#the tags for this is longer than the post

[leblogreblog]

Hear me out:

on his first day he stumbles upon some old lady, being too busy looking up and around to notice her and he instinctively catches her. she thanks him and calls him darling/honey/dear or something else like that.

because never had he heard it before, he assumes that it's something rude/about how dangerous he looks and gets offended (lets be honest, the last time this man was called anything positive was when he got his Conquest monkier, because he was being useful. with how he behaves there is no way he ever got called any endearment and others were probably too scared of him to say any of it anywhere he could hear, if they've even knew it themselves)

he starts to storm off but then hears other people around using this endearment, like two people holding hands, parent to their child etc. and then notices that all of them are smiling and look... happy.

seeing this he turns back towards the lady and smiles awkwardly, assuming that it's customary response to such words. she calls him a handsome lad/strapping chap or sth like that while patting him and then turns around and walks away, leaving stuned-looking Conquest behind

cut to him during questioning, looking into distance lost in though

whoever does the questioning says that it's good to know his purpose on Earth and all, but he still haven't introduced himself, which is just rude at this point.

Conquest's full focus snaps back to them, and he stares at them in silence for a long moment, long enough to make the person doing the questioning sweat/start getting nervous and wish to take back their words

He then slowly breaks out into a full smile, cracked teeth and all, knowing now that it's customary to do so when one hears this word, and introduces himself with his new name

Invincible AU where nothing changed but Conquest were sent to Earth instead of Nolan (and he didn't conquer the Earth instantly).

[mangocurist]

hiiiiiii jet @jumped-for-the-yaoi @daylilie (idk which acc to tag so i just did both) . guess who decided to write wincezam (i fucking love that name so damn much can you Tell)

cw they do like makeout and wemmbu is implied to have a boner at some point? idk lol i wrote most of this in a rage last night while i was still post limited it hasnt been edited

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖥧⚶⋆⭒˚｡✧𖦹✮𖤓✮𖦹✧˖°⋆⭒˚｡⚶𖥧𖥧𖤣.𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖥧⋆⭒˚｡✧𖦹✮𖤓✮𖦹✧˖°⋆⭒˚⋆

“Ugh. Dude, this is like, the third time this week, Wemmbu. Can you like, try and be a little more normal about me?” 

Zam rolls her eyes at him when his guards drag Wemmbu into the throne room, the clothes he'd borrowed (well, stolen, but on Lifesteal, there really wasn't much of a difference) from his doppelganger slightly stained with soot and redstone. 

Zam’s smiling as he looks down at Wemmbu, a brilliant light glowing from the sunny halo that encircles his head. He wants to rip it from Zam’s skull and use it to slit his throat— but Flamefrags is standing just a block away with a netherite sword, and while Wemmbu could probably survive it with the same exploits that got him on here in the first place, he'd really rather not reveal his hand immediately. 

Also, Zam’s rather nice to look at when he’s acting all confident like this. It makes Wemmbu wonder if he could've pushed his own Zam into acting a little more like this, if he just turned up the pressure a little more, pushed her buttons until she could no longer deny the blood on his hands.

Hm. Well, maybe not, on second thought. 

Wemmbu wasn’t sure if he liked that pacifist Zam who refused to raise her sword at any cost, but would send her guard dogs at any person who crossed her. At least this Zam was willing to get his hands dirty.

“You're— you're like, embarrassing yourself at this point. Seriously. Give it up, you're not gonna do anything with your… what was it? Orbital cannon? That’s a stupid name.” Zam blinks, one hand sweeping a strand of curly golden hair out of his eye, and stands up, walking closer and closer to Wemmbu until she stops right in front of him, motioning for Flamefrags and Manepear to leave them alone.

He's expecting the sword to his neck, sure, but the point of the blade pressing into his skin and the warm feeling of her fingers against his face, gently tracing the length of his cheek are unexpected variables— and, oh god, is that fucking perfume or blood? It smells like iron, so it could be either, but there’s also a tinge of some floral scent that he can’t quite place. Either way, Wemmbu shifts uncomfortably on the ground, silently hoping and willing Zam to come just a little closer. 

When she does, another unexpected thing happens. The sword falls to the ground, completely forgotten, as she settles on her knees, lowering herself to the same height as him. Oh, wow. It usually takes longer than this, but Wemmbu certainly won’t complain. “You are actually so stupid. Did you know that?”

To Wemmbu’s credit, he doesn't immediately jump forward and try to eat Zam’s face off. He’s not quite sure the prince-emperor would appreciate it if he ruined his makeup this early into the day. Then again, he did try to bomb the Prince Zam Empire earlier this morning, so surely she wouldn’t be too mad about her makeup compared to the attempted nuking? 

He doesn’t have to worry about that, though, because as it turns out, it’s Zam who ruins it first, yanking Wemmbu forward by his fitted shirt collar and smearing lipstick across his mouth as she cups the back of his head, teeth nibbling on his lower lip as he tries to wear down Wemmbu’s defences. At some point during the kiss Wemmbu thinks he can taste blood, and when he dares to look at Zam in the eye she’s grinning like the little yellow smiling freak she is. 

