#darling i'm in love

[nmixxgifs]

A break in the wall, Yet your true identity still escapes to stick out Fear resists you from daring to step outside You shine, but you believe the dark defends you Either deep underground or under your bed, Hides the side of you that I love Because you think everyone hates that black sheep I'm fed up, annoyed, thirsty, and lonely How much longer will you stick in there? Let's leave now. I’ll get you out of there

[moyazaika]

tbh jaded lawyer darling trying to save yan crime kingpin from getting his ass thrown into prison for life — yet again.

he’s lingering at the court’s steps, entertaining the news reporters with a dazzling smile, the entire world waiting with bated breath to see whether this is the day his billion dollar criminal empire comes crumbling down—

“the whole world knows you did it!”

“are you ashamed of yourself?”

“do you really think you’ll walk away a free man after today?”

that gets his attention.

“darling, don’t ‘ya worry about me,” he turns to the journalist, and tilts his head to the side, pulling out his lollipop from between those lips, curled in a sly grin. “i ain’t gotta worry ‘bout no fuckin’ laws when i got the world’s best damn lawyer on my side.”

a young man, then. thick glasses and braces on his teeth. far too thin and lanky, for all his balls of steel as he speaks up. “are you implying that your lawyer is an accessory to your crimes? a corrupt lawyer for a guilty man on his way to the gallows?”

he hears you approach before he can think to respond. the familiar, expensive echo of the dress shoes he’d bought you the first time you’d won a case, before you’re there where he thinks you belong; right by his side.

“alleged crimes,” you correct, and your kingpin turns to greet you with a million dollar smile. “now, my client will not be taking any more questions. kindly, fuck off.”

cameras flash instantly and countless more mics are shoved into his pretty face, still mesmerised by you, even when you grab him by the back of his collar (unironed, you notice with absolute dismay) and pull him inside, away from prying eyes.

“you’re being tried for sixteen drug and weapons counts,” you hiss, digging your newly manicured nails into his skin, as you pull the lollipop he’s sucking on right out of his mouth with a wet ‘pop’ and toss it to the side, seething. “when will you fucking get serious!”

he only dumbly stares back at you with a slack jaw, and stars in his eyes. his voice dips an octave lower, deep in his throat when he speaks. “oh, i could get very serious if you wanted to give me a kiss. or, y’know, maybe you could act as a replacement to that sweet lollipop of mine ‘ya just—oh, fuck!”

when you stride into the courtroom later, in your neat, pressed suit and slicked back hair, nobody dares ask why the infamous ‘alleged’ crime lord is following after you with a bruise blossoming on cheeks that flush a deep, deep scarlet.

-

the judge announces the jury's verdict, and you don’t even look up from the documents you’re perusing when he’s found ‘not guilty’ in a court of law, yet again—

“jesus fuckin’ christ, i knew you were gonna save me!” your kingpin jumps up from where he’s sitting besides you, pressing his face into your shoulder as he breathes you in with an elated, shuddering breath. “can’t even imagine which ditch i’d be rottin’ in without ‘ya, sweet pea.”

“excuse me, sir.” you pry his hands off you with a detached air of reservation you reserve for when the two of you are in public, but the way your knuckles are white when you gather the countless files and papers of yours scattered on your desk tell him everything he needs to know about how pissed you are. “hands off.”

he knows he’s in for it when the two of you get home, and yet, he looks forward to the sight.

it’s always more… exciting than it should be; when you’ve got him shoved right up against a well, going off about how ‘irresponsible’ and ‘immature’ he is, nails leaving his skin bleeding from how deep you sink them into his body, too caught up in your own irritation to notice or, honestly, care.

and maybe, he thinks, as he follows you out, tonight he’ll go pay a visit to someone after you’re done with him.

a man’s got needs, y’know?

he’s high off the rush of his latest win when he walks up the porch steps hours later. it's really only the latest achievement in a long line he attributes solely to you and your efforts.

he’ll make sure to repay you one day, with all you’ve done for him. he’ll take such good care of you; let you do whatever you wanted to him, as a token of his appreciation for how hard you've worked to keep him on the streets he rules and out of the prisons he knows he belongs in.

in fact, his efforts start right here and right now; on the steps of a nice, suburban house, that belongs to the journalist with thick glasses and braces and a wiry frame. the white picket fence and 'keep off the grass' sign do little to deter the man outside. then again, the poor bastard could have had gates of iron, and he still would have found a way to creep inside.

he never knew being a journalist paid so well. shit, maybe he should’ve gone down this path instead of, y’know, running a criminal empire. this bastard's got balls of steel, for what he had the nerve to say about you. but it’s okay! hey! he’s here to take care of it for you!

you don’t ever need to find out what he’s done in your name. ♡

he’s very adamant about this, choosing to see the job to completion all alone, slinking away from your critical, watchful gaze—only once he’s made sure you’re knocked out by watching you sleep, crouched by your bedside, for a few hours—to make sure the problem’s all taken care of.

the kingpin rings the doorbell, and patiently waits for the door to open with his scarred hands held behind his back. there’s a glock in his left back pocket, and a silencer in the right. a swiss army knife curled in his fingers, because he’s always been creative.

yeah, can you believe that? his teachers used to tell him he would make a great artist one day. and he is, he likes to think. only that his canvases are a little less traditional, and not in the banksy way. you know how it is! life imitates art... or some hippie shit like that.

there's no rules in art for what you can paint with, right? or what surfaces you can carve up into pretty shapes...

and so, when the lock clicks open, and the handle turns, it’s exactly like he said; a man’s got needs!

so sue him! really, so what if his needs mean his heavy hands are clamping over the journalist’s mouth, twisted into a silent scream—

so what if he knocks the smaller man back, a fist flying to his face, those wide eyes and all, slack jaw stupidly hanging open in disbelief—

so what if he shoves him inside and kicks the door behind them shut?

your kingpin knows what comes with the life he chose, and sullying his name is one thing—but nobody gets to drag your name through the dirt and live.

he makes sure of that, personally.

