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[piastriprincess]

somethin' stupid  ⸻  isack  hadjar  x  reader  .

featuring  isack  hadjar  ,  friends  to  lovers  ,  university  au  ,  isack  being  a  down  bad  simp  ,  very  rusty  french  and  google  translated  italian  <3 word  count  9.5k author’s  note  literally  no  one  asked  for  this  but  i’ve  been  obsessed  with  isack  lately  and  this  is  the  result  !  loosely  based  off  a  poem  i  read  a  million  years  ago  on  this  website  called '8 ways to say i love you' .  unfortunately  you  truly  never  escape  what  you  thought  was  romantic  at  age  13  !  dedicating  this  one  to  @spiderbeam —  eve  ,  thank  you  for  getting  me  into  this  man  in  the  first  place  .  i  fear  you  have  my  heart  and  all  my  isack  fics  <3  as  always  let  me  know  what  you  think  ,  it  helps  me  so  much  to  get  feedback  from  you  all  about  what  you  like  and  don’t  like  !  title  is  from  somethin’  stupid  by  frank  sinatra  .

one: spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot of whiskey you downed for courage. feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it.

Isack is forgetting something. He has to be. Because even through a hangover that feels like a jackhammer pounding directly into his skull, there is still an awful tugging in the back of his mind, like his brain is trying to remind him about something vitally important. 

He rolls over, squinting at the harsh morning light filtering through the blinds, to discover he never made it to bed. No, his face is pressed against the scratchy cushions of the living room couch, mouth dry and tasting vaguely like rum and regret. 

Rum. He blinks hard, a memory swimming up through the haze in his head — Pepe returning from his first class of syllabus week last night with a brown paper bag in hand and a devilish smile on his face. He’d claimed one of his fellow comms majors had told him if you mixed Rum Chata with Fireball, it tasted exactly like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Isack didn’t even like sweet drinks, but that was your favorite cereal, so of course he had to try it, if only so he could tell you about it the next day. 

He groans and pushes himself upright, immediately regretting the sudden movement as the room spins around him. There’s a concerning stain on the worn carpet that wasn’t there the night before, and Ollie’s shoes are swinging lazily by their laces from the ceiling fan. The thought of you is stirring something in his brain, too. You hadn’t been there the night before — despite the fact that it was the first week of class, your thermodynamics professor had assigned you a particularly vicious problem set due at midnight — but you’d wormed your way into his drunken mind anyway. It happens more often than not, he supposes. Gabi’s put together a slideshow montage of all his intoxicated rambles declaring you the most perfect girl in the world that he’s started threatening to play for you if Isack doesn’t make a move before graduation. 

He’s still thinking about you when his phone buzzes from somewhere below him. He has to dig through the couch cushions, shoving aside loose change and a half-eaten sleeve of Triscuits before his fingers close around it. The screen has a thin, jagged crack across it that wasn’t there the night before, but he can still make out the notification from you on his lockscreen:

daily grind at 10:15? senior year deserves an extra special treat, i’m buying :~)

That must be what he had forgotten. Your coffee tradition. Rain or shine, hungover or sober, you always met at the Daily Grind for complicated sugary drinks before your first class of the semester. It was one of the few things in your friendship that was undeniably sacred. 

He glances up at the time. 10:13. Merde. He’s already dialing your number, rehearsing an apology in his head and a promise to be there as soon as he can, but the phone stops ringing and he gets your voicemail.

“Hey, it’s me. Obviously I don’t have my phone right now, but leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you! Or you can just text me like a normal person.”

Oh. Oh no. No no no no no.

Hearing your voicemail message — now that is familiar in the worst way. A sick wave rolls through his stomach, part hangover and part nauseous realization that drunk Isack might have done something really, really stupid. He winces, pulling up his call history, already half-knowing what he’ll find. 

Sure enough, there’s one outgoing call to you at 1:54 AM, and the memory clicks into place like the final piece of last night’s twisted puzzle. 

“Hiii,” he’d slurred into the phone, head lolling against the sofa. “C’est Isack. I — you know that, obviously. Your phone probably told you that! I’m — I’m drunk. And I wish you were here tonight. Wish you were here every night, en fait, but especially tonight. Pepe made Cinnamon Toast Crunch but, like, drinks. I know it’s your favorite and — you would have loved everything about it! As much as I love everything about you. I love your laugh, I love your face, I looooove you. Putain. I am going to regret this tomorrow.” With that he’d hung up the phone, immensely pleased with himself, and fallen asleep. 

Well, drunk Isack had been right about one thing, at least. Sober Isack is definitely regretting it. He’s been trying to figure out how to tell you that he likes you basically since he met you, and now he’s gone and done it in the most ridiculous way possible. 

His stomach twists, and it’s definitely not the hangover this time. It’s too late to cancel. You’re probably already there, sitting at your usual table by the window and ordering him something disgustingly sweet. He has no other option but to show up.

His mind fills with increasing dread as he gets ready. He considers faking his own death, but that seems like it might raise more questions than it answers. Plus, his friends would probably find a way to resurrect him just to kill him again for being such a total coward.

“You look like shit, Hadjar,” you say cheerfully as he stumbles into the seat across from you fifteen minutes after you’d agreed to meet. His hair is still damp from the world’s fastest shower, dark sunglasses hiding bloodshot eyes. 

He smiles shakily back at you as you slide a coffee that looks like diabetes waiting to happen across the table to him. You’re acting surprisingly normal for someone whose best friend crooned a love confession into their voicemail in the middle of the night. Maybe you hadn’t even listened to it. Maybe you thought it was a butt-dial and deleted the entire thing. “Blame Pepe. He got me hammered last night.”

“I’ll excuse the lateness just this once,” you reply, face breaking into the smile that’s been ruining his life since freshman year. “Was it worth it?” 

“Jury’s still out,” he says, taking a cautious sip of his drink. As he predicted, it’s absolutely revolting, a sugar rush in a cup. “Mon dieu, this is disgusting,” he groans. “What the hell is it?”

“Cinnamon Toast Crunch latte,” you say, biting your lip, and Isack spits coffee all over the table between you. 

He’s still spluttering when you start talking again, eyes fixed on the table between you. “Look, I know you were drunk when you left that message,” you say, twisting a strand of hair around your finger, “and I know drunk people say stupid things they don’t mean sometimes.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, heart sinking into his stomach. He had meant it, he thinks, but he’ll let you draw the incorrect conclusion if it makes you happier. If it means he gets to keep being your friend, to keep you in his life in whatever way you’ll allow. 

“So I’m not going to hold the whole ‘I love you’ thing against you. But if you really love my face, you should probably ask it out on a date, or something.” 

His head snaps up, almost too afraid to believe he heard you right. “Vraiment?”

“Vraiment,” you confirm, flicking a gaze up at him. Your eyes are bright, hopeful. “Do you want to take my face out, or what?”

You take a sip of your coffee like you’re trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing, but you’re drumming your fingers against the cup the way you always do when you’re in your own head. You’re nervous, Isack realizes. You want this as much as he does.

“I really want to take your face out,” he says, voice hoarse, and you just smile. 

You both finish your coffee, and afterwards he walks you to the engineering building for your class. Since it seems to be a good day for getting what he wants, he holds your hand as you go. He’s only hoping to brush against your palm, to feel the electric buzz of your skin against his, but instead you weave your fingers into his, squeeze his hand tight. 

When he looks down at your hand, intertwined with his, he’s already thinking about how he can say it to you again without fucking it all up. 

two: sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy. 

“Okay, seriously, if you laugh at me, I’m gonna break up with you,” you say, voice muffled behind the bathroom door, and the butterflies erupt in Isack’s chest all over again.

The first date had gone well. Better than well. It had gone kind of flawlessly, actually. So Isack took you on a second. Then a third. It’s wonderful — he keeps expecting you to say no, to say you’ve made a huge mistake and you’re better off as friends, but it’s been nearly two months now and you just keep matching his level of enthusiasm.

Your first Halloween together is no different. Halloweekend has always been a blur of mixers and parties spent side-by-side with you, so Isack wasn’t expecting anything new now that you were officially together. But you’d asked him one night a few weeks ago during a study session, ankle twisting around his under the kitchen table, what couples costume the two of you would be wearing this year. Isack had been so thrilled by the idea that you would publicly identify yourself as his girl that every single cheesy couples costume he’d ever seen over the years had flown out of his mind completely. He’d locked eyes with the vintage Mercedes poster he’d hung on their living room wall, and to his absolute horror, blurted “Brocedes,” which even to his lovesick mind sounded like the stupidest thing he’d ever said.

To his unending delight, however, you’d agreed without a second thought. Which is how he finds himself dressed as Lewis Hamilton in a Mercedes race suit and a Pirelli cap, waiting for his Nico to work up the courage to make her way out of the bathroom.

“I’m not going to laugh,” he assures you, teal sneakers squeaking against the floor as he wipes his palms on the suit. “Come on, mon coeur. Let me see.”

The door creaks open hesitantly, and there you are, the fluorescent bathroom light framing you from behind. Your hair is slicked back, tousled just so. The white suit hugs your body, and you have it unzipped just low enough to show off the soft line of your collarbones and the swell of your chest. 

Isack’s eyes drag down your body, unable to tear his gaze away from you. You’re unreal. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. It’s pretty much the only word he remembers at this point. 

You lean against the door frame, glossed lips curling into a soft smile. “Well? What do you think?”

“I think we’re going to be late to this party,” Isack says, voice rough around the edges. 

He crosses the room in two strides, pulling you into him by your hips. You loop your arms around his neck, threading your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, and when you tilt your head up to kiss him, it feels like his world is exploding into a million pieces.

He still hasn’t figured out a better way to tell you how he feels about you. It’s strange, in a way; before you started dating, the situation felt wildly romantic in his head, like something straight out of those chick flicks you watch religiously and he pretends not to like. Two friends, madly in love with each other without having the nerve to admit it. Your relationship, though it was practically perfect in every other way, had complicated things. Isack wants to be the guy who sweeps you off your feet, not the creep who tells you he loves you after a month and a half. 

But now, with his teeth scraping impatiently against your collarbone and you breathing his name into his ear like it’s a prayer, he can’t imagine not saying something. It escalates quickly, as it always does with the two of you: he’s hauled you up onto the edge of the sink, and your legs wrap around his waist as he drags his mouth back up your neck to meet your lips. You taste like your strawberry lip gloss, and when you slot your tongue into his mouth it makes his head spin.

“I love you,” he whispers against your mouth. It’s caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, just a sound you could mistake for pleasure if you weren’t listening closely. You don’t react, just kiss him again so deeply he feels he might drown in it. A small noise escapes the back of your throat, one he wants to make you replicate over and over again, and he’s sure then that you didn’t hear him.

It’s probably for the best. He wants to be sure that when he does work up the courage, you’ll know, and there will be nothing to keep you from believing him. Not alcohol, not desperation, not the heat of a perfect, stolen moment. So he presses the words into the column of your neck, murmurs them into the cut of your collarbone. He traces hard little hearts into your hips with his thumbs. Your suit begins to slip off your shoulders, exposing the teal strap of your bra, and Isack thinks he might have legitimately died and gone to heaven.

That is, until the door swings open behind him with a dramatic bang. 

“Che schifo,” Kimi yelps, scandalized, covering his eyes with his hands. “Isack, your room is right there.”

You pull back from Isack, a laugh bubbling in your throat as you hike your costume back up your shoulder. Your gloss is smudged, cheeks flushed pink, and Isack thinks he’s never seen you look so beautiful, even if he does want to melt into the floor tiles right about now. 

“Sorry, Kimi,” you chirp, not even having the decency to look flustered. “Isack got so turned on by the thought of Brocedes that he just had to have me.”

“I did not,” Isack protests, cheeks scarlet. “Kimi, we were just —”

“This is a communal bathroom, Isack,” his roommate interrupts, frowning. “Don’t get me wrong, I am happy you two finally figured it out, but… we wash our hands in that sink.”

“You’re a menace,” Isack hisses under his breath to you, and you giggle, smoothing your hair.

“We’re late anyway,” you grin, hopping off the sink. “Don’t worry, Kimi, won’t happen again.”

He lets you pull him out of the bathroom, watching as Kimi closes the door behind you. “We can pick that back up later somewhere with a little more privacy,” you whisper into his ear, and he stumbles over his own feet. It’s embarrassing the way he can tell his eyes are lighting up at your words. He sends a small thank you to the universe that the fabric of the costume is thick. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles as he watches you walk to the door, hips swaying. “I’m definitely holding you to that.”

three: whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you’ve counted the space between her breaths and are certain she’s asleep. shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. maybe you were just sleep whispering.

The bed feels far too narrow to fit the both of you, the old-fashioned radiator in your room is clanking so loudly he’s worried it might explode, Isack’s arm is going numb where it’s trapped under your head, and there is absolutely no place he’d rather be.

He’d picked you up at the airport earlier that day — your flight was meant to land in the afternoon, but he’d shown up nearly forty minutes early, pacing excitedly around baggage claim until you descended down the escalator. You were wearing the hoodie you’d stolen from him before winter break and your biggest smile, and you’d jumped into his arms with such force that he’d dropped the homemade welcome sign he’d made, poster board fluttering to the floor. 

Since then, he’s been pretending personal space is a concept he’s never heard of. Hand on your thigh in the car, an arm around your waist as he carries your suitcase into your apartment, fingers tracing through your hair as you lay in bed curled into his chest. He can’t keep his hands off you. It’s as if the two of you were separated for three years, not three weeks.

“You’re unusually quiet,” you observe, one leg thrown lazily over his waist as you scroll through TikTok. 

“Just thinking,” he shrugs, flicking his eyes over your screen. You’re watching one of those kitchen restock videos you like, the light of your screen illuminating your face in the dark room.  

“Dangerous activity for you,” you tease, eyes bright. He grabs your waist and pulls you in, blowing a raspberry into your neck and laughing as you squeal and squirm away from him. “What’s on your mind, Hadjar?”

What’s really on his mind is how warm and comfortable he feels with you, how the sharp, persistent ache in his chest that he’d been feeling since winter break started has finally subsided now that he’s back in your presence. “How I survived three weeks without you hogging all the blankets,” he says instead. 

You gasp and narrow your eyes, but there’s no heat to it. “I do not hog the blankets,” you protest, pulling more of the comforter towards you.

“Sure,” he counters, pulling it back. “And I don’t have the shin bruises to prove that you’re also a sleep-kicker.”

“Those could be from anything,” you say primly. He gives you a look of pure disbelief, and you both dissolve into giggles, foreheads pressing against each other. 