When Zam finally pulls away, Wemmbu is left practically reeling, glaring up at the prince who just smiles sweetly at him, pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket to dab at the blood staining her face. “You lost this time,” Zam says, then, as an addition, “And also twice before that. Three in a row is a pretty bad track record, dude.”

“Oh, shut up,” Wemmbu rolls his eyes. 

He’s about to say more— point out the fact that he’s never really actually won, because that would require him to level the Prince Zam Empire to the ground and honestly he doesn’t really want to do that, not if it means that Zam won’t be around to match him anymore; or maybe the fact that he hails from a server where murder is the norm and it would be so much easier than Zam thinks to shove a sword between his ribs, make him choke on a poisoned meal or gouge his eyes out with Wemmbu’s bare hands— but then Zam is sitting on his lap, soft, ungloved hands pulling his face down to level, and Wemmbu—

Well. It’s pretty hard to think with a prince in your lap. 

It’s harder (haha) for Wemmbu specifically because this isn’t just any prince, this is Zam, and his blood is still crusted at the corner of her lips where the handkerchief hadn’t reached, and it’s just difficult for him to do anything but stare up at Zam reverently.

“You’re the one who’s going to shut up,” Zam says, voice dripping with honey, and then he bites Wemmbu again, tongue darting out to lick away the blood before she’s on him again, practically trying to smother Wemmbu with the taste of his own ichor. He can honestly barely think with the weight of Zam in his lap and the feel of her touch on his face, but Wemmbu is a self-saboteur in the best of times and he thinks himself a comedian, so when Zam reaches behind him to undo the chains binding his hands, seemingly bored by his limited reciprocation, the first thing he does is reach into his inventory for a small stick of TnT and put it in his hotbar.

Zam doesn’t notice what he’s doing immediately, which is good, if a little worrying. Seriously, for someone who faces so many goddamn assassinations (and he would know! He’s been the attempted assassin no less than 28 times, and it’s been only a month or so since he’s found his way onto Unstable) she really has no sense of self-preservation when in the middle of a makeout session. 

Speaking of. Wemmbu snakes his hand underneath Zam’s shirt, revelling in the fact that she shivers at his touch. He traces along the flat planes of Zam’s back, then slowly inches his way back to the front of her shirt, and— oh, God. Is he not wearing a fucking—

Okay. Cool. Wemmbu has his hands on Zam’s boobs. That’s… cool. The prince doesn’t seem particularly nonplussed about it, either, he actually sounds quite happy about it, but this is a little bit too out of Wemmbu’s depth, and when he’s feeling a little bit out of his own depth, he makes stupid decisions.

He switches his hotbar item, and it takes only a second before Zam is wrenching himself away from Wemmbu, an unreadable expression on her face.

“Wemmbu,” Zam says slowly, as if she's sounding out his name. He blinks at her, trying to emulate that kicked puppy look that always worked on his Zam. It's a losing battle, but he figures he may as well try. At least he’ll look cute while dying with a sword stuck in his gut. Or maybe Zam will put it in his dick, which will look less cute, but it’ll be funnier, for sure. “Did you just try and put a stick of TnT up my shirt?”

“Well, I wasn’t actually going to do it, I think, but I kinda stopped thinking when I touched your boobs,” Wemmbu says, shrugging when Zam turns an almost murderous glare onto him. He sounds much more casual than he feels, still reeling a little from the unexpected experience. A little voice in his head mocks him for getting so riled up at touching boobs for the first time, and Wemmbu ignores it to try and face Zam properly. He’s going to pretend that TnT slipup was on purpose, starting now. “Give me a head start?” 

“You have ten seconds to get out of my sight,” Zam says, the rage in his voice practically palpable. Wemmbu laughs shakily, even as he stumbles his way out of the palace, weaving past each and every guard Zam sends running after him.

“Bye-bye, your highness!” He blows a kiss to Zam as he leaves, grinning when he notices the begrudgingly amused smile he sees her trying to hide. Hey, at least he didn’t fumble as spectacularly as that other him did. Speaking of which… he hadn’t framed his doppelganger in a while, had he?

Well. At least he had that to take his mind off things.

(Somewhere halfway across the world border, a different Wemmbu sneezes. “Please don’t tell me I’m about to be banned from another country.”)

[hyuckhyukahansol]

Hold On, We're Going Home

────────────

"you don't even notice the click of him locking the door while he turns the lights off before he curls up behind you, chest to your back as he wraps his arms around you slowly. sensually. mark's breath fans on the back of your neck before he plants several slow kisses there, moving until he reaches right below the shell of your ear. all the while, his large, warm hands can't seem to to anything other than wander under your hoodie to caress your waist and stomach. you let out a breathy and quiet chuckle.

"babe, what are you doing?" you ask in a whisper.

