#but all of their stories are this way so why are you just mad when your blorbo has to wait

[syluss-littlecrow]

release

<Caleb x fem!reader>

where both you and Caleb end up doing more than butt heads about his given curfew for you.

genre/warnings: smut, pwp, mutual pinning, mutual obsession & possession, jealous!Caleb breeding kink, multiple orgasms, a lot of cum..., perverted!MC, friends to lovers?, squirting, unprotected sex, morning sex, pure Caleb brain rot, it gets pretty nasty

a/n: Caleb, Caleb, CALEB XIA YIZHOU 😭😭 the way I've been giggling over Caleb while watching his story and going back to my home screen with Sylus looking at me with his arms crossed.... Anyway, enjoy this Caleb brain rot 🥹🩷 I'll do one with Caleb's military air force uniform when I can 😔🫡

I JUST SAW THE NEW BANNER DROP IM NOT OK IF ANYONES WONDERING.

w/c: 3.5K

Effortless. That is what Caleb feels like when his affections come to you. It bubbles and boils over when he thinks he's able to put a lid over it, and it overflows instead. It leaves him so defenseless. Yet, he can't seem to stop. It's the only thing that keeps him going in this hell. 

The only thing he feels is the metallic necklace barely weighing on his chest. It almost feels like you're here with him. 

And if you are, he wants to keep you here with him. Forever.

His eyes slowly open. His eyes focus on the hologram clock hovering at the side. 

You're supposed to be back already. 

Caleb contemplated on driving out to find you since he has your location pinging on his phone.

Since when did you have that many friends in Skyhaven? Why doesn't he know about them?

He checks the messages he's sent you, all unread. 

Caleb has to remind himself to stop clenching his jaw and biting his tongue. 

His stare towards the door grows anxious by the minute. Then he strengthens his resolve and marches towards the door, ready to leave and look for you. 

The second he pulls down the door handle, the jingle of the door unlocking from the outside sounds and the door swings open, making you and Caleb jump when he catches you in his arms from bumping into each other.

“Caleb!” You squeal, flustered at the way you completely ran into him. His warmth is radiating over to your skin. “Are you okay? Where were you gonna go?”

You watch a small pout form on his lips. He truly looks like a puppy when he does that, you can't help but think. 

“Look for you”, he curtly replies, making sure you've regained your balance before he releases your arms.

You straighten your posture, and sheepishly touch the nape of your neck, immediately avoiding his gaze. 

“Ah, right. Well, I got carried away with chatting with my friends and all…” 

Caleb crosses his arms. His pout turns into a frown, and his eyebrows are scrunched. 

Shit. He looks mad.

You inch closer to him, your fingers grazing over his knuckles. 

“I'm sorry, Caleb. Don't be mad okay? I'm home now, safe and sound, in the flesh, aren't I?”

Caleb breathes steadily, keeping his expression the same, but when you take his palm and nuzzle your cheek against it, Caleb feels the anxiety and frustration dissolve. He wants to reprimand you about the curfew, and why he implemented it in the first place. If you’ve stayed missing for a second longer, he would have completely lost it. But the moment his palm nearly touches your lips, it all dissipates, as if it never existed. 

Caleb exhales a sigh of defeat, letting it go just this time, alongside the countless times he did. 

“Go shower. I left the heater on for you.” 

You respond with a cheeky smile that makes something in Caleb’s chest bloom, and he lets you go, watching you disappear into your room. 

Caleb hears a knock on his door. He walks over and opens it, watching you coming into view. 

“Is there something you need, pipsqueak?”

You squeeze through the crack of the partially opened door and occupy his bed. 

“I'm just bored.”

Even though Caleb cocks his eyebrow, he still sprouts his smile, walking over to join you on his bed.

“Not because you're trying to make it up to me for coming back past curfew?”

Shit. 

Your smile playfully drops to a pout. “I got carried away yapping with my friends. You know I didn't mean to…” 

Caleb crosses his arms again.

“I could tell. My messages were all left unread.”

You curl your fingers to your lips when you realise you've been caught.

Caleb seems upset but you still see the softness beneath. 

He sighs. 

“I'm doing this for your own good, pipsqueak. I don't like you getting caught up in this.”

Caleb likes to think that it is that way, but he knows that it's more than just that. 

“As you can tell–” you’re showing off your body–your arms first then your legs, then your abdomen. But what Caleb didn't expect you to do was lift up your shirt slightly, your skin exposed, and have your shorts hike up your thighs, just to prove your point. “Nothing! You can check me for tracking devices too if you want to.” 

Something snaps in him.

“So do you let your friends inspect your body like that?” 

He crawls onto the bed, watching the smile slowly drop from your face. 

Caleb’s fingers trace your bare skin, drawing goosebumps from how ghostly the touches feel. His fingers slide from the top of your knees, and towards your thighs.

“Do you know how worried I was when you didn't answer my messages?”

You’re about to part your lips to respond, but he cuts you off. 

“I was wondering what conversations you were having that you ignored me.” 

“Caleb–”

He’s completely trapped you against the headboard of his bed. He's trapped you with his stare. 

Caleb inches closer, until he's close enough. His eyes glance down to your lips for a split second before his gaze meets yours again. 

Your breath is shaky when he leans in closer. 

Then he turns away. 

What the fuck? 

You watch in disbelief as he pulls away, your breath still caught in your throat from the tension.

Caleb’s signature smile returns and you feel his palm stroke the back of your head. 

“You should go back to bed. It's late.” 

He turns to open his door for you to leave. 

“Maybe I should start coming home later too.” 

He pauses in his steps. 

“I don't think that's a bright idea, pipsqueak.”

You slide off his bed and walk towards his door. 

“Maybe not. But I have brighter ones that consist of escaping your curfew.” 

You’re ready to leave the room with your victory, that is, until the door before you completely shuts. You see his shadow tower over you from behind. 

You turn to face Caleb, your arms are crossed. 

“Didn’t you ask me to go to bed?” 

“Changed my mind. I wanna make sure you're thoroughly inspected.”

You’re facing Caleb, back on his bed again. He starts with your face, but he lets his fingers linger around your lips, brushing across your bottom lip. You turn away, and his fingers catch your chin, forcing you to face Caleb.

“No looking away.”

His eyes are devouring every patch of skin that exists on your body. Even though you're clothed, you feel naked when he has his eyes on you this intensely. His fingertips trace back to your lips and he slides it down painfully slowly–past your chin, down your neck, through your sternum, past your stomach, and stops right above the elastic of your shorts. 

You want to shift, but you realise you can't–your body suddenly feels weighed down to the bed, and that's when you realise Caleb has you held down with his Evol.

The softness in Caleb’s eyes disappears, and something else replaces it. You watch him tug your shorts off you, and all you can do is watch helplessly. 

His kisses tickle from your ankle, and he builds them upwards at an agonising pace, each kiss feeling warmer as he travels up your thigh. 

Your heartbeat only accelerates from there, watching Caleb inch closer and closer to your cunt. Your thighs tense up from the sensitivity, the warmth of his lips spreading over your skin when you feel his tongue come in contact with your skin. 

“That tickles”, your voice is soft, as if the defiance in your tone before never existed.

Caleb’s lips press against your clothed pussy. Despite the fact that you’re trembling slightly, you've completely soaked your panties, and Caleb is more than happy to soak them even more. 

He buries his tongue, wetting the fabric even further. The pleasure draws soft moans, but evidently, it's not enough. 

“Caleb… Could you lighten your Evol?” You plead. You want to feel him so bad. 