Before leaving for winter break, he’d thought that everything would feel the same way it did when you were just friends. Despite the different time zones, the two of you had managed to talk every day — texts about everything from the prize he won in a Christmas cracker to the dog at your New Year’s party wearing a sparkly hat to his mom’s endless questions about when his copine would visit Paris. It was nice. He was happy, but it wasn’t enough. Not like it used to be. 

When you were friends, even in the years that he’d harbored his frankly all-encompassing crush on you, missing you had been manageable, a dull ache he could soothe with a voice memo or a quick call. But this had been different. Deeper. More essential to his being, somehow.

Every time he slid into his childhood bed, he’d glance over at the empty pillow and be struck with the visceral feeling that you should be there. He’d caught himself saving up stories to tell you, photographing random things because he knew they'd make you laugh, declining invitations from his lycée friends because he'd rather spend the evening talking to you than going out. You’d fallen asleep twice during your marathon daily FaceTimes, and both times Isack had stayed on the line just to listen to you breathe, feeling foolish and smitten and wondering when exactly you’d managed to make yourself feel like home to him. 

Suddenly worried that he won’t be able to keep himself from saying exactly that, Isack breaks the laughter with a clearly fake, very loud snore. 

“Baby,” you giggle, poking him in the side as the radiator clangs particularly violently. “Stop. I’m trying to sleep.” 

There’s some level of truth to that; it’s nearly 2 AM, and the two of you have been curled up in your bed since the early evening. But clearly, neither of you have been trying very hard to actually rest, too excited to be with each other again to let your eyes close. 

“You have a funny way of showing it,” he huffs, pressing a kiss into your temple. “You’ve been talking for, like, hours.”

“Fine,” you reply haughtily, wrinkling your nose up at him. “Look at me, totally asleep.” With that, you tuck your face into the crook of his neck, eyelashes fluttering against his skin, and go silent. 

He listens to the slow rhythm of your breathing, feels the way your chest rises and falls against him. He wants to follow you into sleep, but it’s evading him. There’s something playing on his mind — the thought that with every day he spends with you, he’s falling deeper into something he only thought he understood before. He’d been so sure he loved you back then, but this is something else entirely.

Maybe it’s the darkness, or the feeling of you in his arms again, but he’s feeling bold. “Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair. And then you sigh, snuggling closer into his hoodie with a soft, instinctive movement. 

Isack freezes, heart hammering against his ribs, and slams his eyes shut like he can pretend he’s sleep-whispering. Counts the seconds between your exhales until he’s convinced your movement was a coincidence, and he can bide his time some more.  

When he says it for real, you’ll be so blown away by how suave and gorgeous and charming he is that you won’t hesitate to say it back.

four: buy her flowers. buy her chocolate. buy her a teddy bear, because that’s what every romantic comedy has taught you. take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie. feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you’ve always known.

It’s Valentine’s Day, and Isack has a plan. He’s been thinking about it for weeks. He made a reservation in advance at Maison de Lumière, the only restaurant near campus that required anything more than jeans and a sweatshirt. It had taken three calls and a small bribe to one of the hostesses, but he’d finally managed to secure a table. He didn’t have a suit, so he’d had to borrow Gabi’s. It’s miles too big and hangs loosely off his frame, making him look a little bit like a kid playing dress-up in his dad’s closet. He bought flowers — not from the grocery store, but real long-stem red roses wrapped in pink tissue paper that cost more than his weekly laundry budget. He’d even picked up a heart-shaped box of chocolates from the campus bookstore, at the last minute throwing a little stuffed bear into his cart that he almost immediately regretted. 

None of it is his vibe, really. He’s not used to grand romantic gestures. But you deserve everything he’s planned and more, even if it does make him feel a little ridiculous and out of place. And maybe, if everything goes absolutely perfectly, tonight can be the night that Isack finally tells you he loves you.

That is, until you get to the restaurant, and he realizes this is going to be a total disaster. 

You look so beautiful that Isack trips over his feet multiple times trying to open the door for you. Then you’re seated at a table by the window, which should feel romantic but really feels like the two of you are on display. There are several sets of silverware on the table for some reason, and the glasses are heavy crystal that Isack is afraid to touch. The bear sits on the windowsill like a fuzzy chaperone, its glassy eyes staring at you.

The waiter drops off menus in thick leather folders, giving you a ten-minute explanation of the special holiday prix fixe menu. Isack orders the cheapest wine on the list, and the waiter scoffs but obliges. When he finally leaves the two of you alone, silence weighs on the table like an uncomfortably heavy blanket. 

“So,” you say, drumming your fingers against the stem of your water glass. 

“So,” he agrees, trailing off. 

Then the two of you speak at the same time:

“This place is —”

“You look really —”

You laugh, but it’s not your laugh, the familiar sound that makes Isack’s heart flip. It’s stilted, forced. “Sorry, I was just going to say this place is… nice.”

“Thanks,” he says politely, straightening his tie for the fifteenth time, but he can’t keep the frown off his face. Nice. It’s careful. It’s a word designed to be meaningless, to hide how uncomfortable you are, and Isack can feel his perfectly planned night slipping through his fingers. 

It’s torture. Actual, literal torture. In three years of friendship and seven months of dating, you’ve never run out of things to say to each other. You talk constantly about classes and professors and the weird guy in your freshman dorm who collected vintage lunch boxes and whether aliens existed and what you’d do if you won the lottery. You flirt ridiculously and tease each other relentlessly. You send each other stupid memes at 2 AM and argue about linear algebra with the kind of intensity that comes from finding your mental match in another person. 

But tonight, surrounded by white linen and overpriced menu items and the soft classical music whispering from hidden speakers, Isack has nothing. He takes a sip of the wine, immediately wincing at the taste. 

“Isack,” you say gently, touching his wrist across the table as he forces a swallow. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but… this sucks, right?”

He blinks. “What?”

“This,” you say, waving your hand through the air at the restaurant, the pristine tablecloth, the overly perfumed candle flickering between you. “All of this. We both hate this. This isn’t us.”

For the first time all night, Isack feels like he can actually breathe. “Yes. Mon dieu, yes. This is horrible. The wine is horrible. I thought I was the only one.”

“No,” you laugh, and it finally sounds real. “You’re definitely not the only one. The waiter keeps looking at me like I’m going to smuggle the silverware out in my purse.”

He snorts, pulling at his tie until it loosens around his neck. “I’m so sorry, mon coeur. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I just wanted to give you the Valentine’s Day you deserve, something fancy and romantic and —”

“Awkward and uncomfortable and completely wrong for us?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “That.”

“I love that you wanted to do something special,” you say, and Isack’s brain short-circuits somewhere around hearing the second word of your sentence. “But I don’t deserve all this. I deserve you. The real you, not whatever tie-wearing, wine-drinking version of you that you think is going to impress me.”

You love that he wanted to do something special. Love. It’s the perfect opening. Three simple words that had been circling in his head for months, waiting for the right moment to be dropped. 

He opens his mouth to speak, finally working up the courage to say exactly what the entire night is for, but you beat him to the punch. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

A half hour later, the two of you are pressed shoulder to shoulder on the hood of Isack’s beat-up Honda with a twenty piece nugget box and two Slurpees between you. Your dress is hiked up around your thighs, bare leg pressed against his, the stuffed bear sitting in your lap.

You lean your head against his shoulder, taking a long sip of your Slurpee. “Next year, maybe let’s skip the fancy restaurant.”

“No complaints on that,” he allows, taking a bite of a nugget. “That bottle of wine basically wiped out our date budget for the rest of the semester, by the way.”

You laugh as the cool February wind picks up, and without thinking Isack takes off Gabi’s jacket, wrapping it around your shoulders. You smile up at him, makeup smudged slightly at the corners of your eyes. “Now that’s romance. Happy Valentine’s Day, babe.”

Isack sighs happily, wrapping his arm around you. He’d spent so long planning what he thought was the perfect night. The flowers, the chocolates, the overpriced dinner, the teddy bear, all because that’s what movies and romance novels and r/Relationship_Advice said you were supposed to do when you loved someone.

But now, with chicken nugget crumbs on his fingers and the taste of blue raspberry in his mouth and your laugh still echoing in the crisp air of the parking lot, he thinks maybe it’s this.

five: blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. when time seems to freeze, hastily tack on “in that shirt” or “when you make your award-winning meatballs” or, if you are feeling particularly brave, “when we do this.” resume dancing and pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you the rest of the night.

There aren’t many rules Isack has for your relationship. Why bother, when everything is perfect without them? It’s not like you need a set date night, since you hang out with each other all the time anyway. He likes PDA. He would rather die than tell you who you could or couldn’t talk to, and he thinks you’d probably laugh in his face if he tried. Your relationship has always been one guided by what feels right in the moment, and Isack feels awfully right pretty much every time you’re around him. 

There is only one rule set in stone: the Infinite Playlist. A certain list of songs, subject to additions but never subtractions, that the two of you are forever required to dance to. It had started before you were dating, back when Isack would have taken any excuse to watch you smile, to have a private moment with you. Your relationship only solidified the tradition. It doesn’t matter where you are, what you’re doing, or who you’re with. The first few notes of a song would play, and the two of you would drop everything to dance to it. 

“What Makes You Beautiful” comes on in the grocery store aisle? Ditch the cart, because the two of you are finding an area open enough to perform your fully choreographed routine. “Alors On Danse” plays at a frat party? Hopefully you aren’t talking to anyone important, because that conversation is coming to a swift end. 

Normally, Isack loves the Infinite Playlist. Today, he wishes Lando had played anything else.

It’s a classic, unseasonably warm day, the first one of the spring semester. It feels like everyone on campus is outside, textbooks open to pages they won’t read and Frisbees cutting lazy arcs through the air. Your friends are sprawled on picnic blankets on the lawns, idly chatting. Maya and Chloe are passing around a thermos of jungle juice. Ollie has his laptop out, allegedly to work on his thesis, but he’s mostly just scrolling through his Spotify queue.

You’re sitting under a gnarled old oak tree, back stiff against the rough bark and knees pulled into your chest. Isack settles on the grass about ten feet away, trying to make eye contact with you, but you are very deliberately avoiding his gaze, pretending to be absorbed in your multivariable notes. The air between you is charged with all the things you’d said to each other three days ago, heavy with all the silence that had settled between you since.

The argument hadn’t been anyone’s fault, really — just a silly miscommunication, something that should have ended fast and early. But you almost never fought, and you weren’t used to it, both too stubborn to back down and admit it was stupid so you could move on. Halfway through the argument, Isack had said something careless, something that stung, and you’d stormed out of his house with flushed cheeks and teary eyes. Now, everything is tense and uncertain between the two of you, too quiet and too sharp. 

You’re still pointedly ignoring him when Lando pushes Ollie away from the laptop, proclaiming loudly that he absolutely needs to hear a certain song before the sun sets. Seconds later, the telltale bassline of “Get Low” starts blasting through the speakers, and Isack’s stomach drops. You may have been in a fight, but unfortunately, the Infinite Playlist hadn’t gotten the memo.

His gaze snaps to you, instinct winning out over pride. When you slowly lift your eyes from the papers in your hands, he feels a little surge of hope in his chest. After a second of uncertainty, he stands, finding an empty strip of grass, and motions you over. 

He wants to make you laugh. He wants to be over the top, or ridiculously bad, or anything that will break through the stoniness in your face. 

Slowly, almost too slowly, you warm up. When he tries the Sprinkler, you barely look at him, just tapping your toe against the grass. He Dougies, and you move a little bit closer. By the time he resorts to the Shopping Cart, you’ve loosened up enough to give him a snort of laughter. He reaches his hand out, and you take it, letting him twirl you straight into his arms.

“Je suis désolé,” he mumbles into your ear, holding you against him.  

There’s a pause, where you don’t say a word. “‘M sorry, too,” you sigh, and the relief that rolls through him is overwhelming. “That was so stupid.”

“So stupid,” he agrees, dipping you just because he can, because you’re talking to him and the world feels right again. “I don’t like fighting with you.”

You giggle as he drops you, pulls you up again. “Me neither. Let’s not do it again, yeah?”

He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, as you grin like the last three days of cold shoulder could melt away just from the sheer force of your smile. “Deal.”

You rest your hands lazily on his shoulders, moving your body against his, and he presses a kiss to your neck. “Missed this,” he murmurs against your skin, hoping you know he doesn’t just mean the dancing. 

“Missed you,” you retort, and he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling back just enough to look at you. Your cheeks are pink from the sun, eyes bright, and his chest feels very tight suddenly. 

“I love you,” he blurts, and the relief he’s feeling shifts immediately to horror when you falter, feet slipping in the grass as you look up at him, something awestruck in your eyes. Before you have the chance to respond, he pulls you in by your hips, flush to his body.  “—r sweet moves,” he finishes lamely, heart pounding in his chest. “I love them. Very classy, mon coeur.”

You laugh brightly, squirming against him. “Classier when you aren’t trying to grind on me, Hadjar.” 

You don’t say that you love him, not then. The moment had passed. His cowardice had made sure of that. But he feels your eyes on him still, warm and hopeful, and he knows that another song, another moment will come soon enough.

six: write her a letter in which the amount of circumnavigating and angst could rival mr. darcy’s. debate where to leave it all day – on her pillow? in her coat pocket? throw it away in frustration, conveniently leaving it face up in the trashcan, her name scrawled on the front in your sloppy handwriting. let her wonder if you meant it.

By the third morning of spring break, Isack starts thinking about forever. 

The beach rental is chaotic, to say the least — eight twenty-somethings in three bedrooms with one working bathroom, Maya and Gabi holding backflip contests off the porch into the deep end of the pool, an ever-growing pile of sandy towels that no one wants to take to the laundry. 

It’s also kind of perfect, though, mostly because Isack gets to wake up every morning in a room with you. The sheets are mismatched and smell a little like the sea, and the bed is practically child-sized, barely big enough for the two of you to fit. But none of that matters as much as the fact that every time he wakes up, your legs are tangled into his, face mashed into his chest, hogging the entire comforter with your hand curled over his waist like you’d reached for him in the middle of the night and refused to let go. 

It feels like playing house, at first. But then Isack starts letting himself imagine a world beyond the crappy Airbnb, a future where he never has to start his mornings any other way, and the domesticity of it all is doing something frankly dangerous to his heart.

So he writes.

It’s not supposed to be anything serious, at first. Just a way to get all the feelings out, scrawled into the back of his physics notebook and kept to himself. But the words keep coming, looping over themselves as he tries to put shape to the feeling in his chest. 

Mon coeur,

We’ve been together for almost eight months now, and I keep thinking I should have said this already. I’ve been trying to find the perfect moment, the perfect words, practically since we started dating. But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe there is no perfect way to tell your girlfriend that she’s the most important thing in your life. 

