#not tagging this as a ramble because it's not

[wemlygust]

This needs Spider-Man in it too. They can be creepy ceiling buddies. They've have such a good time just chilling upsidedown in weird positions and accidentally/on-purpose freaking out everyone else.

A group of criminals thinking they got into a bank undetected: :)

Danny, chilling on the ceiling: Hello

Criminals: *scream and run only to get knocked out by Red Robin*

Phantom chuckled. “Works every time. I wonder why Gotham crooks are so scared of me?”

Red Robin looked up at the ceiling, where Phantom seemed to be hanging on by his fingertips. Phantom had his head turned backwards 180 degrees, his body crouched into an unnatural bend with his joints all bent at odd angles like a broken doll.

Paired with his bright green irises and sharp fangs that had an unholy sheen from the glow of his eyes— it was no wonder that anyone who saw him wanted to piss their pants and pass out.

“…. We’ll never know.”

[ohgodthevoices]

going crazy over how husband material osamu is, hear me ouuutttt

tags : fluff, time-skip, f!reader, tattoo , he listens to, he cares , and he cook , i’m thirsting m sorry

osamu would be the type of bestfriend that knows damn well you want him bad but keeps on teasing you and acting clueless just to see how far you can go before you crack

as childhood friends, it was normal for you to be touchy and generally comfortable with each other but it raised his suspicions when you now looked away when he was topless around you. it’s not like you were uncomfortable with it ?

you’ve basically lived your whole life with the miyas, you’ve seen osamu wet the bed as a kid, get rejected by his middle school crush you’ve even witnessed him putting his hand in his pants and scratch his butt, seeing him topless in the comfort of his apartment was a casual thing so why the hell would you look away , did he lose his shape ? no, he still worked out frequently even if he’s not an athlete anymore…

either way osamu always took care for you, he was always so careful when it comes to you , sure he’d playfully hit you here and there but it was nothing you couldn’t handle

just imagine him cooking you a nice heart-warming meal, glancing at you every now and then while you’re sitting on the counter looking like a mess after a long exhausting day , wine glass in hand and rambling your worries away. it really became a ritual for you to swing by his place unannounced after a bad day.

he’d open the door with his signature lazy smile “ya had a bad day?” you finally let you shoulders relax “long story..” he steps back, inviting you in “i got time”.

sometimes osamu gets this weird feeling he can’t explain when he realizes he’s seen you grow into a real woman, it really freaked him tf out when you told him you had your first time with some boy he never heard the name of.

he scolds you after a bad decision for sure , but he’s always there to comfort you right after. SO imagine his surprise when during a drunken confession after you finally listened to him and dumped your toxic bf, you admit to him between sobs that broke his heart into pieces

“why can’t i find a guy that actually likes me—?” your face was buried in his now wet tshirt , his strong arms holding you tight as if they were gonna protect you from feeling hurt, your words were muffled, melting together “why can’t i find someone like you samu…im so jealous of the girl that’s gonna be yours” holy fucking shit how was he so blind to never realize this…

thank god that night was complete blurry in your mind , so when you woke up the day completely hung over and found your beloved best friend making you breakfast with a bed hair and his sleeves rolled up showing off his forearms that you find really hot for some reason , your slight blush was explained.

omfg the day he showed up to your workplace during his break with a well crafted lunch box he made full of delicious onigiris because he listens and he remembers that your annoying coworker kept flaunting her relationship to you and it pissed you off and you wanted to show her that you can pull too

ever since he realized the power he had over you, he wouldn’t stop just picking at you and seeing how far he can go, he was basically testing the waters by stretching until his shirt lifts up, hold eye contact for a lil longer than what he should, and how he praises you don’t get me startedddd

“yer actually pretty decent at this” when you cook dinner with him, “look at ya bein all confident and independent !” when you actually tell the waiter they got your order wrong, “yer pretty distractin’ yk that? that’s kinda dangerous.”

osamu was a pretty touchy guy, not overly cuddly or anything but he did enjoy proximity, he’d usually hold your wrist when passing crowds but for some reason he now held your waist, his touch gentle yet firm on you. istg his hand placement is impeccable

there’s just something about him keeping a hair tie on his wrist for you that’s so endearing, so caring and attentive to your lil daily struggles.

it all happened when you got your first tattoo, he had sent you to his friend whom he deemed good enough to ink your body. he was nervous and excited as if he was the one getting tattooed but that’s mostly because you wanted to keep it a mystery, he knew that when he came home after closing the shop he’d find you there already.

there was just something so intimate about him coming back from work and finding you already at his place , he liked it, he could get use to it.

“ ‘m here !” he yelled out closing the door behind him , analyzing you from head to toe as you pop infront of him with his tshirt and shorts on displaying an almost mischievous smile, his eyebrows creasing as he doesn’t see any trace of a tattoo on your arms or legs, maybe it was on your shoulders?

he plopped down on his couch , man spreading “soo… are ya gonna show me or ?” you happily turn to the side, his eyes widen as you lift up the shirt enough to reveal a sideboob tattoo. he sits up the shock visible on his face “holy shit cmere” you obey him , getting closer for him to get a better look. with a swift motion his arm was now around your hip , pushing you to sit on one of his legs

he clearly recognized his friend’s intricate style, the design cupping the side of your boob, he wanted to admire his work but damn he felt a lil jealous that he worked so close to you. he finally looked at you only now noticing your reddish face

his face was just inches from yours, his previously shocked expression fading as he met your eyes. he leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your jaw, and for a split second, everything around you felt quiet, just the two of you in that small space. he couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, though, breaking the tension as he nudged you lightly

“didn’t know you had it in ya to do somethin’ like that” he whispered.

before you could answer, his hand found its way to the back of your neck, gently pulling you in. his lips brushed yours, just a soft, teasing touch, before pulling back slightly with that same smirk. “couldn’t resist,” he muttered under his breath, and this time, when he kissed you again, it was longer, deeper—no more teasing, just the feeling of the moment taking over.

i’m currently such a sucker for time skip osamu he’s all i’m thinking about

[teeayohess]

ok but hear me out........ the upcoming ts4 pack with the tattoo table......

that converted for ts2, but functional..... same animations as the bv massage table (+ the tattoo gun accessory attached to the artist-sim's hand??? they don't even need to be properly holding it imo, just having the accessory there would be cool i think). the client changes into undies instead of towel, loses comfort/energy(/hunger/hygiene? lmao) and gains fun and maybe social too? so the table advertises for those. change appearance dialog comes up (in the case of facial tattoos) but otherwise tattoos are still applied with overlays as usual (oh to have a 'buy clothes'-style dialog window for tats...... 😢). the tattoo artist gains creativity skill + arts&crafts enthusiasm as they work. custom memory for the client sim if it's their first tattoo (or a repeatable one could be cool too?) 🤔🤔🤔 functional tattoo table.....

[madbard]

I’ve been thinking about having a double.

Maybe they’re better than you, and you resent them for that. Maybe they’re better than you, and you are in some way grateful that you don’t need to be perfect anymore, because they will be perfect for you. Maybe they’re better than you, and everyone else agrees, and you are left alone, and you hate them because of it.

Maybe they’re worse than you, and you feel such a deep empathy for them because that could have been you. Maybe they’re worse than you, and you hate them because they represent everything you hate about yourself. Maybe they’re worse than you, and everybody else agrees, and when they abandon this lesser version of yourself you must wonder how easily you could be discarded as well.

Maybe one of you is more real than the other, and you both know who it is. Maybe one is more real than the other, and you don’t know who it is. Maybe both of you are equally real, which means you are equally unreal, and as halves of what should have been a united whole you become something either so much greater than yourself, or so much less.

Maybe you were torn in half, and you will always feel the phantom pain where another consciousness was ripped from your very being, where you were born from an act of unfathomable violence.

Maybe you discovered them, as you were just living your life, and it shook you to your very core, because if nothing else was certain, you at least had a sense of yourself as a singular entity, and that sense of self can never fully be regained.

If your double experiences something, are they stealing that experience from you, or are they expanding the definition of you so that you may experience twice as much? If someone loves your double because they think it is you, is that love stolen? What if your double loves them back?

If you love your double, is it because you love yourself, or because you love the person you were, or the person you could be? Is it because they know you like no one else can? Is it because they are inescapable, as the self is inescapable, no matter how far you run? If you hate your double, does it mean the same thing?

Is your double your reflection? Are they your shadow? Are they a carbon copy or the imprint you have left, the inversion of your impression on the world?

If you kill your double, have you killed yourself? Or have you become, for the first time since they existed, an individual?

Does killing your double make you a monster, or does it finally make you human?

[theballadofharkness]

Whisky and Wine: Part 2

Part 1

Pairing: Claire Debella x fem!reader

Summary: The last thing you expected when you came home from your publishers to your older partner Claire’s home was an invitation to her friend’s, Billionaire Miles Bron, private luxury yacht for the weekend. The problem? Claire had been very careful to keep her fellow disrupters away from you, terrified they would ruin yet another aspect of her life. But nobody says no to Miles, so you find yourself surrounded by Claire’s ‘inner circle’.

Word Count: 10.7K

Warnings: slight smut warning so as always MDNI

A/N: so this is very quickly becoming a series I’m on around 4 parts now…. Whoops? If anyone would like to be added to a tag list for this please comment on this post xo🪻💜

By the time Claire had done with you your legs felt like jelly.

You laid there for a while after, stretched out against the cool sheets, skin still flushed and sensitive as Claire ran her hands over your body like she owned it. And she did, at least in moments like this- where it was just you and her, no one else, no outside noise.

But reality hit quickly as soon as you heard the second overhead announcement for brunch. With them. Your stomach twisted at the thought. You had no idea what to expect after last night’s disaster.

"You’re nervous," Claire murmured, tracing her fingers down your arm.

You exhaled slowly. "Yeah."

Claire pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "It’ll be fine."

You didn’t answer, just rolled onto your side, forcing yourself to get up. You had no choice but to face them.

~

The black bikini was dangerous.

You knew it. Claire knew it. But that didn’t stop you from wearing it anyway, pairing it with a sheer black cover-up that barely covered anything, sunglasses perched on your nose, your lips still kiss-swollen from Claire’s very thorough apology.

Claire was practically drooling. She didn’t even try to hide it, either- her eyes raking over your body shamelessly, fingers trailing along your waist as the two of you made your way to the outdoor dining area where everyone was gathered.

"You’re killing me, baby," she murmured low in your ear.

You smirked. "Good."

The second you stepped onto the deck, all conversation seemed to pause- just for a second, just enough to make you feel it.

“Hey! There you are!" Before you even had a chance to react, Whisky was on you, throwing her arms around you, her long hair smelling like coconuts and salt water.

"You survived," she smiled, squeezing you tight. "Come on, let’s get some food before Duke eats everything."

Claire barely had time to react before Whisky was dragging you toward the buffet table, her toned arm looped through yours, her body pressed against your side. The jealousy that flared in Claire’s chest was immediate, burning, but before she could do anything about it-

"Claire!" Birdie’s loud, excited voice cut through the moment as she and Duke appeared, effectively cornering Claire before she could storm after you.

"Good morning future senator!" Birdie beamed, sipping something that was definitely not coffee. "Last night was crazy, huh?"

