team hadn’t already been placing bets on when Jamie would finally get his act together and ask her out.

She swallowed hard. “You’re… serious?”

Jamie gave her a look. “Obviously. Been serious since the day I met ya.”

Her brain short-circuited.

“Um,” she said intelligently.

Jamie’s smirk softened into something… gentler. “Look, if you don’t wanna, that’s alright. I can handle rejection. Probably. I actually never been rejected,” He grinned. “But I reckon we’d have a good time.”

She was so screwed.

“…Seven?” she squeaked out.

Jamie beamed. “Seven’s perfect.”

And that was how Y/N found herself sitting across from Jamie Tartt at a very nice restaurant, wondering how she ended up here.

Jamie, to his credit, was being ridiculously sweet. No teasing, no cocky comments—just full-blown, charmingly attentive Jamie.

He pulled out her chair for her. He asked her about her day (and actually listened). He even gave her his jacket when she shivered, despite insisting she was fine.

But now, as she stared at the menu, her anxiety was creeping in.

The restaurant was a bit fancier than she was used to. And while she technically knew how to read a menu, the pressure of making a decision in front of Jamie was immense.

She didn’t want to pick something stupid. Didn’t want to mispronounce anything. Didn’t want to hold up the waiter.

So, when the server came over, she panicked and just pointed at something random.

The problem? It was not what she wanted.

She realized it too late, eyes widening as the waiter scribbled down the order and walked off.

Jamie noticed immediately. “What’s wrong?”

She hesitated. “I… I meant to order something else.”

Jamie tilted his head. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

She swallowed. “I—I didn’t want to be a bother.”

Jamie’s face softened.

“Babe,” he said, voice low and warm, “you’re never a bother.”

Before she could even process that, Jamie waved the waiter back over without hesitation.

“Hey, mate,” Jamie said easily. “Think we got the wrong order—she actually wanted the pasta.”

The waiter nodded, jotted it down, and walked away without a fuss.

Y/N, meanwhile, wanted to melt into the floor. “I could’ve just eaten the other thing…”

Jamie shook his head. “Nah. If you want pasta, you get pasta.”

She bit her lip. “I just—I don’t like making a fuss.”

Jamie leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand as he studied her.

“I get it,” he said. “But you don’t gotta be scared with me, yeah? I like lookin’ out for ya.”

Her heart did something stupid.

“…Okay,” she whispered.

Jamie grinned. “Good.”

And the thing was—he meant it.

All night, he made sure she was comfortable. He didn’t rush her when she had her shy moments, didn’t tease when she took a little longer to answer. Instead, he just smiled at her, soft and patient, like this—like her—was exactly where he wanted to be.

By the time the check came, Y/N had stopped second-guessing everything.

Because Jamie liked her, exactly as she was.

And maybe—just maybe—she was finally starting to believe it.

Jamie insisted on walking her home after the date.

“You know I always do that, love,” he had said when she tried to protest. “Can’t have ya gettin’ kidnapped, can I?”

She had rolled her eyes, but she didn’t fight him on it.

So now, they were strolling through the quiet streets, their hands occasionally brushing as they walked. Every time it happened, Y/N felt like she was about to combust, but Jamie acted like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“So,” he said, breaking the comfortable silence, “best date you’ve ever been on, yeah?”

Y/N smiled to herself. “You sound confident.”

Jamie smirked. “Well, obviously. I planned the whole thing, didn’t I?”

She laughed softly. “Alright, I’ll admit it—it was the best date I’ve ever been on.”

Jamie grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Yeah? Who knew I was a proper romantic?”

“You are,” she murmured, half to herself.

Jamie glanced at her, his smirk faltering into something softer. His voice dropped. “Careful, love. Keep talkin’ like that, and I might have to kiss ya.”

Her breath caught.

Jamie must’ve noticed, because his smirk came back—smaller now, more teasing than cocky. He nudged her shoulder with his. “Relax, I'm just joking, yeah? Not gonna do anything you’re not ready for.”