There’s this thing in physics I’ve been thinking about a lot called quantum entanglement. You probably know the concept, but in case you don’t, subatomic particles can get magically tied together, and when they do, each particle’s quantum state can’t ever be described again without the other. The particles’ fates get inextricably linked together, no matter how far away they are from each other.

I think I’m entangled with you, mon coeur, because I can’t see a future without you in it anymore. I want to wake up with you every morning, no matter how many times you kick me in the shins while you sleep. I want our toothbrushes to keep sitting next to each other on the counter. I want to keep dancing in the kitchen with you to the Infinite Playlist. I want to keep hearing you try to speak French to me. I want to keep making fun of your terrible French. I want to keep thinking about forever with you in a way that should scare me, but doesn’t at all. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is I love you. Je t’aime. In English, in French, in whatever language you want to hear it in. 

He reads it over three times, stomach churning. It sounds pathetic, desperate, like something from a lovesick teenager and not a very mature twenty-year-old who really should have figured out how to express this to you by now. 

But it’s also true. Every word of it. 

“Baby, get down here!” your voice floats up the stairs, and Isack rips the paper out of the notebook and shoves it into the pocket of his shorts frantically, like somehow you’ll be able to see it from a floor below him. He heads downstairs, where chaos is already in full swing. Pepe is chopping up what feels like a thousand oranges for mimosas, and for some reason, there’s batter on the ceiling. 

“Thank god, our resident Parisian is awake,” you say, reaching for him as soon as he enters the kitchen. “Do you know how to make French toast? Because Chloe’s vision is not translating into reality.”

The letter feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket all day. He keeps looking for the right moment — nearly gives it to you on the beach while you’re reading, before Kimi interrupts to show you the shells he’d collected. He thinks about sliding it over the dashboard as he watches you drive into the town center for groceries, singing along to Fleetwood Mac with the windows rolled down so you can smell the salt air. Maybe he can leave it somewhere you’d find it by accident, like a secret saved just for you.

On the other hand, the thought of you actually reading it kind of makes him want to throw up. 

When he tries to get rid of it, though, he can’t quite do that either. It feels like he’s crumpling up your relationship, all the things he knows he loves about you. So in the end, he settles for leaving it in the kitchen trash, neatly folded on top of an empty twelve-pack box and stained popsicle sticks, content in the knowledge that he has more time to figure out how to say everything he feels. 

You’re all on the porch outside when shit goes sideways. The sun is beating down, your legs draped lazily over Isack’s lap as you play Uno with the boys. Gabi’s just won, and he’s being unbearably annoying about the whole thing.

“Alright, I should take out the trash before we make dinner,” you say absentmindedly, putting down your cards and unfolding yourself out of your chair, sauntering inside. 

Isack doesn’t quite register the danger at first. Then it hits him. The trash. His letter. Your name on the front, scrawled unmistakably in Isack’s handwriting. He jolts upright so fast his chair tips over behind him.

“Merde,” he mutters, already scrambling across the deck, splinters digging into his feet. He shoulders past Ollie in the doorway, heart pounding in his ears so loud in nearly drowns out the chorus of confused voices behind him.

By the time he gets to the kitchen, breathing hard as if he’s just run a marathon, you’ve already found it. You’re holding the letter gingerly between two fingers, like you’ve picked it off the top of the trash, and Isack is so unbelievably fucked. 

“Did you mean to throw this away?” you say, voice unsteady.

“I —” he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair roughly. “It’s, um, nothing. Just trash. Yeah.”

After he finishes stammering through the world’s worst explanation, you look at him for a long moment. Then at the letter. Then back at him. 

“Okay,” you say quietly, and drop the letter in the trash without unfolding it. You tie the bag off, pulling it out of the can, and walk out the side door without a backward glance. Isack stands in the kitchen, listening to the door creak shut behind you with the sinking feeling he’s just made a big mistake.

Dinner, predictably, is loud, full of overlapping conversations and splinters off the old patio furniture. Isack barely hears any of it. You’re sitting beside him, laughing at the story Gabi is telling about the guy next door and his snorkel mask, but there’s a tightness to your smile that hasn’t gone away.

You don’t bring it up. You don’t act weird. You still steal bites of pizza off his plate and brush your fingers over his knee when you reach for your Coke bottle. But he’s known you long enough to know you’re still thinking about it, to know he hasn’t gotten off the hook just yet. 

“Just tell me one thing,” you say later in bed, voice soft and a little hesitant, fingers tapping against his thigh. “Was it something bad? About me?”

Isack stiffens, rolling over to look at you with wide, panicked eyes. “No, mon coeur,” he says gently. “No, never. Je te le promets.”

You nod slowly, biting your lip. “Okay. I trust you, I just — sorry, I just keep thinking about it. What would you write and then throw away?”

You’re looking up at him like you know what the letter said, or maybe like you hope you know, and the air between you turns sharp with potential. He wants to tell you. The words are right there, crowding at the tip of his tongue. He opens his mouth, and then he closes it again.

He’s scared. Scared that if you don’t feel the same, it’ll all fall apart. Scared that if you do, it’ll make everything real.

“It was nothing important,” he lies, and pretends not to notice the way your face falls just a little.

seven: wait until something terrible has happened and you can’t not tell her anymore. wait until she almost gets hit by a car crossing against the light and after you are done cursing at the shit-for-brains cab drivers in this city, realize you are actually just terrified of living without her. tell her with your hands shaking.

“Latte for Isack?”

The Daily Grind churns with the desperate energy of finals week, the scent of stress nearly overpowering the espresso aroma, but Isack keeps pushing his way through the college-age customers hunched over their laptops with dark circles under their eyes. Your robotics exam started just about three hours ago, which means you’ll be stumbling out of the engineering building any minute now. With any luck, Isack will be there with a coffee for you, ready to hear all about it. He’s planning his Best Boyfriend Ever acceptance speech in his head already. 

He picks up the cup from the barista, at the last minute buys one of those lavender honey scones you always stare at through the display counter but never purchase because “twelve dollars for a pastry is capitalism at its worst, Isack, even if it does taste like it’s made by a baby angel.” He doesn’t have the money for it, not really, but imagining the excitement on your face when you see the bag is enough to have him forking over his credit card. His bank account is crying, but some things are worth being broke for. 

He’s just across the street from the engineering building when students begin streaming out like survivors escaping a shipwreck. He scans the crowd until he spots you, hair piled on top of your head messily and shoulders slumped. Still beautiful, even after an hours-long grueling exam. He holds up the bag, knowing you’ll see it before you see him, and your entire face lights up, exhaustion melting into relief. 

“Baby, what are you doing here?” you laugh, hands cupped around your mouth so he can hear you across the street. You’re half-jogging towards him in your eagerness, entirely focused on him and the promise of comfort he represents. So focused, in fact, that Isack sees the cab before you do, the yellow blur cutting through the intersection headed directly for you.

Isack freezes. He tries to scream, to warn you, anything, but the sound dies in his throat. In the entire universe, the only thing that matters is the ear-achingly loud honk of the horn and the startled look on your face. 

You, thankfully, don’t freeze like him. You jump back, cab just kissing the edge of your shin, backpack swinging through the air and clattering back against your side. 

The car doesn’t stop. It doesn’t even slow down. The whole thing is over in a second. But to Isack, the second stretches forever, and in it he can see everything that could have happened, the way his life could have split open in a single, terrible instant.

You stare after the car, dazed, and Isack is moving before his brain can catch up with his body. Not to you, not at first — he’s running halfway up the street, screaming obscenities after the car’s receding tail lights in rapid French about the driver’s ugly mother, the size of his dick, and how terrible he is at pleasuring his partner. 

“Hey. Hey, Isack, it’s okay.” You catch up to him, place a hand on his arm, gently, and all the rage inside of him snaps. 

“Ce n’est pas bien!” His hands are trembling, something hot pricking at the back of his eyes. “He could have killed you.”

“It was my fault,” you say softly. 

Isack pulls you into a tight, desperate hug. He can’t stop seeing it every time he blinks: the cab’s tires squealing on the street, your sneakers jumping back, the bumper brushing against your leg.

He buries a hand in your hair, no doubt filling it with snarls and tangles, and breathes in the familiar, warm scent of your shampoo. His cheeks feel wet, for some reason. “He should have been more careful. Il aurait pu te tuer. You could have died.”

“I didn’t die,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck and soothingly stroking his shoulders. “I’m okay, Isack.”

“You could have died. I could have lost you,” he repeats, and the words come out horribly strangled thinking about the prospect of a world without you in it. No more forcing him to taste-test your seasonal lattes. No more watching stupid Netflix romcoms because they make you laugh. No more slow dancing in his kitchen, swallowing your laughter with kisses when he steps on your toes. It wouldn’t be a life worth having.

“I love you,” he sobs into your hair. “Je t’aime, et tu aurais pu mourir. I love you.”

You run your hands through his hair, holding him as tightly as he’s holding you. “Isack, babe, you have to breathe. It’s fine. I’m right here, mon coeur.” Your accent is as terrible as ever, but you’re solid and breathing and alive against him, and he lets out a rattling gasp. “See? I’m right here. I’m okay.” 

“Right,” he croaks, voice hoarse as he tries to catch his breath. “You’re here. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” you confirm. “Everything is okay. I know you’re panicking, but I’m fine. You don’t have to be scared. I’m right here.”

“Okay,” he breathes after a moment, pulling back and slowly disentangling himself from you, even as every molecule in his body protests at the distance.

You wipe your thumb gently over his cheekbones, brushing away the tears, and he presses his face against your hand like a cat. Desperately seeking your affection, your touch, any reminder that you’re still here with him. You smile at him, wobbly but real. “What’s in the bag?”

“Scone,” he manages to choke out. He’d nearly forgotten he had the bag at all. It’s ridiculously crumpled, fuchsia paper crushed between white knuckles. His fingers ache when he unclenches them. 

“Really?” you ask. “The one from Daily Grind? Baby, you didn’t. That’s so sweet! You know I love those. Can we go back to my room and split it?” Even though he can tell you’re rambling, trying to distract him, your smile is enough to make him forget a little bit. So he sniffles and lets you lead him across campus, rubbing soothing circles into his palm the entire way home. 

It’s not until later in your room, watching Star Wars and eating his half of the scone as you comb your fingers through his hair, that Isack realizes you didn’t tell him you love him too. You assumed he was panicking, which was true, but it didn’t make the feelings any less real.

He loves you, and you don’t believe him.

eight: say it deliberately, your tongue a springboard for every syllable. over coffee, brushing your teeth side-by-side, as you turn off the light to go to sleep – it doesn’t matter where. do not adorn it with extra words like “i think” or “i might.” do not sigh heavily as if admitting it were a burden instead of the most joyous thing you’ve ever done. look her in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that she will turn to you and say, “i love you too.”

The air smells like champagne and summer. Graduation day is a blur — sweaty hugs on the lawn, too-bright flash photos where at least one of you is sure to be mid-blink, parents crying as they watch their kids grow up. 

Isack cheers, stomping his feet wildly, as you cross the stage to receive your diploma, tassels blowing in the breeze and smiling into the crowd megawatt-bright. After the ceremony, Ollie pops a mini bottle of champagne and nearly takes out his macroeconomics professor with the cork. Kimi runs a lap around the quad, Doriane screaming bloody murder on his shoulders. Pepe cries twice, once because the dean mispronounced his name during the ceremony and again when Isack presents him with a photo of the two of them from freshman year move-in day, all gawky limbs and awkward smiles.

The party starts as soon as your caps hit the ground. Isack’s house is spilling over with friends who don’t want to say goodbye just yet, dancing barefoot on the patchy backyard grass with beers sweating in their hands. There’s music pulsing through an overamped speaker, loud laughter echoing between the trees. You sit on his lap on the leaning porch steps, sipping from a Solo cup and pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek when Chloe takes a Polaroid of the two of you. It comes out a little blurry, but Isack slips it into his phone case anyway. 

By the time afternoon bleeds into evening, the two of you slip away from the party, too full of sentimentality to be around anyone except each other. For once, Isack doesn’t have a plan in mind, too content with your hand in his as you walk one last slow loop around campus. The brick paths you’ve worn down over four long years. The benches you’d studied on outside the dining hall, trading smuggled cookies with your head in his lap. The hill you’d sledded down together freshman year, when Isack took one look at your flushed cheeks and pretty smile and realized what he was feeling wasn’t just friendship.

“Oh, the fountain!” you cry delightedly, tugging his hand hard towards the stately stone fixture as you near the main quad. It’s a campus tradition, passed down through generations of sleep-deprived undergrads. Legend has it if you jump into the fountain with your sweetheart, you’ll always find your way back to each other. “Isack, we have to do it, come on.”

You set off across the quad, barefoot and heels swinging from your fingertips, but Isack stays, because every single place on this campus is a memory that leads back to you, and he starts to have the feeling that this very moment is what it’s all been building to all along. 

“Mon coeur?” he calls out from behind you, hands shaking in his pockets. When you turn back to look at him, the setting sun is painting your skin golden, the sleeves of your gown billowing in the wind, and it takes all the breath out of his body. Four years of friendship, nearly a year of dating, and you still have the ability to make time stop for him. 

“Yeah?” you ask, tilting your head with a curious expression, and he knows. 

“I love you.” 

He doesn’t say it drunk, or panicking, or praying for you not to really hear it, or with the desperation of someone trying to stop the clock. He says it with the quiet certainty of someone who’s been waiting way too long.

“I know,” you say, eyes sparkling. He waits for you to continue, heart in his throat, but you just grin smugly at him. 

“Non,” he shakes his head as he walks towards you, smiling despite himself. “Not fair. You cannot pull a Han Solo unless your life is at stake. Actually, you cannot pull a Han Solo at all —”

You swallow his outrage with a kiss, pulling him in by the tie and knocking his cap askew. “I love you too,” you say against his lips, as his hands come to rest on your hips. “Really.”

“I know,” Isack breathes out, dizzy with it, as he tugs you towards the fountain. “Really.”

The fountain isn’t deep, water only reaching to mid-calf. But it’s shockingly cold for a June day, the spray raising goosebumps on Isack’s arms. You shriek with laughter as you follow him in. “Oh god. Not one of my best ideas,” you gasp at the sudden chill, the hem of your gown trailing in the water around you. 

“What do you mean?” he grins, pulling you so close he can see the water droplets on your lashes. “It was a perfect idea. Now we’ll always find our way back to each other.”

You loop your arms around his neck, pressing up on your toes and kissing the corner of his mouth. “That would imply I’m planning on losing you in the first place,” you say, and Isack is hit with a wave of affection so strong it nearly makes his knees buckle.

“I love you,” he breathes out again, spinning you in a slow circle. “I’ve been wanting to say it for so long.”