Duke let out a gruff laugh. "Shit was wild."

Claire forced a strained smile, her eyes darting toward you across the deck. "Yeah, totally."

She barely heard whatever Birdie was rambling about. Because across the deck, Whisky was leaning in too close, laughing at something you said, her hand lingering on your arm. She should be paying attention to Lionel talking about developments at work but instead, she was watching you, across the deck, sipping something out of a tall glass while Whisky kept talking to you, her body angled toward yours in a way that made Claire’s jaw tighten.

"You’re staring." Lionel’s voice snapped her out of it. Claire turned her head sharply, only to find him raising an eyebrow at her over his coffee.

She rolled her shoulders, forcing herself to look away from you. "No, I’m not."

Lionel hummed with a knowing smile, unconvinced, but said nothing else. Birdie, oblivious as ever, was positioning herself on a sun lounger as if she was shooting for a magazine. “Peg can you get me another one of these please?” She handed her empty drink to her bone tired assistant.

"So what do we think this trip is about?" Claire looked around at her oldest friends.

"I don’t know but I wouldn’t get too comfortable," Lionel muttered.

"Well I already sold my soul, so bring it on," Duke added through a mouthful of bacon.

Birdie scoffed. "Ugh, you guys are so cynical." She took a sip of Claire’s drink, "I mean, sure, last time he did tell us we had to cut Andi off, but like, that was different. It was a really bad time for us all. And he was just, you know, protect himself."

Claire shot her a look. "Jesus, Bird."

Birdie frowned. "What?"

"He wanted us to pick a side- his side.” Claire sighed “He wanted to make sure we knew who was in charge now.”

Lionel nodded, rubbing his temple. "And we let him."

The silence that followed was heavy.

Because they had let him.

They’d all been sitting in that same goddamn living room the night Miles told them so casually that Andi was out, that he had social network-ed her and if they wanted to keep their connections, their financial backing, their entire lives, they’d need to fall in line.

And they had.

Claire exhaled sharply, taking a sip of her kombucha despite the early hour. "So the question is- what’s he trying to pull this time?"

Lionel ran a hand down his face. "Nothing good."

"Ooh, maybe he’s finally gonna branch out into social media and wants us to promote it!" Birdie clapped her hands together. "I mean that’s like the only thing he hasn’t bought into yet right?"

Duke snorted. "If that was the case, I’d know about it."

Lionel side-eyed him. "Would you, though?" He doubted if that was the case, Duke would be the best candidate after he’d recently settled out of court for profiting off selling illegal boner pills to teenage boys on his twitch streams.

Before Duke could answer, a loud, self-satisfied voice rang out from the entrance of the deck.

"Good morning, my friends!"

Miles.

The man himself strolled toward them, exuding that same smug, self-appointed guru energy that made your skin crawl.

"Let’s eat!"

The table was long, stretching down the deck, draped in crisp white linens. The Mediterranean sun cast warm golden light over the scene, reflecting off crystal-clear glasses and plates of extravagant fresh fruit, smoked salmon, eggs, pastries- whatever Miles deemed luxurious enough for his closest friends.

Claire sat with Lionel, Birdie, and Duke, all of them picking at their plates while waiting- for what, they didn’t know yet. Claire watched as Miles took his seat at the head of the table, looking over the group like he owned them. And, in a way, he did.

She felt you before she saw you. You had followed the group to the massive dining table on the deck, but rather than taking the empty seat beside Claire, you let Whisky tug you toward the far end of the table, sliding into a seat beside her, still caught up in your conversation.

Claire’s grip on her glass tightened. She wasn’t sure what irritated her more- the fact that Whisky was treating you like her new best friend, or the fact that you were letting her.

Miles took his seat at the head of the table, clapping his hands together. "So!" He leaned forward, scanning the group. "Let’s get to it. Tell me- how are we feeling? What’s the vibe? Are we inspired? Are we challenged?"

Birdie beamed. "I feel amazing."

Duke grunted. "Hungover."

"Like I need more coffee." Lionel pinched the bridge of his nose.

Claire just hummed in agreement with Lionel as she took a sip of coffee.

Miles laughed, shaking his head. "Love this. I love you guys"

Then his eyes landed on you. "And you." His grin widened. "The new addition to our group. Tell us how you capture the heart of our dear Claire?"

The table went silent, all eyes falling on you. You blinked, caught mid-sip of your orange juice.

You lowered your glass slowly. "I don’t know, Miles." You tilted your head, voice light but pointed. "You’re the one who does background checks on all your guests. You tell me."

Claire smirked. Lionel made a sound that was somewhere between a cough and a laugh. Even Duke looked mildly impressed.

Miles just chuckled, swirling the green juice in his glass. "Ahh, I like you." He shot Claire a knowing look. "She’s quick, Claire."

Claire smiled over at you, resting her hand on the table closer to your side, even though you weren’t sitting next to her. "Yeah," she said, voice tight. "I know."

Miles just leaned back, contemplative, as Birdie launched into a whole monologue about her recent escapades in New York. And Claire- well, Claire was going to kill you for making her so goddamn obsessed with you.

Miles grinned, swirling his ridiculous green juice again. "Oh, don’t be like that," he said, all charm and calculated warmth. "I’m just making sure my inner circle is taken care of."

You barely stopped yourself from rolling your eyes. Miles acted like this was some generous act, some noble offering, rather than what it really was- a reminder that he knew everything about the people in his orbit, including you.

Before you could snap back, Birdie- who had been watching you this entire time, eyes flitting over your body with a jealousy glare. Birdie wasn’t used to someone younger and hotter than her getting the attention she craved.

"Well," Birdie said, tilting her head. "I don’t know how you two even met. Tell me, Claire."

Before Claire began she patted her lap. And you- already halfway through your second mimosa, warm and still buzzing from the way she had made love to you that morning- smiled, playing along as you got up from your chair and sank down onto her lap. Claire felt your warmth against her thighs, felt the way you curled into her so easily. She smirked, letting her fingers slide through your hair, nails grazing your scalp as she tucked a strand behind your ear.

Miles’ lips parted, her jealousy barely hidden behind an impressed expression.

"Mmm," Claire hummed, fingers tangling in your hair. "You wanna tell them, baby? Or should I?"

You gave her a soft, knowing smile. "You tell it better," you murmured.

Claire’s hand slid down, resting against your bare thigh under the table. "Well," Claire said, exhaling with a little laugh as she looked at you, softening at the memory. "It was-"

~ Flashback ~

Claire’s husband sighed, exasperated. "Baby, come to bed."

She barely heard him.

She was curled up on the couch, knees tucked beneath her, a half-empty glass of wine on the table beside her, and your book clutched in her hands. Her eyes raced over the pages, devouring each word. It was past midnight, she had an early campaign meeting that morning. Her eyes burned from exhaustion, her body begged for rest- but she just couldn’t stop. The story had wrapped itself around her, dark and sharp, pulling her in like an unstoppable tide.

"Claire." He ran his hands down the couch to her shoulders, giving them a squeeze.

She flicked a hand at him, not looking up. "Don’t you dare touch me right now, I’m reading."

Her husband let out a frustrated breath before giving up and going to bed alone. Claire didn’t care, she had spent years feeling suffocated. Years playing the role of the perfect wife, the ambitious yet composed woman beside her husband. Always supporting, always agreeing, always being who he needed her to be. But lately, she had been slipping away.

At first, it was little things- staying out later at the office, taking long walks just to be alone. Then, she found the library. This gorgeous, old-world library, tucked into a quiet street near their house. A safe haven. And then, she found your books. At first, she had picked up the first one on a whim. By the time she finished it, she was already rushing back to the library to get the next one.

Even at work, her mind wandered. Sitting in a meeting, nodding along as a colleague droned on, she found herself itching to go home, to pour a glass of wine and curl up on the couch, to lose herself in your world again. It had been so long since something had made her feel this alive.

By the third book, it was an addiction. She practically sprinted to the library that afternoon, heels clicking against the floor as she made her way to the familiar shelf, reaching for the next installment. But to her horror the space was empty. No book. Claire froze, her stomach plummeted. She turned, scanning the shelves as if it had been misplaced. Nothing.

Finally, she rushed over to the front desk, fingers drumming against the wood as she waited for the librarian to look up.

"Hey," Claire said, trying not to sound as frantic as she felt. "I’m looking for the next book in that series- you know, the one by Y/N Y/L/N?"

The librarian smiled knowingly. "Ohh, yeah. It’s not out yet."

Claire blinked. "What?"

"The third book won’t be out for another few months."

Claire’s stomach sank. "No. No, no, no…" She pinched the bridge of her nose. "You’re telling me I have to just wait?"

The librarian laughed. "Why don’t you just ask her what happens?"

Claire frowned. "What?"

The librarian gestured toward the far side of the room. "She’s writing it over there right now."

Claire’s breath caught in her throat as she turned round and caught sight of you. Sitting at a corner table, laptop open, fingers moving across the keys, brows furrowed in concentration.

Claire stilled. You were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Her heart skipped. Her mind went blank. For weeks, she had been consumed by your words, your mind, your world. And now, you were right there. Sitting in the same room as her. A living, breathing obsession. She swallowed, pulse hammering.

And for the first time in a long time, Claire Debella felt completely, utterly out of control.

~ End of Flashback ~

Claire’s fingers traced lazy circles against your thigh as she smiled into her glass, still lost in the memory.

"Well," she finally said, dragging out the word, "it was a library, actually."

Duke frowned. "A library?”

Birdie snorted, taking a sip of her mimosa. "People still go to libraries? Claire, since when did you go to libraries?”

Claire shot her a look. "Since I found something worth reading.”

You felt her grip on your waist tighten, just slightly.

Birdie tilted her head, intrigued. "So what, you just bumped into each other between the shelves?"

Claire smiled, shaking her head. "Not exactly." She glanced at you. "I read her books first."

Lionel hummed, clearly amused. "So you were a fan first."

"A big one," you teased, nudging Claire’s jaw with your nose.

Her fingers dug into your thigh, and you knew that if you weren’t in front of everyone, she’d shut you up with a hard, claiming kiss.

Instead, she let out a low chuckle, pressing her lips against your temple. "Careful, baby."

Birdie sighed, sipping dramatically from her drink. "Ugh, I hate couples."

Duke gave an easy grin, ignoring the jab. "So Claire finds a book, gets obsessed, and just has to meet the woman behind the words? Sounds like a movie."

You bit back a smile.

Claire had deliberately left out the part where she had devoured your books like a woman starved. How she had dreamed about you before she even knew your name. How she had fantasized about you, your voice, your mind. How meeting you had felt like a collision course she had never seen coming. How within months she’d divorced her husband for many years and moved you into her home.

"Sounds romantic," Whisky said, voice sweet, eyes warm as she looked at you.

Claire tensed. You felt it instantly- the way her body stiffened, the subtle tightening of her grip on you. Possessive. Jealous. Whisky had barely said anything, and yet Claire was already bristling.

And Miles- of course Miles noticed. He leaned back in his chair, smirking, before turning to you. "So tell me, Y/N," he mused. "You swept our dear Claire off her feet- but what made you want her?"