Your body instantly lightens, and you almost think you're gonna fall off the bed. 

Something else holds you down this time, and it's Caleb. 

He tilts your chin up to have your lips meet his, now his kisses melting off the thoughts in your brain. Warmth burns through your skin. It takes you seconds to realise Caleb is lifting your shirt off you.

The clothing article is the next victim tossed somewhere else on the bed. 

You take his cheeks to your palms.

“I really need you now, Caleb.”

The softness returns to his eyes momentarily. 

“Are you sure you're okay with this?”

“I'll hop off right now and head straight to bed if you don't”, you huff. Fuck, the anticipation is just clawing through your insides, begging for Caleb to do something.

He playfully scoffs. 

“We both know you wouldn't.” 

Caleb tugs your panties to the side, and lines himself to your hole.

He thrusts into you in one swift motion, and you feel it all the way in. It knocks your breath out of you. Caleb watches you helplessly gasp for air and adjust to his size. He’s just filled you so full. 

He’s still supporting you so you don't fucking pass out. He feels you scratch all over his back from the pressure but he stays still, at least, until you've adjusted. 

“Shit. You're so fuckin’ warm for me”, he hisses into your neck, trying his best not to thrust into you. You feel so tight for him, he feels so good just staying there.

He stretches you open for him–your pussy fluttering at the feeling of him filling you up. The pressure slowly fades and you quickly adjust to his size.

Your vision blurs when he thrusts into you from below–the sensation so overwhelming that it's making you tear up. 

“So good”, you sigh, struggling to keep your eyes open–almost impossible when his cock is hitting your g-spot over and over again. Sparks burst into your eyelids whenever he hits the spot and it's evident that he knows he’s able to unravel you just like that, so easily. 

“Caleb…”, you moan. Caleb’s still fucking you, feeling the way you're just squeezing him, watching the way your fingers have gone clawing his back to his bedsheets, the way your tits are bouncing from fucking you, the way your eyes practically form hearts when he knows he's hit your sensitive spots.

“Faster, please. You feel so fucking good.”

He knows you shouldn't have said that. You're the only person who can rile him up like this. How the hell are you making him break his resolve when he's supposed to be upset with you?

He leans in, practically hovering over you. His fingers cup your cheek and he forces you to meet his violet eyes. 

In your fucked out haze, you blink, confused when he slows down. He pulls out completely, and you're about to complain until he rolls your soiled panties off your legs, tossing it to somewhere on the bed. 

You gasp when you feel his thumb graze over your wet and throbbing clit. 

“I'm gonna make you wonder what the fuck wrong with your body”, Caleb’s voice reaches your ears. His words sends a shiver down your spine.

“Your little pussy is gonna throb every time you think of me.”

That's all the warning he gives before his arms tower over you, holding your wrists down above your head. 

He fucks you into an orbit and you're practically helpless–forced to take his thrusts over and over. But fuck, it feels so good. It feels like fucking heaven. 

You like how dizzy it makes you feel. You like how he's not stopping, no matter how much tears stream down your face, and how pathetic you sound crying and moaning his name. 

“Fuck! Caleb, it's too much–” you whimper, the strange feeling building up in your stomach. It feels like it's about to snap any second. 

He acknowledges your words, but he doesn't bother slowing down. 

“Didn’t you promise me to be a good girl and take all of it?” 

“Caleb–!”

Your voice sounds so heavenly when you call his name.

The fluids fountains out of you, soaking everything near it's vincity–including the both of you. Your orgasm continues to wash over you and more fluids spray out.

Caleb watches you squirm and jolt while you make a mess all over him. 

He lets go of your wrists, the slight redness forming onto your skin, and his thumb caresses your bottom lip. 

Despite your arms feeling sore from resisting against his hold, you wrap them around his neck, pulling him close to catch his lips. He's taken back for a split second, but he returns the kiss, letting his soft moans drown into your lips while you clench around him.

When you both pull back, it's Caleb’s turn to have his eyes glazed and his cheeks dusted a soft shade of pink. 

“y/n, if you keep doin’ that–fuck”, Caleb groans, his fingers closing into a fist against the sheets. His breath is shaky. The euphoria is threatening to spill over–the fact that you're trapping him in like this with you, just the two of you solely existing together right now–he could get high off this feeling. He doesn't need anything else. 

“I'm so close. Shit.” You watch the bead of sweat trickle down his temple, down to his cheek, to his chin, and then it disappears into the mess the both of you made below. 

Caleb’s voice makes you refocus on him. 

His palm presses against your cheek again, his thumb brushing lightly on the corner of your lips. 

“You're gonna take all of it like a good girl, yeah?” 

You nod, almost too eagerly. Caleb can't help but think that your face after being fucked looks breathtakingly beautiful. It makes him want to hide you further. The world doesn't deserve someone like you. 

He crashes his lips with yours, melting into the kiss while he pumps you full with his thick cum–making sure he has himself seated deep inside so nothing spills out. At least, not until he pulls out.

The high slowly descends, and the both of you are left panting, getting lost in each other’s eyes just for that moment before Caleb slowly pulls out. 

Caleb then reaches for the glass of water perched on his nightstand to offer you. You take a good few sips of water, and hand it back to Caleb, who takes a couple of sips as well. He notices the way your cheeks are still flushed and that you're blinking more. He plants the empty glass onto the nightstand, ready to carry you to wash up and probably change the sheets after.

In a daze, you notice Caleb’s cum seeping out of your hole in small loads. You wet two fingers and slide them to your pussy–and you push the thick fluids back in, your body jolting in pleasure while you're pretty much fingering your pussy with Caleb’s cum.

Caleb swallows hard while he watches you pleasure yourself. He’s about to say something but you cut him off.

“Your cum keeps leaking out”, you point out, giving him the full view of your cum-soaked pussy. You look up at him with an innocent, poison-soaked gaze–your lashes wet and your thighs trembling from each time you feel his cum leak out of you.

“It’d be such a waste–”, you mutter, shivering one more time when your fingers fuck you again, the room only filled with your voice and the wet squelching sounds from your pussy.

“–if it doesn't stay inside.” 

You barely have time to process what happens next. The next thing you knew, Caleb has your hands pinned above your head with one hand, and the other on your cheeks. His legs stop you from closing yours, and you feel his wet thickness hard once more, resting on your pubic bone.

“You know, pipsqueak”, his voice drops an octave lower. His voice is clear, and he makes sure you hear him. “It's okay to just ask for more.” His eyes reflect such a gorgeous shade of wild you've never seen before, and it looks fucking good on him.

No warnings–your cunt is just wet and sopping that Caleb stuffs you to fullness once more–you give up trying to keep your eyelids open, your mind only processing the way he’s fucking so deep into you again and again.

“You know I'll always give it to you.” 

The way his fingers are cupping your cheeks stops you from answering. Well, he doesn't need a verbal response, especially not when you’re clenching him so fucking tight when your orgasm hits you for the…how many times was it now?

You feel stings that slowly dull around your shoulders and chest. The bites Caleb’s given you are as red as the ruby on his apple necklace. 

The night is drowned with sounds and sensations of both you competing to send each other to the heavens. 

What day is it now? 

Caleb blinks his heavy eyelids open. He soaks in the atmosphere around him, and it doesn't take him long to realise that you're lying on his arm.

Thankfully, it's not numb. Your hair tickles his cheeks. 

He notices the light peeking through his curtains. It's probably daytime. 

Caleb presses his lips against the back of your head, while he pulls you closer. He almost jolts when he hears a soft moan coming from you.