You crinkle your nose at him, grinning ridiculously. “I love you too. But why didn’t you?”

“I was trying to plan out the right moment,” he admits.

And then, almost shyly:

“Turns out any moment with you is the right one.”

[n0tamused]

Hello!! I’ve been following you for a little bit, and I just haven’t reached out much because. I’m scared🧍‍♀️(not of you, just reaching out in general because for some reason I think people will bite me if I try to interact)

alsoyourworkislovelyandsoisyourocandsoareyou. <3

But!!! If you’re stilling doing your 1.5k follower event (congrats btw!!) would it be alright if I made a request for Dr. Ratio, action prompt 14 (romantic) pretty please? :3 Love my wife fr. He needs to come home 💔

Thank you, and have a lovely day/night! Congratulations again on your milestone!! ❀

˖ ࣪⊹Morning fuss

Prompt: action 14. First kiss

A/n: Hello! And dw I totally understand you lol, but I'm so happy you decided to reach out now and make a request! <3 I can totally whip up some Dr Ratio, anytime hehe. I had different ideas as to how to do this, but I settled on this one primarily because it is set in a private space and where Ratio is arguably at his most vulnerable and it's just lots of fluff. I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for your kind words! Wishing you luck on getting Ratio!

Contents: Dr. Ratio x Reader, gn reader, fluff, morning cuddles, reader has a wack dream

Words: 895

Ko-Fi |  1.5K followers event(closed)

He had never sounded so carefree. The moment nearly felt like a distant dream as bed sheets still clung onto both of your forms with sunshine streaming through in pale yellow lances. Perhaps carefree was not the most correct term, but the way he laughed and the fact his face was devoid of any hard line or angry wrinkle failed to remind you of anything but liberty.

It started off with you waking up from a sleep you could only explain as a fever dream, you woke up believing you were still held within the confines of those halls, looking for the walking, upside down rabbit and all you could think of is to warn Veritas of the deceiving shampoo and the seal walking on flippers. 

Veritas, also freshly woken up, didn’t have the brains yet to comprehend your confusing talk, and for several moments he made an effort to ask questions and to understand you better, to calm you down from your groggy rambling. 

His hand found your shoulder, rubbing with tender care, his eyes taking a bit too long to open after every blink. “What are you talking about?” he asked, at long last starting to grasp the strands of reality.

“The seal..Veritas, I..” you bumble and mumble, but slowly come back to your senses, and when your eyes meet his you could almost see your own realization reflected back at you as his own eyes flushed off the sleep they carried. Reality set in and silence followed.

Then you began to chuckle, flushing in embarrassment as you had drawn almost flush against him under the blankets in your previous stupor. 

Giggling, you bury yourself in his chest, apologizing over and over again until you feel him move and his chest shake with his own laughter. 

“In the name of.. Have you seriously fallen so deep into slumber that you thought a seal was a threat to you, me?”

“A seal can be a threat! Don’t act so clever with me now, you damn well know what seals are capable off”

“Clearly. One more thing you forgot to add is that they’re capable of flight and I would’ve believed you” he bit back at you with humor dripping off every word. You have wormed your way on top of his chest, and he patted you on your back as if to console you for your embarrassment. “Although, I can’t deny your care is endearing”

“Is this the closest I’ll get to you giving me a direct compliment?” you quip, a cheeky smile on your face as your head shot up, looking down at him and the way his messy hair made him look nearly ethereal in the morning sun. 

Ratio scoffed, “Like I don’t give you enough praise already, do you want to be spoiled now as well?” he groaned as he shifted, just enough to grab the runaway blanket and pull it over your back again. It was too early even for him to get up, a few more minutes of warmth wouldn’t hurt.

“Spoiling your partner isn’t all that bad” you argued, propping yourself up more comfortably on his chest. “For caring for you no less, you’re such a handful at times” you added with a yawn, noticing how his brow twitched in amusement.

The distance between the two of you was disregardable. Your noses were nearly touching and Veritas couldn’t help his hand when it rose to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Me being a handful is only a natural reaction to you being an arms full” he told you, a smug looking expression nestling into the lines of his face.

You only tilted your head and felt your expression grow into the silent question of ‘really?’. “You’re being such a handful right now. I worry for you even when I am not awake, and this is your thanks?” 

“Hm, you may be right, in some way” he nonchalantly mused, relaxing into the mattress with a sigh. His hand had fallen down, caressing the side of your neck. “I thank you for your valiant service, for being so willing to defend me against the feverish animals your mind conjured, the ones that wished to harm me, although I highly doubt they wanted anything at all” he chuckled again, his thumb brushing against your jawline.

“..now was that so hard?” you ask in a whisper as sleep tempts to take you again, his warmth wishes to lull you back to sleep. Your head is feeling heavy and without much thought you let it fall closer, and your lips fall onto his own.

Veritas’ eyes fall closed and his hand tightens its grip at your nape ever so lightly, displaying his disbelief and mild shock, but accepting it regardless. He holds you close, his breath stopping in his throat.

A beeping sound echoes in the air, separating the two of you. It wasn't a hard guess to figure out what it was - Veritas’ alarm had brought a sour expression over his face. For a few moments he let it ring on, hoping to ignore it as he rested against the pillows and returned his eyes to your own, a silent apology woven in his colored eyes. He then leaned forward and kissed you sweetly on the cheek before reaching for his phone to turn the offending sound off.

Ⓒ n0tamused/jarttavia_. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[yanderemommabean]

perhaps the real reason Brynjolf insisted that we become guild master is so we’re stuck doing paperwork and not out doing dangerous jobs

the whole guild can keep an eye on us and keep us safe

sorry randomly got skyrim brain worms

Never apologize for brainworms, they're what keeps our community alive <3

He absolutely would. He wants you safe with paperwork while he does the dirty work. He knows your capable, but all it takes is one little mistake and you're beheaded, arrested, or eaten by a dragon.

I wonder if he would ask mages for spells or potions to keep you docile and unaware of his true intentions?

-Mommabean

[hermitw]

All my JJK character playlists (what I think they listen to) in one post (will be edited to add more when they are longer)

Every playlist is best shuffled, unless stated otherwise.

sorry these are in no particular order! pls lmk if there's any issue w the links. there are more in progress for ships/characters etc so if there's any you want, I can prioritize working on them but I take these too seriously and some have had 1 song for like a year bc it has to Feel Right

I work rly hard to have these be just my own hcs and not copying anyone elses, so I don't take recs but if you want me to hear any song I'll probably listen and maybe add it to some of them <3 I just love it when our hcs are unique and I like to see others and be like, oh that would never occur to me but I see the vision! it's more interesting to have different interpretations I think. but everyone is welcome to listen/save/share these <3

Satoru Gojo before prison realm (perfect for 2am mental breakdowns when u gotta dance and cry at any moment)

Gojo Satoru - prison realm, just prison realm (I tried to hold back forever on this. Yes, it's his 3rd playlist. 5th if u count the ships)

Gojo Satoru - prison realm and after

Satosugu's blended playlist gives me chest pain

Suguru Geto (such a vibe especially when it's raining)

Yuuji Itadori (actually in chronological order)

Itafushi blended playlist

Megumi Fushiguro

Tokyo first years' aux (Yuuji and Nobara control it but Gojo is living his best left and Fushiguro is just there like 😒 📖)

Ino Takuma (I think he'd listen to full albums)

Miwa's (cried while making this tbh)

Choso (over 50hrs, so it's vibes and emotion and chill, everything)

Kenjaku (can't cry to this one)

(only 10 images fit in a post so if you want the colored panel lmk idk if they've all been posted here atp)

Mai Zenin - The cuntiest playlist to cry to

Toji Zenin / Fushiguro (is in chronological order)

Shiu Kong

Toji & Shiu - this is like, when they were close before Toji was lost to the brain eating worm

Mechamaru's aux (I'm content w the order, no significance. Mechamaru's colored manga panel here)

Hanami's aux & colored manga panel (I did the heat stroke trend for this)

Yuuta Okkotsu - obv he listened to La Dispute

Shoko Ieri - yes her temporary cover is from the burger king video. I laughed at that thing every day for like 2 weeks.

these feel unfinished so but are going up before I forget to share (some of them are hours long I'm just a bitch)

Nanami Kento - guess I subconsciously think he's a closet theater kid?

Sukuna - includes songs that sound like his domain expansion.

Sukugo's blended playlist

The merger - Maybe not a character but deserves its own playlist

Mahito - tbh this is fun to listen to (my character analysis on him is irrelevant dw)

Toge Inumaki - resident troll

Junpei Yoshino - sorry but you know his hair is greasy

Nanako & Mimiko Hasaba - a compromise between their style

Mimiko Hasaba - morute

Nanako Hasaba - gyaru

Hakari Kinji - a lot of Japanese and Russian ig? Junji ito's music taste influenced

Kirara - she has the best taste probably idk

Hakari & Kirara

Ijichi Kiyotaka - should I apologize to him? I made this in sincerity.

Ijichi's 2nd playlist - for when he's driving and doesn't want to get bullied for putting everything on shuffle again 😔

Nobara Kugisaki - the first 2 songs are the duality of her I love it

Maki Zenin - chronological I guess

Nishimiya

Yu Haibara

Utahime - this is just vibes idk

Todo Aoi - should I apologize for this?...i could find an artist like that idol he's obsessed with and fill it out better (idk much about that scene so it's... Everything else rn)

Noritoshi Kamo - the one we meet at the exchange event, not kenjaku or the Noritoshi he possessed 150 years ago.

Naoya Zenin - I hate this bitch w my whole heart but just looking at him? good taste I fear 😔

Hiromi Higuruma - this hits so good when ur rly rly tired or late at night.

Hana (the angel) - some songs I cannot listen to without imagining her getting over Fushiguro while listening to them.

[cambion-companion]

hi!! binge read all your raphael stuff and i think it added more worms in my brain!! :D thank you!!!

raphael idea: artist!reader (or tav/durge) that raph commissions to paint a portrait of him. maybe how the sitting would go- would he be monologuing? would he be looking over contracts? would he be sneaking fond (in his own way) glances at the lovely little artist sitting in his foyer putting so much passion and concentration into capturing his devilish visage?

or maybe smth like he can't make it to a sitting one day so he sends haarlep to do it expecting that the artist won't be able to tell the difference. instead, his artist refuses to start working since that's CLEARLY not her patron!! his facial structure is off!! that piece of hair doesn't flow down like that!! and his gaze- clearly not!!! so raph comes back hours (or even days) later to find the little artist still in his house, waiting for his return so that they can resume work <3

I LOVE this!

Thank you for reading my work and for sending this lovely message in! This idea kinda ran away with me but I hope you enjoy this drabble!

“Where is Raphael?”  You squinted at the devil lounging on the gold embroidered cushions.

On first glance, it appeared to be the cambion you’d met yestereve. He had commissioned you to paint a self-portrait for him, showed you the many that already hung from his marble walls. You’d begun your work, sketching the lines and filling them out with practiced dexterity.

Due to time constraints, the devil was a busy man it seemed, you had to cut your painting short, determining to begin again the following day.

Now you sat again, upon the small stool, staring in consternation at the creature who would have you believe it was Raphael.

The fiend stretched, feigning a languid uncaring composure.  In all but those burning eyes, focused so sharply upon your frowning face.

“Whatever do you mean, little succulent?”  It was Raphael’s voice as well, though something was off about the cadence. “You have everything you need right here.”

You shook your head, frustrated, lowering your paintbrush from where it had been poised over the canvas. “No, this isn’t going to work. You aren’t him.”

“My, quite the perceptive thing.”  The devil straightened, looking displeased. “How very annoying.”

“What…who are you?”  You asked, a slight tingle of fear running down your spine.

“I am Haarlep.”  The devil’s long tail swished to curl around his feet.

“That’s an odd name.”

“Isn’t it just.”

Your frown deepened, an annoyed breath hissed through your clenched teeth. “Well, I cannot continue until the real Raphael returns.  When will he be back?”

“The master will not return for quite a while.”  Haarlep rolled his shoulders, looking equally put off. “I do my job quite well. What exactly is the issue?”

You set down your tools and folded your arms, still wary of whatever this creature was. “The way your hair falls, the cadence of your voice…”

“All aspects I am sure you can rectify without too much issue.”  Haarlep interrupted with a petulant gesticulation, but you spoke over him.

“And your eyes.”  Your own eyes narrowed in concentration, focusing on the burning embers within those inky black orbs. “Your eyes are wrong.”

“I’m offended.”  Haarlep deadpanned, then tilted his head with a curious smile. “Explain.”

“I cannot.” You shrugged.

“Then work on painting everything except the face.” Haarlep repositioned himself upon the sofa, his eyes rolling slightly in bemusement.

“For professional reasons, I cannot.”  You didn’t budge. “The master of the house didn’t notify me of this change.”

“The master of the house apologizes.”  Now that voice you recognized, Raphael’s.  Deeper and with more presence than the voice Haarlep used.

Raphael, still in human form, strode into view and offered you a wry smile.  He bowed slightly at the waist, his brown eyes never leaving yours. “I admit to not foreseeing your powers of insight. What a delightful discovery, my dear.”  

He turned and observed Haarlep with mild amusement for a moment. “You’re slipping.”

“Nonsense.”  Haarlep stood from the chaise and flexed his batlike wings. “You know as well as I, some things cannot be replicated.”

“Such as?”  Raphael directed the question to you.

You shifted, your behind slowly numbing from the uncomfortable stool. “Well, the way Haarlep carries himself for one.”  You said carefully speaking the other’s name. “The eyes are also completely different, not in shape or color but the nature they hold within them.”

“Fascinating.” Raphael put his hand to his chin, a slight quirk to his lips. “The eyes.  Windows to the soul.”  He laughed, short and rough.

You didn’t quite understand the joke but smiled politely. “Have you time now?  I can come back later.”

“No.”  Raphael shook his head and placed a firm hand on your shoulder, taking a moment to inspect your canvas. “This is important work. I am at your disposal.”  Raphael’s human form melted away. His hand on your shoulder grew in size and sharp claws bit through your shirt to your skin. Hellfire eyes looked down upon you, familiar, calculating. “For as long as you need me.”

[tunastime]

wrapped: 27? it’s my lucky number :D

hi hi!! apologies to all for getting to these so late! let's check out 27 :3

ah... of course. band of all time. my second top band of the year. my beloveds. this song goes incredibly crazy, and I think the vibes are different than what this fic represents, but the softer parts of the song... so very them to me. some very choice lyrics in the tags for them two. oh SEN we're in it now... I hope you enjoy some SEN docsuma! (627 words)

Doc wakes up to Xisuma’s face pressed into the soft of his neck. His first instinct is an easy one: curl closer.