And just like that, the whole table was looking at you. The whole table was waiting. Miles, with that smug, knowing grin. Birdie, sipping her mimosa with wide, expectant eyes. Lionel, barely paying attention, already tired of the conversation. Duke, lounging in his seat like this was some kind of show. Whisky, watching with a soft kind of curiosity. You swallowed, suddenly hyper aware of Claire’s hand on your bare thigh, the way her fingers curled slightly, as if reminding you that you belonged to her.

Her eyes were flicking between you and Miles like she was waiting for him to twist this into something ugly. But he couldn’t. Because you wouldn’t let him. So you turned, shifting on Claire’s lap, meeting her gaze with a small smile before leaning in, pressing a kiss to her lips. Soft. Sure. A statement. Claire melted against you, her grip easing, her lips parting slightly in surprise. And then you pulled back, just enough to see the flicker of something vulnerable in her eyes before you spoke.

"Because Claire Debella is the most brilliant woman I’ve ever met."

"Her drive, her ambition-” you continued, voice steady, heart pounding. "She has dedicated her entire life to making the world better. Fighting for people who don’t have a voice. She stands in rooms full of men who have never taken a woman seriously a day in their lives, and she makes them listen." Your hand found hers, lacing your fingers together.

"She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." You smiled at her.

Claire sucked in a quiet breath.

"And I love her more than anything." You breathed.

A beat. The sound of the waves against the yacht. The warmth of her body against yours. Then Claire grabbed you, fingers tangling in your hair as she kissed you fiercely, swallowing the breath from your lungs.

Nothing delicate, nothing soft, just her- unapologetic, consuming, yours. When she finally pulled away, her forehead pressed against yours, her breathing a little uneven, you swore you could feel how hard her heart was pounding. There was nothing left to say. It was just you and her.

"Damn," Duke muttered, cutting through it like a dull knife. He leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily, as if he wasn’t about to let something dangerous slip out. "Bet your ex-husband Devon took the news real well- wife leaves him, becomes a lesbian-”

Claire froze. You felt the shift before you saw it. The way her body tensed beneath you, fingers twitching where they rested against your hip, the way her breath hitched- not in that breathless way she got when she kissed you, when she needed you. But like someone had just sucker-punched her. Like someone had just ripped something from her hands.

"Oh my god," Birdie gasped, eyes going wide, her mimosa sloshing over the rim of her glass as she clutched at Duke’s arm like she’d just made the discovery of the century. "Claire, you dark horse!”

You felt sick. Because Birdie knew. Not everything, but enough. Enough to put together the one thing Claire had worked so hard to bury. That Claire Debella- rising political star, defender of the people- had been unfaithful. And you had been the reason. Claire barely moved. Her expression- carefully neutral, but her grip on you was like a vice, nails digging into your bare thigh. Like she was bracing. You could see it- the way her mind was already working, already calculating. She wasn’t just embarrassed. She wasn’t just caught off guard. She was scared. And that terrified you.

"Wait so," Birdie was still talking, leaning forward now, one manicured finger pointing accusingly in Claire’s direction. "Are you telling me that you cheated? Claire Debella, cheated? Oh, wow, I love this. I feel so much better about myself now."

"I-" Claire finally opened her mouth, voice unusually stiff, but before she could say anything…

“Birdie, for fuck’s sake," Lionel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Can you not?" He asked, clearly aware of how this conversation was affecting his friend.

"What?" she blinked, genuinely confused. "I’m celebrating! Claire’s always been so moral- ‘Oh, Birdie, think before you speak! Oh, Birdie, you can’t tweet that! Birdie, child labor laws exist for a reason!’- but this? This is messy!"

"Jesus Christ Bird," Claire muttered under her breath, looking away, nostrils flaring slightly like she was fighting the urge to snap.

"But that is interesting," Miles finally spoke up, slow and smooth, leaning his elbows onto the table as he studied Claire like she was something he’d just uncovered. Something he could use. Your stomach sank.

"I mean," he continued, all faux-curiosity, "I know you two have been keeping things private, but... well, Claire, if I’d known you had a thing for pretty young creatives, I could’ve introduced you to some screenwriters in LA."

Her fingers curled tighter around your thigh.

"It wasn’t-" she started, then stopped. She was stuck. Because what could she say?

"So what?" you finally said, voice sharper than you intended, drawing their attention back to you. You kept your expression cool, gaze steady. "She fell in love with me. What does it matter how it started?"

Birdie snorted. "Because it’s juicy."

"Because," Miles cut in smoothly, "Claire’s whole thing is integrity. The hardworking, ethical politician. The moral compass. The people’s champion." He tilted his head. "And this doesn’t quite fit that image, does it?"

Claire’s jaw clenched.

She was furious but she didn’t say a word. Because she couldn’t. And Miles knew it. He had dirt on her now. Claire Debella was indebted to him. Financially. Politically. And now- Personally.

"Oh, relax," he said, waving a hand. "Your secrets are safe with me."

You felt Claire’s pulse pounding in her wrist as she wrapped her arm around you. "We’re done here," she muttered, standing abruptly, guiding you up with her, her grip on your waist unyielding.

Birdie giggled into her drink. Miles just smiled. And as Claire pulled you away from the table, heart pounding, teeth gritted, you both knew this wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

The wind was softer down on the lower deck, the salt air warmer, the distant sound of water lapping against the yacht almost enough to drown out the tangled thoughts in Claire’s head. Almost. She barely reacted when you pulled her into a kiss- deep, grounding, your hands framing her face like you were reminding her, like you were centering her in something real. And maybe she needed that, because she melted into you, her grip tight where it rested against your waist, like she was starving for something steady. It wasn’t desperate, not yet, but it was needy. Like a tether. Like if she held you tight enough, maybe the world wouldn’t collapse beneath her feet.

She pulled away just enough to exhale, her forehead pressing against yours, breath warm, body tense.

“Are you okay?" you murmured.

She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "No."

Your fingers traced the nape of her neck, soothing. "Talk to me."

Claire sighed, shifting so she could lean against the railing, arms crossed, head tilted toward the ocean. "This isn’t good," she muttered. "They know. Miles knows."

You frowned, stepping closer. "Claire, it’s not like you killed someone. We’re together. That’s the big secret?"

Her jaw clenched. "You don’t understand."

"Then help me understand."

Silence. Her fingers tapped idly against her bicep, a nervous tick.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "Claire, would it really be so bad if people knew about us?"

She turned to you sharply, something flashing in her eyes, but before she could protest, you pushed forward "I mean it." Your voice was quieter now, tinged with something fragile. "I get that we had to be careful at first, that you were still… figuring things out, that you then were going through a divorce, that politics is a whole... thing. But it’s been two years."

Her throat tightened.

"I pay rent for an apartment I never go to," you continued, voice wavering. "Just to keep up appearances. We live together, Claire. I wake up in your bed, cook in your kitchen, walk your dog, exist in your space. And I love it, but-" You swallowed. "How long do I have to be your secret?"

Her expression faltered, something wounded flickering across it. "It’s not like that," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

"Then what is it like?”

Silence. She turned back to the railing, hands gripping it, gaze fixed on the water like it had the answer she was looking for.

"It’s not just about me," she said finally. "You think it’d be good for me? Maybe. But it’s not just me. You have no idea what people will say about you."

Your arms crossed. "I don’t care-"

"Well, I do!" She exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over her face before turning back to you. "They’d tear you apart. They’d call you a gold digger. They’d say I manipulated you. That you seduced me for influence. That you’re too young-"

"I don’t care what a bunch of rich assholes think."

"It’s not just them," she said, voice strained. "It’s the media. It’s everyone. You don’t know what it’s like to have your entire life picked apart like carrion. You think you can handle it, but you don’t know."

You hesitated. She was scared. Not just for herself, for you. "Claire…"

"And what if this ruins me?" she asked suddenly, voice sharp, but her eyes… her eyes were uncertain. "I’m still a woman in politics. It doesn’t take much for the tide to turn. If people think I’m untrustworthy-"

"You were untrustworthy when you were married to a man and cheating with me," you snapped before you could stop yourself.

She stiffened. A muscle feathered in her jaw.

"That’s not fair," she bit out.

Your stomach twisted. "Claire I-”

"I know what I did. I know what that looks like. But this- this is different."

"Is it?" You sighed, rubbing your temples, feeling the remnants of your hangover creep in. "Look, I get it," you said, softer this time. "I get why you’re scared. But I’m scared too, Claire. I’m scared that I’m always going to be something you hide."

She flinched, just a little.

"I just... I love you," you whispered. "And I don’t want to feel like I have to prove that."

"You don’t," she murmured. And when she kissed you this time, it wasn’t out of desperation. It wasn’t trying to distract or silence or mask. It was gentle. Steady. Like a promise.

But when she pulled away, you still saw the fear in her eyes. The hesitation. The choice she still hadn’t made. And that? That told you everything.

You saw Lionel approaching before Claire did. The tense line of his shoulders, the focused pinch in his brow- it wasn’t unusual. Lionel always looked like he was carrying the weight of the world, and in some ways, he was.

“Hey Claire.” He smiled sympathetically

Claire sighed, already exhausted, running a hand through her hair. She barely looked at you before stepping toward him. Like this is more important.

Maybe it was.

But after that conversation- after seeing the hesitation in her eyes- you weren’t sure where that left you. So you stepped away. Your fingers ran absently along the yacht’s sleek railing as you put distance between yourself and Claire, a familiar ache settling in your chest. You weren’t sure where you were going, only that you needed space.

“Hey,” a voice called.

You looked up to see Whisky striding toward you, already sipping on something in a ridiculous crystal glass. She was wearing a tiny yellow bikini that left very little to the imagination, and you could feel Claire’s lingering possessiveness like a ghost at the back of your neck.

“Want one?” she asked, holding up a second glass. “Miles gave it to me, but it tastes like grass.”

“What is it?” You inspected the glass with her name engraved on it.

She wrinkled her nose. “Jared Leto’s hard kombucha.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Of course Miles drinks Jared Leto’s kombucha.”

“Want it?”

You hesitated, then smiled. “Sure.” You took it, taking a cautious sip. It was disgusting.

She grinned, like she knew.

“C’mon,” she said, nodding toward the pool. “Let’s go in.”

You exhaled slowly, glancing back toward Claire. She was deep in conversation with Lionel, brows furrowed, arms crossed. You nodded. Whisky beamed, grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the pool’s edge.

You flinched when a gunshot cracked through the air. Duke laughed loudly before tucking his gun away and launching himself into the pool with a massive cannonball, drenching everything in his radius.

You blinked, completely thrown.

Whisky just sighed, shaking her head as she waded into the water. You followed, still watching as Duke resurfaced, shaking the water from himself like a dog and grinning like an idiot.

You glanced at Whisky, lowering your sunglasses. “Okay,” you said. “I have to ask- what do you see in him?”

She snorted, running her fingers through her wet hair. “Like, really?”

You nodded.

She tilted her head, watching Duke fondly as he wrestled Birdie off of a floatie, the two of them laughing like idiots. She sighed, shrugging. “I don’t know. He’s... good to me.”

You raised a brow. “Good?”

Whisky rolled her eyes, waving a hand. “I know, I know. But he is. You only see the ‘MEN’S RIGHTS, FREE SPEECH, GUNS’ version of him.” She mimicked his deep, obnoxious voice, making you snicker. “But he’s also just- dumb and loyal and... weirdly sweet. He makes me feel safe.”