That was the thing about Jamie—he flirted, teased, pushed just enough to make her heart race, but never too far. He knew her limits, never made her feel like she had to do anything just because it was expected.

She liked that about him. Really liked that about him.

Maybe that’s why, as they reached her front door, she hesitated.

Jamie stood with his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Guess this is goodnight, then.”

She nodded, suddenly nervous.

Jamie chuckled. “You’re lookin’ at me like you wanna say somethin’.”

She swallowed hard, gathering every ounce of courage she had. “I just… wanted to thank you. For tonight.”

Jamie tilted his head. “Was my pleasure, love.”

She took a shaky breath. “It really was the best date I’ve ever been on.”

Jamie’s expression softened. “Yeah?”

She nodded.

And then, before she could overthink it—before she could let the nerves ruin it—she leaned up on her toes and kissed him.

It was quick, just a press of her lips against his, but Jamie froze like she had just short-circuited his entire brain.

By the time she pulled back, her face was burning. “Um. Goodnight.”

She turned, reaching for her keys, but before she could even get the door open, Jamie’s voice stopped her.

“Oi.”

She turned hesitantly.

Jamie was grinning. Beaming.

“That was—” he said, voice warm and full of love, “you are full of surprises.”

And with that, he gave her one last lingering look before stepping back, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked away.

Y/N stood there for a moment, heart racing, before slipping inside and leaning against the door.

She had kissed Jamie Tartt.

And by the look on his face—he was definitely going to kiss her again.

[didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback]

el caso rubiales: headlines from day 2, in which we listened to men, men, and more men making excuses and pointing fingers at each other 🙃

today we heard from men’s national team coach luis de la fuente, ex-director for integrity for rfef miguel garcía caba, ex-communications director for rfef pablo garcía cuervo, ex-subdirector for communications for rfef enrique yunta, and former psychologist for the women’s team javier lópez vallejo.

remember that in the immediate aftermath of the world cup, rfef issued multiple statements trying to downplay the kiss, including one supposedly "written by jenni" that she never wrote!

anyway, garcía caba testified that he was asked to prepare a report about the implications of rubiales’ sexual aggression and to interview people involved. the object of the report was a procedure for clarifying facts about the rubiales’ behaviours: the behaviour in the box and the kiss. players were omitted from the report because he didn't have time to ask them as he was told to finish in a day and a half because this reached global levels of awareness and being a problem.

garcía caba stated it was not his competence to determine if the kiss was an abuse of power. but he did use an expert and lip reader to analyse body language, including jenni’s during the world cup celebration, for a later report. 😵‍💫

he testified that vilda did not intervene in these reports. but he did call rubén rivera, who had a connection to jenni, to try and talk to her but jenni did not want to talk to him.

garcía cuervo went next and testified that he had no animosity towards jenni even though she signed a document, along with other players of the national team, asking for the dismissal of some rfef professionals, including him. he claims that some of the statements he wrote attributed to jenni had been given the “ok” by her.

he accused the players for not being accurate in their declarations and said that jenni contradicted herself and called her "a very impressionable and manipulable person." the judge lost patience with this witness and told him that he wasn’t answering questions in the correct manner. (yay judge!)

next came yunta. his testimony conflicted with that of poki’s yesterday. and he claimed that in the integrity meeting where various rfef officials met she changed the answers that she didn't like the sound of. and he said he expressed his frustration with how that meeting went down and felt very uncomfortable.

finally, we got to current men's coach luis de la fuente (who clapped for rubiales during his famous "i will not resign" speech). 🙄 he was in australia and flew back with the team but claimed he slept the entire flight and did not hear anything. he was asked about a supposed meeting at rfef headquarters with poki (who testified yesterday) to discuss what happened and denied knowledge of that meeting too.