It’s natural for Doc to find his way into X’s side or his arms or across his chest. Xisuma slept heavily, sprawled on his back, dead to everything except the person sleeping next to him. So when Xisuma found him, wormed his way close and into the cavity of his chest, or the pocket of his side, or with one arm over his back, it was Doc’s first thought to lean in with great joy and accept the weighted warmth that his admiral’s body provided. X’s nose was cold against his throat, and the body tucked carefully in the concave space between his prosthetic and his ribcage was curled tight. He spreads his fingers, palm flat on the rise of X’s back, his sleep-addled brain kicking down a few gears as Xisuma sighs into his skin.

“‘Suma,” he mumbles, words muddling. X makes a small noise. “‘S everything okay?”

Because, contrary to popular belief, Xisuma only curled this close in his arms on occasion. And normally (because Doc was clever, and Xisuma came to him when he needed his help, and he took a small morsel of pride in this fact, that he was that trustworthy and reliable and needed), this meant something was wrong.

He drags his synthetic palm down Xisuma’s curved lower back, following the narrow channel of his spine, as Xisuma speaks dryly.

“Jeez,” he mumbles. “Can’t even catch a quick snuggle before I’m called out?”

Doc snorts. He lets his eyes shut.

“Never.”

“Had a bad dream. ‘S all.”

Doc thumbs a notch of his spine. Xisuma physically relaxes into the touch. Real, present touch.

“And you’re alright?”

“Mmh,” Xisuma grumbles, digging his nose into the soft space between his neck and jaw. Doc hums warmly. “Could be better. Just wanted to remember you’re here.”

“Can’t get rid of me,” Doc mumbles tiredly. Xisuma snorts, but the hand cupped around Doc’s hip twists in the corner fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t really catch the murmured set of words X says against his neck, but it sounds a bit like hope not somewhere in there. Doc shifts him just a fraction closer, cupping his free hand over the part of Xisuma’s jaw still exposed, running his thumb over the space between his cheek and ear, all the connecting bones and soft cartilage hidden under the pale-soft, freckled plane of his face. His hold on Xisuma is firm, but not tight, carefully tucked snug against his body, soaking in his body heat and his stable breathing. Xisuma sighs shakily.

“Sweet Xisuma,” Doc hums. His hand finds purchase on the rise of Xisuma’s hip, thumb finding the patch of skin where his sleeveless shirt meets his waistband. X leans a little further, until his shoulder is near-uncomfortably eclipsing Doc’s own. He’s quite literally crushing himself into Doc’s chest, but the sound he makes is soft and seemingly pleased, especially as Doc huffs, and chuckles, and groans dramatically at the added weight. “So cozy!”

“Needless cruelty,” Xisuma huffs, muffled by Doc’s shirt and skin. “Makin’ fun’a me.”

“Calling you sweet is an insult?” Doc retorts. 

“‘S the way you said it.”

“Ah, right.”

Xisuma huffs again, but doesn’t say anything else. Doc goes back to soothing over that bare patch of skin until his eyes feel heavy and dry and he shuts them against the dark greys and blacks of their room. X’s muscles go slack bit by bit, sinking into his side as he lets himself drift again. Doc barely misses the small, soft, thanks, mumbled out between long, slow sighs. He smiles, and leans his cheek a little firmer to his head.

(send me an ask with a number 1-10 and I'll write something!)

[lilbardrhi]

Let It Snow

Pairing: Valeria Garza x Reader/You CW: OOC Valeria (I've never written her before, I'm sorry-); bar fight; sweet things Author's Note: Happy holidays, @demothers-empty-blog! Thank you for letting me feed your brain worms over König things - they always make me smile. <3 (I'm sorry this took so long </3)

This bar is going to make a shit ton of money tonight, that's for damn sure. An entire bar getting snowed in? Yikes for the patrons; great for business, though.

Valeria sips her Dos Equis while seated at the bar. Mobile service is basically nonexistant and the wifi is down. Not a shock, really - it's a really bad storm. And it showed up out of nowhere.

So the bar fight happening right now comes as no surprise. Alcohol and being snowed in? Recipe for disaster.

Valeria watches the bartender hop over the bar. When she reaches for the shirt of the guy who started for the fight, Valeria also jumps into action. Between the two women, they manage to separate the drunk guys.

The insigator of the two currently has his hands pinned behind his back and has his face shoved against the wall.

"I said stand down," the bartender hisses at him. Then she drags him to a corner booth and pushes him in. "Stay here. You're cut off and if I catch you anywhere near another patron again tonight, I'll lock your ass up in the cooler in the kitchen."

While that all goes down, Valeria has the other guy on his knees waiting his turn. When the bartender makes her way back over to them, she locks eyes with Valeria and nods before looking down to the guy.

"You good, Vinny?" she asks in a still stern but gentler tone.

"Yeah. I'm good," he slurs slightly but otherwise seems to have calmed.

"Jack on about her again?"

Vinny nods solemnly and hangs his head. The bartender looks back up to Valeria and motions for her to let him go. Slowly, Valeria releases the man. The bartender leads him to the bathroom then returns with a heavy sigh.

"Thank you for the back up. It's not always easy to break those two up when they get going like that."

"It was no problem," Valeria nods. "Not like I was really doing anything else right now anyway," she adds with a chuckle.

The two wander back towards the bar, bartender taking place behind the bar again and Valeria settling back on the stool.

"Can I get you anything? On the house, as thanks. Shot of tequila maybe?" the bartender offers.

"Tequila because I'm Mexican?" Valeria smirks.

The bartender's face turns bright pink and Valeria can see the panic filter in.

"Fuck- No, I- shit. That wasn't- I'm sorry," she finally settles on the apology.

Valeria breaks out into a true laugh and shakes her head.

"I'm just fuckin' with you. I'll take a fresh beer, though."

Immediately, the bartender fishes out another Dos Equis and pops the top off before gently placing it in front of Valeria. As the night continues, the two share lighthearted conversation between the bartender serving drinks. It starts a bit awkward, from the bartender's lingering embarassment, but eventually turns to good conversation.

"I've not had a white Christmas before," Valeria says at some point.

"Guess the weather decided it needed to catch you up on all that missed out on snow, huh?" the bartender chuckles as she cleans up a few glasses.

Valeria's eyes drift from the bartender to the front window - which is currently half-covered in snow - and nods with a smile.

"Guess so. I don't think I mind, though. Got to help break up a bar fight," she pauses, "and have good conversation with a beautiful woman."

The bartender nearly drops one of the glasses as that cute pink color returns to her cheeks.

"I'd have to... agree. Tonight's been wild, but good." The bartender's tone is soft and genuine as she turns back to Valeria. "Will you be around for the New Year?"

"I will be," Valeria nods. "Have a date for the big party they're throwing for it?"

"Depends on if you're also free and plan on going."

That cute pink color is lingering in the bartender's cheeks and it's all Valeria can see. Pink, adorable, and soft.

"Count me in," she smirks, watching the bartender's smile grow.

CoD Christmas (Meet) Cuties Masterlist

[tasha-writes]

A stitch in time

Just a little brain worm about Alicent slipping back in time instead of, well, dying. let me know if I should keep this going.

Word count: 2400

The last thing Alicent remembered was feeling absolutely frigid. Despite what the Maesters said about a raging fever, her teeth chattered, and her body was wrecked with violent shivers under 4 layers of blankets. It had been 3 days of this madness, the sickness had set in quickly, as Winter Fever tended to do. As the sun faded behind the walls of Kings Landing, Alicent gave into the exhaustion plaguing her mind and body, hoping the blackness brought with it the embrace of the Stranger. 

Of course, she could not be so lucky, the Gods, it seemed, would have her suffer as long as possible for her past misdeeds. She awoke feeling more physically refreshed than she had felt in ages, bar the bone deep exhaustion that had settled into her after the war. The Dance of Dragon the smallfolk had taken to calling it. Such a graceful name for such a violent thing. 

Knowing no more sleep would come to her, although judging by the darkness it must be the early hours of morning, Alicent slowly peeled herself from her bed. Gently she picked the brush up from her vanity and lowered herself into the seat and began the lengthy process of brushing out her hair. Alicent spent the better part of an hour and a half in front of the mirror, brushing, twisting, braiding, reflecting, never once looking into the reflective surface. 

Long ago this ritual of reflecting on her mistakes had replaced her morning prayer. Her faith withering away with her sanity and beauty. Alicent gripped the handle of the brush harder and resisted the urge to throw it, to break, and rage, and bring guards running to her chambers who's only job was to keep her alive and suffering. Even winter fever could not take her, she was cursed to a long life that had been stolen from her children. 

A sharp knock startled Alicent enough that she dropped the brush in her hand. She shouldn't have been, most days she was left to her isolation, but the last couple days had seen Maesters in and out of her rooms. When no one entered Alicent trudged over to heavy doors and cracked them open. Outside stood a grouchy looking white cloak, and a rather harried looking wetnurse with a crying white haired baby. The former queen felt the phantom sensation of milk swelling in her breasts. 

"Apologies my queen, but the prince is refusing to latch, and it is bothering the princess so. I thought you might have better luck with him. I must hurry back to the nursery and see to the girl," the wetnurse shoved the crying babe into Alicents arms and scurried away. 

The guard made no move to take the young prince from Alicent, so unsure what else to do she retreated into her room to sit at the foot of her bed. It had been a long time since she had held a babe, perhaps not since she had ordered a newly born Joffrey to be brought to her chambers. When Helaena's children had been born Alicent had been more concerned with politicking than her grandchildren. 

Alicent scowled as the child in her arms made grabby hands at her chest and held it a bit farther away. This must be the offspring of Aegon and Daenaera. A child of zero relation to her thrust into her care for whatever reason. The child returned to cacophonous cried and the former queen wondered at the physical similarities to her own Aegon at this age. Targaryen genes were strong she supposed, such a shame it hadn't worked in Rhaenyra’s favor. 

Finally the babe exhausted himself and quieted down, falling asleep in her arms. Alicent still wasn't sure what to do with him. She wasn't permitted to leave her rooms, but she doubted she was supposed to have one of the heirs to the iron throne in here with her either. It was then Alicent finally looked up and made eye contact with herself in the mirror - and nearly dropped the babe on the floor.

It was like looking at her royal portrait, herself, but not. Impossibly young, haunted with responsibilities and experiences she shouldn't have had to endure. She had officially lost it, there was no possible way she had shed decades. There was no way the wet nurse had addressed her as queen in any other way than a slip of the tongue. There was no possibility that the babe in her arms did not belong to Aegon III but in fact was her own eldest child. 

Alicent screamed.  

Alicent wasn't entirely sure of she blacked out or went into shock, but but but the time her brain was properly processing information again she was sat at a large dinner table a very alive, if sick, Viserys to her left at the head. Across from her sat Rhaenyra, diligently avoiding looked at her. Laenor was sat next to Rhaenyra. On Alicents other side was two-year old Aegon, and on her lap a very tiny Helaena. Perhaps not even six-months old. Viserys was taking to Rhaenyra, something about Daemon, and Alicent squeezed her little girl tighter to her, the horror of seeing her body impaled on the spikes still a fresh wound after all these years. 

Unless… unless it had all been a dream? Or was this the dream? Had the gods blessed her with foresight, or was this her life flashing before her eyes before death finally claimed her? Alicent lifted her glass of wine with a shaking hand and didn't remove the glass from her lips until it was empty. She caught a strange look from Set Strong, hovering behind Rhaenyra, but otherwise was ignored.  

“What is your opinion on the matter, my dear?” Alicents hand halted half way towards waving the cupbearer over. 

“Sorry, opinion about what?”

“Daemon and his engagement to the Velaryon girl, we received news of the upcoming nuptials this afternoon if you recall,” Viserys reminded her. Did they? Alicent couldn't remember. She did recall Laena eventually died in labor with their third child. Died in Vaghar’s fire by the lady’s own command. 

Alicent spoke without thinking, “I suppose I feel for the poor girl. I wouldn't want to be married to the brute.” Across the table Laenor began hacking, spitting out the wine that he had been sipping on. Rhaenyra immediately began rubbing his back, a look of genuine concern passing over her face. Perfect at the role of diligent wife. 

A frowned marred Visery’s face, “That is my brother you speak of.” 

Alicent started mashing a small potato off her plate, “And so dear husband, you must know his temperament as well as I do, better even. Of the two, you have received all gentleness.” having said her piece Alicent began cooing at the baby in her lap 

“You are in rare form tonight, My Queen,” Laenor complemented, voice strained from choking on the wine. Out of the corner of her eye, Alicent saw Rhaenyra purse her lips, eyes darting between her husband, step-mother, and father, attempting to get a read on the situation. Silence filled between them, broken only by Helaena’s babbling. 

“I fear my humors are disturbed by the strangest of dreams I had last night,” Alicent allowed. She fidgeted with her fingers, staring down at her daughter’s head. The men moved on rather quickly after that, discussing matters of hunting and state, but Alicent could feel Rhaenyra’s eyes remained on her. The princess and queen remained silent for the rest of the meal, the princess studying the queen, and the queen picking at her finger nails and debating which life was reality and which was dream. And if this life was reality then what was she going to do about saving her children? Would repairing her relationship with her step-daughter be the answer? Or would truly exiling her father beyond the domain of the Iron throne be the answer? Would anything she could think to do make any difference if the Gods were determined for the dance to occur? But why would the God’s wish destruction on house Targeryean? Was she to be forced once again to lie with, to care for Viserys? Would she again be forced to reckon with her father’s scheming? Was this again? Was this for the first time or the second? Was this the only time? Had she ever truly lived past this evening as she was in it now? Had the God’s shown her the future or had her own brain manifested the worst conclusion in response to her father’s warnings? Or was she delirious and dying of white fever in that moment? 

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra’s quiet voice cut like a knife through the deafening noise in Alicent’s head. “Breathe, Alicent.” Alicent’s gaze shot up, wild with fear to meet the princess’s discerning gaze. “Are you alright?” Was she alright? No, absolutely no. She had lived a whole and terrible life and didn’t know if it was real or not. But either way, it haunted her. And she simply could not stomach sitting at a table of ghosts one moment longer. 

“Alas,” Alicent choked out, “I am not feeling my best. Quite queasy, in fact. I must excuse myself. Aegon, come” Alicent stood sharply and stalked out of the hall. Between the sharp steps of her heels, she could hear the uneasy footsteps of a toddler and the more sure ones of his maid behind her. As well as a third pair of gliding steps. Rhaenyra, no doubt, had excused herself front dinner as well and made to follow her. Alicent refused to look back or acknowledge that she was there. 