"you know you're mine, right?" mark whispers into your ear, completely ignoring the question, yet answering it at the same time.

your skin heats all too quickly. you know exactly what this is. he's jealous. of what, you're really not sure.”

or

you're a popular soloist and your secret boyfriend is a kpop idol. when your Canadian tour dates line up, you both opt to stay at his parent's home in Vancouver, but even with his parents asleep downstairs, mark just can't seem to keep his hands off of you after your show.

tags -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈  idol!mark, soloist!reader, fem!reader, reader is american, porn with minimal plot, established relationship, childhood room, twin bed, missionary, jealousy, possessiveness, praise AND degradation, mentions of reader being small, ATTEMPTED quiet sex, sacrilege if you squint (theres a jesus on his wall), size kink if u squint, marks parents are mentioned but theres no dialogue with them because im not writing that, reader has her drivers license, implied that reader is not christian, reader's love language is being mean to mark, EXTREMELY unserious

nicknames ┇ his babe yours princess!! baby... etc

date started┇march 20 2025

date posted ┇march 28 2025

wc ┇4.4k

A/Ns ┇ nothing like a good "lets fuck on my childhood bed!" 

room based on the mark's homecoming teasers for firstfruit.

umm mark probably doesnt have a childhood bedroom in canada because he was like 13 when he left for sm and also he lived in new york before that so lets just pretend for the sake of the fanfic that he does ok? ok! >_<

in section 2 i mention bible study as a way for me to skate around actually writing meeting marks parents LMFAOOO um im unsure if this is a popular thing everywhere else but like i know in the south at least its like youth group but for older people where they'll have a like mini religion discussion thing? i dont know i havent been to church in several years and i'm atheist 😭 iykyk i guess

reader's dialogue is based off of me and im a very strange fella and i cannot be serious for one single second so its kind of bad 😭

FINALLY NOTE im completely a virgin like ive never even kissed anyone LMFAO so if the smuts seems inaccurate at all thats on me because i refuse to let a real obtainable man get that close to me 😆

────────────

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

01. prologue

"no way our tour dates line up." 

you were in disbelief when your boyfriend called late at night to inform you that you would both be in the same city at the same time and that it just so happened to be where his parents lived: vancouver.

you were tucked under your warm, plush duvet with an unnecessary amount of pillows under your head and you groan as you sit up from them, cold air hitting your newly exposed skin, leaving goosebumps in its chilly wake.

"i'm serious dude, the company usually lets me visit my family when we go for canadian stops. i could see if i can stay at my parent's house for longer.. and you could come with me.." mark's voice got higher as he started adding to the equation. "and maybe you can stay.. and meet some people.."

"you're saying you want me to meet your parents?" you reply blankly, holding in a laugh at your boyfriend's shyness about asking. you lean back in your bed, cotton fabric sighing with effort.

"see? that's my girl, i knew you'd get it." your face heats at his words.

"oh dude you're flirting..." you quote him, earning a sound of annoyance from the other end of the call. you snicker.

"you actually have to stop watching those fan compilations." you giggle at how easily it both annoys and embarrasses him that you keep up with what he does at work.

"okay, i'll stop watching fan compilations of you when you delete your folder of edits of me" you offer jokingly through your fit of laughter.

he scoffs "that's out of the question." 

"okay then i guess i get to keep watching videos of you goofing off at work." 

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

02. the twin bed

several months ago, your boyfriend had asked you to meet his parents in person. both of you living in seoul and being music artists meant that trips home were few and far between, so it made sense that mark would ask you to meet his parents in real life once the finally opportunity arose after two years of only seeing them in 2160p on a facetime screen. mark would've asked sooner if he weren't swamped with schedules — between three groups and solo activities, it was near impossible to find any amount of time to fly home, let alone with a secret girlfriend who's schedule was just as packed as his.

both of your tours had already started and you really hadn't seen much of each other since. you were grateful for the large amount of time you had in vancouver: about three nights of time together before you'd each have to take your separate flights to different cities for the rest of your respective tours. you had your show the first night of the three-day stay and his was the night directly after. 

mark had taken a plane with the rest of 127 and you opted to take a completely different flight; it wasn't worth the trouble of having to deal with both of your own saesangs on one flight as well as risking being caught. since mark's plane departed earlier than yours, he arrived at his parent's house much earlier than you, having already unpacked what he needed and started catching up with his folks when you rang the doorbell on the single-family home. as you were marveling at the normalcy of the house, your boyfriend swung the door open, giving you a hug and kiss on the cheek.

"did your staff already leave?" mark asked after surveying the street outside and not finding any cars. you turn and look back over your shoulder quickly even though you know you won't find a car there either.

"yeah, dropped me off and then sped away." you answer as you step inside. mark closes and locks the door behind you. 

"well, after she got out of the passenger seat because i begged her to let me drive-"

"you drove?" your boyfriend cut you off, eyes wide and eyebrows raised so high that his forehead was wrinkled.

"pfft, yeah?" you roll your eyes dramatically.

"i have my license and i'm a big girl. got here in one piece and everything." you reassure the man as he takes your suitcase and carryon from you.

"dude, you have an american drivers license."

"ooookay? it's basically the same! y'all drive on the right side of the road too.." you playfully push mark's shoulder, pouting as you continue.

"i never get to drive in korea. can't drive on the right there." you switch from a playful pout to a curious expression. "where are mother lee and father lee?" you ask, using your favorite nicknames that his parents thought were so endearing and silly. mark chuckles before answering.