-

“where did you go last night?” you ask, not taking your eyes off the weekly newspaper in your hands. there, on the front page, a greyscale photo of you and your headache of a client, descending the court’s steps after the verdict. “and why didn’t you ask for my permission before you left?”

the headline, in big, bold letters, splashed above the picture; INTERNATIONAL OUTRAGE AS INFAMOUS DRUG LORD EVADES LAW YET AGAIN. SHADY LAWYER TO BLAME?

“just takin’ out the trash, lovely. don’t you worry ‘yer pretty little mind about it.” as he says that, he abandons his own breakfast, suddenly snatching the paper out of your hands and ripping it up, but not before noting the name of the article’s author, tucking it away for later.

shreds of the weekly paper you hadn't even gotten to read yet fall to the floor, fluttering this way and that. you close your eyes and smile. “haha. funny. well, my ‘pretty little mind’ is telling me to throw the coffee in my hands all over you.”

“tryna mark me up?” he purrs, “if you really wanna wake me up, can i suggest somethin’ else ‘ya could throw at me? or on me, really. but—”

“i’m going to kill you in your sleep, one of these days.” you deadpan, turning back to your food. he’s like a little kid, and you’re not about to indulge him by giving him the attention he so desperately wants from you.

“'yer serious??" he grins, hands flying to his face in elation, a curious blush colouring his skin a deep pink. “you mean you actually wanna step into my bedroom— at night— of 'yer own damn will?“

you take another sip of your coffee, fingers trembling around the cup. don’t throw it at him it’s what he wants don’t throw it at him it’s what he wants don’t throw it at him it’s what—

“damn... guess i should start sleeping naked, then.”

extra; what if darling was a prosecutor instead?

[ozzgin]

The wonderful wizard Ozz. I have had this concept stuck in my head like a worm!

Could you imagine a Darling escaping from their Yan, not to run but just to feel the rain on their skin? I've been consuming this prompt like a heroin addict and I can't seem to get enough!

If I were to expand your prompt, I quite like the idea of a Yandere that can't really go full yandere because Reader is just too willing. He loves yandere content and can very much relate, but none of the escalations can happen if, well, the object of his obsessive affection doesn't protest in the first place. Is it too far fetched from what you'd imagined? Let me elaborate:

Yandere! Male x Willing! Reader

AKA: When you want to be a Yandere, but your Darling unfortunately cooperates.

The Yandere has been stalking Darling for months. Journal entries, walls plastered with photos (and the occasional creepshots), recordings. He just can't get enough of his Darling. He loves everything about you and can barely function throughout the day, fantasizing about your life together.

Enough is enough and he finally decides to make you his. He's been consuming media of similar tropes, with obsessed men pleading for a chance and having to force their way in because of rejection and fear. He's prepared for everything. Your tears, your trembling voice, your hands pushing him away. He finds you, approaches you and confesses his feelings, knuckles white as he grips his fists in anticipation. Your eyes widen for a moment, before narrowing in a smile. "I had no idea! Sure, I'll go out with you." Huh? Wait. This wasn't...this wasn't in the plan. Somehow he'd been certain you'd refuse. He must've mumbled the last part out loud, because you respond with "Why would I say no?"

A very good point indeed. You will change your mind, however, once you learn the extent of his love. You're holding his hand and following along as he takes you to his place, completely and utterly unaware of what you're about to witness. He can't truly be your boyfriend if he has to hide his very nature, after all. You might be disgusted, frightened, offended. He can already hear your screams, demanding explanations. It's all out of love. "It's okay if you don't understand", he mumbles to himself, watching your frozen body as you gaze into his room. You take a couple of steps towards the nearest wall, tracing the hundreds of images with your fingers. "Wow. You never mentioned being into photography", you remark, impressed. "It's like an exhibition! But...you might have to work on your angles", you blurt out, a little embarrassed, pointing to one of the creepshots. "This isn't very flattering. Did you take it in a hurry? It makes my legs look disproportionate." He can only stare, taken aback. "S-sorry" is all he manages.

Okay, but don't imagine your life will continue as usual. You've only seen a glimpse of his adoration. Now that you're officially dating, he cannot allow anyone else to have access to you. You have to understand, he cannot protect you properly if you're not under his watch all the time. As much as he cherishes you, he will have to be rough if needed. That's what he tells himself as he shoves the required tools in the trunk of his car, speeding towards your apartment. Once there, he fidgets on the sofa, considering his speech. You seem to be just as uneasy - perhaps you're predicting what's to come? - casting your eyes down and giving short answers. "I think you should move in with me." He states solemnly. You gasp and throw a hand over your mouth, and tears quickly well in the corner of your eyes. "How did you...how did you know?" You say between sobs. Huh? "I didn't want to burden you with my problems, seeing as we just started dating...but my landlord won't renew the lease. I was so scared I'd be homeless."