at one point, one of the attorneys was asking a question to which de la fuente made a flip comment saying he was not here to talk about these topics to which the judge reprimanded him by saying "one does not choose what one is going to talk about, one comes to answer what is asked."

the last witness of the day was the psychologist, lópez vallejo, who testified that he was randomly assigned to the team without training for bullying or similar cases. he didn't witness the kiss, nor did any players come to him.

he also said: "my role was to show them my availability, to let them know that they could come to me. if there is a player who doesn't come, it's because they don't consider me to be the person who can help them at that moment." 🙄

he also testified that he was not aware of the magnitude of the kiss and did not reach out to jenni at the time. he only reached out to her later when someone from fifa wanted to get in touch with jenni and he helped facilitate that.

he also claims that luis de la fuente was indeed there at one of the meetings but he doesn't remember the details.

so in summary, what a shitshow and a group of low class men 🥴

but watch this fun video of the judge yelling at the witnesses!

source: marca on twitter

[sillygoofyqueer]

LeviathYuan baby can gnaw on me I don't mind <3

Please tell me more about baby.

Grumble grumble grumble......I wouldn't have answered this if I hadn't needed a way to dive into The Creature™ Lore (/silly). After some careful deliberation (a poll in the server...should I make a mutuals server? Putting that thought away for a rainy day), I have decided that the topic of choice will be Leviathyuan interacting with other CQMS cultivators.

So, Liu Qingge is the most likely to find Leviathyuan first - he's the most likely to be out on the prowl and hunting demons, perhaps not recognising how far he's gone until he's being attacked from all sides by monsters he has never even seen before. Obviously, there's only so much he can do without getting beaten up by attack after attack, so he's got the shredded robes and bloodied everything, fucked up ponytail (I've got a note next to the main note that says 'awooga 😍', so there's that as well).

He ends up in The Cavern and is immediately suspicious of the huge ass lake (he's got that natural hunter instinct fr fr), so he's got Cheng Luan out (he hasn't actually put it back in its sheath since he ended up in the Abyss) and is on guard as he picks his way along the shore - but he's literally fucking exhausted and running on the last legs of adrenaline at this point, so he's really fucking hoping that whatever it is, it can be dealt with really quickly.

Leviathyuan is chilling in The Depths, and he smells this new kind of blood - it's different, it's unique, and he is definitely intrigued. After all, he knows what all the blood of animals in the depths smell like, and this is not anything he's ever known before. He swims up to the surface pretty casually, looking around and seeing something tiny moving around on the shore and transforming into his more humane form to be of an equal size (he is, funnily enough, SHORT).

I just need you all to pause for a second, come here real quick, and see this from Liu Qingge's perspective with me. He has literally just been like "please for fuck's sake, let whatever creature in here be easy to kill so I can just fucking relax for a second" and then boss music basically starts playing as the water erupts around him, and this leviathan - bigger than anything he's seen before - curls down and stares right at him. Just as Liu Qingge is gearing up for yet another fight, this monster just fucking SHRINKS.

This monster becomes a demon with more humane attributes (but not a human, which is obvious by the staggering everything that points otherwise), and stumbles over to him like it isn't used to walking, not blinking at the sword in his hand, so it is an easy target! Of course, Liu Qingge severely underestimates his exhaustion levels, and is decked right in the face with them when this demon pushes the sword out of the way and only has to shift to avoid his sluggish attempts at attacking it.

Eventually, the demon raises a hand and just pushes Liu Qingge over, which is enough to fully knock him out when his head hits the floor (this only happens because he is exhausted and weak, not something that would happen usually because of his thick skull. Also, Leviathyuan didn't mean to hurt Liu Qingge in any way, he just knows rough housing with other monsters of The Depths).