For some reason, something feels funny. 

He attempts to shift slightly, and realises the predicament–his dick is still hard as fuck, and he’s still nestled so fucking deep in you. Fuck. Did the both of you fall asleep mid-sex? The feeling bleeds into him again. 

Are you even awake to realise this? 

Caleb bites his inner cheek, the hardness only builds. Shit. Even after all of that, you're still this warm and tight? 

He watches your breathing steadily. 

He hooks your leg over his arm almost too easily, giving himself easier access to fuck you deeper. Your sleepiness is slowly dissipating, overtaken so fucking quick by the burning desire once more.

His thrusts bear slight friction at first, but somehow that only adds to the pleasure–the rawness, the fact that he's left a mess in you and kept that way, and that he gets to do it all over again in the morning. 

“Ca…Caleb..!” You squeal, uselessly fisting the pillows while Caleb rails you from below. 

“So perfectly warm for me, y/n”, his morning voice dousing you. He takes advantage to litter more bites to the back of your neck and shoulders, and spoils you with his strained moans when he reflects the way you whimper whenever he hits your sensitive spots. 

You sheepishly bury your teary face into the pillows, and Caleb pushes himself impossibly deeper, forcing you to face him when you jolt in surprise. His violet eyes are eating you up. You hear his voice ring in your ears.

“Wanna make you cry more like this. You're so pretty when you cry when I'm splittin’ you open like this.” 

More tears stream down your cheeks whenever your g-spot gets abused over and over. Caleb forces you to meet his gaze. His thrusts are slower, but harder. 

“Shit, you're really gonna milk me dry, yeah?” Caleb hisses when he feels you flutter around him. Your cum is mixed with his, and drips down his cock, to his balls. 

Caleb pulls you tighter, deepening the kiss one last time while he breeds you full over and over for nth time since the last night, devouring your whimpers when the words you muttered to him last night comes into memory. You're so dizzy with pleasure, and Caleb has stolen all of your breaths. 

He finally pulls out, his cum endlessly drizzling out of your abused hole, and it almost sets him off again. 

Nonetheless, he forces himself to get out of bed so he can get a towel and clean you up.

Another loving kiss he presses onto your temple.

“I'm gonna get a towel, pipsqueak.” His husky whispers send shivers down your body, and the warmth of his touch lingers on your thighs for a lot longer than you realise.

He leaves the bed for the bathroom. 

You nuzzle into the pillows Caleb was just lying on, drowning yourself with his scent. The wetness that sticks between your legs–you can't tell if it's your fresh arousal or if it's his cum anymore.  

Not that it mattered since steadying your breath when you realised he was still in you when you stirred before him to see what he'd do next, gave you such a big reward. 

And you'd do it all over again. You would say things to get under his skin, just to get a rise out of him, just to keep his attention on you, always. 

You wanted to keep his strained voice when he called your name, the way he looks at you with so much desperation when he breeds you full, in a bottle and store it for your perverted indulgence. 

No one else needs to know that this part of Caleb exists, because he belongs to you. 

The dim light catches your attention underneath the thick sheets. You take the device, unlocking the phone with your fingerprint. 

6 missed calls. 

You swipe them away. You shut off his phone.

He doesn't need to know.

He doesn't need to remember.

At least, not when he's with you. 

[gothamite-rambler]

Duke Thomas when he found out about the "Test" performed on Tim and he sticking up for his buddy/brother along with his other brothers.

Duke (on comms during a mission): When I see you stand by Selina, I believe you see two bad bitches. I believe you don't like women, it's real competition, you might pop ass with 'em.

Batman (exhausted): Excuse me?

Duke (rapping): Let's speak on percentage, show me your splits, I'll make sure I double back with you. You were signed to a trigga that's signed to a trigga that said he was signed to that trigga.

Jason and Dick listening in are too stunned to speak.

Barbara (eating cheese puffs while working, impressed): Nice switch up there.

Duke (rapping with ease while decking a goon in the face): Put your eldest son through hurtles, you're a douche bag. Throwing a weapon at your second son's neck that's a jackass move. And putting the third to a test, that's hoe shit-

Batman (enraged, gritted teeth): Oh, you are not doing this! I already have to deal with the others doing-

Duke (interrupting while rapping, enjoying this): You got a son to raise, but I can see you don't know nothin' 'bout that. Wakin' him up, know nothin' 'bout that. And tell him to pray, know nothin' 'bout that. And givin' him tools to walk through life like day-by-day, know nothin' 'bout that-

Batman (shouting to the point it startles the villains in front him): ALRIGHT I GET IT!

Jason: Nah, he's not finish yet.

Dick (in the corniest way, bless his heart): Let him cook.

Tim (amused): We may have... Told Duke stories about you while his arm was healing.

Duke: Yeah and it's good thing Robin isn't on patrol for the night, I was holding this in. I respect you B, but you... I'm tired! What did these boys do to you? Huh? Huh?!

Dick covered his mouth, smiling but also shocked. Jason was laughing. Tim smiled while on patrol with Duke.

Batman: I said... I was sorry! And I am not a bad bitch! I'm Batman!

Barbara (joining in): Bitch Man.

Batman: He's only acting like this because I said Castlevania is dumb! Which it is! That's just my personal opinion!

Tim: B ... You sent him a PowerPoint as to why it's bad.

Duke (shouting): Castlevania isn't a stupid anime just because you didn't understand Dracula as a character! Keep talking and ooh I'll start with Not Like Us! I may listen to country more, but I am team Kendrick for life!

Stephanie (laughing): B's gonna need Aloe Vera for those burns.

Batman: Okay, laugh it up! When I'm back home all of you are on punishment!

Batman cut off his communication device as Mad Hatter and Riddler watched the entire exchange after being defeated.

Riddler (watching this entire spectacle): I have no idea what's going on, but I'm enjoying it.

Mad Hatter (drinking tea): Seeing the bats angry is quite entertaining.

Riddler (complimenting his friend): I swear you always say the right thing.

Mad Hatter: So do you, pal.

Batman: Oh shut up!

[bradleysass]

Harry Potter - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 801

Harry Potter prided himself on being a decent student. He wasn’t Hermione-level brilliant, but he did well enough. He could strategize in Quidditch, hold his own in a duel, and solve riddles in life-or-death situations. But when it came to people—understanding what they wanted, what they felt—he was utterly useless.

And right now, the person most confusing him was Draco Malfoy.

Draco had been relentless since the start of term. Not in the usual way—not with taunts about his parents or snide remarks about his Quidditch skills. No, lately, Draco had been... weird. He called Harry insufferable but stood just a little too close when he said it. He sneered at Harry’s hair but reached out as if he wanted to touch it before catching himself. And then there was the way he lingered, as if waiting for something Harry didn’t understand.

Was Draco flirting with him? Or did he just enjoy tormenting Harry in a new, confusing way?

Harry had no idea. And there was no one worse to ask for advice than his dads.

Regulus Black and James Potter were, by all accounts, a miracle. A miracle because they should have never worked, and yet, somehow, they did. They had a ridiculous love story—one Harry had grown up hearing in bits and pieces. James, with his stupidly big heart and inability to let things go. Regulus, with his sharp words and sharp eyes, always pretending he didn’t care while caring too much. If opposites attracted, then they were a bloody gravitational force.

At dinner that night, as Harry pushed food around his plate, James and Regulus carried on one of their usual conversations—if they could even be called that.

James, grinning as he stole a piece of bread from Regulus’ plate: “Just admit you think I’m the most attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Regulus, not looking up from his book: “You’re the most exhausting man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

James, smirking: “Still means you like looking at me.”