"they're at wednesday bible study, so we have some time to unwind before you have to mingle with anyone other than me." mark explains, walking towards to stairs that lead to the second floor of the house. "my room is upstairs. it hasn't been redecorated since i was, like, 13." 

"oh, how fun." you joke, beginning to walk up the stairs with your boyfriend following behind you. "can't wait to see all the.. um.." after a long pause, you stop at the top of the stairs and turn to face him. "i can't finish my insult because i have no clue what little canadian boys like."

mark laughs and you're sure if his hands weren't full he would start hitting you in his fit of laughter like he usually does, but instead he hunches over a little at the joke before directing you to the last door on your right. 

the room is small and littered with old books, cd cases, and cassette tapes, all lined up haphazardly on painted wooden shelves that were much taller than you, the freshest layer of brown paint peeling in worn spots to reveal the previous paint job done in teal. in the left corner, against the flaky yellow wallpaper, sat a red guitar and in the right corner there was a boombox on a shelf above a bed. on the right wall was a crucifix and ivory jesus stared down at the bed below it with its mismatched plaid duvet and sheets and more pillows than any one boy needs, all with different pillowcases on them, one checkered blue, another white with blue stripes, the other two in solid teal and red. it was cozy, but something irked you and it wasn't the carpeted floor or the popcorn ceiling.

"you didn't tell me it was a twin bed?" you exclaim, turning to mark who looked like he'd just seen a ghost. he makes his way past you into the room, speaking as he sets your bags on the beg and sits next to them.

"yo, listen: you can have the bed to yourself and i can have the floor if it makes you feel better" mark offers, trying to soothe you. you're still stood in the doorway, leaning against it now.

"i dont want your funky ass twin bed? id rather sleep on the cold kitchen floor downstairs." you complain, frustrated at the entire situation. "I don't want to sleep without you but also I'm not sure we'll both fit comfortably." you express. your boyfriend looks at you funny. 

"are you serious?" he starts, getting up from the bed and walking towards you, stopping when he's stood just close enough that you have to look up to meet his eye. "there's definitely enough room. we'll just have to cuddle." he explains. you look up at him through long lashes and pout. 

"i'm starting to think the reason you didn't tell me is because you just wanted an excuse to hold me all night." you accuse. mark holds his hands up in a way that says 'you got me.'

"well, usually you complain that i'm too warm and you end up moving away from me after i fall asleep." mark admits with a slight frown, dropping his hands to his side in order to hang his shoulders in an attempt to sulk. he looks so cute when he pouts, large dark eyes shining at you with a hint of an apology for withholding information. you push yourself off of the door frame in favor of draping your arms on mark's shoulders, fingers touching around the back of his neck.

"okay, but you do get super warm and you know i run hot too." you defend yourself. mark pits his hands on either side of your waist and cracks a smirk and you know he's thinking of a terrible joke.

"yeah, super hot." 

"ew, that's so corny." you scrunch up your nose, making a disgusted face and he giggles, leaning in to pepper your cheek with kisses that you can feel the smile in.

"you're making me reconsider my option of sleeping alone." you threaten, but he only wraps his arms around you and holds you tight instead as if to say that there's no way you can back out of it now. you accept defeat.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

03. the concert

mark's parents were just as kind in person as they had been over video call. they just couldn't stop telling you how you were so much prettier in person and how proud they were that mark had found "such a nice young lady." you told them how lovely their home is and thanked them for letting you stay. the meeting was brief since you had to get to your venue for sound check and other preparations, so when your staff arrived to pick you up and whisk you away to your job, you apologized and swore that you would talk more the next day, assuming they probably wouldn't be awake by the time you got back.

sound check was smooth and you enjoyed seeing your fans for the 45 or so minutes it lasted. afterwards, you had your makeup and hair done and put on your first outfit. you made sure to take ample selfies so you could choose what to post after the concert, what to send to bubble now, and what to send to mark since you had down time. 

you: [image]

markus 😒😋: my gorgeous gorgeous girl

you grin at your phone, face heating to the point you start to fan yourself. you giggle at your own incoming joke as you look through your camera roll for a video to send to your boyfriend. the video is a clip his fans like to use of him with a blush filter on his face. (you know the one)

you: [video]

markus 😒😋: yeah ok im blocking you now

you: NOOOOO ☹️ 

markus😒😋: too late. need to start being nicer to your boyfriend

you: but youre so cute when youre annoyed..

markus😒😋: your fans are like really loud by the way

you: ???

markus😒😋: [2 images]

markus😒😋: your number 1 fan

the images mark sends you are one of the stage you're supposed to be on in about an hour and the other is selfie of him, mask hat, and glasses on, in a seat at your venue.

you'd attended each other's concerts before and it certainly wasn't a secret to either of your fans that the two of you knew each other, having done challenges, tiktoks, and other collabs together, but it still would give you butterflies when he would show up to a concert. 

you: 🥹 i told you if you would tell me beforehand that you were coming then you wouldn't have to actually buy tickets

markus 😒😋: its no fun when you know already!!! 

you: next time get floor tickets so i can have eye candy in the crowd

markus 😒😋: yes ma'am 🫡

the concert went super well. you were on time and your mic was loud enough for once and your costume wasn't itchy and your boyfriend was in the crowd. you were sure multistans had already spotted him there and you hoped that he was having a good time and that everyone was leaving him alone.