He clicks his tongue. This isn't very yandere, more like the average couple experience. You bring the final moving box to his car, fitting it in the trunk. "By the way, what's with all the rope?" you ask. "Just move it aside", he sighs. How can he explain it? He's been training, sweating and bleeding for a marathon and right before the whistle, they handed him the first prize. His muscles are aching for the sprint that never happened. Of course he's grateful to have you at last, but somehow he feels like he hasn't proven his dedication properly. You just don't get it, do you? How sickening his love is for you.

As the days pass, he eases into his role of...how does one even call it? Pseudo-captor? When you found his journal, you blushed and confessed how no one before him put this amount of effort into knowing you. All the male contacts from your phone vanishing? It was about time you cleaned up your acquaintances and it was nice of him to help. The AirTags he's hidden in your bags and pockets? You appreciate his safety concerns. Nowadays, with all these perverts freely walking the streets, you can never be too sure.

One morning he wakes up to an empty bed. He jolts up, dazed. Could it be his wish was finally granted? You must've gotten tired of him and tried to escape. Oh, silly little Darling love. You should've known there's no more walking out once you said yes. He checks his phone and pounces out, ready for the hunt. As he sprints along the street, he finds you suspiciously close to his home. Not very smart of you to...what are you even doing? Your hands are raised up, fingers fanned out under the pouring rain. You notice his presence and turn to face him with a wide, childish grin. "I haven't done this since I was a child. When was the last time you felt the rain on your skin?" Only now it occurs to him he's been running in this downpour and his clothes are soaked. He was too focused on finding you.

"I thought you escaped", he almost whispers. "Escape? From what?" You tilt your head in confusion. He places his cold, large hands over your cheeks. "Do you comprehend I'm very much obsessed with you? I'm not joking around. You're never, ever leaving me. You're stuck here forever. I mean it. I really do. I'd rather kill you with my own hands than let you go. Because I love you." You take a moment to admire the intricate patterns of his irises, pupils dilated in a spiraling madness. By the end of his erratic oration, he's panting and digging his nails into your skin.

"I know."

[pupcha]

guess who 😈

and I have this art with beta—

I also have a lot of sketches that I hope to finish in the near future (don't pay attention to the fact that there're a lot of Howdy here....)

(hum)beta!Wally (eechy pspsps 🫴)

I don't know what else to show you, so I'll show you (the old ones) art for my mutual :]

Margo for @//thelone-copper ; (I don't know his name 😔🥄🥄🥄) for @//dxkjf

[sketchy-tour]

Blame eechytooru for Beta Wally taking up so much free real estate in my mind. And blame work for as to why I am posting...MORE sketches. But! These were some Wally practice cause I'm never happy with how I draw him but also just...ya know. *Gestures to the art

Anyway. Beta Wally am I right? Yea??? Yea....

....Yea

[clarionglass]

here we go :) part one of three, updates to be released weekly!

---

sam says 4 (game master cinematic universe, part 3)

Ruby was at her mum's for a family dinner she couldn't miss on pain of death, apparently, and the Doctor was many things, but a family dinner kind of guy wasn't one of them—particularly when Carla had already slapped him once in the short time he'd known her. He thought he'd broken his streak of bad luck with mums, but… well, seemingly not. So he was companionless for a few hours, and while he could wait for her to get back, maybe catch up on his reading—what was the point of waiting when you had a time machine? 

He ran his hands over the TARDIS console, marvelling at her clean lines and metallic flourishes, the way that even now she felt brand new but familiar, and paused. He’d just pop off for a quick adventure, nothing too dangerous, but—where to go?

He could scan for a distress call nearby, and pitch in to help. He could drop in on Donna and Shaun and Rose, beautiful Rose, and see how they were all doing. Or he could just hit the randomiser button, and jump in feet first wherever he ended up.

He remembered a conversation from a long time ago, when he wore a different face, and his gorgeous TARDIS wore a face too, for the first and only time.

“You didn't always take me where I wanted to go.”

“No, but I always took you where you needed to go.”

He grinned. Who could resist an offer like that? He pressed the button and whooped as the time rotor spun into action, ready to see where the universe would take him.

---

Apparently, he was needed pretty close to where he already was. Earth, 2024. Huh. Same planet, same time—within a few months of where he’d left Ruby, even. The main thing that had changed was the location: he was now in the good old US of A. California, to be more specific, and Los Angeles to be more specific still. And to really narrow it down, the Doctor discovered as he poked his head out of the TARDIS doors, he was in… a broom closet. Not bad, as a parking spot—a bit squeezy, but out of the way. And as he poked his head out of that door, he could finally see he was in the backstage corridors of a studio of some kind. Film or TV, if he was to hazard a guess, it was a different vibe from Abbey Road.

With a shrug, he decided to go exploring.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute before a young woman wearing the full-black outfit, headset, and permanently stressed expression of a production assistant came running up to him.

“Are you the fill-in Sam organised?” she asked breathlessly, and honestly, seeing the look on her face, the Doctor didn’t have the heart(s) to tell her no. And really, what was the Doctor, if not a professional fill-in? This, this was why he had a randomiser button on the control panel, because whatever he was about to get himself into was going to be fun.