Regulus, deadpan: “Unfortunately.”

Harry had grown up seeing their dynamic. He had witnessed the way Regulus softened only for James, the way James never let Regulus slip into his worst habits of self-isolation. It was obvious to everyone that they were in love.

But Harry wasn’t them. He didn’t understand how two people who seemed to drive each other mad could also love each other. Which brought him back to Malfoy.

“Are you two always like this?” Harry asked, interrupting whatever smug retort James had lined up next.

Regulus glanced at him over the rim of his teacup. “Like what?”

Harry gestured vaguely between them. “Like this. The constant back and forth.”

James grinned. “It’s part of our charm.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “More like your punishment.”

Harry let out a frustrated sigh. “How did you—when you first—how did you know you liked each other? Like, actually liked each other?”

James’ eyebrows shot up, and Regulus blinked. A rare moment of being caught off guard.

“Well,” James said slowly, “I’d been in love with your dad since I was seventeen, so—”

“I tolerated him first,” Regulus cut in smoothly. “And then, when he refused to leave me alone, I figured it was either murder or love.”

James beamed. “See? Romantic.”

Harry groaned. “That’s not helpful.”

Regulus finally set his book down, watching Harry with that unnerving ability to see too much. “Why are you asking?”

Harry hesitated. “There’s someone. And I—” He exhaled sharply. “I can’t tell if he likes me or just enjoys annoying me.”

James lit up. “Wait. Likes likes you?”

Regulus hummed in thought. “Ah. Malfoy.”

Harry choked. “What—how—?”

James spun in his chair, practically vibrating with excitement. “It’s Malfoy?! I knew it! I knew there was something there!”

Regulus, unbothered, simply sipped his tea. “It’s obvious.”

“No, it’s not obvious!” Harry exclaimed. “That’s the whole point! I can’t tell if he’s—” He waved his hands around, struggling for words. “If he’s flirting or if he just hates me in a really weird way!”

James turned to Regulus with a huge grin. “Ah, to be young and oblivious.”

Regulus shot him a look. “You were never oblivious. Just stubborn.”

Harry slumped back in his chair, exhausted before this conversation had even properly started. “So? What do I do?”

Regulus set his cup down with a quiet clink. “Ask yourself this: If Malfoy weren’t Malfoy, if he were just some nameless person acting the way he does, would you already have your answer?”

Harry opened his mouth—then promptly shut it.

James, of course, still had to get the last word in. “Or, you know, just kiss him and see what happens.”

Regulus sighed.

Harry banged his head against the table.

This was not going to be easy.

[yesimwriting]

Phantom Lurking

A/n This is a story set in the bestie reader verse that I briefly mentioned in an ask, but there's no specific context needed outside of the fact that reader and louis are extremely close best friends

Warnings: nothing too crazy (especially when compared to the source material) but there's mentions/implications of someone putting something in reader's drink but, within the fic, reader is never actually in danger of being physically hurt, reader feeling sick/anxious, Armand being emotionally manipulative as a way of expressing affection

Summary: After an argument with Louis, you decide to go out with an old friend. Once you're home again, you're forced to deal with two realizations. The first is that you feel a lot worse than you should, and the second is that Armand isn't the worst at being helpful when he wants to be.

----

The world feels flat, like one of the three dimensions you're used to being able to perceive has slipped into nonexistence. You frown, letting the thought inch its way up your spine.

You blink. Once and then twice, as if the familiarity of the gesture will be enough to remind you of what you were doing--of the reason for the phone in your hand.

"Woah," the voice is sharp enough in its happiness to jab at your stomach. You lift your head, ignoring the rigidness of the movement as you look to the source of the sound. Grace--your friend, Grace. A part of you is almost complacent enough to be eased by the realization that she's here. "You look so sad."

You can feel your eyebrows draw together. Do you? And then, as your fingers tighten around your cell phone, a second thought latches itself onto the first: Are you?

"Don't worry," she says, voice so chipper it almost stings. "He'll be over it tomorrow."

Right. On instinct, you let your head fall downwards. You unlock your phone, eyes narrowing at the screen's brightness as you open your messages. No new ones. Just the last texts you managed to send to Louis before you started feeling too nauseous to type: Not feeling. Okkay.

The lack of response presses itself into your lungs, making it impossible to breathe right. Louis was upset , but you can't imagine him ever being mad enough to not text you back. "But Louis answers."

Grace watches you for a second, her head tilting curiously at your phrasing. "Maybe he's sleeping." When the suggestion doesn't seem to sway you, she places a hand on your bare shoulder. Your mind is aware enough to acknowledge the intentions behind the contact, but her skin is so warm and sweaty against yours it's nearly nauseating. "It's late."

Louis keeps different hours than the general population, but that's not something you can fault her for not knowing. Besides, maybe it is so late that the night is morphing into morning. It wouldn't be the first time you and Grace lost an entire night to partying, and it would explain why you feel so incredibly out of it.

And...if Louis was really upset, he might have gone to bed early. He mentioned once that sometimes vampires enclose themselves in their coffins to avoid dealing with discomfort. It sounds deeply dramatic to you, but it's possible he's doing something similar.

You exhale, nodding so slowly the motion feels like more of a caricature of a human response than anything else. She laughs, the sound full in its certainty. Your stomach doesn't know how to digest her easiness.

"You'll feel better tomorrow." Grace's hand pulls itself away from your arm. "Okay--keys." When all you do is stare at her, she sighs. "First, I have to stop you from going home with that weird guy you met while waiting for the bathroom..." She trails off as she reaches for your purse. "And now you don't even remember where you are."

Hm. Grace's chastising gives you something to focus on. You blink, lifting your gaze as you glance around the building. The pale walls and warm lighting are familiar...this is your apartment building. How did you get to your apartment building?

Grace rifles through your purse, the contents of your bag clinking together as she searches through it. After a second, she seems to find what she's looking for. She turns away from you and towards the door.

"Okay," she hums triumphantly, "We're in."

You take the words as a sign to step forward. Your thoughts don't align with your movements. The delay is enough to make you stumble, your foot missing the base of your heel.

Grace is next to you in a second, her hands latching onto your arms to keep you stable. "How much did you drink?" The question lacks her earlier amusement.

You're not sure you're meant to respond, but you think about it anyway. It didn't feel like that much...but you don't exactly remember every moment, every drink--and you were mad at Louis.

She watches you for a second, her eyes wide and much too focused. "Are you okay?" It's a question your mind refuses to dwell on. Of course you're okay. "Like--okay to be left alone."

"Mhm," the answer feels hollow, "Yeah." Grace continues to stare, her lips pressed together in a way that conveys her uncertainty. "I'm just gonna go to sleep."

She studies you for another beat, and then sighs, "Okay--but straight to bed. And no more texting." Easy enough to follow. Grace lets go of you slowly. "And maybe try to drink some water--and--and try to sleep on your side."

You nod blankly, your hands reaching for the door in front of you. "Water, side, no texting."

Grace sighs as she walks forward. "And call me in the morning, okay?"

You squeeze the side of the door in an attempt to feel more stable. Tomorrow morning feels so far...so impossible. "Okay. Yeah."

She turns her head to look at you one last time before continuing down the hall. You step into your apartment before shutting the door behind you.

The darkness of your apartment immediately pushes itself to the front of your mind, blending into your unease in a way that's dizzying. You exhale, letting your weight rest against the door. You shut your eyes, inhaling as you force yourself to focus on the concrete. The ground beneath your feet is steady, the wood against your back is stable.