during the section of the concert where you walk around and sing into a handheld mic and do fan service, you spot a particularly funny sign. the sign, which was decked out in glittery letters and lots of hearts read: "y/n let me get that nda"

you double over in laughter as the back track plays without main vocals before continuing singing, going over to the fanboy holding the sign and taking his phone to record with it. the fan all but faints when you hand his phone back and blow him a kiss. when the song ends you talk for a bit about your tour so far and read other signs, flirting with your fans (as one does) and drinking water to soothe your throat. you don't particularly even think about what you're doing as you interact with the crowd, simply happy to see them smile.

the rest of your concert goes smoothly and you stay for around 30 minutes after everyone clears out in order to help your staff pack equipment and to make sure you didn't forget anything personal at backstage. when you're changed into a hoodie and some sweats and sitting in the passenger seat of your staff's car, you notice mark hasn't texted you, which is weird. mark always texts you after a concert even if you're going back to the same apartment. you assume maybe his phone died when you shoot him a "how was it?" text and he doesn't respond. you're really too exhausted to think of anything else as the road lulls you into a quick nap as you're driven to your boyfriend's parent's house.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

04. jealousy, jealousy 

mark's parents are asleep when you get back to their home, making for a silent house other than the whirring of the air conditioning and the click of you locking the front door. your boyfriend greets you as you walk through said door with a kiss on the cheek. you take in his already scruffy hair and pajama clad legs as well as the loose t-shirt he obviously just threw on.

"did your phone die?" you ask, worried as to why he didn't respond to you.

"yeah" he rubs one of his eyes with the back of his hand "man, um, traffic was crazy, i only just got here and changed."

mark hasn't been this awkward with you since the first few months you started dating. there's obviously something bothering him but you really don't know how to ask, especially when it's so late and you're still tired despite your nap. 

"yeah, i didn't actually drive back so i was able to take a power nap through it." you reply. mark simply hums and turns around, walking to and up the stairs, abruptly deciding he's done with the conversation. you follow him, face twisted in mouth opened, furrowed-brow confusion whenever he had his back to you. mark lingers by the doorway in his room as you pass him to flop down dramatically on the bed, facing the wall, only bothering to kick off your shoes and socks. you don't even notice the click of him locking the door while he turns the lights off before he curls up behind you, chest to your back as he wraps his arms around you slowly. sensually. mark's breath fans on the back of your neck before he plants several slow kisses there, moving until he reaches right below the shell of your ear. all the while, his large, warm hands can't seem to to anything other than wander under your hoodie to caress your waist and stomach. you let out a breathy and quiet chuckle.

"babe, what are you doing?" you ask in a whisper.

"you know you're mine, right?" mark whispers into your ear, completely ignoring the question, yet answering it at the same time.

your skin heats all too quickly. you know exactly what this is. he's jealous. of what, you're really not sure.

your boyfriend continues to kiss around your ear, moving now to your shoulder, each kiss messier and needier than the last. one of his hands moves to cup your breast while the other sits right below your belly button, tantalizingly close to where you can feel your arousal pooling in liquid form. his pinky dips under the waistband of your sweats and stays there as he toys with your nipple, pinching the bud with two fingers, eliciting a soft whine from you to which he hisses.

"have to be quiet, baby. be quiet for me? for me?" he repeats. you breathe out a shaky "ok" as you move your arm behind you in an attempt to feel up your boyfriend, petting his side.

mark snuggles closer and you can feel his erection against your ass as he continues to massage your breast. his other hand finally dives under the waistband of your sweats, middle finger finding your clit oh so easily as he begins to almost pet you, cupping your entire mound and rocking his hands against it, middle finger pressed ever so slightly between the lips and against your bundle of nerves. you try your best to keep your whines down, your once free hand now occupied with covering your mouth. you buck embarrassingly and helplessly against mark's hand.

"desperate, huh? that why you made a show of yourself?" he coos.

you nod. of course it wasn't the truth and you both knew that. you really still weren’t sure what you even did, but your mind was too hazy to do anything except play into his hands, literally and figuratively. 

mark begins to rub circles into your clit, using the friction from your panties to add to the sensation of it. you struggle to stay quiet and when you let a particularly obscene sound slip, your boyfriend groans, pulling away from you.

"sit up, baby." he commands as he gets off the bed and drops to his knees in front of you. he runs his palms up your clothed thighs when you turn to face him.

"take this off for me, princess?" he requests.

you oblige, lifting your hips to discard your sweats, deciding your hoodie is too much and discarding that as well. you don't know when mark removed his shirt, but between him locking the door and getting on his knees, it had been tossed to the opposite corner of the room, bunched up and barely visible from the moonlight filtering through the window. 

mark pushes your legs open and slots himself between them, kissing the inside of your thigh, face oh so close to exactly where you need him. you look down at him in awe. the way his messy brown hair falls into his prettily-pink tinged face and how absolutely drunken on you he looks when his gaze flicks up to you might be enough for you to cum on the spot. you're practically throbbing for him when he finally presses a kiss to your clothed clit. your breath hitches and you let out a soft whimper at the contact.