“Sure!”

“Oh, thank god,” sighed the production assistant, relief dawning across her face. “When Ally tested positive this morning, I thought we were sunk for the record, because we called around and we couldn’t get a hold of anyone. But then Sam said he could get someone in, and, you know, here you are, and just in time, so—ah, yeah, if you could follow me this way?”

Smiling all the way, the Doctor followed his guide through to hair and makeup, looking around as they went. The studio seemed to belong to a company called Dropout, according to the branding scattered around, and things seemed, at least on the surface, to be… well. Fine. He couldn't tell why he'd been brought here yet, which meant that when he found the reason, it was going to be particularly tangled. He couldn't wait! 

And then he looked back at his guide, still engulfed in a miasma of anxiety, and realised he'd been too busy looking for clues to notice the person right in front of him. 

“Hey, it's cool, you've found me,” he started with a gentle smile. “You can relax. Hi, I'm the Doctor. What's your name?”

“Oh!” she said, startled. “The Doctor, yeah, of course. Um, hi, I'm Kaylin. Look, sorry, it's just that I've been so busy this morning, I'm so distracted… Shit, and I would've completely forgotten to get your details too. There's paperwork to fill in, but you can do that later. Um, just for now, though, can I get your pronouns?”

The Doctor thought for a moment. “He/him, for now.”

Kaylin nodded, making a note on her phone. “Okay, cool! And do you have any socials?”

“Not me, babes,” he replied. “I'm hardly sitting down long enough to be able to update, you know?”

“On a day like this, I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “That's okay, Lou didn't have socials either for the longest time. Right, so if you go through there, the team will get you sorted, and once you're done, someone will take you up to the greenroom. All good?”

“All great,” the Doctor replied. Kaylin flashed him a quick, relieved smile, then hurried off.

Hair and makeup was a fairly quick process, the sound mixer fitted him with a microphone, and before too long, Kaylin was back to take him upstairs. 

“This is the greenroom,” she said, pushing the door open. “The rest of the cast for the episode are already here—they’re great guys, and they’ve both been on the show a lot, so they’ll be able to help if you’ve got questions. And if you need anything else, just come find me or any of the other PAs, okay?”

The Doctor nodded, beamed at Kaylin, and walked in.

---

The greenroom was small but comfortable, and its occupants, two men around the same age as the Doctor appeared, looked up as he entered.

“Oh, you’re new,” the taller of the pair said, clearly giving him the once-over.

The other sighed with a mixture of fondness and exasperation, just as clearly used to his friend’s antics.

“Hey, I’m Brennan,” he said, levering himself up to standing from his perch on a chair arm, and holding out a hand. “That’s Grant.”

The Doctor took it warmly. “The Doctor. Just passing through, and happy to help.”

Grant’s eyebrows quirked. “Doctor… something?” he prompted.

“Or is it just ‘the Doctor’?” Brennan asked.

“Just ‘the Doctor’,” the Time Lord confirmed cheerfully. “You’ll get used to it, everyone does.”

Grant didn’t look convinced, but—

“Copy that,” Brennan shrugged, and settled back on the arm of the chair, returning his gaze to the door.

Grant, in turn, looked at the Doctor and rolled his eyes in a clear expression of ‘no, I don’t know why he’s like this, either’.

“Okay,” the Doctor said after a moment of watching the watching. “I wasn’t going to ask, but now I think I have to. What’s up with the door?”

Brennan huffed a laugh. “Well, the last time there was one of those up—” he pointed to the Out of Order sign stuck to the bathroom door, “—we got locked in here for the game.”

“He’s paranoid,” Grant interjected.

“Well, yeah, maybe,” Brennan retorted. “Or just cautious. Because Sam’s been acting weird lately, and we’re coming up to the last few records of the season, so he’s probably planning something way out of the box for the finale. And the original cast was you, me and Beardsley, so…”

He shrugged one shoulder meaningfully, and Grant nodded, conceding both the point and the potential for chaos.

“So if Sam comes in to give us the briefing, rather than waiting til we’re on set,” Brennan continued, “or there’s anything else weird going on, I’m gonna know about it right from the beginning.”

He turned to the Doctor. “The only reason I'm not quizzing you is because I know for a fact Beardsley was genuinely scheduled for this, so you can't be a plant by the production team. No offence.”

“None taken,” the Doctor smiled. “That sort of thing happen often, does it?”

Grant and Brennan exchanged a look. 

“More than you'd think,” Grant answered with a grimace. 

“Alright,” the Doctor said slowly, then brightened. “So what is it we're actually doing?”

Grant gave him a disbelieving glance. “You don't know—?”

“Very last minute fill-in,” the Doctor said breezily. “But don't worry, I'm a quick study.”

“Well, you're not that much worse off than the rest of us,” Brennan said encouragingly. “You know about Game Changer, obviously, if you know Sam, and we only find out the rules of the game once we get on set. Hopefully,” he added, with a dark look back at the Out of Order sign. 

The Doctor nodded. No, he didn't know Sam, and he didn't know Game Changer, but he could work out the situation from context clues. This was a game show. And with the Toymaker banished, and Satellite Five not coming into existence for another 198000 years, give or take, he found himself smiling. Maybe third time would be the charm. 