"You turned off your location."

The tension that takes over your body is so sharp, so heavy it briefly leaves you paralyzed. You open your eyes, pushing yourself further against the door.

Wait. The voice. You know that voice. The recognition doesn't ease you until a familiar figure pulls itself away from the shadows enshrouding your living room in darkness.

"Oh my god," you manage a second too late, the words devoid of the necessary bite needed to turn the phrase into a warning. "I thought you were a serial killer."

Armand doesn't care about your reaction. He just continues walking towards you with slow, even steps. Your mind is too foggy for his theatrics. "What..." Your questions feel too inadequate for you to make them mean anything. "Is Louis--is he okay?"

He stills at that, but it doesn't really matter. He's close enough now that the darkness isn't obscuring his features. For a moment, you think the question might have softened his expression. "Now you can find it in yourself to worry about him? After the way you spoke to him?"

Of course Louis told him. The haziness clinging to your thoughts has turned everything into sludge. Your lips part, some barely coherent defense-apology hybrid attempting to crawl its way up your throat. All you can manage is a slurred, "He was--dramatic, and I--" You push a hand against the door in an attempt to make yourself stand on your own. "I'm sorry." You're not sure why you're apologizing. It's not like Louis can hear it.

Armand continues forward. You don't think about where he might be going until you feel his hand on your arm. He's a lot less careful than Grace was, but something about the feel of his skin against yours is also a lot less overwhelming. If anything, the coolness of his touch is almost alievating.

"I don't--" You're not sure there's much point in explaining anything. Not when the only thing tethering you to consciousness is your nausea. You can't remember ever feeling so separate from yourself. "I don't feel good. If you're gonna lecture me, do it tomorrow."

Tomorrow. It feels more like a concept than a date. Things would be so much better if you could just fade out of existence until then.

Armand pulls you away from the door. Your limbs are too stiff to protest. His eyebrows draw together, and something behind his expression shifts. "I'm not here to lecture you."

"Then why are you here?"

His thumb moves out of place, brushing against your skin soothingly. "After your argument--Louis came back to me, he told me about what you said, how you treated him, and then he went to bed. Hours later, you sent him a message saying you didn't feel well..." He squeezes your arm a little tighter. "And you turned off your location."

It had been an extremely petty move, but in the moment, a few drinks in, it had felt so reasonable. If Louis was going to see you as fragile, you'd have to show him that you felt no interest in being looked after. "I was mad."

"And now you're experiencing natural consequence." His hold on you morphs into something that borders on uncomfortable, his nails pressing into your skin. "Do you know what people see when they look at you?" You can't do anything but stare at him. "You refuse to acknowledge your vulnerability, and then you stumble home like this."

Okay--you're drunk, but not--not horrible. You’re standing (mostly), and you haven't said anything weird to him. "You're not clueless." The words almost feel like a compliment. "How much did you have to drink?" You don't have an answer. "You don't know? Because I've seen you with Louis, and even when alcohol makes you sick, it's never like this."

Your limbs seem to grow heavier at the implication of his words. Did someone drug you? There was that one guy that hung around you and Grace a little too long, but he never got you a drink.

"Maybe you'll learn to appreciate Louis's warnings instead of running off with the first girl that offers you something simple."

Louis--when he learns about what happened, when he learns that you tried to call him...and that he wasn't there. "Don't tell him."

He angles his head towards you. "You're asking me to keep a secret from my companion for you?"

Ugh. "No." You didn't mean it that way, or at the very least, you didn't want to mean it that way. You can't make sense of things for yourself let alone for another person. "I don't know." Your head is starting to ache. "I just don't--I don't want him to feel bad."

Armand lets go of you slowly, his fingertips brushing against your arm as he straightens. "We'll worry about him tomorrow." There's a certainty there that leaves no room for argument.

The thought of delaying your worry doesn't feel as simple as he's making it out to be, but you can't find the words or energy to disagree. You're not sure what you'd be arguing for, anyway.

He turns with no warning, walking down the hall like this is his apartment. His decisiveness might have bothered you if it didn't make things feel a little easier. Even with Armand serving as a guiding force, your mind seems to buffer. It takes you a second to think to act on the desire to follow him.

It shouldn't be surprising that Armand seems so comfortable moving through your apartment. He's nowhere near as familiar with this space as Louis, but you find it hard to imagine Armand uncomfortable anywhere.

He finds your room. A more coherent version of yourself would have had the energy to worry about the last minute outfits you rejected and didn't have time to put away sitting on your desk chair.

The familiarity of your bedroom is enough to get you to move forward. You approach your bed, half-sitting-half-stumbling onto the mattress. You're not given the chance to settle before your muscles slump out of place. It's an unraveling of tension that offers you no peace.

Dread pools in your stomach. You blink, screwing your eyes shut before forcing them open again in an attempt to fight against the drowsiness blurring your vision. It's too sudden, too heavy.

"You can't fall asleep like that." The words are gentle enough to reach you through your panic.

You want to tell him that you can't be falling asleep, that falling asleep doesn't hold this kind of weight. Instead of struggling to piece your thoughts into something intelligible, you lift your head slightly and mumble a flat, "I'm not."

Armand's back is to you, his attention focused on your dresser. When he turns to face you again, he's holding a familiar piece of fabric. One of the oversized T-shirts you sleep in.

It takes much more focus than it should for you to press your elbows into your bedding. The edges of your vision grow spotty as you stand. You're managing, but everything about your positioning feels circumstantial, like the slightest shift could push you into unconsciousness.

He hands you your shirt. You squeeze the fabric between your fingers. Before you can think to do anything else, Armand's hand finds your wrist. You still at the contact. He moves towards you with slow, deliberate steps.

Armand stops directly behind you. He sets his palm against your shoulder, his thumb smoothing patterns against your shoulder. His other hand settles against your upper back. Something about the contact makes it a little easier to breathe.

You're just getting used to his proximity making things feel easier when he pulls his palm away from you. Before you can overthink the shift, you realize what he's doing. The zipper of your dress has been tugged out of its place.

Armand's slow to release you, his fingertips dragging against your skin as he steps away from you. He walks forward until he's in front of you again, his attention firmly focused on the wall. It takes you a moment to realize that this is him offering you privacy.

You pull the T-shirt over your head with a tact that feels similar to that of a toddler dressing themselves for the first time. You adjust the shirt's hem before pulling the straps of your dress off of your shoulders and down your arms. The material pools at your feet. You step out of the puddle of sequined fabric.

You tilt your head downwards, frowning at the discarded dress. You need to pick it up.

"Sit." The instruction is presented with a directness that leaves no room for resistance, and yet all you can bring yourself to do is blink at him. He turns to face you again. "The last thing you need is proximity to the ground."

His voice is implying a level of irritation you can't handle right now, so you step away from the dress and move to sit on your bed. Armand walks forward. He bends down, picking up the dress before approaching your desk. He lays the dress over the back of your desk chair neatly.

He approaches your bed again, this time sitting down next to you. The return of his proximity is strangely easing. When he doesn't say anything else, you give in to the need to break the silence, "Thanks."

Armand nods once in acknowledgement of the sentiment. "Lie down." The thought immediately digs at you. If you lay down, if you lose consciousness, you'll be letting go of the little control you still have. Anything could happen to you, and--and you'd be so alone.

When you don't move, Armand straightens, his arm extending towards you. His hand finds your shoulder. "I can stay..." The offer feels fragile, like the slightest mistake on your end could force it to crumble into dust. "But only if you listen to me." He turns his hand over as you let his words sink in. He drags his knuckles against your arm patiently. "Are you going to listen to me?"