"you still haven't exactly told me what i did.." you remind mark as his thumbs hook under the hem of your underwear. they linger there for a moment while he answers.

“i think you know."

you lift your hips once again to allow mark and to slip your panties down and toss them somewhere in the room. the air is cool against the heat of your cunt and you fight the urge to close your legs to keep in the warmth.

"so fucking gorgeous." mark mutters before rolling his tongue against your clit. you let out a loud whimper and he shushes you gently but does nothing more to stop you when he licks a fat stripe up your pussy before sucking your clit and coming off with an obscene pop that has you biting into the hand covering your mouth. he returns to it, making slow circles of it with his tongue while he inserts a finger into you, then two, pumping them in and out and curling them at an agonizingly slow place.

you whimper around your hand for a second before taking it slightly away from your mouth.

"i s-seriously don't know— hah— w-what i did, babe." you manage to get out.

mark pulls his face away from your heat, replacing his tongue with his thumb, increasing to a medium pace.

"touched other people. laughed at their jokes. just missed you so bad, princess. wished it was me.” he melts into the side of your thigh, looking up at you as he answers before focusing intently on the way his fingers move against you. the sound of his fingers inside of you fills the room with nasty squelching. his free hand has been rubbing circles into the outside of your thigh this whole time and you attempt to grab it to hold his hand when he finally speeds up a third time, going a pace that you can finally feel your orgasm building with. he swats your hand away.

"think you deserve it?" he asks

"m'sorry." you reply, opting to place the hand on his sheets instead. you can finally feel your release building and your moans get harder and harder to contain behind your hand.

"mark m'gonna cum, please" you plead with him. for what, you're not sure. 

"that's it, good girl." he coos "let it all out, princess." 

his praise is just enough to make you topple over the edge of pleasure, orgasm washing over you in waves as you let out a silent cry. mark finger-fucks you through it, not bothering to stop even when your thighs threaten to crush his head or your foot hits his back, before slowing and then finally pulling his fingers away once your clenching ceases, bringing his hand up to his mouth to lick it clean whilst you catch your breath. 

"lay down, if i don't fuck your brains out right now i'm seriously gonna lose it." your eyes widen as you reposition yourself so that you're laying on your back while mark discards his pants and underwear. he crawls over you, holding himself up on one forearm as you start making out, tongues melding against each other. he breaks from the kiss to lean back and put one of your legs over his broad shoulder. he teases you, rubbing the tip of his fat cock against your still-sensitive clit.

"nobody else can do this but me right, princess?" he asks and you can hear his breath hitch as he continues to rock himself against you. you shake your head in response.

"need it so bad mark." you plead with him, tired of the teasing and the empty feeling in your core.

mark lines himself up with your entrance and pushes in slowly, inch by inch, coupled with quiet groans. the stretch is something you're never used to no matter how many times the two of you fuck; the way he fills you is delicious.

he pauses when he's fully inside you, leaning over you, causing the leg on his shoulder to fold back on you. he kisses your neck and jaw and nibbles at your ear he pulls out until just the tip remains and thrusts back into you, causing you to let out a loud combination of a whine and a strangled groan, to which mark quickly covers your mouth with his hand. he starts slow, rocking in and out of you at a leisurely pace. his free hand that isn't muffling your noises rests beside you on the bed so that he doesn't absolutely crush you. mark makes sure not to fuck into you too hard, worried the loud sounds of skin on skin might wake his parents up. 

"think you can cover your own mouth for me?" he asks and you nod.

he pushes himself up so that his chest is no longer flush with yours and his hand is no longer covering your mouth. you hover the back of your hand over your mouth so that your voice is still audible enough for mark to hear, commanding him to go faster. you cover your mouth as he obliges, and he starts letting out soft moans. they're not nearly as loud as yours but they're so sexy that you almost can't help the way you try to roll your hips up into him in response. 

"what would all your fans think?" he says. "folded in half for my cock... all for me." he adds, starting to get lost in the feeling of your pussy pulling him in. he throws his head back and you swear you could cum from the sight right then and there. 

something snaps in mark- maybe its how close he is or how warm you are, but he stops caring about the noise and starts making pointed thrusts into you, hitting that sweet spot in you that makes your eyes roll and your back arch off the bed. the sound of his skin on yours is loud and if you weren't so fucked out then maybe you'd care, but your brain is fuzzy and your skin is tingly and the only thing you can think about is how impossibly tight the coil in your stomach is. your hand isn't enough to muffle anything anymore, your fingers keep curling and you're squirming so much that it's hard to contain any sounds you make. mark seems to have forgotten where he is because he just starts praising you like you're alone in his apartment.

"so fucking gorgeous. gonna cum, princess? yeah?" he coos.

through babbles and broken groans you manage to get out a broken "please." his thumb finds your clit and he rubs it in rough circles and you swear you're on fire. your orgasm crashes into you like a crack of lightning and you open your mouth to let out a silent scream. you squirm and kick and mark holds your hips down to fuck you through it, chasing his own orgasm all the while. he cums not too long after you with a chant of your name and a broken, choked moan as he fills you up with ropes of hot seed. your chest heaves and you honestly forget that you even exist until mark's words bring you back.