When Liu Qingge wakes up (something that he didn't even expect to happen after being defeated), he is swaddled in something that is both warm and fluffy, and yet smells distinctly of blood. Turns out, a fluffy monster followed Liu Qingge into The Cavern, and Leviathyuan was just like "this creature is cold. You have warmth :3" and fucking DESTROYS that beast, without any other thoughts in his mind. Then he skins this beast using Cheng Luan (who is only slightly self-destructing at being used by a demon) and dumped the skin onto Liu Qingge (fluffy side wrapped around him, don't you worry).

(Part two here!)

[leashybebes]

wip wednesday

tagged by @ambernotember, @setmeatopthepyre, and @trombonechurchill, thank you beloveds. here is some amnesia fic because i am having an awesome day and obviously that means i'm writing horrible angst rather than finishing fluff prompts. (look, it makes sense to me okay). buck's first night home from hospital is going swimmingly.

Eating dinner is as painfully awkward as Buck might have expected. Any topic either of them brings up quickly circles around to something that makes Buck spiky or Tommy defensive, or both. In the end they lapse into silence only broken by the tink of cutlery on bowls as they eat the chili Tommy had warmed up. Buck recognizes the flavor - he made this. Stocked the freezer of this shared house with meals they can quickly heat and eat after long shifts or awkward timings.

It's not the only thing that leaves Buck unable to deny they share this place. There are drawings on the fridge that are very clearly Jee's work. He saw several pairs of his shoes on the rack by the door when he first got here. The whiteboard Tommy used to keep track of his shifts and other commitments is divided in half now, both their lives laid out there neatly. Buck's side is blue, Tommy's is red, shared things are in green. There are framed photos of the two of them, stuff Buck recognizes from the loft - his stand mixer, his coffee machine, his oversized coffee mugs, his apron hanging on the back of the door.

When they're done eating, Tommy gathers up the bowls and forks, busies himself with loading the dishwasher. Buck has no idea what to do. He has nothing but questions, but part of him doesn't want the answers. He has a horrible feeling he must have gone begging and maybe Tommy took pity, or maybe Buck was just an easy option, or -

He knows, on some level, that he's being uncharitable, that he's making assumptions, that he should just…just ask.

But Tommy didn't ask, a mean little part of him says. Tommy didn't ask, and he didn't let Buck ask. He just decided, for both of them, that they would never work long term. Just made a shitty, unilateral decision and left. He left, and Buck is too scared to ask what made him come back.

The answer might be awful.

been offline most of the day so apologies if you've already done this and i just haven't seen it, but no pressure tags for @agentpeggycartering, @peapodbond, @hyperfocusthusly and @bidisasterevankinard

[fluentmoviequoter]

Kiss Me Before I Go

Jim Street prank blurb! 0.8k+ words of you avoiding Jim's kisses

Months ago, there was a trend where women secretly recorded their significant other as they were leaving. When inevitably told, “I love you,” they didn’t say it back. Some reactions were entertaining, some heartwarming, and some revealed red flags in the relationship. Chris had been the one to show you the first video, and for the next two weeks, Street would get as close as humanly possible to you before he said those three remarkable words. He’d glare until you said it back, then smile, kiss your forehead, and leave.

Now that he’s likely forgotten about it, you have the perfect opportunity to prank him. Not with the same idea, of course, because that would be too easy. No, you’re going to avoid his kisses. For someone as physically affectionate as Street, you anticipate his reaction will be interesting.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come tonight?” Street asks as he walks into your living room. “I can ask Deac to bring Annie so you’re not alone, if you want.”

“No, I’m good,” you reply with a smile. “Thank you for the offer. I have a few things I can do here. I mean, the TV isn’t going to watch itself.”

Street pretends to laugh as he slides his keys into his pocket.

“Let me know if you change your mind or if you need me to come back and help with those chores.”

“Will do.”

Street leans over the back of the couch to kiss you, and you turn so his lips hit your cheek. He hesitates, then rubs your shoulder and disappears down the hall. You listen, hear the water turn on in the bathroom, and return your attention to the TV. Your phone is lying against the tissue box on the coffee table, inconspicuously recording.