Alicent waved the wetnurse away as she came to claim Helaena from the queen’s arms, opting to tuck the babe into the cradle herself. It was strange, Alicent couldn’t remember ever doing this before with any of her children. She had lacked general attachment to her children until they were old enough to have personalities. Perhaps that was part of what led her boys to be so … unhinged. If, of course, her dream was another reality, or a future. Once Aegon was tucked in and mumbling nonsense in his sleep and Alicent had somewhat pulled together the pieces of her mental break, she deemed it safe to address Rhaenyra. 

“Are you just going to hover there, or is there something that I can do for you?” Alicent asked, voice coming out cold in her attempt to keep it even. “I can’t imagine this is you finally showing some interest in your siblings.” Rhaenyra sat on the chair next to Aegon’s bed and Alicent had to fight the terror slowly rising at the proximity of the half-siblings. 

“You seemed disturbed at dinner, and,” Rhaenyra took a breath and combed her hand through Aegon's silky baby hair, “despite everything, I still hold some affection for you.” Rhaenyra stood, “It is you who ultimately cut of our friendship, Alicent. Were you to accept peace I would gladly have it.” 

Alicent considered for a moment, but images of a burnt Aegon, a one-eyed Aemond, and a dead Helaena held her back from fully embracing the idea of peace between her and Rhaenyra. No matter what, no matter if she and her children bent the knee to Rhaenyra, there would always be lords of the realm that called for the first born son to sit the Iron Throne after Viserys. Rhaenyra would have no choice but to kill or exile Alicent’s children. She would either have to fully convince Visery’s to name Aegon his heir, or war it seemed, would be inevitable. How awful. 

“Rhaenyra, you should leave.” Alicent could almost hear the small hope Rhaenyra fostered within her heart cracking like glass. In truth she missed her friend, but she feared the arbitrator of her family’s deaths more. As Rhaenyra stood to leave, a strong wave of anxiety flooded Alicent, overcoming any of her good sense. “What will you do to my children, Rhaenyra,” Alicent wished she had drank more wine at dinner, “when your father can no longer back your claim, and the lords call for a king rather than a queen?” 

The silence that followed Alicent’s question was nerve wracking, and she wished nothing more than to bit at her nailbeds until they bled, but a show of weakness in this moment was unthinkable. “Where does this question come from, Alicent?” 

The queen resisted the urge to grate her teeth, a nonanswer at best. “My father, he has warned me that once you become queen my children’s lives might be forfeit to ensure your claim. I simply want to know what your intentions are.” Alicent’s eyes burned. Too many times she had come to Rhaenyra, for peace, friendship, and had been turned away. 

The princess sat back down and placed her hand on the queens knee. Alicent resisted the urge to jerk away, it felt like any sudden movements would destroy the fragile atmosphere of understanding. “I do not wish to hurt my brother and sister, and what other siblings may come. Given that my siblings bend the knee, you have my word their safety is guaranteed.” Rhaenyra cleared her throat and continued, “I would have them as part of my court in some capacity. One of my siblings might be hand one day, or commander of the Kings Guard. It depends what they wish for themselves, what they show capacity for.” 

The two girls sat in silence. Alicent wasn’t exactly sure how to respond, processing what the princess had told her, putting it up against her father’s paranoid warnings. Warnings she had originally dismissed, believing herself to know Rhaenyra’s character better. Warnings she had let poison her own feelings towards her former friend. That had poisoned her children towards their sister and nephews. That had planted the seeds of the war. Perhaps, perhaps it was not unavoidable after all. Perhaps, her mission to protect her children was one and the same repairing a relationship with Rhaenyra. Her father was wrong. She had known that once and lost her way. 

“You are so close with Syrax,” Alicent began, “Aegon could use such guidance with Sunfyre, I am sure. Your father is far to busy to teach him the ways of a dragon rider, and I am no expert myself. An older sister is the perfect guide.” 

Rhaenyra gifted Alicent’s outreach with a genuine smile, “I would be honored.” Perhaps, the friendship was not so unsalvageable after all.

[dol-dee]

what does limone think of cow ladies,,,

cant stop thinking about her teasing me for needing to be milked so often, and she grabs and gropes me whenever she feels like just to get me all hot and flustered throughout the day, until im so needy and leaky and desperate to be milked,,,,,,,

dw they'd tease you for it but forgive you

"Ahaha- woww, I haven't even started and your brain is already leaking out between your legs.. how cute~" I know you came here for fun horny times, but you unknowingly (and unfortunately) opened a can of worms. So you will have to listen to me break down Limones deal and psyche a little first. Apologies <3 

So the thing with Limone, is that they’re a human fucker first and foremost unfortunately. 

Doesn’t mean they won’t have some fun with you, if you have a TF or two. But it’s a lot less likely that they will get fixated on you. (i.e.: starts pestering you 24/7 and takes notes on you in their encyclopedia when back at home like a freak)

(I wont say never, but both the characters they’re fixated on atm are full humans, with very bad awareness- who are also church related in some way, lol)

The sliding scale is essentially:

(Human) on one side and (Inhuman) Plantpeople on the other. Limone is a little off from the plant people position)

Basically, anyone who started out as a human and has gained a Transformation would still read as inherently more human, than inhuman to them, compared to wolf people for example. The more TFs a person has, the more they start to be in a weird, muddy inbetween area (still recognizable as human though and always more human than Limone) - but they might be a little less compelled because of that. That’s due to a few things:

(They subconsciously want to be seen as, treated and held to the same standard as a human. Even when they keep falling short of it lmao.  It’s debatable how successful they are in that regard but they go out of their way to suppress a lot of their instincts.)

Limone is technically a 100% plant person. I say technically, because theyre a plantperson gone wrong, gone inadvertently merged with a human- whoops. and unaware of it- whooooopsss Thus their biggest internal conflict is the way that speck of humanity clashes with their nature as a plant person and the inherent suffering that comes with humanity in general. They don’t like other plant people. Are disgusted by their natural inclinations, their lack of self control and unwitting cruelty*

‘I am NOT like them, Limone wants to snarl. Nothing like those other mindless drones, with no common sense or self control- Who pluck wings from insects just as easily as they do limbs from people just to sate their own sick curiosity.’

*(Little note to add here: in my personal canon, plant people are kind of  hive mind-ish and very much Fae-like in disposition. They are quite cheerful and bubbly and maybe even nice sometimes, but will be cruel at the drop of a hat and not even realize that’s what they’re doing. So imo they end up killing the majority of the people they abduct. Just by virtue of their carelessness, plus the over exhaustion due to sex and nectar overdoses)

Limone vaguely knows that something is wrong with them, but isn't aware of the what or why. They know how they *should* be and they know what they want to be. But they dont really fit into either category.  Too human to be like every other plant person npc, yet not human enough to truly fit in as one. So If they can't be what they physically are, and they feel this draw to people, then that must mean that they are a human. or at least a person. maybe?

They aren’t though. 

Emotions overwhelm them, because theyre not really supposed to experience them and even then, the range that they have (so far?) is limited. (And they cope with it by self harming; they abuse pain to force their body to overwrite any overwhelming/unpleasant emotions they’re feeling)

They pride themself on their self-control compared to regular plantpeople and the fact that they don’t rape or kill humans but Limone arguably, encroaches on that territory. It just veers on the side of dubcon rather than noncon. So it might be more gradual than outright force, but they keep poking, prodding and pestering until, Luci for example, gives in. They have a predatory/sadistic streak in them no matter how much they like to think that they de-fanged themself or are better than other plantpeople. They ofc wouldn't like it at all when if its put like that.

Then there's the obvious physical differences: They can morph their body to a degree, they have yellow skin, black sclera- yellow eyes, a black tongue and sharp teeth (even when they can rip them out and regrow them). They can’t die, can squish their own memories out of existence like pimples, can manipulate vines and grow plants easily. Substances don’t work on them. They wouldn’t even need to eat if they hadn’t made it so they could.

Because of (gestures at previous chunk of text) all of that, they tend to most easily grow fixated on humans with no TFs. Because they idolize humanity somewhat. Not to an unhealthy degree. They just adore humans and are fascinated by them. So infinitely complex and bright. No one human quite like the other.

You’re lucky though, because they are a very hedonistic person (and a whore) so they like to have fun. Wherever they remember you after or actively pursue you is a different story though.

Okay enough explanations- Time for dirty talk:

Yes, Limone would have a lot of fun teasing you. They’ve made themself lactate before, they know how agonizing it can be. How uncomfortable it is to run around with plump, full tits, practically begging to be milked.

It depends how sadistic they’re feeling at the time. They’d enjoy giving you immediate relief, just as much as being a lil mean.

With the first one they’d pull you on their lap and start to fondle you. Rubbing your nipples through your shirt until milk soaks it through. It’s then that they would milk you outright. Giggling and praising you for being such a good little cow for them. They’re sure you’re soaking through your underwear just like you did your shirt. They’d look forward to licking up your slick, after making you cum several times on their lap, tits finally dry and nipples sore.(Human substances is the closest they can get to a high)

If they’re feeling a little more mean and playful it will be a long, drawn out thing. That knowing gaze boring into you and so very humiliating when you can’t see anything but their mean little smile. They will work you up soo much. Fleeting touches, mean pinches, flicks and more groping. Sweetly asks you if you’re desperate enough to moo for them. There’s a 50/50 chance that they would still not milk you even if you do. Too entertained by your pathetic flush, teary eyes and pitifully drenched shirt. 

Just be prepared to get dropped like a hot potato if one of their current fixations crosses your path :(

[verdemoun]

because i like to pretend every single character was as devastated by kieran's death as i was, i would like to take this opportunity to remind people that if you rescue tilly from the foremans after jack's party, miss grimshaw will mention kieran being missing and that she's going to send some boys out looking for him (screaming crying they DID look for him). but that leaves the question of who. based on who goes looking for arthur when he's away from camp too long, our choices are bill, charles or javier.

obviously, i think miss grimshaw is acutely aware of how much bill torments the poor boy and wouldn't send bill after him

if charles was sent looking for him he would've fucking found him.

so that leaves javier. i think he would've ridden out 2-3 times looking for kieran. first time he was just annoyed, annoyed he was right: said it himself 'once an o'driscoll, always an o'driscoll'. the spineless little man had finally gone running back to colm the second the gang faced a real threat.

second time he had to stop early because boaz got a stone properly wedged in his shoe, and javier realizes he'd gotten so used to the o'driscoll taking care of the horses he had actually neglected to check himself. it feels wrong seeing charles being the one to cart haybales over to the horses, and lenny being the one trying to brush sweat out of their coats before tacking them up. makes a passing comment that the o'driscoll would've had them all done by now, and the saddles would've been clean enough to see their faces in. without kieran, it'll go back to being a three-person chore tending to the herd. he had to admit the kid did a lot of work around camp.

third time he looked along the river, because the few things he knew about the boy was that he liked horses, and fishing. remembers how disappointed the o'driscoll was when javier said there was no way he'd go fishing with him - he was preparing lures for arthur (and how the kid looked that much like a sad, wet cat javier had tossed a bag of crickets at him (was it an apology?), and kieran was happy again because it was much better bait for the local bluegill population than the worms he picked out of the dirt) it became another thing to tease him over, maybe they'd go fishing together.

post horsemen, apocalypses, javier is angry. he's ready to ride out and hunt down the o'driscolls himself, to hit them back even though it's the wrong move. because damnit, kieran was one of them. that meant even if he was a damned o'driscoll, he was part of the gang: the closest thing to family javier had. and no one mentions that javier was the one who went looking for him. no one says he failed. he doesn't need them to point out that he's more angry at himself for not looking hard enough, for not doing enough, not being enough to find the damned kid before that happened to him than he is mad at the o'driscolls.

on nights when he's on guard, and his brain is swimming in the whiskey that he was drinking to stay warm (poor excuse, everything in lemonye is sticky and hot), he catches himself staring over to a wooden marker standing alone in the middle of a clearing, buried facing away from them. feels himself getting angry again, because if he didn't get angry he'd start blaming himself and apologies never solved anything. instead he simmers in his rage, glowering into the night because damnit they were meant to go fishing together.

[llleavemealoneplease]

Heyyyy, hope you're eating well, can you write romantic headcannons for delisaster?

DELISASTER ROMANTIC HEADCANONS

A/N: Love and hate this little shithead so much thanks nonnie for requesting!! u 2 nonnie hope you’re also eating well and to everybody who reads this

NOTE: i dunno what I’m cooking, gn!reader

• Delisaster in clingy, SUPER clingy, if you don’t give him the attention he wants, it’ll be a disaster… Won’t care if you’re busy, you’re giving your attention to him.

• Also the type to hug you behind, to annoy you of course… Busy? He won’t care! Hugs and kisses are shared to annoy you even more!

• Insists you to drink with him, of course you’d always deny that, not to mention the smell of cigarettes, always nagging him back and fourth about the scent.

• Would say “Would you still love me as a worm?<3” “No.”

• Calls you a stupid pet name, “Come here my little pookie wookie.” Just for him to ask you if you can get a kiss, say no then he’s the one kissing you.

• Loves cats, probably said “brah look at this idiot thinking that they apart of my crew😂😂😂” while pointing at a cat on the street. “Delisaster… That’s a cat.” “It’s so ugly though.” “Just like you.”

• YES with the more teasing, he’d pinch your cheeks to either holding you by the waist. Try your best to stay stoic or you’ll never be let go from him…

• You’d have to lead him to bed if he gets tipsy(if he does) then he whines like a little bitch “Can I have one more shot pweaaaaseeeee🥺” “No.”

• If no, then he’ll drag you to bed with him.

• Also the type to hog the blankets unironically, but if he sees you cold, then fine, have the blanket. Though, he prefers hugging you. He keeps it warm, sure…

• After waking up though, he purposely wakes up earlier than you so he can stare at you and say “𝓖𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓹𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓲𝓮. " with every voice when you wake up.

• Delisaster likes to be praised, that includes you laughing at his jokes. Please think that he’s funny. He tries his best!!

• If you genuinely get annoyed at him, he’d take it as a joke but eventually try to get serious about it though… He’ll try.. Hey! At least he’s putting in the effort.

• Gets jealous if he sees you with another guy, if you return home he’d demand more attention.

• Don’t worry! He’d reciprocate your feelings back… Still a whiny lad though…

• Drunk confessions! If he ever does get drunk, he’d be more flirty towards you. Though his puns get progressively worse… Just hold it in and slap him tomorrow for it <3

————————

sowwy that it’s kinda short i’ll be a good kwitten next time🥺(/hj, but seriously i apologize for making this short. my brain exploded.)