You nod, if for no other reason than to keep him here. If your acceptance means anything to him, his expression gives no indication of it. "Lie down."

You give in with a sigh, pushing your bedding back as best as you can from your position on the bed. You move beneath your sheets before relaxing against a pillow. After a second, Armand begins to shift. You're not sure what he's doing until he's lying down next to you. The return of his proximity is unexpected, but not unwelcome.

He adjusts your comforter just enough to expose your forearm. Before you can think about the change, he begins to trace patterns against your inner arm. The gesture is oddly grounding...and considerate...which, even in your current state, you can tell is odd.

"Can I ask you something?"

He continues to drag his fingertips against your skin. "A lack of permission has never stopped you before."

A fair point. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

He tilts his head slightly as he considers the question. "Am I usually cruel to you?"

That's not exactly the difference. Armand is never particularly cruel to you. He's never made you feel like you're in physical danger, which means a lot when considering what he is. You've never even had much of a reason to fear arguing with him. However, you can't recall him ever being so understanding.

"No," you find yourself hoping he can feel how much you mean the answer. "But you're usually less patient."

His hand briefly stills against your arm. "I prefer a fair fight."

The sentiment roots itself in your chest, leaving your skin a little warmer than it was a moment again. "We can have one tomorrow."

"I don't doubt it," he says, voice much flatter than before.

Hm. The comment isn't exactly aggressive, but it implies an annoyance that doesn't suit his actions. Something uneasy wedges itself between your lungs and ribs. "Are you mad at me?"

You turn your head as best as you can, staring at him with an openness that a more sober version of yourself would have never allowed. "Mad at you, the darling sun?"

You sigh, letting your eyes fall shut. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything," his defense, though already weak, is further softened by the easiness of his tone. "I'm only recognizing what you are."

Opening your eyes, you turn your head to face him again. "What am I?"

He's quiet for a moment before angling his head towards you. It's a subtle shift, but something about it seems to amplify his proximity. Armand's eyes look a little softer than you remember them being, his irises closer to a brown-tinged ember than their usual amber hue. Maybe it's the limited lighting.

"Worthwhile suffering."

The answer feels much too soft to be considered an insult. You're not sure what to think of it. "You're very dramatic."

His hand stills against your arm. "I'm dramatic, when you're the one that turned off your location."

You don't have a decent response. Even as a teenager, you knew better than to completely turn off your location without letting anyone know where you were going during a night out. You're lucky that Grace was there and aware enough to get you back home, but things could have gone so much worse.

The thought of how incredibly stupid you've been burrows itself into your stomach, adding a sharpness to the underlying nausea you've almost been able to forget. Knowing that you're wrong and Armand's right isn't helping things, either.

And Louis--your Louis. Who cares if sometimes he worries so much it makes you feel like burden? At least he cares about you.

"I was mean to Louis."

Armand's hand stills against your forearm, his fingers pressing into your skin in a way that somehow feels both reassuring and resentful. "He'll let it pass."

You let out a self deprecating sigh. There's no reason to believe that Louis won't forgive you, but that doesn't make things okay. "He shouldn't."

"Don't be a martyr." His dismissal isn't enough to diminish your angst. You frown, shifting away from him so that you can lie flat on your back. He's quick to counter your resistance, adjusting his position so that he's sitting up a lot more than you are. He's practically leaning over you, and all you can think to do is stare.

"He loves you," Armand's voice is a lot quieter than you thought it'd be, "There isn't a single thing you could do that he wouldn't forgive."

His certainty is enough for both of you. After a second of blankness, you find it in yourself to nod. The gesture is stiff and uneasy, but it seems to be enough for him. He relaxes slowly, moving to rest his head against your ribs.

His closeness is more of a surprise than it should be. You and Louis have fallen asleep like this more times than you can count. The shock takes a moment to subside, but once it does, you realize that you're... not uncomfortable.

Slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, you move a hand to rest against his upper back. Neither of you move.

"You should go to sleep," he whispers after what could be a long or short stretch of silence, "You'll be yourself in the morning."

The suggestion is a lot less overwhelming now. Maybe it's because you feel a lot more concrete now. You shut your eyes, but before you can try to find rest, you remember where you are and who you're with.

"Wait," you mumble, "The window--" You're not managing the urgency you feel. While your room isn't exactly flooded with light in the morning, the sun does reach your bed in the mornings if you don't remember to fully shut your curtains.

"The curtains are fine." Armand shifts slightly, his hand settling against the arm not bent against his back. "Rest."

You close your eyes again, this time finding it in yourself to relax fully.

----

@joong-of-gold this is the fic i mentioned having in my drafts a little while ago!!

[darklove9314-blog]

Sorry is the Hardest Word: A Nessian Fanfic

Welcome to day 3 of SJM romance week, prompt: First “I Love you”.

Synopsis: This story contains spoilers for HOFAS: proceed with caution. After the events of HOFAS, Cassian gives Nesta an explanation for his anger.

Nesta shoveled the food that Cassian had made them for dinner on her plate, her appetite near nonexistent as the silence and tension could be felt between her and Cassian. The feel of it damn near sufficienting as he concentrated on his own plate, his jaw still clenched in that anger from the discussion she, Rhys, Feyre and himself had had. Where even he had snapped at her about her reckless discussion. Feyre had been the only one to fight for her and the only one to get Rhys to back off until they were back at The House of Wind.

Ember and Randall exchanged a brief glance with one another, a silent conversation playing out between the two of them as Ember rose from her chair, gathering her and Randall’s empty dishes as Cassian’s eyes flickered up to her in response.

"I think we'll turn in for the night. Thank you for dinner." She said to Cassian as Ember squeezed Nesta's shoulder in reassurance before slipping her hand into Randall's making their way to wash their dishes before retrieving to the guest room Nesta had set up for them earlier.

She watched Ember go, taking a deep breath and gathering her courage as she turned back to Cassian, his focus still on his own plate as she straightened slightly. That was it, she was tired of this silence between them. If he was mad at her, fine, but she refused to let this argument fester between them any longer instead of talking about it.

"Go ahead." She finally said to him making Cassian's head lift in response, his eyes still flared with the fire she had seen in them earlier that day. she refused to back down from it.

"What do you want me to say Nesta? That I'm upset? You know I am, but somehow I doubt you care.”

"What was it about my decision that made you so angry? Even Feyre knew why i did it."

"I'm not Fyere, Nesta."

"Neither am i." Nesta argued, her hand clenching the table, "And yet when i make a decision that Feyre herself would have made, I'm punished and reprimanded for it. Why is that?"

Cassian gave her a leveled look, crossing his arms over his chest as he answered,

"I've been mad at Feyre plenty of times for throwing not just herself, but all of us in danger. You should have seen how angry I was when she decided not to tell any of us that she was High lady and decided to go with Tamlin to the Spring Court."

She briefly remembered that time, had remembered some of his anger, but mostly during that time, she had remembered him doing everything to keep her sane. Even if it meant provoking her anger in the process so she had something else to focus on then her own reality.

"Stop trying to change the subject, you owe me an explanation. I know why Rhys was mad, he's the High lord of these lands, Nyx is barely four months old and I already know he detest me, but I still can't figure out why my mate, the person who's supposed to understand me the most is angrier at me than my own brother in law is."

Cassian stood abruptly as Nesta stood up to meet him, crossing her arms over her chest. there was no way in hell that she would let him avoid this conversation. No matter how unpleasant it made both of them feel. She was tired of whatever the hell was happening between the two.