“Mmm, hopefully they aren't going to throw you in the deep end,” Grant said. “Because Brennan might seem lovely now, but as soon as we get out there, he's a whore for points. He'll stab you in the back and won't even blink.”

Brennan barked with laughter. “Yeah, and you wouldn't?”

“Excuse you, I'm always a goddamn delight,” Grant replied, the very picture of injured dignity. 

“Oh, absolutely!” agreed a new voice. The Doctor turned to the now-open door to see a bearded man in a pinstriped suit smiling broadly. “That's why we keep inviting you back!”

Grant bowed sarcastically. “Why, thank you, Sam. Good to know I'm appreciated by someone here.”

“Always,” Sam replied, gently but firmly ending that particular path of the conversation. He scanned the room, and his eyes lit up when they landed on the Doctor. 

“Ah, you must be the Doctor!” he said with obvious delight, walking over with his hand outstretched. “I'm Sam—thanks for filling in for us, you've made sure we're going to have a good show. Seriously, it's a pleasure to have you here.”

“Aw, cheers!” the Doctor smiled, shaking the offered hand. “Glad I could help out, I'm really looking forward to this!”

“Well, great!” Sam exclaimed, then took a step back, regarding all three players in turn. “Now, folks, I'm just letting you know that we're just about ready to start the record, so if you can start heading down, that'd be great.”

Grant and Brennan nodded—Brennan, the Doctor noticed, with relief. 

“See you down there,” Sam said, smiling. “Have a great show, and—”

His eyes caught on the Doctor's for a second, twinkling. 

“Good luck.”

---

Backstage, the Doctor, Brennan and Grant were marshalled into podium order and given a final briefing from the crew. And then, with a thumbs-up from Kaylin, that was it.

Showtime.

“Get ready for a Game Changer!” came Sam's voice from onstage. “Tonight’s guests: he can shoot off a monologue with laser accuracy; it’s Brennan Lee Mulligan!”

Brennan, his back to the camera as the curtains opened, spun on his heel and, with a stone-cold expression, pointed finger guns straight down the barrel, before letting the facade crack open. “Hi!” he exclaimed, and walked over to the leftmost podium.

“It’s his first appearance, but he’s already on fire; it’s the Doctor!”

The Doctor leant against the archway to the stage and flashed a broad smile towards the camera, then in a few skipping steps, had bounded over to the next free podium. What the hell, why not make an entrance?

“And even in the toughest of mazes, you’ll always be able to find him; it’s Grant O’Brien!”

Grant dipped his lanky frame into an approximation of a curtsey, spreading his arms wide, then sauntered over to the closest podium with a grin.

“And your host, me!” Sam announced, a ring of manic white showing around his irises as he beamed down the barrel of the camera. “I’ve been here the whole time!”

“This,” he continued, pushing his microphone shut and stowing it in his jacket pocket, “is Game Changer, the only game show where the game changes every show. I am your host, Sam Reich!” 

As he said his name, he looked at his hands, front and back, as if he was pleasantly surprised to be himself, then gestured towards the three podiums.

“I am joined today by these three lovely contestants! Now, you understand how the game works.”

“Of course not,” Grant started. “You know we don't.”

“We can't, Sam, that's the whole point of the theatre you've set up here,” Brennan said over him. 

“Not yet,” was all the Doctor said, anticipation starting to drum a tattoo of excitement against the inside of his ribcage. 

“That’s right!” Sam said brightly, shooting finger guns at the camera. “Our players have no idea what game it is they’re about to play. The only way to learn is by playing. The only way to win is by learning, and the only way to begin is by beginning! So without further ado, let’s begin by giving each of our players fifty points.”

The Doctor, biding his time, watched the reactions of his fellow contestants. Grant looked at the front of his podium, checking the point total, and nodding approvingly when he saw that yes, it was sitting at a round fifty. Brennan, on the other hand, was starting to frown.

“Players, Sam says: touch your nose,” Sam began, and Brennan sighed the sigh of someone who wasn’t happy to be proved right.

“Oh, no,” he groaned. “Oh, you son of a bitch. Wasn’t one this season enough?”

He touched his nose anyway, as did the others, and Sam smiled encouragingly. “Sam says: touch your ear.”

When they all did, Sam nodded. “Touch your other ear.”

Everybody held still, fingers on the ears they had originally touched.

Sam beamed. “Easy, players, right?”

“You say that now,” Brennan said darkly. “Which makes it worse, because all you're doing is setting us up for failure.”

Sam gasped, pretending offence. “Would I do that?”

“Yes,” Brennan and Grant replied in unison, which drew a grin from the Doctor and set Sam off chuckling.

“And I'm not having it,” Brennan continued, leaning his elbows against his podium and pointing at Sam with the hand not touching his ear. “You better watch yourself, because I know how this game works, and you're not going to get one over on me.”

“Strong words, Brennan!” Sam said, clearly delighted by this response. “Okay, then, let's start making things a bit more interesting!”

The game continued as per Sam Says usual, some rounds done as a group and some individual. Points were won, sure, but lost slightly more frequently, and even the Doctor found he was having to concentrate to avoid getting caught in the host's traps. 

It was fun. Genuinely, it was like playing a game with friends, and the Doctor felt himself leaning into it. There wasn't any sign of danger—maybe there wasn't a mystery to solve at all, and the TARDIS just decided he needed a total break. 