[merakiui]

MERA!!!

https://www.tumblr.com/merakiui/721771038258675712/twst-bunny-boy-event-bunny-boy-azul-who-is

Can we hear more about bunny boy Azul???? You’ve given me a brain worm and I need to know more 😭

Omg yes!!! Rabbits breed a lot, so I think that’s so perfect for Mr. Azul. :) he’s a little embarrassed and shy during the first time he goes into heat and you wake up to him desperately rubbing himself against you, apologizing profusely all while he pins you down to the mattress with the mindset that he has to breed you full or else!!! >_< he’s so sex-brained when he’s in heat; it’s cute because he’s a teary, sweaty mess, so overly sensitive, always shuddering at the slightest touch or slightest whiff of your scent. You run your hand across his back or touch his forehead to check for a fever and he’s whining, grabbing at your hand and bringing it down to the tent in his trousers!!!!!

Aaaaa he’s the sweetest thing outside of his heats! He’s helpful and knows a surprising amount on business and finance. He helps you budget, always so willing to lend a hand so long as you continue to feed, clothe, and care for him. <3 but when he’s in heat, he’s insatiable. Azul refuses to put it in even though he really wants to and his every instinct is begging him to do so. He would, but then that would make the two of you mates and he has no idea if you even see him that way. So most of the time he’ll hump into your sheets and pillows or against you when his mind is in such a haze, your scent leaving him dizzy. He bends you over on the counter and fucks between your thighs, spilling hot and sticky each time.

When he’s in heat, he hardly does anything outside of countless rounds of sex and occasionally resting and eating when he’s hit a low and can’t seem to cum anymore. But then hours later he’ll be back to the whining mess he once was, craving your scent and touch and warmth, body tacky with sweat and his spend from previous rounds. He’s spent enough time with you now to no longer feel embarrassed when he’s in heat, so if you give him a handjob or let him hump you he’ll shamelessly cry and moan, kissing you all over because he loves you so, so much!

Azul is rather obedient for a creature whose biological imperative is to mate over and over. When you tell him he can use your body in any way to help with his heats (aside from putting his dick inside), he listens and follows your rules. Of course you can’t blame him when he starts to get obsessively possessive of you the more times you begin to go out to meet friends and, possibly, a significant other. You also can’t blame him when, during his next heat, he pushes you down, hastily tugs your underwear from your skin, and lines himself up. He’s doing this for your own good, after all. It’s because you’re not claimed that he’s so anxious and antsy. It’s because he loves you that he must do this. It’s because you’re his (soon-to-be) mate that he must do this to prevent you from seeing other people.

He’ll take responsibility for whatever happens after. You can count on him. That’s a promise he’ll never break. :)

[officialrapunzelfitzherbert]

maybe next time

word count: 2.5k

fandom: buffy the vampire slayer

characters: tara maclay & rupert giles

summary: tara attempts to break the ice with giles after the birthday incident with her family.

preview:

Tara saw what Mr. Giles had with Buffy. She saw what he had with the whole group. She knew just how badly she wanted that, and it felt so big and powerful that she wasn't sure if she could ever touch it. He didn't know her that way. She didn't really know him that way, either.

She might never see her father again.

a/n i do not have an ao3 account and do not remember my ff.net password so yall are getting my first fic since 2012 on this webbed site have fun everybody. perhaps i will write again in another 12 years <3

In no particular order, Tara had three goals for her trip to the Magic Box.

Goal #1: Formally apologize to Mr. Giles for the spell that got his shop attacked by demons and for involving him in the family drama that followed.

Goal #2: Have a real one-on-one conversation with Mr. Giles.

Goal #3 (optional): If he's open to it, get a job at the Magic Box to get to know Mr. Giles better.

She'd had it all mapped out. She'd been taking notes and rehearsing whenever no one was looking. She had a whole story about being on an errand for Willow so that she had an excuse if she needed to make a quick exit. She knew exactly which crystal she was going to buy, exactly what coffee order she had to pick up on her way back to their dorm, and exactly where she would hide to look busy browsing if she started to panic.

The truth was that Tara adored Mr. Giles. Unfortunately, she was painfully aware of why. It didn't help that Willow had been dropping hints that the two of them should be closer ever since the recent birthday incident with her father. It wasn't that Tara didn't appreciate the encouragement, but every time Willow mentioned his name and gave her that Knowing Willow Look, it just felt so important that the pressure got the tiniest bit debilitating.

Tara saw what Mr. Giles had with Buffy. She saw what he had with the whole group. She knew just how badly she wanted that, and it felt so big and powerful that she wasn't sure if she could ever touch it. He didn't know her that way. She didn't really know him that way, either.

She might never see her father again.

The last thing Tara wanted was to embarrass herself in front of Mr. Giles by letting him see how much she wanted him to like her. She knew she was projecting. But every day that passed without her saying a word to him was starting to feel like another nail in a coffin. If she averted her eyes from him one more time, she was sure he'd think she hated him. That or that she was terrified of him - not entirely untrue, but not in the way he probably thought. Maybe if they started working together while the shop was still new and there were tasks to complete, it would help them break through whatever polite-off they were having.

Before her birthday, she'd almost given up on being his friend. But now she had two pieces of evidence that it wasn't a lost cause:

Exhibit A: He'd stood up to her father for her.

Exhibit B: He gave her a birthday present.

He still hardly knew her. But it was proof that he cared. She wasn't imagining that, as much as the self-conscious worms in her brain kept trying to tell her she must have been. She was there. She saw it. She had the crystal ball on her desk. That was real.

If there was ever a window, it was now.

So she found herself at the Magic Box replaying her script over and over in her head. The plan was to get right into it so she wouldn't have time to overthink it, but as she walked in to see Mr. Giles and Anya in the middle of a semi-heated but clearly petty argument, she realized this wasn't a scenario she'd planned for.

As Mr. Giles heard the door open and made a split-second of awkward eye contact with her, Tara gave a weak smile and a wave. He smiled back politely but his attention very quickly went back to Anya, who hadn't stopped talking long enough to take a breath, let alone notice that someone else was there.

Tara waited about two seconds before making a beeline to her hiding spot among the books.

She'd made it 3 pages into a book she already owned by the time Anya let out a long dramatic sigh and went downstairs to storage. She took a deep breath. Tara liked Anya, but it was always hard to predict what she was going to say. If she wanted to eliminate as many variables as she could, she had to do this now.

Acting as natural as possible, Tara walked over to the crystals. Even though she was expecting it, she still flinched a little when she heard a voice calling from behind the counter.

“Sorry, Tara, did you need anything?”

“Hi, Mr. Giles,” Tara replied, “Oh, I was just here to pick something up for Willow, she's in class right now so…”

Tara fought back a wince as she heard herself speak and mentally updated her list.

Goal #4: Figure out a way to organically stop calling him Mr. Giles.

She'd already said it once today, so it might be too obvious if she dropped the “Mr.” in the same conversation, but maybe by the next time they talked, they'd be familiar enough that he wouldn't notice.

Keeping that in the back of her mind, she forced herself to get started on goal #3:

“Oh, but while I'm here, I was actually just…” Tara stammered, fidgeting with the crystal she'd picked up as her script escaped her, “well, I wanted to ask if… I’m happy to help out if you need-”

“Of course,” said Giles before she could finish, “Well, you have, you've- everything you've done for Buffy, for all of us-”

"No, I-” Tara stopped herself for a second and reminded herself that he was giving her a compliment that she needed to acknowledge. “Yeah, always. I just meant... In the shop, if you’re looking for an extra set of hands for anything, I'm available."

"Oh, well, if you're looking for a job…” Giles paused in a way that made Tara's heart sink.

He was looking for the kindest way to say no.

“Well,” he continued, “Anya's not one for taking days off, I’m afraid, so there's not really a position- that is to say the budget at this stage is still- but-”

“Oh, that's okay,” Tara interrupted so he wouldn't have to come up with any more reasons to justify it, “No worries. I was just-”

“And I wouldn't want to interfere with your studies-”

“Totally get it.”

“Perhaps during the holidays, I might have some extra work for you. It's a bit early to say for sure, but I expect I'll need everyone's help on Halloween if nothing else.”

“Maybe then, yeah.”

“I'm sorry that's all I can really-”

“No, it's no big deal. I was just saying if you needed… And I mean, I'm not so great with the customers anyways.”

Giles blinked. “You've met Anya?”

Tara chuckled softly and felt her shoulders relax just a little.

“Well,” Giles continued, “if anything, keeping the floor stocked is probably where I'll need the most backup. You'll certainly be the first to know.”

“Yeah, of course.”

There was a brief pause. This counted as a one-one-one conversation, didn't it? That was goal #2. Goal #3 of getting a job had been eliminated and #4 was for the next time they talked. So all that was left for today was #1: apologize. That was the real challenge. She wasn't sure if this was going to naturally come up, but if she could just spit it out and leave as quickly as possible, she wouldn't have to see his reaction.

“Speaking of holidays,” said Giles, “you've got somewhere to go?”

This caught Tara off-guard.

“Huh?”

She hadn't been looking at him since he'd politely rejected her, but this got her to finally look up and see a softness in his face that she wasn't prepared for.

“Yeah,” she said when she finally remembered how to speak, “Willow and I haven't made a plan yet exactly, but whatever she's up to. I know she wants us to do my first Hanukkah this year, so I'm excited for that.”

Tara felt her voice drop what felt like a full octave when she started talking about Willow earnestly. That subject was always easy. Giles clearly noticed this and smiled.

“That's wonderful.”

“You did Thanksgiving at your place last year, right?”

“Well, Buffy did, it was my place, but that was a bit of a-”

“Oh, I don't mean to-” Tara stammered, hoping she hadn't just accidentally invited herself into his home. Sometimes she spoke just to make sure words were coming out of her mouth and would realize at the end of the sentence that she might have implied something she didn't mean.

“I guess you wouldn't really celebrate it,” Tara went on, “Willow usually doesn't either.”

Giles gave that polite laugh that was more of a quick exhale. Tara knew from her own experience that this meant he didn't know how to respond to that.

Was it rude to assume he would celebrate American Thanksgiving? Should she be asking about English holidays?

Goal #5: Learn about English holidays later.

A few agonizing seconds passed as Tara desperately tried to flip through her mental script for the next talking point that felt the most organic, but Giles spoke before she could.

“Well, last year, we all got together at Buffy's with her family for Christmas,” he said, “I'm sure they'll be hosting again this year. Of course you're welcome to come.”

Tara smiled. “That sounds nice.”

“You're not the only one with a, um… difficult family situation. You'll fit right in, I’m sure.”

Tara didn't know how to process when anyone said something that implied they'd been thinking of her, much less someone she admired as much as Giles. She also didn't know much about the other Scoobies’ families. But as she thought about each of them and the things they didn't talk about, it hit her that maybe her own family didn't make her an outsider after all. Maybe that was actually the one thing she had in common with everyone.

She found herself suddenly curious about how Giles grew up. What were his parents like? Were they still alive? Did he ever have a family of his own?

So many questions that it wasn't time to ask yet. For now, she was simply grateful.

“Thanks. And I um…” She took a deep breath. It was now or never. “I wanted to apologize about that. I didn't mean to bring my family stuff into your-”

“No, no, that's-”

“Really, I-”

“Tara, believe me, if it's not demons threatening my life in the workplace, it's angry customers. Between the two of them, I'll take the ones I'm allowed to hit, if I'm being honest. And as for the spell, I mean, it's not as if I… as if we all haven't… Just as long as you're all right.”

“It's just…My dad was so-”

“Your father I could have taken if Buffy wouldn't have gotten to him first,” said Giles, his accent getting just a little less posh for a moment. His lips tightened as if he had more words that he thought it best not to say out loud.

It was hard to picture Mr. Giles in a fight. But Tara had heard stories. Apparently he could be terrifying when he needed to be. Willow had described it as him being two completely different people: one a mild-mannered British librarian who couldn't hurt a fly, and the other a man with that look you only have if you've killed in cold blood before and aren't afraid to do it again. Tara had only ever seen glimpses of the second one. Every time she'd seen the scarier Giles, though, she'd noticed he was always protecting someone.

Now that she was the one being protected, he didn't feel like two people at all. She didn't know all the details of what he'd done in his past. She didn't need to. In this moment, as far as she was concerned, the gap between the gentle Giles and the terrifying Giles was bridged. At the core of both was just a man who cared.

“Thank you,” Tara said softly.

“Of course. And you're…?” Giles trailed off, gesturing to her nose where Spike had hit her.

“Oh!” Tara exclaimed, remembering to breathe again now that she'd been reminded she had a nose and lungs attached to it somewhere. “Yeah, I'm fine. Not broken. I put some ice on it.”

“Glad to hear it. Sorry he hit you. I'm sure there was another way we could've-”

“No, it's fine. It was quicker.”

Giles shrugged. A few more seconds of silence passed and Tara felt her face getting hot as she became hyper-aware of herself. If she let on just how much this talk meant to her now, she was sure to blow this whole thing. It was best to make her exit for today and do this in small doses.

“Well, I'd better go,” she said, placing the crystal by the register, “Just this.”

She quickly looked down to dig into her bag for her wallet, letting her hair fall in front of her face and praying that she hadn't turned into a tomato in front of someone whose approval she was so desperate for. Giles put a hand up to stop her.

“On me.”

Tara's eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

Giles ripped off the price tag and glanced over to the door that Anya was sure to return through any moment now.

“Well, best to keep it quiet,” he said, discreetly shoving the sticker into his pocket so he wouldn't be caught giving away free product, “but really, I insist.”

“Okay,” Tara said, freezing for a second. When it came to her birthday, she knew that gifts could have just been because of an unspoken social rule, or maybe just to please Willow. This, however, was a kindness Tara had done nothing to earn. Before she'd put the crystal down, she'd been gripping it so hard there were indents on her fingers. Now, as she picked it back up, she was cradling it as if any movement would shatter it completely.

“Thank you so much,” she said, knowing that it wasn't enough, but not knowing what else to say. “Well, I'll see you later, Mr. Giles.”

Tara saw him think for a second, almost open his mouth to speak, and then stop himself. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she could have sworn he was about to tell her that she could just call him Giles. He looked a little embarrassed for a moment, but gathered himself quickly and just gave a gentle nod.

Maybe next time.

“Take care,” Giles said as Tara waved goodbye.

His smile was a lot like his usual polite customer service smile, but there was a hint of warmth in it now. She'd seen that before, but she couldn't remember ever being on the receiving end until now. But maybe she had been. Maybe she'd just been too nervous to look at him long enough to notice.

Two out of five goals achieved. And one new piece of evidence to put next to the crystal ball on her desk.

She could work with that.

[havenesc]

Im fucking crying cuz I just went through cmatdsdw tag. Pls, Sofia and Jason, devastating duo, for me at least. Cuz I personally relate to Jason a little too much but add Sofia in the mix and I'm devastated cuz what do you mean that a man fucked her over and man will continue to fuck her over but a man is also very close to her and she cares deeply for him? Do you understand the worms in my brain cuz of your Sofia and Jason posts? They're living rent free.Anyways, i love it, you're amazing, that's it, bye, sorry for the long ask

Never apologize for a long ask I live to see messages like these!!! Aaa!!