You took another sip of your drink, considering. “Is that enough?”

She hesitated, expression flickering. Then she smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It is for now.”

That answer didn’t sit right with you. But maybe you weren’t one to talk. Because as much as you loved Claire… you weren’t sure if you were enough for her.

The yacht pulled smoothly into port, the golden Sicilian sun casting long, shimmering reflections across the deep blue water. The coastal town ahead was breathtaking- old stone buildings stacked up along the cliffs, narrow streets winding like veins through the historic architecture, the scent of citrus and sea salt heavy in the warm air.

You stepped out of the pool, still feeling slightly unsteady from the events of the morning. Claire was behind you, wrapping a towel round your shoulders, her hand grazing the small of your back in a silent reassurance.

Then, with his signature obnoxious flair, Miles stepped forward, spreading his arms wide. “Ahhh, Sicilia!” he declared, like he personally owned the place. “I thought we could all use a change of pace- something different, you know?”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The others murmured in vague agreement, some more enthusiastic than others- Birdie gasped dramatically, pulling out her phone before Peg immediately snatched it back with a warning look.

Miles grinned. “So! Before we return to the yacht for a very special banquet, personally curated by my Michelin-starred chef-” of course he had to remind you all of that “-I thought I’d make things a little more fun.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, matte-black credit card. Or rather six of them. One for each of you.

“This is unlimited,” he said smoothly, tossing one to Lionel, then Claire, Birdie, Duke, and Whisky. Then, finally he handed one to you.

Your fingers closed around it uncertainly, feeling the cool weight of it in your palm.

“This,” Miles continued, “is a gift. A token of our friendship. Because that’s what this group is all about- loyalty, trust, taking care of each other.” His eyes gleamed knowingly, like there was a second meaning beneath his words.

You saw Claire’s jaw tighten.

“So,” Miles clapped his hands together, breaking the tension, “go all out! The card works for 4 hours so hurry to get what you need to get dressed to the nines tonight. The theme is opulence- expensive, extravagant, no limits.”

Birdie practically screamed. “Oh my God, Miles, you angel, you saint! Peg, let’s go!” She grabbed Peg’s wrist and practically dragged her off to get ready for an intense few hours of shopping before Peg could protest.

Duke whistled, flipping the black card between his fingers. “Hell yeah, brother.” He threw an arm around Whisky. “C’mon, baby, let’s find you something real nice.”

Whisky shot you a quick look before letting Duke pull her along.

Lionel sighed heavily, rubbing his temple. “Yeah, sure, why not? It’s not like this trip could get any more ridiculous.”

That left just you and Claire. You glanced at her, still holding the black card between your fingers. She wasn’t looking at you, she was looking at Miles. She wasn’t thrilled about any of this. You exhaled softly, reaching for her hand. Her gaze flicked to you, then to the black card you held. Finally, she sighed.

“Well,” she said, voice lighter than her expression. “If we’re going to play this game, we might as well win it.”

You sighed, intertwining your fingers with hers. “Let’s go be opulent.”

The door to your suite clicked shut behind you, sealing you and Claire into the cool, air-conditioned haven of your shared room. You stepped away immediately, running a hand through your hair, still gripping the sleek black credit card between your fingers.

Claire watched you closely, her arms folding across her chest. “You’re quiet,” she noted.

You shrugged, moving toward the suitcase you had barely touched since arriving. “I’m just getting changed.”

You felt her move before you saw her- the deliberate steps of her sandals against the hardwood, the subtle shift in the air as she neared you. Then, suddenly her hands slid around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against her. You inhaled sharply, feeling the familiar warmth of her body press into yours, the silk of her outfit cool against your bare skin.

“Baby,” Claire murmured, her lips grazing the side of your neck. “Don’t do that.”

You swallowed hard. “Do what?”

“Pull away from me.” Her hands wandered, palms sliding up your stomach, fingers brushing the undersides of your breasts as she kissed just beneath your jaw. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

“I know you’re upset,” she whispered, pressing her body against yours. “But we do have time…” She kissed the shell of your ear. “For me to make you feel good.”

Your breath hitched, your fingers gripping the edge of the dresser. God, she was good at this. At unraveling you. At making the world outside her touch seem irrelevant. At making you hers. You turned in her arms, pressing a hand to her chest to keep some semblance of distance.

“Claire…”

Her lips were parted, her pupils blown wide with desire as she searched your face, desperate for a crack in your resolve.

You exhaled, smoothing your hands over her waist. “We better hurry,” you said softly. “Everyone’s waiting at the dock.”

Claire’s expression darkened for a split second- frustration flashing across her face before she masked it with a tight smile.

She hummed, straightening her spine. “Of course.”

Then, before you could step away she grabbed your chin, tilting your face up, and kissed you hard. It wasn’t just a kiss- it was a warning. A reminder. That you belonged to her. That no matter how distant you tried to be, no matter how much you tried to pull away, she wouldn’t let you.

When she pulled back, her thumb brushed over your swollen bottom lip. “Put on something pretty,” she murmured. “I want to show you off.”

And with that, she turned on her heel, heading toward the bathroom to fix her hair, leaving you standing there, heart hammering, lips tingling, and stomach twisting with an emotion you weren’t sure you could name. You swallowed hard, shaking your head, and went to change.

~

The moment you all stepped off the yacht and onto the sun-drenched port, Birdie let out a delighted gasp.

“Oh my god,” she practically moaned, spinning in place to take in the picturesque streets of the Sicilian town before you. The cobblestone streets were lined with boutique shops, cafés spilling out onto the walkways with tiny iron tables and chairs, their tabletops adorned with vases of fresh flowers. Brightly colored awnings shaded windows filled with designer pieces, handmade jewelry, and intricate ceramics.

Birdie turned to Claire, eyes sparkling. “Okay, we have to find you something in a colour other than beige.”

Claire exhaled, giving her a flat look. “I wear colors.”

Birdie snorted. “You’ll look so cuuuute.”

Peg, who was already holding three of Birdie’s bags despite them just having left the yacht, sighed. “Can we focus?”

Miles clapped his hands together, the picture of a gracious host. “Alright, my beautiful disruptors- go crazy.”

“Fuck yeah man,” Duke beamed, rubbing the card between his fingers. “This is why you’re the goat.”

“Nothing but the best for my inner circle. Now go and have fun.”

“This’ll be so good” Whisky beamed.

“Try not to bankrupt me, kid,” he teased.

Lionel, however, was watching Miles carefully, brows furrowing. “So, you’re not coming?” he asked, arms crossing.

Miles flashed a casual smile, waving a dismissive hand. “Nah, I’ve got some business to sort out. You know how it is, the tiring responsibilities of being the CEO of a multi-billion dollar empire.”

Lionel’s frown deepened. “Right.”

Whisky, who had been adjusting the straps of her tiny sundress, turned toward Miles with a pout. “Well, I’ll miss you.”

Before anyone could react, she threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tight.

Miles chuckled, his hands resting low on her back, lingering just a second too long.

Your eyebrows shot up. Claire, who had already been watching you like a hawk around Whisky, saw the whole thing and immediately rolled her eyes.

“Of course,” she muttered under her breath.

Miles finally pulled back, brushing a strand of hair behind Whisky’s ear. “Don’t miss me too much,” he murmured.

You and Claire exchanged a look. Yeah. Suspicious as hell. Claire sighed, then grabbed your hand, intertwining her fingers with yours as she turned away from the yacht.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go spend Miles Bron’s money.”

As you walked off into town, the laughter and chatter of the group surrounding you, you couldn't shake the feeling that something about this trip, about Miles, was more than just a luxurious getaway. Something was off.

The town square was alive with movement, locals and tourists alike weaving through the stone-paved streets, the scent of espresso and fresh pastries lingering in the warm air. Birdie had immediately taken off, dragging Peg behind her toward a boutique with a window display that practically screamed exorbitantly overpriced.

Duke, meanwhile, had positioned himself in the middle of the square, holding court like he was on one of his live streams. He had one foot propped up on a fountain ledge, aviators pushed onto his forehead, a self-assured grin on his face as he talked to Lionel about how the woke mob was ruining masculinity and how he was in some kind of on-going Twitter beef with Jimmy Kimmel.

Whisky stood at his side, silent and poised, her usual charming smile plastered on as Duke kept her tucked under his thick arm like some kind of trophy.

You barely had time to process any of it before Claire grabbed your wrist and pulled you down a quieter street, away from the group.

“We’re leaving them?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder.

Claire didn’t break stride. “I cannot spend another second with Whisky.”

You frowned. “Wow. You really don’t like her, huh?”

The distaste was evident in the way Claire exhaled sharply through her nose, “Can you blame me?” she said, voice dry. “She’s so…” Claire made a vague, frustrated gesture. “ I mean her names Whisky.”

You snorted. “That explains nothing.”

Claire stopped in front of a store, glancing at the designer dresses in the window, but it was obvious she wasn’t really looking at them.

“She’s young,” Claire muttered. “And… naive. And uses it to her advantage.”

You crossed your arms. “So do a lot of people”

“Yes, but she… ” Claire exhaled, looking away, jaw tight.

You suddenly understood. “Oh my God,” you said slowly, a smirk creeping onto your lips. “You’re jealous of Whisky.”

Claire scoffed, turning back toward the window. “That is not- ” She cut herself off, arms crossed. “She weaponizes it. That whole innocent wide-eyed act? It’s bullshit. And you-” Her eyes flicked back to you, sharp. “She likes you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Claire’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And I don’t like that.”

Your smirk widened. “Aw. Is someone feeling territorial?”

Claire rolled her eyes, but you could see the way her fingers twitched like she wanted to grab you, to pull you into her and remind you exactly whose arms you belonged in. Instead, she exhaled and turned on her heel, heading for the store entrance.

“Come on,” she said, her voice still brimming with annoyance. “If we have to suffer through this trip, we’re at least going to look fucking stunning for it.”

You chuckled as you followed her inside.

The boutique smelled of expensive perfume and fresh leather, the lighting soft and flattering, making everything inside seem even more indulgent. Mannequins draped in shimmering gowns stood on pedestals, and elegant displays showcased delicate, lacy lingerie sets. The kind designed to be taken off slowly.

Claire hated it. Not because she didn’t appreciate nice clothes- she did. She just never really had the time to think about them. Her wardrobe had always been a careful balancing act. In politics, every outfit was a statement, and if you cared too much, if you looked too put-together, if you wore one thing that could be considered too expensive or too trendy, the press would eat you alive. There was a reason she let her campaign team handle her wardrobe for public appearances. And when she dressed for you- for date nights, for lazy mornings, for stolen moments in hotel rooms on the campaign trail it was either whatever she thought worked with the items provided… or whatever you picked out for her.

She watched as you trailed your fingers along racks of silks and satins, your sharp eye scanning through dresses, your mouth quirking as you lifted a hanger to inspect the dress. You knew what you liked. You owned it. And fuck, you looked good doing it. Her mouth watered as her gaze drifted lower, past the curve of your back, the line of your thighs.

Then you turned toward one of the displays of lingerie- delicate lace bralettes, garter sets, whisper-thin slips designed purely to be sinful. You reached out, picking up a set in a shade of deep red, and turned back to her with a playful smirk.