“Alright,” Street murmurs as he returns.

He walks around the couch this time and lowers to be face-to-face with you. As he leans in, you move just far enough that he kisses your nose rather than your lips.

“Okay, what?” Street inquires, leaning his weight against the cushion you’re sitting on. “I brushed my teeth, so I know it’s not my breath. I shaved this morning so you can’t say it tickles. Why won’t you let me kiss you?”

“I will,” you answer, lifting your brows slightly. “What do you mean?”

Street leans in again, and you move to the side. He falls against you dramatically, clinging to your shoulders as he sinks to his knees.

“What did I say? I say a lot of stupid things, you know that,” he pleads into your shoulder.

“What are you talking about, Jim?” you inquire innocently.

Street shifts to kiss your neck and then sighs. He leans more of his weight against you, and you groan while you try to push him up.

“I guess I’ll die here,” he complains.

“Get up,” you say with a laugh. “Your friends are waiting for you.”

“And I’m waiting for a kiss.”

You kiss his forehead, and he sighs again.

“There, a kiss,” you comment. “Now, go.”

“No.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you groan.

Street raises one hand to your cheek and pats you gently.

“Fine, kiss me and get out.”

“I don’t like that tone,” he argues.

Still, he sits up and kisses you. You try to move away again, but he wraps his arm around your waist and holds you against the couch as his lips meet yours. Your mumbled argument stops when Street cups your jaw, and you kiss him in return.

“Was that so hard?” he asks as he pulls back.

“It was a prank,” you whisper, smiling. “Sorry.”

Street’s expression levels, and he stands abruptly.

“I’m sorry,” you say, moving to stand with him.

He reaches for your phone and ends the recording. “Is my desperation and heartbreak entertaining to you?”

“Sometimes.”

Street shakes his head and sits beside you, pulling you roughly against his side before he pulls your legs over his.

“Now I’m not going.”

“You have to! I really am sorry, I won’t do it again,” you promise.

“I’ve been deprived,” Street laments. “How can I offer my company when I can’t even get my girlfriend to kiss me?”

Street prepares to continue his dramatic woes, so you roll your eyes and shift so you’re partly in his lap before you kiss him. He wraps his arms around your waist and leans back against the couch, both deaf to your phones ringing as your friends wonder what Street is doing that’s more important than a team night. Chris is the first to point out that you’re not there either.

[eisforeidolon]

//Hellers still going on about “Watching Over Me” being about Cass. Claiming Jensen confirmed it in a meet and greet. It’s funny they never have video proof beyond, “Misha said it”.//

I was at that M&G, well hellers have probably claimed he says this at every M&G, but I was at A M&G where an idiotic heller asked if Jensen had written a song about Castiel. Jensen laughed at the idea. The rest of the people present rolled their eyes so loud you could practically hear it. Heller took that as confirmation and ran. She also took JA avoiding answering because the show was still in progress if some stupid destiel related shit (I can’t rember the exact question anymore, thankfully) was going to happen in the Winchesters. She full on dominated the conversation, heard what she wanted to hear, ignored actual answers and common sense, and ran with it, telling everyone her lies as soon as the M&M&G was over. We also had to sign. NDA's, so she’s an untrustworthy little bitch who broke the rules immediately, aw well as a liar.

Thanks for the report of what happened (at least that time), anon!

The thing is, we know they're delusional liars. We've seen it even when they can be easily fact checked. These fuckwits have tried to lie about what's been said in main panels before, either by 100% making shit up or just trying to sell hilariously stupid misinterpretations and wild fantasized projections of the meaning they want to hear. (DestieI is real? Where is it real?! Totes just Jensen upset people can't see the obvious and telling them to look harder because it's everywhere!!!) These are panels with a large room full of mixed fans where there is almost always someone making a recording. And yet they lie and assert blatantly brainless reinterpretations as fact that obviously don't represent what was actually directly said.