Well, probably not. But the way things were going, he was able to let himself hope. 

“Alright, players,” Sam said a good few rounds in, just as pleasantly as he would start any other question, and the screen behind him dinged as a new prompt popped up. “Survive the death beam.”

For a second, everything was frozen perfectly still. 

And then came the crash, the explosive noise of heavy machinery moving relentlessly through a drywall set.

The Doctor was already moving. “Everyone down!”

“Duck!” Brennan yelled at the same time.

The two of them hit the ground within milliseconds of each other, but Grant was still paralysed in the face of the giant, science-fiction type laser cannon that had just ploughed through the wall. 

It whined ominously, screaming its way to fever pitch. And then a sharp pain in Grant’s ankle made him stagger, pitching forwards onto the carpet behind the podiums as the Doctor rolled away to avoid getting pinned.

“Sorry, babes,” the Doctor whispered. “But it was either kick you to get you down, or—”

A hideous metallic screech ripped through the air, and all three of them could feel the crackle of ozone as a beam of energy swept across what had, moments ago, been neck height.

“…Or that,” the Doctor finished with a grimace.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Grant breathed, suddenly very conscious of every inch of his 6’9 frame. “Thanks.”

“Well done, players!” Sam exclaimed delightedly from above them. “But… sorry, I didn’t say ‘Sam says’, so that’s a point off for everyone.”

“What the fuck!” Brennan snapped.

“Are you actually insane?” Grant demanded at the same time, his voice overlapping with Brennan’s.

In response, Sam just wheezed with laughter. “You can come back to your podiums,” he said, cheerfully ignoring them.

Nobody moved.

“Very good!” he acknowledged, and even without seeing his face, the grin was obvious in his voice. “Okay, Sam says: come back to your podiums.”

Although the words were innocuous, and his tone was just as light and breezy as usual, there was nevertheless an edge hiding just underneath the surface. And while the death beam loomed large in the minds of all three players, it was impossible to consider disobedience as an option.

Slowly, they stood, returning to their places. Now they had the time to look at it properly, the death beam was even more sinister, and Brennan and Grant both kept flicking nervous glances its way, ready to move if it looked like it was charging up again.

The Doctor, however, was focused purely on the man standing in front of them. Unbothered, Sam met his gaze like a challenge, a mischievous smile playing about his lips.

“Oh, you’ll love this one,” he said, and the screen changed. “Sam says, starting with Grant: say my name.”

Grant frowned in confusion, but answered quickly nonetheless. “Sam Reich?”

The man himself shrugged tolerantly, moving on. “Brennan?”

Brennan just stared at him coolly. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“Well caught, Brennan!” Sam said happily. “Sam says: say my name.”

“Sam,” Brennan replied, suspicion clear in his voice. “Samuel Dalton Reich.”

He nodded, still with a hint of indifference. “And lastly, Doctor.” His smile broadened. “Sam says: say my name.”

It was easy. Too easy. And as the Doctor looked into the eyes of the man calling himself Sam Reich, he felt his hearts stutter in recognition, because something had changed. He wasn’t hiding himself anymore, and while the face was different yet again, the Doctor would know the shape of that soul anywhere. It was impossible. It was inevitable.

“You can’t be,” he breathed. 

Sam smirked, leaning in across his podium. “Oh, but Doctor… I’ve been here the whole time,” he stage-whispered with a wink.

“He said you lost,” the Doctor said, shaking his head, looking wrong-footed for the first time that Brennan and Grant could recall. “You lost, and he trapped you.”

The other two watched, uncomprehending, but Sam just smiled, drumming his fingers against the podium with an audible beat, fast but distinct. Four taps, four taps, four taps. “I’m waiting.”

The Doctor took a slow, deep breath. Set his jaw. 

“Master.”

---

missed an installment of the game master cinematic universe?

original idea by @ace-whovian-neuroscientist: x

art by @northernfireart concept: x scissor sisters sketch: x sam and his doppelganger: x

writing by me (!) part one (escape the greenroom): x part two (deja vu): x part three (sam says 4): you are here!

[heybaetae]

maknae line + gestures of love 🫰🏼💋🫶🏼🌹🤟🏼 happy birthday @jkvjimin! ♡

[hairmetal666]

Steve doesn't date, not anymore. He goes to bars, clubs, picks people up and makes it clear it's just for the night; that it can't, won't, be for anything more.

He falls too fast and too hard; wants so badly to be loved that he loses himself to it. So, he doesn't date and he's fine. More than fine, actually. Not worrying about finding someone, about falling in love, lets him truly enjoy his life; maybe for the first time since childhood.

He goes with Robin to visit her parents in Hawkins, wakes up at the ass crack of dawn to go for a run. With the sun barely up, he doesn't expect to come face-to-face with Eddie Munson, smoking on a park bench.

They startle each other in the early Hawkins quiet, Eddie jumping hard enough that he drops his cigarette into the dirt at his feet.

"Christ, Harrington!" He snarls a little.

"Fuck, Eddie." Steve fights to catch his breath. "What are you doing out this early?"

He glances up, finds Eddie's eyes raking over this body in a way that makes him go hot all over.

"Haven't been home yet." Eddie smirks. And he can see that's true, Eddie is fully dressed, faint lines of mascara trail across his cheeks.