“What would you like to see me in?” you asked, wrapping your arms around her waist.

Claire exhaled, her hands settling on your hips as she met your gaze. “I think you know the answer to that,” she murmured, voice lower now.

Your smirk widened. “Do I?”

She glanced down at the set in your hand, then back at you, her eyes darkening. “You could wear any of these,” she said, fingers brushing along your lower back, “and I’d just want to tear it off you.”

Your grip on her tightened just slightly, and Claire smirked. “But this one…” Her hand skimmed the lace between your fingers. “This one would look obscene on you.”

You shivered, pressing closer. “Yeah?”

She hummed, gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips. “Get it.”

You grinned, tugging her into a slow, teasing kiss before slipping away to grab your size. Claire exhaled, running a hand through her hair, her pulse pounding. Yeah. She was completely fucked.

You began looking through the racks of dresses, holding them up against your body to check the fit. Smiling over at her and doing a little twirl. Claire had never been that kind of woman. The kind who enjoyed this. The kind who walked into a place like this and knew exactly what she wanted and didn’t feel fucking ridiculous about it.

She glanced down at the dress in her hands- plain, serviceable, easy. But before she could slip away to pay for it, you turned, catching sight of her choice. You frowned, stopping in your tracks.

"Baby, come on," you said, walking over to her. "You barely even looked at that."

Claire exhaled, rubbing her temple. "This is fine."

You gave her an unimpressed look. "Fine isn’t the point."

She shifted under your gaze, feeling exposed in a way she wasn’t used to. It was so fucking stupid, really. She’d stood her ground against senators and oil lobbyists. She’d stared down reporters who wanted nothing more than to rip her apart. She’d survived Miles fucking Bron. And yet- standing here, under the soft boutique lighting, with you looking at her like that- she felt out of her depth.

You must’ve seen it, must’ve felt her hesitation, because instead of pushing, you softened. You stepped closer, cupping her face in your hands, thumbs grazing her cheekbones.

“Hey,” you murmured, grounding, steady.

She let out a breath. "Hey."

You smiled softly, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her lips. Claire sighed into it, letting her shoulders relax, letting herself breathe.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “Let’s find something you really like, yeah?”

She swallowed.

“We have time.” And something about the way you said it, the patience in it, the warmth, made her chest ache. Claire wasn’t used to someone giving her that kind of time.

She exhaled, nodding. “Okay.”

You grinned, taking her hand, tugging her toward the more extravagant gowns. Claire exhales, nodding, trusting you to guide her through this. And then there it is. A dress that catches your eye immediately. A stunning black sequined gown, structured yet dramatic, with that signature crisp white collar and cuffs. It’s bold, powerful, and effortlessly elegant, just like her.

You pluck it from the rack and hold it up between you. “This,” you murmur, watching her expression carefully. She hesitates, her lips pressing together like she wants to argue, but you see the flicker of something in her eyes. Interest.

“It’s-” she starts, shaking her head, but you don’t let her finish.

“It’s perfect,” you counter. “And you’re trying it on.”

A few minutes later, she steps out of the fitting room, smoothing the fabric over her hips. The way the sequins catch the light, the way the structure of the dress commands attention—it’s everything. You stare, unabashed, taking her in, and when your eyes meet hers, there’s a rare flicker of uncertainty on her face.

“Well?” she asks, a little hesitant.

You walk up to her, slow and deliberate, taking her hand and pulling her in just enough for your lips to ghost over her ear. “Baby,” you murmur, voice low and full of promise, “I’m not gonna be able to keep my hands off you tonight.”

Claire huffs a soft laugh, but you don’t miss the way her breath catches, the way her fingers tighten around yours. “You’re ridiculous,” she mutters, but you catch the small, satisfied smile she tries to hide as she turns back toward the mirror.

Yeah. This was the one.

Now it was your turn. You step out of the dressing room, the deep red fabric clinging to you in all the right places, shimmering under the boutique’s golden lighting. The delicate floral embroidery catches the light, giving the illusion of cherry blossoms blooming along your curves.

The moment she sees you, Claire freezes. Her mouth parts slightly, eyes darkening as they rake over you from head to toe. You watch her chest rise and fall with a sharp inhale, and before you can even get a word out she’s crossing the room in three quick strides, hands firmly on your waist as she practically shoves you back into the dressing room.

“Claire- ” You barely have time to squeak before your back hits the mirror, her lips already on your neck, hands roaming over the fabric of your dress like she can’t decide where to touch first.

“Oh, my pretty baby,” she murmurs against your skin, voice thick with adoration. “Look at you. Jesus Christ, you’re so-” She cuts herself off with a reverent kiss, pressing her body flush against yours.

Her fingers trace the neckline, dipping teasingly along the fabric. “Gonna lose my mind over you,” she whispers, pressing kisses along your collarbone. “How the hell am I supposed to let you leave wearing this when all I wanna do is keep you right here and kiss you everywhere?”

Heat pools in your stomach, your hands gripping her shoulders as she presses another dizzying kiss to your lips. “Claire,” you mumble between breaths, barely able to think straight, “we’re in a store.”

“Mm,” she hums, completely unbothered. “And?”

You huff a laugh, tilting your head back as her lips trail lower. “And we have places to be.”

She groans dramatically, but when she pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, her expression is soft and completely smitten. “Fine,” she relents, though her hands linger on your waist. “But, baby?”

“Yeah?”

She leans in, brushing her lips over your ear. “You’re so wearing this for me again later.”

You smirk, stepping closer and turning slightly to show off the gown. “You like?”

Claire swallows hard. “Understatement of the century.”

~

The sun is starting to set, casting a golden glow over the town square, the soft hum of conversation and distant music making everything feel warm and easy. You’re curled up in Claire’s arms on a bench, your ice cream slowly melting as you lazily watch the world go by.

It’s nice, just existing, just being. No glances over your shoulders, no hushed, careful distance. Just two people sharing ice cream, wrapped up in each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You sigh contentedly, shifting against her. “This is nice,” you murmur, licking your ice cream. “Not having to hide. Just being… another couple having ice cream.”

Claire hums, thoughtful. You can feel her hand tighten slightly around your waist. “Yeah,” she says softly, almost to herself. She’s considering something, you can tell. And for a brief second, a part of you wonders if she’s thinking about what it would be like to do this all the time. Out in the open, no secrets, no careful maneuvering. But you don’t push. You won’t. You know better than to hold onto something that might not happen.

So instead, you nudge her. “Lemme try yours.”

Claire turns her head slowly, unimpressed. “I knew you were gonna steal mine.”

You pout dramatically. “You can have some of mine?”

She scoffs. “I don’t want yours. I want mine.”

“Tough shit,” you say, swiping a bit of her ice cream onto your spoon.

She glares at you, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. And before she can protest again, you boop the tip of her nose with the cold ice cream, watching her jerk back with a startled laugh.

“You little-”

You don’t let her finish, leaning in and kissing the laughter right off her lips. She tastes like vanilla and caramel, her hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck as she kisses you slow, deep, like she’s savoring every second.

When you finally pull away, breathless and grinning, Claire shakes her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me,” you tease.

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it. Instead, she wipes her nose with the back of her hand, eyes still crinkled in amusement.

And just like that, the world keeps turning around you. But for now, it’s just the two of you, here, in this tiny corner of the world, stealing ice cream and kisses like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You’re still tucked against Claire, savoring the last of your ice cream when you hear a familiar voice carrying across the square.

“Peg, come on, you’re moving like a sloth in a coma.”

You turn just in time to see Birdie strutting towards you, her signature oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, while Peg- poor, suffering Peg- is trailing behind her, arms overloaded with shopping bags. She’s carrying so much you genuinely think she might topple over at any second.

Claire lets out an amused snort, her chest shaking against your back. “Jesus, Bird. Got enough?”

Birdie waves her off dramatically. “Oh, please.” She gestures to one singular, tiny bag at the very top of the pile. “That one’s for Peg, so it’s not all mine.”

Claire side-eyes her. “Uh-huh. How generous of you.”

“Thank you Claire” she beams.

You shake your head, laughing, before pushing yourself up from the bench. “Here, Peg, let me help before you get buried under.”

Peg gives you a grateful look as you take a few bags off her hands, her arms finally free enough to stretch. “You’re a lifesaver,” she mutters.

Before you can respond, Lionel appears at your side, taking a few more bags without a word. You exchange a quick glance, sharing an unspoken understanding of what it’s like to be pulled into Birdie’s orbit.

Birdie, meanwhile, is entirely unbothered, already fussing with the strap of her bag. “Okay, now that that’s settled, who wants to go for drinks? I’m exhausted.”

Claire chuckles, sliding an arm around your waist as she stands. “Lead the way.” And with that, you fall into step with Claire’s little makeshift family, the easy warmth of the moment wrapping around you like the summer air.

The bar was dimly lit, the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses filling the space as you sat with Claire, Lionel, and Birdie. But after the first twenty minutes, you quickly realized you weren’t really in the conversation- just there. Lionel and Claire were deep in some debate, while Birdie was rambling about a designer she’d just met, not really listening to either of them. You had tried to chime in a few times, but it was like trying to jump into a double-dutch rope that never slowed down. Eventually, you just gave up, sipping your drink and zoning out. That’s when Duke and Whisky walked in.

The moment you spotted Whisky, relief flooded through you. You weren’t sure if she felt the same until her eyes landed on you, and her whole face lit up. She wasted no time making a beeline toward you.

“Oh, thank God,” she muttered as she reached you before nodding toward the bar. “Come with me?”

You didn’t need to be asked twice. “Absolutely.”

As the two of you slid up to the bar, you turned to her. “You and Duke have been together for a while right? How many of these things have you been to?”

She sighed, waving a hand at the bartender before giving you a knowing look. “Three.”

Your eyes widened. “Three?”

She laughed at your reaction, shaking her head. “Yeah. And trust me, they’re all like this.”

You groaned, letting your head drop against the bar as you pictured going through another 3 of these trips. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Whisky said dryly, taking a sip of her drink. “When they’re together, they’re kind of the worst.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Tell me about it.”

Whisky tilted her head, watching you for a moment before saying, “You know, I never did ask. Why’re you with Claire?”

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “What?”

“Come on,” Whisky said, grinning now. “You asked me about Duke, so I think it’s only fair that I ask you about Claire.”

You huffed a small laugh, swirling the ice in your glass. “What, you think she’s that bad?”

Whisky gave you a look. “Yes?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “She’s the worst one of them- at least to me. I mean, Duke’s friends always see me as just some hot girl with no brain, but Claire?” She let out a dry laugh. “Claire hates me.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “She’s… not your biggest fan, yeah.”

Whisky scoffed. “No kidding.” She took another sip of her drink. “She acts like I personally ran over her dog or something. Like, I was actually excited to meet her for the first time. I mean, she’s Claire Debella, right? She’s a powerful woman in politics. That’s kinda inspiring.”

You frowned, surprised. “You were excited to meet her?”

Whisky nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I eventually want to get into politics myself- not at Claire’s level, obviously, but still. I wanted to talk to her about it, maybe even get some advice.” She rolled her eyes. “But it took, like, two seconds to realize that was never gonna happen. She made it very clear that we wouldn’t be friends anytime soon.”