"you don't think we woke them up, right?"

────────────

A/N ┇OH GOD!!! im actually really scared i hope this isnt as bad as it seems to me i think i just dont like it because im the one who wrote it. i got a bit out of character for mark but like also who knows what hes like during sex. you dont know. i dont know. AHH! um i hope you 🫵 enjoyed it. take a shot every time i said the word you in this fanfic.

I got distracted while editing this because I had nct mvs playing in the background and 90s love came on… winwin I miss you

[devdozes]

GRAFFITI GIRL!!♥

reader is an archer, phainon the cutie patootie is a very famous basketball player

The sound of an arrow slicing through the air had always been familiar, comforting even. You had spent years perfecting your craft, mastering the bow until it felt like an extension of yourself. Every competition, every target practice, every moment spent under the sun with an arrow nocked had led to this: your undeniable rise in popularity as one of the best archers in the city.

It had started as murmurs online—clips of you landing impossible shots, slow-motion replays of arrows piercing bullseyes from meters away. People admired your technique, your precision, your beauty. And you had thought that was all there was to it. Until one morning, when your phone blew up with messages that had nothing to do with archery.

[Bro, when did you get into graffiti??]

[Check your socials. You’re literally everywhere.]

[You’re the ‘Graffiti Girl’ now lmao.]

Confused, you scrolled through your notifications, and what you saw nearly made you drop your phone. Murals—detailed, striking, larger-than-life murals—of you, painted on walls all over the city. They weren’t just random sketches either; they were hyper-realistic depictions of you mid-shot, bow drawn, gaze sharp and focused. Some were vibrant and colorful, others grayscale and hauntingly dramatic, but all of them unmistakably you.

“What the hell?” you muttered to yourself, staring at a particularly stunning piece where you stood against a stormy backdrop, hair windblown as you let loose an arrow.

The internet was eating it up. The hashtag #GraffitiGirl was trending. Speculations ran wild. Who was the artist? Was it a secret self-promotion? Some even joked that you had an unknown admirer with insane artistic talent.

“I swear, I have no idea who’s doing this.” You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you sat in the archery range’s locker room, still in your gear. “I hold a bow, not a spray can.”

Your coach chuckled, sliding their phone over to you. “Well, whoever it is, they sure captured your likeness. People love a good mystery. It’s only making you more famous.”

You groaned, scrolling through yet another wave of tagged posts. “Great. Because being known for my archery skills wasn’t enough, now I’m an urban legend.”

Still, as the days passed and more murals appeared, you couldn’t shake the curiosity gnawing at you. Who was behind this? And why you? The portraits were breathtaking, each one showcasing a level of admiration and effort that felt almost personal.

Little did you know, someone was watching from the shadows, amusement dancing in cerulean eyes. Someone who had been following your career longer than you realized. Someone who had a habit of leaving their mark wherever they pleased.

Phainon smirked as he capped a spray can, admiring his latest work. “Let’s see how long it takes for you to find me, Graffiti Girl.”

The next day, another mural appeared, this time on a massive billboard near the heart of the city. It was unlike the others—this one had your signature pose, mid-draw, but behind you was a flurry of painted arrows, almost as if they were frozen in motion, caught between reality and artistry.

You stood beneath it, staring up in awe and bewilderment. “Okay, this is getting ridiculous.”

A few people nearby were already snapping photos. A pair of teenagers whispered excitedly before one of them approached you hesitantly. “Uh, excuse me… are you really Graffiti Girl?”

You turned, exhausted. “I’m really just an archer.”

“But you’re the girl in all these paintings, right?” They held up their phone, flipping through dozens of pictures of the murals.

You sighed. “Yeah, that’s me, but I’m not the artist.”

They grinned, undeterred. “Can I still get your autograph?”

You blinked. “You want my autograph? I—” You looked around. A few more people had gathered, watching with anticipation. Clearly, they wanted one too.

With a deep sigh, you took the offered notebook and signed your name. “Here.”

“Thank you!” The kid practically squealed before rushing off. More people moved in, shoving out shirts, phone cases, anything they could find for you to sign.

You shot a glare at the enormous mural overhead. “Whoever you are, you better come out soon, because this is officially out of hand.”

Meanwhile, from the rooftop above, Phainon chuckled to himself, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that?”

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The steady rhythm of arrows striking targets filled the air as you exhaled slowly, eyes locked on your next shot. The world around you faded—the buzz of your rising fame, the endless stream of people calling you "Graffiti Girl," even the latest mural that had appeared overnight. None of it mattered when you were here, bow in hand, muscles tensed in perfect control.

You loosed the arrow. It cut through the air with precision, landing dead center. A perfect shot.

And then, peace shattered.

"YO! GRAFFITI GIRL!"

The loud, unmistakable voice of Stelle nearly made you misfire the next arrow. You turned just in time to see two figures strolling onto the archery ground like they owned the place.

Phainon, the city’s golden basketball star, walked with lazy confidence, hands in his pockets, his ever-present smirk firmly in place. Beside him, Stelle, the infamous baseball prodigy, balanced a bat on her shoulder, looking far too pleased with herself.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” you asked, lowering your bow.