"Had a show?"

"Something like that." Eddie's cheeks pink, and he pulls a chunk of hair over his face.

Understanding dawns, and Steve points at him, delighted laugh bubbling in his throat.

"Don't--"

"You had an all night Hellfire meeting?" Steve cackles.

"Shut--Harrington, shut-up." But he's smiling too. "I'm in town this weekend. Dustin insisted!"

"You can tell him no, you know?" Steve giggles.

"Like you ever could."

Eddie stands then, and they hug, quick and tight. He practically crumbles into his friend's body, but then, that's nothing new. Steve breathes him in, immediately comforted by the familiarity of tobacco and leather and sweat and weed.

"I'm at Rob's. Come say hi?"

Eddie nods and they trek back together. They kept in touch, after Vecna, and their chatting is easy, like it's not been six months since the last time.

Eddie stays for breakfast tells them with a smile, "I was gonna call but--I'm moving to Chicago. That's why I'm crashing at Wayne's for now, stopped on the way--"

The rest of his words are smothered by the force of Steve and Robin's hug, Steve's heart beating an elated rhythm he doesn't bother investigating.

--

When Eddie makes it to town, they hang out as constantly as an adult with a day job and a touring musician can. It's nice, good, to see Eddie sitting on their couch. To watch him smoke a joint on the balcony. To hangout in his bed as he works on new music. It's just like the summer of '86, before they all went off to find their futures.

They're closer than they've ever been. Crashing at each other's apartments, sharing clothes, meeting for coffee and drinks and meals. There's not a day or night when they're free that they don't spend together.

Steve knows he's falling for Eddie; was halfway there already, and now--well, Eddie's beautiful and funny and smart and talented. He doesn't make a move, though. Because Eddie'll leave, like they all do, and losing Eddie will crush him more than anyone else ever has.

--

In June, Eddie's gone for a month, touring across the midwest. The day he's expected back, Steve's in the kitchen, rolling up fresh pasta, simmering sauce on the stove.

Robin stomps in, eyes flashing. "What are you doing?"

"Making dinner?" Steve raises an eyebrow.

"Steve."

"Robin."

They glare at each other across the kitchen. Steve breaks first. "What's wrong with making our friend dinner?"

"I don't want either of you to get hurt."

Steve freezes, swallows. "I'm not--I'm--I wouldn't."

"Just. Promise you'll be careful?"

He nods, squeezes his hands into fists. "Course, Rob."

And he means it, he really does, but when Eddie lets himself in, Steve runs to the doorway to pull his friend into a tight hug.

Eddie huffs out a burst of air on impact, laughing lightly. "Miss me, sweetheart?"

"So much," Steve whispers. He presses his nose into Eddie's neck, breathing him in, and he doesn't miss the way a kiss is pressed into his hair, the way Eddie's breathing him in too.

They fall into their natural rhythm immediately, Eddie following him to the kitchen, cooing and posturing that Steve made him dinner.

As Steve serves up the food, Eddie wraps his arms around his waist, leaning against his back. God help him, but Steve can't help relax into the hold, turning his head until their eyes meet.

Desire bleeds from Eddie's gaze, and Steve's breath hitches. He wants this so badly, knows he shouldn't, but he lets himself lean in until they share air.

But--he can't lose Eddie. He can't.

He turns away, lets the moment die. Eddie doesn't stay over that night, and Steve pretends like it doesn't make his stomach hurt.

--

They aren't as close after that.

Steve keeps telling himself it's because they're busy. The school year's starting up, Steve's got lesson plans to write; Eddie made an EP, it got interest, he's taking meetings in New York and LA. It's okay that they're spending less time together.

Until Eddie stops returning his calls.

He tries not to worry. But one call becomes two, becomes three, and he can't help it. He goes over, dread a knot in his stomach. Eddie opens the door, and he's shirtless with sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair loose and streaming around his shoulders. He looks happy.

"Steve? What are you--"

"You weren't answering my calls, and--can I come in?"

Eddie winces. "It's not a good time, Harrington."

He stands there for a second, stung, not sure what to say.

"Eddie, I--"

"Babe?" A voice calls from inside the apartment. "Who's at the door?"

Steve freezes. Can't think, can't move. He hopes it isn't obvious that his heart is shattering, but Eddie's blinking at him, panic written in the lines gathering on his forehead.

"Steve, Stevie, please," Eddie is saying, but he can't do this. He can't do this.

He walks away, all the way home, numb to everything around him.

The phone's ringing when he gets to the apartment. He ignores it. Goes to his room, locks himself in, crawls into bed.

The phone keeps ringing. He keeps ignoring it.

It isn't supposed to be like this. They weren't dating, weren't trying for a relationship; Eddie's supposed to be his. He curls into himself, sobs until his ribs hurt, until his eyes are as heavy as his heart, and he falls asleep.

--

Steve startles awake, disoriented, to someone knocking on his bedroom door. He has no idea what time it is, how long he slept, but he expects Robin to be waiting in the hall.

It's Eddie. Hair in a messy bun, face flushed, eyes too bright.

"I'm sorry," falls out of Steve's mouth before he can think of anything else.

"Steve, I--I don't--" Eddie shakes his head. "Do you want to be in a relationship with me?"

"Yes," Steve whispers. "But I can't lose you, Eddie."