You exhaled, guilt tugging at your chest. “I’m sorry,” you said, meaning it.

Whisky shrugged, then leaned forward on the bar. “So, back to my question- why Claire?”

You paused, thinking. “I know she can seem like the classic stressed-out politician, all hard-faced bitch sometimes. But that’s just…” You hesitated, then shook your head. “That’s just how she has to be for her job.”

Whisky raised an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue.

You smiled softly to yourself. “But she loves me.”

Whisky didn’t say anything, just watched you as you went on.

“You smiled softly, your fingers tracing the rim of your glass as you thought about all the little things she did that made you fall in love with her, over and over again.

“She loves me,” you said again, but softer this time. More to yourself than to Whisky. Then, after a beat, you looked up, feeling warmth bloom in your chest.

“She takes me on bookshop dates,” you began, your voice laced with fondness. “She never rushes me, even though I know she gets impatient. I can spend hours just wandering between shelves, reading the backs of books I won’t even buy, and she doesn’t complain. She just follows me around, letting me talk at her about why I love certain authors or why this particular edition of a book is superior. And she listens… like, really listens. She even started keeping a list of books I mention offhand, so she can surprise me with them later.”

Whisky’s expression softened a fraction, but she stayed quiet, letting you continue.

“She washes my hair for me in the shower,” you said, smiling a little at the thought. “Not just, like, quickly scrubbing and rinsing. She takes her time. She massages my scalp, runs her fingers through my hair so gently it makes me melt right there against her. And she does it every single time, like it’s just our thing. Like she wants to take care of me.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “She tells me she loves me every night before bed, no matter where she is. Even if she’s on the other side of the country, campaigning or working some insane hours, she always finds time to call me. And if I fall asleep before she can? I wake up to a voice note.” Your heart squeezed at the thought. “It’s never just good night, love you, either. It’s detailed. Like I saw something today that reminded me of you or I wish you were here because you would’ve loved this weird café I found. She makes time for me. Even when she’s exhausted.”

You paused, swallowing down the emotion creeping up your throat.

“She gives me confidence in my writing,” you went on, voice a little steadier. “When my publishers are being assholes, when I start doubting myself, she never lets me sink too far into it. She sits me down, makes me talk about what I’m writing, reminds me why I love it. She tells me I’m brilliant. That my words matter.” You smiled wryly. “And trust me, when Claire tells you you’re brilliant, you believe it.”

Whisky gave a small huff of amusement at that, but her eyes were still focused, still listening.

“Yes she’s older than me,” you said, a small, private smile tugging at your lips, “but she’s never made me feel small. She talks to me like an equal. Like what I have to say matters.” You let out a slow breath, shaking your head slightly. “She’s so smart, but she never makes me feel stupid. She’s opinionated, but she never makes me feel like mine don’t count. She challenges me, but she listens to me. She doesn’t just love me- she respects me.”

Whisky’s lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something, but she hesitated.

You inhaled, looking down at your hands for a second before you met her gaze again. “She left her husband for me,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “That’s not something I take lightly. I know it’s messy, and it’s not something she’s proud of, but… she chose me. And she’s never once made me feel like I wasn’t worth that choice.”

You met Whisky’s gaze, feeling the weight of your own words settle in your chest.

“She’s a good partner,” you finished, voice thick with conviction. “A really good one.”

Whisky studied you for a moment, then nodded slightly, like she understood.

Then, after a beat, she tilted her head. “So why does she hide your relationship?”

The warmth in your chest chilled instantly. Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you couldn’t answer. Because that… that was the one question you tried not to ask yourself too often. Because it hurt.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your drink, the condensation slick against your skin. You don't answer right away, because the truth of it is so heavy, so dense in your chest that it feels like it'll crush your ribs if you let it out too fast. Instead, you focus on the ice swirling in the glass, your stomach twisting as you try to find the right words.

"Because she can’t right now," you finally say, your voice quieter than before, as if saying it out loud might somehow make it worse. "She’s planning to run for Senate. You know what people are like. If they found out about us, the homophobic assholes wouldn’t vote for her. It’s why she’s still using Devon’s last name. If people think she’s still that picture-perfect congresswoman with a husband and a kid, they’ll back her. She needs that support to even have a shot."

Whisky leans against the bar, looking at you with something softer than before- less curiosity, more pity. Her fingers trace circles against the rim of her glass.

"So..." she hesitates, watching the way your jaw tenses, the way your gaze stays locked on the drink in your hand. Then, quieter, almost like she doesn’t want to say it: "She’ll never come out then?"

And just like that, it feels like something inside you caves in.

Your throat goes tight, that burning feeling rising up, and for a second, you can’t breathe.

Because you don’t know.

Because maybe that’s the part that keeps you awake at night, staring at the ceiling of an apartment you don’t even live in, wondering if she’ll ever really choose you, really claim you. Not just in private, in whispered I-love-yous before bed, in the way she pulls you into her arms when no one else is looking- but in public, where it actually matters.

You swallow hard, forcing down the lump in your throat. "I don’t know," you admit, barely above a whisper. "I really don’t."

And that’s the worst part.

Because you love Claire with everything you have. And you know she loves you. But love isn���t always enough. And what if this- this thing between you, no matter how deep, how real- never leaves the shadows?

What if you’re always the secret? The thought makes your chest ache, like something sharp twisting inside of you.

Whisky doesn’t say anything right away. She just watches you, her expression unreadable, before finally sighing and looking away. "That’s rough," she says eventually, her voice softer than you expected. "You deserve better than that."

And maybe she’s right. Maybe she’s completely right. But it doesn’t change the fact that you don’t want better. You want Claire.

[kelpermoosee]

That one character I adore because he immediately reminded me of Captain Olimar…go my space dog!!!

[bitegore]

if you're an egotistical artist, you should use alt text.

hear me out. you want to show people your art, right? you want them to see the important details, the shit they should be blown away with... right? so they know how to compliment you and what they should be focusing on, no? and you want everyone to see it?

put a description in the alt text.

not just "my oc standing in front of a background" no get descriptive. focus on that shit. "a woman with beautiful eyes and an ornate hammer" better. what'd you spend three hours detailing? "wearing a shirt with an ornate lace pattern" better! what are you aiming for? "it looks like a classical portrait" THERE.

and having the alt text button means people who can see might click on it too. and then be like "wow i didn't notice half of these details". its true. happens to me pretty often. half the time they're like "this owns, omg, you guys should look at the alt text" because i did a good job describing it and there's details even they didn't catch until they read it and looked back over it.

if you like when people stroke the hell out of your ego and catch all the cool things in your art. and you want everyone to see your art. put some alt text on that thing. for serious.

[happyheidi]

Hello love. I felt the need to tell you this.

For the longest time I’ve been following you and I thought you were another one of those bot run accounts that have a massive following and occasionally post ads and whatnot. You know the ones.

But then I saw your tags on some posts and it just… made me smile. And I don’t know why it never crossed my mind before. That behind one of my favorite blogs of all time is a beautiful human being. But now every time I see your posts on my dash I look forward to seeing your little comment in the tags.

Anyways, all this to say you bring me lots of joy. Please keep doing what you’re doing. 🩷🌷✨🌱

“accounts that have a massive following and occasionally post ads and whatnot. You know the ones.” Funny you should mention that because I remember I got contacted by one of them and at the time I was crazy broke and had vet bills up to my neck so I thought ok I’ll try it out. So, I got some “merch” from them and bought some myself to see if it was what they said it was (this was many years ago and another blog than this + I wanted to make sure my followers weren’t getting tricked or anything) and after the ages it took for me to get the items I wasn’t impressed .. I lost lots of followers (bcus of all the ads I had to post - ugh I hated the repetition) and I actually care about my blog and how it looks to people - and myself - so I said to the person, I can’t do this anymore. She said “no one has complained etc”. But I’m a real person who cares about the blog so it was a short “collaboration”. I thought It really took away from my cottage aesthetic.. being all capitalism-YAY.. lol Anyway, I’m rambling.. just wanted to tell that story.

I’ve gotten this type of message before and to me it’s the best compliment ever! Thank you so so much! I haven’t paid attention to this blog as much as I did before.. yk because life, but I’m very happy to hear that! Thank u so much for taking the time to cheer a girl up <3 ur awesome!

A rose, for you 🌹

[humblemooncat]

I swear, sometimes I'm glad I watch prog videos before going in to do it myself, because I get so nervous going in to a new fight, only to be reminded a LOT of prog is going immediately from

"Okay, I know this"

to

And it makes me feel more prepared for some reason.

[ambigrueity]

Incredibly long post about Trey and Riddle's Relationship that I vaguely said I'd do in the tags of my posts somewhere

Disclaimer: this is not intended to be shipping in any way I very much view them as family, even more so after these updates. To start with I'm going to separate their relationship into 3 distinct stages and focus on their perceptions of each other at each stage. I think their relationship is wonderfully written As usual, I ramble so sorry in advance, but I really want to analyze how complex they are.

Stage one: Childhood: ||Riddle|| A friend: Trey and Chenya were Riddle's first friends. Riddle had spent his whole life knowing the four walls of his home and his mother and both Trey and Chenya were his gateway to experiencing the world outside his windows. As such, they're immensely valuable to him. Under his mother he had no other way to grow socially, so when provided with a logical reason for going out and playing (Chenya stated his grandpa believed play is a form of study) he jumped at it because he wanted that connection. Trey specifically was his ideal. I think he looked up to him a lot. Normal home life. His mother didn't confine or trap him in any way. And he could eat whatever he liked. That's why when Trey said that one or two slices of tart wouldn't hurt, it was good enough to sway Riddle. All his life he'd grown up hearing about sweets being poison. But Trey seems happy and fulfilled so surely it's not as bad. However, breaking his mother's rule made him lose everything. The momentary friendship he'd built and any chance of freedom. It impressed upon him the importance of following the rules because breaking them lead to loss. And on top of that, it left him with guilt. I talk a lot about Trey's guilt in this situation (and I will talk more) but Riddle has his own guilt too that just manifested in a different way. More on that later.