"You want to know why I'm pissed at you, why I'm furious that you gave it to that-that female." Cassian spewed out stepping closer to her so there was no space between them.

"I'm here waiting for an explanation aren't I?" She pressed.

"You are the most infuriating female I have ever met, you know that?"

She gave a low laugh at that,

"In that way we're evenly matched."

She expected lot of things, for him to yell at her some more or for him to walk away, she did not expect him to pull her in, whined his hands in her hair, and press his lips to hers.

She met his furious kisses, stroke for stroke, taking her own fury at him out in her kiss as they battled for dominance. He pulled away, leaving her breathless but still tilted her face up to meet that fire in his eyes as he breathed out,

"I'm angry, because that female had the audacity to ask my mate for a favor after she had already put your life in danger. I'm angry because the woman I love, put her life and safety at risk to help save others who would not do the same for her. I'm angry because-"

"Did you just say that you love me?" Nesta questioned, his declaration catching her off guard as he breathed pausing in his expiation blinking in confusion.

"Of course I did. You're my mate, why wouldn't I-"

He paused considering, contemplating their time together. the words he had uttered to her in their love making, she knew he loved her, had felt it in his kiss, in the fierceness of how he showed it to her, but she had never heard him utter it out loud, not until this very moment.

"I'm an asshole." He finally admitted, sorrow and regret in his eyes and a hint of shame. "I'm a selfish, cowardice, asshole, and some days I do not deserve you."

She closed the very narrow distance between them, standing on tip toes to press her lips to his, her hands gently caressing his face as he kissed her back with the desire of a thousand universes.

"I love you too." She whispered, losing herself in his strong embrace, her lover, her best friend, her mate.

"I should have said it sooner." He whispered to her in between their urgent kisses.

"The past is the past, Cassian. I'd rather live in the here and the now, for however long the Mother and The universe gives us, I want you by my side."

He grasped her hand, intertwining their fingers as he said,

"I wouldn't want it any other way, Nesta Archeron."

She smiled, capturing his lips once more as she mused,

"We should take this to the bedroom that way you can show me how much you love me."

She felt his smile between their kiss as he lifted her up in his arms, a giggle escaping her as he grinned,

"I thought you'd never ask."

@sjmromanceweek

[smartzelda]

Sorry guys I gotta speak my truth on this one

I'm not kidding when I say that I think that blaming shit media literacy from fans on shipping/shippers avoids the actual root of the problem to throw people you can easily throw under the bus (simply because it's not unpopular to consider people who post about ships or ship characters in media as having lesser or derivative tastes by default)

And here's why.

I think when you blame people who are "shippers" or "consume media through shipping lenses", the true root of it all is a mindset problem.

In actually, putting on shipping lenses can be helpful when trying to analyze a piece of media. When analyzing media you're supposed to approach it through a number of mindsets and put on different lenses (both to deepen your personal understanding of the media, and to pick it apart and see what you can find there (whether intentional or not on the author's part)), and different ships can be some of those lenses

When it comes to ships between main characters (for those who are genuinely willing to see what the narrative is showing with their relationship and what it's doing), there are times when analyzing it from a shipping lens may be helpful. As someone from KH fandom, I have seen people come to deeper understandings and pick canon apart in the process of analyzing a relationship that is genuinely integral to the story (platonic or not). I've also seen people get into rarepairs of characters who barely interact or who just suffer little screen time, and I've seen them come to better understandings of those side characters and how they potentially fit into the world of the media simply because people are now focusing on these characters and how they fit into the narrative.

Frankly, I resent the idea that the only way to truly objectively analyze a piece of media is by turning off the part of your brain that gets excited over relationships and individual characters. Don't get me wrong, that is a way to approach a piece of media and a valid one at that, but the truth is that we cannot be free of bias.

For instance, I was watching House MD with my parents circa last year. At some point I started heavily tuning into what was going on with House and Wilson's relationship. My parents, on the other hand, were largely watching casually. They're not thinking of character relationships or getting heavily invested in most characters, they're watching because they like watching. One of them in particular did try to analyze things that were happening in the show as they happened. However, when it came to the scene late in the series where House threw out Dominika's letter approving her American citizenship, my parents could understand that he was doing that because he didn't want her to leave, but not much beyond that. I ended up explaining to them that House's fake marriage for Dominika was an explicit parallel to when Wilson was living with House in the early seasons. Both situations started with House being none too happy about it but ultimately letting them stay, spending a considerable amount of effort getting them to leave/getting this situation to be finally over so he didn't have to deal with it anymore, and then by the time a piece of news comes through that would mean the person in question actually leaves, House hides this news as long as he can. Because he doesn't actually want them to leave and has grown attached. And by doing this he became a self fulfilling prophecy. By reacting to the truth of Wilson and Dominika leaving him the way he does, he seals his fate and they ultimately leave anyways. Maybe I ship Hilson, but becoming open to how their relationship was handled allowed me to transition to doing character studies and recognizing patterns/parallels that I wouldn't have noticed if I didn't particularly care about the characters or their relationship.

Likewise, I've seen mutuals complain about how people who don't like or don't care about certain characters often overlook these characters (what they're actually like and their place in the narrative), while the mutuals in question (by default) are able to come to deeper understanding of what the writers/story is trying to do because they care about this funky guy

You can't eradicate bias when you're engaging in media analysis, but you can consciously put on a range of lenses and observe the media through different povs with the goal of understanding the media better or bolstering your reading of it. And those lenses/povs can include focusing on specific relationships or the perpective of certain characters

And this is why I say it's actually a mindset problem. Shippers and people who have this one blorbo they like a lot aren't inherently terrible "fandom brained individuals" who are the root of media analysis problems. The problem only arises when people's readings/analysis of a piece of media are inherently restrictive/narrow and self centered. Your problem is with people who view a piece of media through a ship they like but don't keep an open mind about it, and whose "media analysis"/views on canon cannot be split from fanon and their comfortability levels. These are the people whose "media analysis" starts and ends with justifying their fanon as canon, whose views on media revolve around sorting characters and relationships into categories they personally enjoy rather than trying to understand what's going on.

Here's another example.

Here we have a fictional ship we'll call uhhhh...Blanebin. this fictional ship I made up on the spot for characters that don't exist named Blane and Corbin

Person A is super into Blanebin. They're part of the main cast of characters and canonically childhood best friends, so person A (as much as they enjoy fanart and fic) is also enjoying analyzing how narratively important to each other they are. Recently, Corbin started dating another character in canon, but Person A is enjoying watching how Blane is reacting to this. "Is this potentially a tell that Blane is jealous or is having complicated feelings about this? What if he was, how would that contextualize his behavior this season? Here's what I think based on how Blane dealt with explicit jealousy last season in a different situation". It's not impossible that person A is still missing further understanding due to their obsession with Blanebin, but at the end of the day this obsession has allowed them to start picking through the characters both in and outside this relationship. It has allowed them to see potential subtext and theorize on what might happen next with these characters' relationship. Not to mention that with addition of Corbin dating someone else, instead of trying to erase this fact or state that Corbin canonically isn't into that person, Person A is trying to factor in how Corbin's current dating life affects his relationship with Blane (irregardless on personal views on the nature of Corbin's relationship with the person he's dating).