Jason and Sofia are such a fun dynamic to mess with because they care so much about each other but they have no idea how to convey it in the constraints of their relationship. They are business partners, they are family, they are so mean to each other sometimes but the moment anybody else tries to harm one of them, you bet the other is meeting them at the door.

They both know what it’s like to look up to your father figure, assured that they’ll do right by you, and in turn feel — in Sofia’s case, actually — cast aside.

If you’ve gone through the tag I’m sure you’ve seen Birdie’s fics but now there’s a series on AO3 that we’ll both be contributing to!! Every day is a new day to come up with heartbreaking cmatd scenarios <3 I’m very glad you enjoy the AU and thank you for telling us abt it!!!

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Sent in a request and forgot to mention the type of matchup, my bad I hope you skipped over it since I did :') . If you did that one despite my blunder, please skip this. To do this properly, can I get a romantic matchup for Marvel and DC?

20, She/Her, physical characteristics wise: I'm blonde, 5'3", have gray eyes, am pale (vampire jokes, probably low iron, fun stuff), I wear glasses (near-sighted)... I tend to wear pretty casual clothes, oversized hoodies, tank tops, funny shirts, comfy pants, etc. I fall under the demi-sexual + demi-romantic categories, and I tend to like people who allow me to be my eccentric self with no judgement.

Hobbies include true crime, writing, videogames, comics, Pathfinder, talking and ranting about bad romance books, celebrity drama, random fun facts, etc. I'm fairly sassy and sarcastic, 90% of what I say shouldn't be taken seriously. I tend to tease (affectionately "bully") my friends a lot, but am supportive about things that actually matter. I'm like a cat, sometimes aloof and distant and other times sociable and affectionate. Again, funny little autistic + ADHD brain worms, just how that goes. Thanks and I'm so sorry again for doing mine wrong :')

Hi! I just wanted to say that you don't have to apologize! It's not a problem at all! <3

I have a terrible memory so I have no idea what I did about the first sent request, but I hope you like your matchups here below!

<333333

Enjoy!

Romantic Matchups; Marvel and DC

~~~

Romantic;

~~~

Marvel;

Shang-Chi -

You met Shang-Chi completely by accident at a low-key coffee shop during a mutual break from the chaos that's called 'life.'

He noticed your sarcastic comment about the café’s attempt at true crime-themed drinks (“‘Espresso Murderer’? Really?”), and he couldn’t help but laugh.

Like what coffee place does that? Surprisingly this one.

By the time you left, you’d unknowingly swapped numbers after agreeing to send each other bad puns whenever they popped into your head.

Shang-Chi would adore your eccentric personality. He’d admire your ability to be yourself unapologetically.

Whenever you’re in an aloof or distant mood, he gives you the space you need but always subtly checks in with a “Hey, just making sure you’re good.”

He’s super curious about Pathfinder, so he’d sit in on a campaign and try his best to understand the rules.

Your sarcasm never phases him; in fact, he’d pick up on your teasing style and become a master of throwing it back, all in good fun.

Shang-Chi would start to notice how often he’s thinking about you, especially when he’s practicing martial arts or trying to focus on other things, like work or karaoke.

It’s the small things that stand out to him - how you always manage to make him laugh when he’s feeling down, or how you look genuinely happy when talking about your passions.

He’s hesitant at first, unsure if he should make a move, but Katy (his best friend) would definitely tease him about how obvious his feelings are.

Everyone knows... Except you.

You can balance affection and independence that win him over - he loves that you’re like a cat because it keeps him on his toes.

I'm a cat, meow, check me out.

Shang-Chi is a thoughtful and attentive partner who always puts your comfort first.

He’d love spending low-energy days with you, like lounging around in comfy clothes, gaming, or watching documentaries about random topics (true crime would become his guilty pleasure because of you).

Dates with Shang-Chi would be casual but meaningful - think nighttime walks in peaceful parks or exploring niche bookstores together.

Movie marathons of your favorite bad romance films where you both provide running commentary, rating every terrible decision the characters make.

He’d encourage you to show off your gaming skills, even if he’s terrible at certain games. If he beats you, he’ll claim it’s pure luck (but secretly loves seeing your competitive side).

He’d spar with you just for fun and give you pointers to improve your fighting techniques.

Of course, he’d “accidentally” lose sometimes to make you feel victorious.

Shang-Chi would always make sure you feel heard and valued, especially during your more moody or irrational moments.

He’d be your unofficial bodyguard when you’re out together, effortlessly keeping creeps or rude people in line.

Whenever you’re low-energy or overwhelmed, he’ll bring your favorite snacks and keep you company without demanding your attention.

If you needed to vent about a bad day or some frustrating celebrity drama, he’d listen patiently and offer thoughtful advice when you want it.

"Why would Kim do that?"

"Can you believe what people are saying about Olivia Rodrigo and Sabrina Carpenter?"

"Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo though."

You’d be his biggest cheerleader, always hyping him up and reminding him how much he’s accomplished.

You’d surprise him with playlists full of songs you think he’d enjoy or that remind you of him.

If he had to leave for a mission, you’d write funny little notes or pack a small keepsake for him to take along.

~~~

DC;

Jaime Reyes -

You and Jaime met years ago, bonding over a shared love of comics and video games.

It was easy for both of you to just click.

From that day forward, you became inseparable.

Whether it was school, gaming marathons, or making fun of bad romance movies, Jaime always had you by his side.

Not to mention, making fun of bad romance books.

Jaime loves how you’re a perfect balance of chaos and calm.

He knows when you’re teasing when you’re serious, and when you just need space to be.

The Reyes family absolutely adores you - Milagro constantly teases Jaime about how he “talks about you way too much,” and his mom always makes sure you’re well-fed.

Nana also likes you, she loves how you like to listen to her stories, and just vibe with her.

You’d spend endless nights at his house playing games, talking about superhero ethics, and debating which comic book hero could win in a fight.

Outside of comics, you'd also talk about your favorite superheroes in real life.

"I like Blue Beetle. What about you-"

"Batman!"

"Oh."

Khaji-Da enjoys your company as much as Jaime does and sometimes chimes in to side with you during your playful arguments, much to Jaime’s frustration.

Jaime realizes he’s in love with you during one of your usual hangouts - maybe it’s the way you laugh at your own joke or how you unconsciously fix his hair when it’s out of place.

Maybe... Maybe he always loved you...

Khaji-Da is no help; she outright tells him, “You are displaying heightened emotional dependency on your companion,” making Jaime sputter and fluster.

He’s terrified of ruining your friendship, so he tries to act normal, but his growing feelings make him extra shy and awkward around you.

Milagro would start dropping hints to you, saying things like, “You know Jaime’s single, right?”

She wasn't really subtle.

When Jaime finally confesses, it’s after a moment when he thinks he might lose you.

Whether it’s a minor accident or you’re just upset, he blurts out how much you mean to him because he can’t keep it in anymore.

Once you start dating, it’s not much different from being best friends - just with more affection, subtle touches, and lingering glances.

Smooches, if you're into smooches.

Jaime is the type of boyfriend who remembers all the little things about you, like your favorite snacks or the specific type of hoodie you love wearing.

Khaji-Da becomes your unofficial wing-scarab, occasionally whispering advice to Jaime like, “Perhaps you should hold her hand now.”

Game nights become even more competitive. Jaime loves it when you beat him because of how smug you get about it - but he’ll still demand rematches.

You’d convince him to cosplay with you at a convention, and though he’d act embarrassed at first, he’d secretly love how much fun you’re having.

On days when you’re feeling low-energy, you’d lounge together in oversized hoodies, watching random documentaries or playing co-op games.

Jaime would drop everything to make sure you’re okay. Whether it’s a bad day or something serious, he’s always there to listen and support you.

Anything for you.

If anyone tried to mess with you, Jaime would instantly step in to defend you. He’s not about to let anyone talk down to his best friend-turned-girlfriend.

He’d surprise you with small, thoughtful gifts - like a limited edition comic you mentioned weeks ago or snacks he knows you love.

Or he'd give you notebooks for doodling or writing.

When you’re deep into a writing project or hyperfocused on a hobby, he’d quietly bring you water or remind you to take a break without interrupting.

You’d be his safe place when the stress of being Blue Beetle gets to him, always reminding him of how capable and strong he is.

If he’s having a rough day, you’d plan fun little activities to cheer him up, whether it’s a spontaneous movie night or baking something together (even if it turns into a flour fight).

Jaime and you as best friends-turned-lovers is the ultimate mix of fun, trust, and deep affection.

[fnaflucasverse]

Bad Taste In Music

i Cannot believe we get perry and tiger before the guy this au is named after. but that's what happens when you go insane over tiger liking r&b ig! apologies if it's kind of a nothing story and if tigers kind of ooc but i liked writing it. is this canon to lucasverse? idk! is it me having fun with my two fav guys? ya <3 but oh i should not have stayed up this late to finish this.....

Tiger belongs to @fivenightsatfreddysfanfiction

A little while into her training, somewhere above the drum-pounding rhythm of her fists against the punching bag, Peregrine began to hear music.

And it wasn't the good shit she sometimes heard on the truck radio, with crunchy electric guitars and crashing cymbals—it was that sappy, soulful, piano ballad garbage that always made her switch stations. With a groan, Peregrine sped up her jabs, hoping to drown out the din… but like the worst kind of bug, the music wormed its way into her ear, into her brain, and twisted like a knife.

She punched faster, hit harder, felt the pain shockwave from her knuckles up her arm. Even still, Peregrine heard the song.

She grit her teeth against it; the singer's words were indistinct, but the tune carried all the damn same. The more the song grated on, the more fleeting thoughts shot through Peregrine's mind: a kind, smiling face, singing a tender lullaby to a restless toddler and her brother, the feeling of being warm, safe, and—

She couldn’t fucking train to this shit.

With a roar, Peregrine's fist slammed square into her target. The punching bag flew into the air, viciously pulled back to earth by its chain. It swung at Peregrine with a vengeance—but she had already left the gym, stalking through the hallway for her next victim.

The hallway opened up into the living room, where a TV sputtered static at peeling leather armchairs and mismatched chairs gathered around the makeshift dining table. In the center sat the source of the noise: a record player, still crooning away. And sitting in front of it, slumped shoulders shielding Peregrine from the culprit…

Peregrine's lips drew out into a thin line.

Her old man was getting drunk again.

She'd be less surprised if she could see beer cans anywhere, anything to say he’d been drinking the cheap beer he made her restock every other fucking day—but he was staring, gaze empty and distant, at the whiskey bottle strangled in his grip. And if it was whiskey he was drinking—as if the music wasn't a giveaway—he was thinking about her mother.

And he'd promised the Boss he'd stopped.

God-fucking-damnit.

Peregrine stomped up and yanked the needle away from the record with a satisfying screech.

Tiger spun around, hand instinctively reaching for a pistol that wasn’t there. Peregrine crossed her arms, watching him recognize her, freeze, and sink back into the chair, shaking his head. “Jesus, Lee, you don’t just…" Alcohol coated his breath. “You’re done early.”

“I’m taking a break." Peregrine jerked her chin towards the record player. “Where the hell did you get that?"

Tiger's head swiveled towards it like he'd forgotten it was there. "That's just… something I found in the old stash." He set the bottle down, rubbing the back of his head like a kid caught with his hand in Dad's wallet. "Just thought I'd fix it up, see if it still works… Could sell it, you know; people collect this sort of—sort of thing and…"

He trailed off as Peregrine picked up the record to frown at the label. Who the hell was Whitney Houston? "Uh-huh. And you found this with it, too?" Perry tried twirling the record on her finger—

Her father snatched it faster than she could blink. "Lee, you don't play with things you could break," he scolded.

Peregrine rolled her eyes. He'd never stopped telling her off and never would until he dropped dead, and even then he'd probably return as a ghost to tell her off even more. She swiped his whiskey and hopped up on the table, resting her bored chin in her palm as he watched him hunt for the sleeve to return his record to. Bottle was half-empty. Peregrine watched Tiger carefully slide the record back into place, spying the tracklist on the back. Ugh. 'Love' this, 'Love' that. It made her want to throw up.

“You actually like this kind of shit, old man?" she snorted, only half in disbelief.

“She’s a very talented singer,” Tiger defended, closing the record player with a click. His eyes clouded. "Anyway, it was—it… belonged to your mother."

Peregrine shut up. Tiger took it as an invitation to continue whatever 'when we were all younger but especially you' spiel he had ready to vent. “You know, Lee…,” he began, clearing his throat, an uncomfortable phlegmy sound.

Peregrine's eyes drifted to the ceiling. Better to let him talk. He'd get it all out of his system, and she'd go dump whatever whiskey was left down the drain.

"You know… your mother used to sing these songs to you, get you to sleep easier. I don't think you remember any of it—you would've been five or so—but…" A nostalgic, weary smile crossed her father's face, always a little alarming to see nowadays. "God, there were days when you would just not go to sleep! Neither could we. You used to be scared of every little thing, just crying and crying—"

"That's gotta be bullshit," Peregrine grumbled.

"—We were really worried about you, Lee," he continued. "But then Jaq figured out you liked being sung to—especially this one song—what was it—'The Greatest Love Of All?' But that was the year…" The smile melted from Tiger's face, turning into a familiar frown. "Anyway, that's when Ms. Houston herself helped out," he said, giving the record player a firm pat.

Peregrine felt cool, smooth glass in her hands, the swirling weight of the whiskey, the gnawing of memories as they scratched at her skull.

The smiling face. The gentle voice. The feeling of warmth and safety and…

And love.

There was a strange knot in her throat.

"Yeah, yeah," Peregrine abruptly snapped, rocketing to her feet, "and when Panther gets back, he'll want to know why the hell you lied to his face. So just gimme that—" she grabbed the record and bundled the player under her arm— "I'll get rid of it." She glared at Tiger, his expression flashing through bitterness, guilt, resignation… "Drink some water. And take a fucking nap; you're being pathetic," she cut into him, whiskey bottle hanging from her fingers.

He didn't meet her eyes.

"'Night, old man," Peregrine muttered, and strode away.

She didn't head back to the gym.

She didn't get rid of her contraband.

She headed straight to her room, shoved them both under her bed, poured the bottle's contents out the window, and curled up on her mattress, letting second by second tick agonizingly by. And when, and only when the world was nothing but darkness, Peregrine retrieved the record player, cranked the volume as quiet as it could go, and, as Whitney's voice crackled softly, she let her eyes slip shut.