||Trey|| A brother: While Riddle might have viewed Trey as a friend (no doubt because he was an isolated only child with a different perception and a lot of baggage tied to the world family), Trey saw him as a brother. He expressly states in his dream that Riddle was smart enough to identify plants and flowers and had enough magic control to get their soccer ball out of the trees, and he felt proud to have a smart little brother. And this sort of label is easier for him because he comes from a rather healthy family with siblings and has a blood brother around Riddle's age. Instinctively, Riddle became someone he wanted to care for, spoil, and cherish. That's why after knowing Riddle wanted to try a tart he wanted to let him. Later on, he tries to dismiss or come to terms with his actions in various ways, stating that it was not his place and of course anyone would get upset if their house rules and dietary restrictions weren't being respected. He tries to make it out into a joke, saying it's become a family incident of sorts that they just laugh about. "Who gets that mad at children playing." But underneath all those attempts to bury his own trauma, lies guilt. Because he feels, deep down, that as a brother he should have protected Riddle better. And instead, after just 2 months, he had to see everything that made Riddle happy stripped away again. More on this later. Stage 2: Riddle's First Year

||Riddle|| A stranger. Riddle's changed. He's developed some of his mother's anger. He's been confined for years. And because of that one incident with the tart, he firmly believes that growth and by extension fulfillment can only happen under the rules. Moreover, since Trey represents that period of his life where he learned that lesson rather harshly, he ices Trey out, pretending he barely knows him. After all, they might as well be strangers after all these years. Especially since Trey is banned from his house. This is a result of the guilt I mentioned earlier. He failed to follow his mother's rules and the punishment put Trey and his peaceful family that he looked up to in the crossfire. I think a part of him doesn't know how to face Trey after all that, worried that he might hate him. However, he cannot fully erase his own memories. So it is Trey he consults when he asks how to challenge a dorm leader for the seat. Even if he's distancing himself by calling him "Clover-senpai" Trey still remains someone he trusts to a degree. After Riddle takes the throne he makes a decision I find interesting. He doesn't select a vice, instead he leaves it to the popular vote. This could be read two ways IMO. Either, he didn't feel the need to have a vice because he was so confident in his own skills, but was aware that it was customary to have one so it didn't matter to him who it was. Or, deep down, he was afraid that no one would be willing to work with him. After seeing his dream, I do think it might be the latter. All of the darkness versions of his card soldiers showed some form of disloyalty. Willing to go along with the idea that they might jump ship, or that Riddle could be overpowered. It's this insecurity born from his own fear of his mother. He knows he's become a reflection of her, and he's worried how other people might react to it. In the end, he's still chasing those relationships from childhood, but is stuck believing that rules are the only way to keep what little happiness he has which alienates him from Trey to a degree. ||Trey|| A brother still: Despite the years, Trey's feelings about Riddle hadn't changed much other than being swamped with underlying guilt. Upon realizing that Riddle was going to attend NRC, his first instinct was to create a space for him. Trey generally, is introverted but excited to see his childhood friend again, he ends up talking to the people around him saying that Riddle was a quiet but studious boy and he hopes that people will welcome him. That was at least, before he saw what Riddle had become (he ended up fighting Floyd at the entrance ceremony) leaving Trey with the realization that this was not the boy he knew anymore. And worse, he was pretending not to know him. I'm sure it hurt, but even so, when RIddle asked about dueling the housewarden, he did try to accommodate him (after getting over his initial shock). The thing that gets me the most, however, is that Trey still saw the good in him. Trey in the rose maze part of Riddle's dream tells Ortho that the first thing Riddle did when he became housewarden was tend to the roses. To him that was a sign that Riddle was still somewhere in there and he was willing to support that. He would have been resigned to accepting that he was a stranger to Riddle if he hadn't been elected vice, but regardless of how Riddle felt, Trey still felt responsible for him. Both out of guilt and because he was still family.

[sunnysidesevenup]

Overview

Trying to make this post a bit more “official”, but still a little funny <3

For those who haven’t seen this project before, this is a fun little dating sim featuring people’s TWST oc’s. It started as a bit of a joke but now it’s… definitely not. It’s actually a full game now. Even people who have no knowledge of TWST will be able to play it, haha…

If you’d like to be added to the tag list, let me know ^^

Updates from the Dev Team!

First up, all the sprites have been completed! The bases being done by me, and then expressions made by those who wanted to <3 You might see the sprites floating around, depending on who wants to post theirs or not. Most likely they’ll be used in memes lmao

Nearly all the first meetings have been written! Everyone has been doing an excellent job writing for their own characters. Even if we keep getting derailed by ships….

The shop has been completed! Mostly. Featuring the weirdest collection of items you have ever seen. And marketable plushies. Why are there plushies of students at a school shop? The world may never know…

Some Interesting Patch Notes

From our lovely coder @ramshackle-ramblings, who you should check out immediately. Seriously. Go do so. I am paraphrasing these notes because I think they’re hilarious, also some of them happened a while ago. Sorry for the slow updates.

We’re on version 0.0.2!! This is very exciting.

Tilly is no longer hoarding infinite cream soda. I think this is a win.

Griffin is no longer breaking the game! Yippee! I’m still keep the Griffin Thanos snap meme on hand though. Just in case.

March exists again. And might be the main character now considering the infinite Yurch loop.

Gave Tilly his hat back. This one was actually my fault, sorry Tilly…

Infinite Yurch Loop Fixed. These guys just REALLY wanted you to witness them fight.

And, of course, out of context memes.

We have a whole channel for these, so we can’t leave them out. Sadly there is an image limit 😭

Dev Team (& Character Cast)

check them out. Do it. You know you want to.

Abraham & Alise @ramshackle-ramblings (sorry for the double tag <3)

Griffin @twsted-void

March @kumikokane

Yurena @ranas-twisted-wonderland

Constance @theolivetree123

Tsuki @prefectrose

Otto @w1ndigo0

Rory @miriaocs

Arlo (from me and against his will <3)

Tag List

@purplefirepit @kirexa

[madbard]

I love how many routes of Slay the Princess there are, how many ways to be. On my third playthrough of the game right now, and so far I’ve played as…

a curious and cautious participant, watching my body perform its bound tasks in a Cage I helped to create. I’ve grown ambivalent towards personhood and fallen in love with an eldritch god, exploring various worlds and searching for ways to make peace with the only other person I’ve met.

a selfish and clever opponent, meeting my circumstances with a violent eagerness that slowly rotted into a tangle of hatred deep inside me. I’ve felt that hatred leach out of me like infection from a wound as I held the Wounded Wild, and I’ve tried to grow again, laying down my blade in hopes of creating something better for myself and my companion.

a coward who nonetheless would not be trampled by a proud god, who was reduced to powerless flesh by the Fury and then rose above it, who was broken and molded into the perfect tool in a Moment of Clarity, who is so desperate for the free will that was repeatedly denied me that I have grown to resent the only other person I’ve known.

In playing this game I have been so many people, and I have loved and been horrified by them all, and understood their actions, and hated their suffering and the suffering they have inflicted. This game contains multitudes, and my experience of it has been something so incredibly profound.

Anyway. I love this game.

[astravires]

well, obviously i'm going to do it about my current fixation couple <3

thank you @edmunderson for the tag!!

Meet My Couple - Valentine's Challenge!

my tags include @sadraccoon061 @queenofthedork @southernsimmin @glitchedsins

and if you'd like, some ramble under the cut

Gabe often times thinks Arum's making a mistake due to their age difference; he was certain all the flirting in the beginning was just because everyone who gets their tattoos done by Gabe flirt with him. The fact that it stuck, and Arum stuck around has Gabe both thankful and in utter disbelief every day.

For Arum, he's enamoured by Gabriel (yes, yes, he totally thought he was hot the first time he met him; it was Fortinbras that introduced them when Arum expressed wanting to get tattoos - all of Arum's tattoos are by Gabe), but also Gabe accepts Arum for all that he is - and Arum accepts Gabe for all that he is too. Gabe's been around a lot longer, and with that comes experience and knowledge that Arum craves. He's actually very socially awkward, so he likes that Gabriel gives him the confidence to be happy in his own body; especially given his prosthetic leg.

Arum is very shy, especially with PDA - but home alone he enjoys just how much affection Gabriel showers on him. He's not ashamed of anything - he just wants it all for himself.

Gabriel really tried his best to not drop the "L" word; he's been burned in the past and he had that age gap worry on him, but it he can never give his heart in pieces. It's all or nothing.

[silverwhittlingknife]

comics are super-contradictory on what the pit does, but YEAH, i'm 100% with you, OP. it should have bad consequences!!

if you want some of the lazarus pit stories that skew more toward the ominous side, i think some good comics to check out are

batman 243 (first comic to introduce the lazarus pit)

lost days (backstory for jason's resurrection)

resurrection of ra's al-ghul (dick & tim fight over whether tim should experiment to see if he can use the lazarus pit to bring back his loved ones)

I do not care about what canon says, pit "madness" exists to me. Not because I need an excuse for Jason's violence and the murder attempts on his family, but because, from a storytelling point of view, you need your immortality bath water to have some consequences for your heroes to not use it every tuesday. You want death and injuries to still matter, it is silly for your characters to be worried about each others' health when they can just take a dip in the magic green goop and be back in one piece without side effects. Which is literally what is going on now in the comics, with the batkids dying and immediately being resurrected with a sip of the forbidden green smoothie. Like, what's the point than? You're going to tell me the tale of a man who created a symbol from his grief, only to give him some magic goop that can make him and his loved ones immortals without drawbacks, and I'm supposed to believe he would refuse that power? That he would not have dip Jason himself the moment the kid died if there was no consequences? Nuh uh. Like, I can understand a "immortality is against nature" as the simple reason why your heroes would be against using it, BUT when we are talking about a child that was murdered, it's not really immortality to bring him back to life, so it doesn't work.

Immortality must have some aftereffects so your heroes can understand the attraction to its use, but the cons are too much for them to actually do.

[jungkoode]

OFF-LABELS | O3

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: Mature, 18+, suggestive tones.

→ DATE POSTED:

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents.

→ CONTENT in this chapter: Hoseok being a menace with medical terminology, innocent (but absolutely calculated) comments about oral muscle endurance, subtext so thick it's suffocating, plausible deniability at an elite level, flustered reader, casual intimacy that feels dangerous, and dinner table tension that might actually kill you.

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 2.2k

→ MINI SERIES: NEXT | PREVIOUS

→ A/N: Listen. I don't know what is wrong with me. I sat down to write something normal, and then suddenly I was researching orofacial muscle fatigue like a lunatic. WHY is this man like this? Why does he say things so kindly while ruining your life? Why is he explaining anatomy while looking directly at you like that? Anyway. This chapter is dedicated to anyone who has ever choked on their food while someone smiled at them way too nicely.

PLAYLIST

It starts in the kitchen.

Which is unfortunate, because the kitchen is small. And there are only so many places to stand before proximity becomes a problem.

You’re hyperaware of it—the space (limited), the air (too warm), him (entirely too close). But it’s fine. You’re fine. You’re just making tea, and he’s just existing, leaning against the counter like this is his apartment instead of your brother’s. Like he belongs here. Like his presence isn’t making it impossible for you to function like a normal person.

(He’s not even doing anything. Which somehow makes it worse.)

“I didn’t know you liked green tea.” His voice is easy, just conversational. Not a trap. Probably.

You don’t look at him. Can’t. “Yeah. I mean—I do. It’s good. Antioxidants and stuff.”

Brilliant. Truly stunning commentary.

Hoseok just hums, and you hear the soft clink of his rings against his glass as he lifts it to his lips. He’s drinking water, which seems unfair. Water is neutral. Water doesn’t require decisions. Meanwhile, you’re standing here, internally debating whether you’re taking too long to steep this tea, if leaving the bag in too long will make you seem weird, if—

“Relax, Chip.”

The words are casual. Just a little offhanded throwaway of a comment. But it lands like a dropped match, tiny but catastrophic.

You blink. Slowly. “What?”

Hoseok sets his glass down with a soft thud and turns to you fully, eyebrows lifted in lazy amusement. “You’re overthinking your tea.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s a thing people do—casually observe someone else’s entire internal meltdown and name it out loud.

Which, to be fair, is exactly what he’s doing.

Your ears feel hot. “I am not.”

“You are.”

He’s enjoying this. You can tell. It’s in the corner of his mouth, the hint of a smile he’s barely holding back. Not mean—just knowing.