Eddie reaches out, slender hand, cupping Steve's jaw. "I need you to really listen when I say this, sweetheart. You will never, ever lose me. Not a chance."

"You can't know that," Steve says. Tears break free, cascade down his cheeks. "I used to think who could ever leave me? You know, back before Nancy. But I realized that actually no one would stay. And I can't--with you I can't--"

"Sweetheart," Eddie chokes on a sob. "I'm yours. Have been for years. I will never, ever leave you, no matter what we are to each other. But I can't be in some of a relationship with you. You have me wrapped around your finger, and I--I need it all, Steve."

"I want you to have it, Eddie." He presses his hand to his heart. "This belongs to you, but I--I couldn't survive you leaving."

"I would stay, Steve. I will. I promise on everything I have, everything I am, that you would never, ever lose me."

Steve stumbles into Eddie's arms, totally gone, and their mouths meet in a clumsy kiss. It wrecks Steve, tears him apart, renders him down to his smallest parts only to build him back together. He knows now for certain that there is no one else in the world for him.

They break apart, but don't move out of each other's orbit. "I love you," Steve whispers.

"Stevie, sweetheart, I love you more than anything." His fingers wind their way into Steve's hair, gentle, holding him. "I promise you'll have me for forever--fuck, longer than forever. My soul will find yours wherever we end up. I swear it."

[fridgrave2-0]

hehe ghost-turbo haunting felix au

turbo is connected to the last piece of his code in the whole arcade - a trophy he gifted to felix in mid 80s as a symbol of him genuinely caring about their relationships on par with being the best racer. felix also gave him one of his medals and both kept their gifts next to other rewards, but when roadblasters and turbotime were unplugged, the medal was gone with everything else

now, after burning in cola-lava turbo is basically dead, but scraps of his code still were intertwined with the trophy (after all, it was his first winner's cup, but felix never knew about it), giving turbo an opportunity to exist as a shadow incapable of interacting with anything and anyone besides felix, who kept the trophy even after the roadblasters incident

also I went crazy in tags, feel free to check them out

[madalenadrops]

Both. Both is good.

♥️ 🧡 💛 💙

[asoftepiloguemylove]

THE SUN COMES UP AGAIN // LIVING DESPITE IT ALL

Anne Lamott Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life // José Saramago Cain // Kill Your Darlings (2013) dir. John Krokidas // Katie Maria The Memory of a Memory // Cheryl Strayed Tiny Beautiful Things // Undertale (2015) cr. Toby Fox // pinterest // SEVENTEEN: HIT THE ROAD episode 10 A Time To Face Myself (via @kwonhochi) // pinterest // カウボーイビバップ Cowboy Bebop (1988-1999) cr. Hajime Yatate // pinterest // pinterest // Mary Oliver For Example

[kimtaegis]

three superheroes, anpanman! for @sopekooks ♡

cr. jung-koook

[cordiallyfuturedwight]

bangtan boys in (black) turtlenecks, kim namjoon special edition

for @rjshope (cr. 0613data)

[darlingsodivine]

𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄!𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕!𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒂𝒃𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒂 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖

𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄!𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕!𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈- 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆

𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄!𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕!𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒖𝒑 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝒔𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒏 15 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒊𝒛𝒆 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔- 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒇𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑰𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒅, 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚'𝒗𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕?

Please, why aren’t you answering me? D-did I do something wrong? I-I’m so sorry if I bothered you before, I didn’t mean to! I'm sorry!Please, I'll do anything to make it up to you, I swear...! Please, please please!

.......

𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄!𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕!𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒇𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚'𝒅 𝒅𝒐 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖- 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕... 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆!

I- I can help you! I can buy groceries, I can run errands- I can even help you pay rent! I can't cook very well, but I'm good at cleaning! ...Please?

𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄!𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕!𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒔 𝒔𝒐 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒈𝒐 𝒂𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒐𝒑𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒎, 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆, 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈!

I-if you keep ignoring me, I... I’ll hurt myself. I’ll cut... I’ll take this knife and-and... I’ll carve your name into my skin... I swear it!

𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄!𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕!𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝒃𝒍��𝒘𝒔 𝒖𝒑 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆

𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄!𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕!𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒔 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒛𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏.

𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄!𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕!𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑾𝒉𝒐, 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒎, 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒕... 𝑨𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏

𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄!𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕!𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑾𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒈 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒊𝒕, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒖𝒏𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅, 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒓, 𝒂 𝒃𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒔𝒉𝒍𝒚.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒊𝒕.

𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄!𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕!𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑾𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒃𝒔 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒇𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒅-

𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄!𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕!𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒚𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒖𝒑. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒈𝒈𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒆𝒚𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒕, 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒑𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒅, 𝒑𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒏. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒆.

𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄!𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕!𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚'𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚'𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕,𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆, 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆, 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆, 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆, 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒂𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎!

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏'𝒕 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐.

Is this good? 😭

[rjshope]

Namseok through the years for @raplinenthusiasts ✨

+bonus:

[beanghostprincess]

me: all sanji fics are the same! it's always sanji having a breakdown over liking a man and going into an identity crisis and a spiral of internalized homophobia-

also me every time i read a sanji fic: OH MY GOD SANJI HAVING A BREAKDOWN OVER LIKING A MAN AND GOING INTO AN IDENTITY CRISIS AND A SPIRAL OF INTERNALIZED HOMOPHOBIA THIS IS SO GOOD AWKEBFNALKEWNFLKANELKN