Person B is also super into Blanebin. They really enjoy fanart and fic of the characters, love obsessing over their moments together, and just feel like there's really something between the characters. To person B, every moment between them is just further proof that the writers are ship teasing them. But Corbin getting together with someone else this season? Oh that pissed person B off. They cannot believe that even though Corbin and Blane are CLEARLY gay for each other the writers had Corbin get with someone else this season. Perhaps, they think, it was even a decision specifically made to spite fans. How evil of the writers to tease a perfectly good ship and then have them not get together first? They must have been just doing those teases to get views from Blanebin shippers those scoundrels. To Person B, since Corbin started dating someone when he obviously has some chemistry with Blane (even though the series is far from over) means that Blanebin can never get together now and Corbin x person he's dating is ruining Blanebin by existing. In fact, they think, this is terrible writing for Corbin to be dating someone else because they don't like that relationship and don't see the point. Obviously if the writers were good then Corbin would have started dating Blane instead because this was supposed to be the Blanebin show.

Person C despises Blanebin. Don't get them wrong, they've always enjoyed the character's childhood friendship, but they actually have always thought Blane would have been better off with Victoria. They have a lot of moments too! But they're tired of seeing people ship Blanebin. Corbin just got together with someone else, so obviously that's not gonna work out. Plus Corbin and Blane totally has always given person C bro vibes. In fact, person C thinks, sure Corbin and Blane have a close friendship, but people shouldn't be shipping them. Person C likes Blanetoria and Blanetoria can't be canon if Corbin is in the way of it. So Person C likes to read Blanebin as siblings anyways. Sure they're canonically friends, but obviously their friendship turned into brotherhood. This means that nothing can be in the way of Blanetoria and Corbin can keep dating the person he's already canonically dating. Actually, now Blanebin just straight up makes Person C uncomfortable. Don't the pesky shippers understand that Blanebin are sibling coded because they're childhood best friends and that they're important to each other because they're brothers? It's obvious to anyone with eyes.

Sure, ships are involved here, but is the root of this problem shipping? Character A isn't as knowledgeable of other characters in the plot due to this lens they're using, but at the end of the day they're dedicated to analysis. Their love of the characters is pushing them beyond what they like or dislike to try to understand what might be happening through their lens. Not perfect, but they are slowly broadening their horizons. But Person B and C's problems here are their restrictiveness. What is or should be canon to them is tantamount to what they personally like or find comfortable. Is person C actually analyzing the this fake show when they decide to "read" Blanebin as basically canonically siblings (and this all of their moments are totally a bro thing) just because they don't like Blanebin and the idea of them getting together over Blanetoria makes them uncomfortable? Is person B actually analyzing this fake show when their "analysis" of Blanebin goes only as far as asserting it's being ship teased and deciding anything short of canonizing Blanebin is a targeted attack or "bad writing" because it's not what they wanted personally to happen?

This is what I'm talking about. This is the mindset. Shipping isn't the problem. The problem is when people marry fanon and canon to the point where they have a vested interest in superimposing their fanon over canon as "a reading" and trying to make "collective decisions" on what is canon (or what canon is trying to say) based on what does or doesn't make them uncomfortable. The problem is people being restrictive and centering their own likes and dislikes in the conversation, so they can only interact with canon "analysis" wise by deciding what is canon or should be canon "as obviously agreed on by everyone". You can't simply claim you like media analysis. To be able to analyze media and bolster your views on any given canon, you must be open to looking at it through multiple povs, to studying characters without trying to pretend things you don't like don't exist or do like do exist. There is a balance that must be kept between trying to keep objectivity and putting on specific focus/bias based upon the lenses you're putting on. You have to be willing to try to figure out what a media is doing or saying, not saying you're trying to figure out what it's saying while in actuality trying to define the narrative around what people believe it's saying in ways that suit you.

Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

[possamble]

I'm not allowed to be on social media for more than two seconds today but I just wanted to say that Laios will absolutely have his own reaction to all this as someone who would die for Falin but has also imprinted on Marcille as his Emotional Support Comphet White Girl Not-Girlfriend along the way

[spacedlexi]

the way the ericson group were at the outbreak just a bunch of troubled kids who made various mistakes or committed crimes and were judged by a system that punished and abandoned them instead of giving them the support and love they needed, are then nearly a decade later put into a situation where now they must judge a troubled child for the mistakes and crimes hes committed against them. and 5 to 3 vote them out 😭

[arkiwii]

very sad still see the saria/silence divorce headcanon still going around

have you ever tried to consider that they never dated before lone trail because it would be unrealistic with the timeline and the events and also because it would be overshadowing the actual truth of why they couldn't get along

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

In The Care of Magic

cozy erotica novella

the only witch in a small town of humans who regularly use her services but are ungrateful goes to her cottage in the woods to get away for a bit

she comes across an interesting book in her library and decides to summon a sex demon to relax, and after a few days they also start to become friends

bi MC, aro agender LI

Blessed By The Cupid Distribution System

romance/erotica novella

follows a woman feeling lonely and left out on valentine’s day who wishes to experience a relationship

and a cupid on her first free assignment - who hears her wish and offers to find her a potential date, or they could spend the day together

and then they spend the day together. etc.

trans demisexual MC

[aceredshirt13]

gang i have to share this P. G. Wodehouse quote with you all because ever since I found it I can't stop thinking about it. it's from a letter he wrote when he was 78 years old to his friend Guy Bolton (many thanks to P. G. Wodehouse: A Life in Letters)

I have been on the sick list myself, but am better now. Inflamed bladder or chill on the bladder or something, the symptoms being agony when I passed water, as the expression is. It brought back the brave old days when I used to get clap.

he really said "yeah the pain from my bladder issue reminds of the days when I used to have so much sex I repeatedly got venereal disease"

[seaweedstarshine]

Sometimes I think of Amy Pond, who grew up being called mad by those who wielded the word as a tool of exclusion and shame —

Amy Pond, who though forced into the hands of four psychiatrists, still clung to that which they called madness until those systems which elevate psychosocial conformity above humanity stripped it from her —

Amy Pond, whose imaginary friend reappeared for a single hour after twelve years and reignited that faith before disappearing for two more years —

Amy Pond, who spent those those two years under the same implicit threat ingrained in her through psychiatric violence, and thus began to believe the man who stopped the invasion was “just a madman with a box,” only for him to agree, and to also call her “mad, impossible Amy Pond,” reframing madness as non-negative for the first time in her life —

Amy Pond, who ignored the disembodied voice of her imaginary friend even as she ran away with him for real, who still lived each day with the traumatic internalization of deviancy dictated upon her by the psychiatric-industrial complex that shaped her from childhood —

Amy Pond, who wouldn't acknowledge the Doctor's voice, such that it took an Angel in her eye that was literally killing her to ensure she couldn't reality check herself —

Amy Pond, who stood before a room which muttered about “the psychiatrists we brought her to,” and though afraid, escaped their rigid parameters of acceptable existence.

[lennon666]

It’s so annoying when people on tiktok keep insisting that Hey Jude is for jules lol

[bunnyboy-juice]

spent the first hour and change at work deleting some old files and am having a grand ol time laughing at myself for not realizing i was a lesbian sooner

[just-sp-in-inginthevoid]

Imagine reading a new manga and joking about it being homoerotic and then it gets explicitly stated that one of the protags is gay

If I don't see any weird romance blossom between those two istg-

[skrunksthatwunk]

why the fuck did i write about birds this fucking sucks. i just found out birds only sleep for a few minutes at a time, hundreds of times a day. do you know what this is going to do to my structure? the logistics of their road trip? this is already like three days late and i've been fighting for my life to get A Plot Like Any Plot That Makes Sense out and now the birds fucking sleep for 5 minutes at a time.