And then it clicks. The name.

Chip.

“Wait,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “Did you just call me—”

His grin sharpens, eyes flashing with something teasing, but infuriatingly innocent. “Yeah,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “Chip. Short for chipmunk.”

You stare at him. Your brain scrambles for a response and comes up with absolutely nothing.

He keeps going, undeterred. “You do this thing when you’re overthinking—” He gestures vaguely at your face, at you. “Your cheeks puff up. Just a little.”

Absolutely not. That does not happen.

Except—you know exactly what he’s talking about.

Which means he’s noticed.

You turn back to your tea, because looking at him feels impossible. “That’s not a real thing.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” he says again, softer this time. Almost amused.

You risk a glance at him. He’s watching you, expression easy, mouth still curled slightly at the edges.

It’s not a big deal.

It’s just a nickname.

But you can feel it settling somewhere deep in your chest, warm and unwelcome, curling into the spaces he’s already managed to take up.

Chip.

You should tell him not to call you that.

You should absolutely, definitively tell him not to call you that.

But you don’t.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

That he’s just being himself—casual, playful, thoughtless in the way people like him can afford to be. That it’s just a nickname, not a calculated attack on your sanity.

And yet.

Yet.

You feel it every time he says it after that.

The first time, it’s two days later. He and your brother are in the living room, a game on in the background, when you walk by with your laptop. You aren’t even stopping—just passing through—when he glances up and says it like it’s always been your name.

“Where you off to, Chip?”

The sound of it makes you trip over your own feet. Embarrassingly. You don’t even answer, just keep walking, face burning, fully aware of the way he watches you go.

Then it happens again.

And again.

Sometimes it’s subtle, slipped in like an afterthought. “Hey, Chip, toss me that.” “You always this quiet, Chip?”

Other times it’s deliberate. Measured. Like he’s testing the weight of it, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll react.

You don’t.

You refuse.

(Which only seems to encourage him.)

And then one night, it’s just the two of you. Your brother’s in the shower, music spilling under the bathroom door, and you’re curled up on the couch, trying very hard to ignore the fact that Hoseok is sitting way too close for comfort.

His arm is slung over the back of the couch, loose and easy, and every so often, when you shift, your shoulder brushes against his.

(You should move. You should absolutely move.)

Instead, you stay where you are and pretend to be very, very interested in the show playing on the screen.

Hoseok shifts. You feel the weight of his attention before you see it.

“You don’t like it?”

You blink. “What?”

“The nickname.” His voice is low, smooth, barely above the sound of the TV. “You never say anything about it.”

You don’t know what to do with that. Don’t know what to do with him, watching you like he’s reading something written just under your skin.

“It’s fine,” you say, and it’s not convincing.

His lips twitch, but his voice stays neutral. “You sure?”

You nod, too quickly.

There’s a beat of silence. You can hear the shower running down the hall, the TV filling the air with white noise.

And then—so soft you almost don’t catch it—

“Good.”

It lingers in the space between you, something light, something easy. But you feel it settle somewhere deeper. Somewhere dangerous.

Because now, you know for certain.

He’s not going to stop.

And that’s the problem. It’s a problem. Because Hoseok is nice.

He’s just nice.

He’s warm and charming in a way that isn’t practiced—it just is. The kind of person who remembers how you take your coffee after hearing it once, who laughs with his whole chest, who makes people feel like they belong.

He’s good at things, too. Competent in that effortless way that makes it infuriatingly easy to admire him. You’ve seen him fix things around your brother’s apartment without being asked, roll up his sleeves and lean under the sink like it’s nothing, like he was built for it.

(Not that you were watching. Not that you noticed the way the muscles in his forearms shift when he grips a wrench.)

The point is—this is just how he is. With everyone.

So it’s fine.

Everything is fine.

Or at least, it would be, if he’d stop saying things.

Because then, it happens at dinner.

And the reason for Hoseok being here is simple.

He’s always here for dinner.

Not every night, but often enough that it’s routine. That your parents barely bat an eye when they see him at the table, that your mom still sets an extra plate for him when she cooks, that your dad asks about his job like he’s part of the family.

Because he might as well be.

He and Caleb have been friends since his first year of university—long enough for Hoseok to be comfortable in this house, for your parents to know his favorite foods, for you to be so used to him being around that you shouldn’t be affected by it anymore.

(And yet. And yet.)

Dinner is normal.

It’s just the five of you at the table, passing dishes around, the smell of takeout filling the air. The conversation is easy, punctuated by laughter, by the scrape of chopsticks against plastic containers.

It’s nice. It’s comfortable.

Or at least—it should be.

Except your eyes keep tracking him. They always do. The way he sits—too at ease, too familiar. The way his sleeves are pushed up just enough to be distracting. The way his fingers grip his chopsticks, loose and confident, movements fluid and practiced.

(It’s stupid. It’s stupid that you’re noticing these things.)

Your dad is asking Hoseok something about work, and you force yourself to focus, desperate to ground yourself in the conversation instead of spiraling into a pit of your own making.

“How are you managing, with the residency?”

“It’s been busy,” Hoseok says, setting his chopsticks down neatly. “But good. No complaints.”

Your mom tuts. “You work too much.”

Hoseok just smiles, warm and self-effacing. “It’s not so bad.”

Your dad nods approvingly. “That’s a good mindset. A little hard work never hurt anyone.”

“And at least someone in this house is doing it,” Caleb says, nudging you lightly under the table.

You roll your eyes. “I work plenty.”

“Studying doesn’t count,” Caleb argues, because he loves to be annoying.

“It literally does.”

Your mom sighs, long-suffering. “Can we have one meal where you two don’t bicker?”

You sit back in your chair, focusing very hard on your plate, on not looking at the person sitting just to your right. The conversation flickers and tumbles around you, but you don’t register much of it.

And then—

“You should use your mouth more, Chip.”

The table goes quiet.

Your heart stops.

Your stomach plummets.

Your entire soul leaves your body, hovering somewhere above the dinner table, watching this play out like a nightmare in slow motion.

Because—because—

He didn’t mean it like that. He can’t have meant it like that. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

Your dad is right there. Your mom is right there.

Hoseok is just sitting there, utterly relaxed, a picture of perfect innocence.

You’re the only one who reacts.

And that’s the problem.

Your brother—oblivious, as always—just scoffs. “I keep telling her that.”

The world tilts.

Your face burns.

Because Caleb just agreed. Like this is a normal conversation. Like this is fine.

And maybe it is fine.

Maybe you just missed something again—some context, some crucial piece of information that would make this make sense.

You frantically rewind the last few minutes, trying to figure out how this could possibly be about—

“She eats too fast,” Caleb continues, like he’s talking about the weather. “I’ve been saying it for years.”

Your entire body deflates.

Oh.

Oh.

It’s nothing.

It’s just about chewing. About how you’re always the first to finish your plate, about how your brother has been calling you out for it since you were kids.

You were imagining it.

Your hands are clammy. Your heartbeat is still a mess. But you take a slow breath, trying to pull yourself back together.

You force a weak, strangled sort of laugh. “Right. That.”

Hoseok hums, tilting his head slightly. “I wouldn’t say that.”

He taps his chopsticks against his lower lip, slow and thoughtful, as if genuinely weighing his next words. Then, with the kind of mild, absentminded curiosity that should not be dangerous but absolutely is, he continues—

“Oral muscles are surprisingly adaptable. With the right conditioning, they can handle prolonged exertion without fatigue.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Absolutely not.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—the weight of his voice, the way the words land, the way your lungs forget how to function. You try—desperately—to convince yourself that he means nothing by it, that this is just a fun little fact, the kind of thing anyone might say in casual conversation.

(Except no one says things like that in casual conversation.)

Your parents don’t react. Your brother doesn’t even blink. They just keep eating like this is normal, like this is fine.

You, meanwhile, are staring at your plate, trying not to choke on air.

And just as you’re about to die from sheer mortification, he adds—

“For instance, brass players develop impressive endurance. Hours of embouchure control, you know?”

Embouchure control.

You think you might be having an out-of-body experience.

Because he’s not even looking at you. He’s just sitting there—calm, innocent, like he’s just making an offhand comment about music, like he’s not actively ruining your life.

It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s science.

(Except it’s not.)

You need to leave.

You shove your chair back, your hands shaking. “I’m—gonna grab some water.”

Hoseok watches you go. You feel it.

At the sink, you grip the counter, staring hard at the faucet as you fill your glass.

It’s fine.

It’s nothing.

You’re imagining things.

It’s Hoseok being Hoseok—friendly, completely unaware of the way his words get tangled in your head, twisted into shapes they were never meant to take.

You gulp down half the glass, hoping it might cool the heat rising under your skin.

Behind you, the conversation moves on. Your dad is talking about a trip, your mom is mentioning something about the neighbors.

Everything is fine.

But when you turn back, Hoseok is still watching you.

Not in a way anyone else would notice—not in a way your brother does, too focused on his food, or in a way your parents would think twice about—but in a way that you notice.

In a way that makes something low in your stomach twist, tight and uncertain.

And then, like he knows, like he can read the exact trajectory of your thoughts, Hoseok smiles.

Soft. Innocent.

Like he didn't do anything at all.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @just-reading-dany @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe

© 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[daiourage]

"I'm sorry, friend."

Hi. Do y'all remember this post I've been teasing repeatedly like it's the next Bayverse movie? Well, here it is!

There's been a surge of Skyfire/Jetfire posts on my dash for some reason (which I appreciate, mind you; no complaining from my end), and I think I know who the culprit is 👀

I'm looking at you @boneless-watermellon

Anyway, this post will also be long so;;; please stick around if you wanna hear me ramble about the concept of my art + wanna look at other angles of this picture because the photocopy does not do it justice (it's sparkly)!!!

OH SHIT as always, press/click for quality!!!

Let's gooooooooo ↓↓↓↓↓

(Guess whose hands are at the top!! See the tags for the correct answers ;0)

So, seeing all of the (I'm gonna be referring to him as) Jetfire posts reminded me of the part in the G1 comics that just;;; broke me?? Like I think about it once a year, or some post related to it comes to me once in a year. I cannot escape the angst good God (once again, not complaining--if anything, bless y'all for never letting me forget).

(ALSO I'm sorry for forgetting Optimus's pistons and messing up Jetfire's back section;;;)

The entire situation is devastating, but the dialogue at the base makes it so much more painful??? The pure desperation in both Optimus and Jetfire makes it so incredibly heartbreaking to read, and it shatters (pun not intended) my heart every time ;w;)b

One of the best Optimuses (Optimi?) In my opinion;;; I also wanted to draw him crying because he doesn't/can't and I need him to cry on my behalf;;; I can't take this anymore--

The dialogue is not in order, but that's on purpose!! I wanted to make it look like a poem!! I also took my favorite parts of the dialogue so the whole message might not get across but,,,

Please enjoy looking at this piece--there's quite a bit of commentary/references I hid in there;;;

I felt like a child doing all these arts and crafts again... It's so fun??? Will do something like this again I think 👍

Oh yeah, here are the other angles!

(↑↑↑ I've only taken a video of this particular part of the paper because I wanted y'all to mainly see the spark, tears, and outline, and also the shiny pens I used for dialogue)