Like, is it a desperation to have the attention from other hellers for the five metaphorical minutes before the videos come out? Do they delude themselves into thinking if they just build enough enthusiasm online for the lies, the actors will totes have to change their opinions because it's popular (since drowning in the heller bubble always makes them ignore the GA and the entire rest of fandom exist)? Do they figure if they get their bullshit out fast enough it will get added to the list of heller "proof" and they just don't care only other gullible hellers will buy it? They do genuinely seem to think if they just come up with a long enough list of batshit nonsense - no matter how blatantly false, specious, and outright absurd it all is to anyone not in the cult - the world will have to validate them!! Uh, no.

So yeah, it only picks up an extra degree of absurdity when they make uncheckable claims about what Jensen said in a supposed-to-be confidential M&G or other relatively private interaction. Like, I wasn't there, so I can't objectively know if your story of what happened in that M&G is true either. But unlike theirs? It actually lines up with every other public, recorded, verifiable reaction Jensen has ever had to the idea of that ship being canon or something he has interest in. The level of self-delusion to carry on as if that doesn't matter is just ...

[silo1013]

really it’s all about the scene in apocrypha where the well manicured man asks mulder “if you’re looking for krycek to get revenge and you had him with you why didn’t you kill him then” and mulder momentarily looks stunned by the suggestion of it

[daily-hanamura]

[eikichi-supremacy]

im definitely consuming this media wrong because all he's done so far is kill people and yet tetsuo is my favorite character

[xcziel]

has anybody else thought about how jk could easily manage sofia's parts of slow dance or is it just me?

[toddtakefive]

btw todd’s reluctance to join the dps because he doesn’t want to read (which is then accommodated for) and is scared to put himself out there (which is also worked through) being read as todd not wanting to go AT ALL, and thus neil making the proper accommodations (“todd anderson, who prefers not to read, will keep the minutes of the meetings”) and encouraging him to step out of the box that stifles him being seen as ‘forceful’ or like he can’t take no for an answer makes me insane with rage

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

yknow what minor transient detail abt s4 is fun to me? prior to john's reveal, noel apparently assumes the KIY to be a totally unfamiliar character to them both. he pauses his story to give background info on him ("he rules the dreamlands, he's a master manipulator, etc") in a way he doesn't with other stuff. he points out yellow like "that's the bitch btw. if you were curious." which is. like he knows they were in the dreamlands. i think he knows or at least assumes they were in the pits for a while given they ran into lorick. what does he think they were doing there. just. passing through??

[showrunnerihardlyknowher]

As the first math anon (the one with the failed exam), I really do appreciate you writing out a response for me. I will sincerely take your advice and tips to heart.

I hope it helps, anon!! If there's any specific parts giving you trouble (except geometry bestie sorry) I'm happy to try and help break it down!

[braisedhoney]

So you said a while ago underfell was your favorite au before. Is that still true or?

Also who’s your favorite character from whatever au you like?

damn, you were around for that? :'D

yeah, underfell used to be my favorite! i think it was smth about being really edgy as a kid, or maybe it was because red was my favorite color. idk man, even now i gotta admit those designs slap really hard.

i'm not really sure if i have a favorite au now though. i do have some ideas for underfell that i like, but i think i see the appeal of most aus bc i just like making new scenarios.

i like the big three a lot (classic, fell, swap). sans is my favorite in classic (predictable i know) if you're not counting gaster, since he isn't technically a canon character. i like both fell paps and fell sans equally, and swap paps is cool. i'd be buddies with that guy.

(i also really like asgore in undertale. the tragedy of the grief-stricken ruler who kills even though it's against his nature for the freedom of his people but also because he's long past convinced he's in too deep is really compelling to me, and by proxy i'm interested in the theoretical stories of all the fallen humans including frisk. also the whole thing with their broken family and chara and—

—whoops the ask is about aus not canon lmao, sorry!)

[bitchesgate3]

mizora fans are the only safe side of the fandom for me