Phainon tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “What? We can’t visit our favorite viral sensation?”

Stelle grinned. “Yeah, man, you’re, like, famous famous now. People keep saying you’re the face of urban art or whatever.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “I am NOT an artist! I don’t even own spray paint!”

Phainon hummed, glancing at the newest mural painted on the outer wall of the training center. “Damn. Whoever this artist is, they’re crazy talented. Captured your whole ‘focused warrior’ thing perfectly.”

You shot him a flat look. “Don’t sound so impressed. I don’t even know who they are, and it’s driving me insane.”

Stelle whistled. “Must be a super fan. Or a stalker. Could be both.”

“Helpful,” you muttered.

Phainon chuckled, stepping closer until he was just within your space. “C’mon, Graffiti Girl, you have to admit—it’s kinda fun. The whole city’s obsessed with you.”

“I didn’t ask to be turned into a public phenomenon!”

Stelle shrugged. “Too late. You’re a legend now.”

You groaned, grabbing another arrow and nocking it, trying to drown out their teasing. You had a tournament coming up, and the last thing you needed was to be distracted by whatever graffiti conspiracy was unfolding around you.

Unfortunately, Phainon and Stelle weren’t exactly the type to leave you alone.

The next day, you arrived at school only to be met with another painstakingly beautiful mural of yourself—this time on the wall behind the campus.

It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

You stood in front of it, staring up at the massive artwork. It depicted you mid-tournament, bow drawn, eyes burning with determination. The shading, the details, the way your hair seemed to flow as if caught in motion—it was infuriatingly well done. And at the bottom, in neat spray-painted letters, was the artist’s signature: a tiny crescent moon with the words “For Graffiti Girl.”

You groaned. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Students passing by murmured in awe, some taking pictures, others outright staring at you with knowing smirks. “It’s her,” you heard someone whisper. “The Graffiti Girl.”

Clutching your books, you stomped towards your locker, praying for some kind of normalcy. But the moment you swung it open, you froze.

Inside, neatly placed on top of your books, was an assortment of your favorite snacks. A small bag of chips, a neatly wrapped protein bar, and even a chilled bottle of your go-to energy drink. Nestled beside them, almost too perfectly positioned, was an empty spray paint can.

Your eye twitched. “Oh, come on.”

Laughter echoed down the hallway, and you turned just in time to see Phainon and Stelle walking past, both of them grinning like they knew something you didn’t. Phainon lifted a hand in a casual wave. “Morning, Graffiti Girl.”

You glared. “I swear, one of you is behind this.”

Stelle snorted. “Us? Nah. We’d never be that subtle.”

Phainon only smirked, golden eyes gleaming with mischief. “But if we were, wouldn’t that make things more fun?”

You stared at him, trying to decipher his words, but he simply turned and walked away, hands still in his pockets, the very picture of nonchalance.

You looked back at the empty spray can in your locker.

ugh, who even were they man

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

You spent the rest of the day ranting to Phainon and Stelle about the unknown graffiti artist.

“I mean, who even does this?” you huffed, dramatically waving your arms as the three of you sat outside on the school’s courtyard steps. “They’re obviously super talented—like, I’ll give them that—but why me? Why not, I don’t know, a city landmark? A basketball star? A baseball player?”

Phainon, sipping his drink far too nonchalantly, shrugged. “Maybe they just really like archery.”

Stelle snorted. “Or really like you.”

You shot her a glare. “Not helping.”

Phainon leaned back, resting his elbow on his knee. “So, what’s your plan, Graffiti Girl? Gonna track them down? Challenge them to an art duel?”

You groaned, running a hand through your hair. “I don’t know! But this whole thing is making me look like some kind of underground celebrity, and I just want to focus on my tournament.”

“Aw, c’mon, it’s kinda cool,” Stelle teased. “Not everyone gets a mysterious, devoted artist making masterpieces of them.”

Phainon smirked. “Yeah, sounds like someone’s muse-worthy.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “If I ever meet this artist, I have so many questions. Who are they? How do they know what I look like in such detail? And where do they get the time to pull this off?!”

Phainon hummed, the corner of his lips twitching. “Yeah. Sounds like a real mystery.”

You didn’t notice the way his fingers idly spun a tiny, dried fleck of paint between them.

The day of the tournament arrived, and you walked onto the competition grounds with your bow slung over your shoulder, mentally preparing yourself for the matches ahead. You had spent weeks training for this moment—blocking out distractions, fine-tuning your form, and ensuring your focus was razor-sharp.

And yet, the universe clearly had other plans.

The moment you stepped onto campus, five brand-new murals greeted you, each one more breathtaking than the last. They were scattered across different walls, but all of them had the same theme: you, in various moments of focus, determination, and skill, capturing your strongest moments in striking detail. And at the bottom of each piece, painted in elegant, sweeping strokes, were the words:

“Good luck on the tournament.”

Your stomach flipped as you took in the sheer effort that had gone into them. The shading, the lighting, the emotions conveyed—it was insane.

You were about to scream when your phone vibrated aggressively in your pocket. Pulling it out, your screen was flooded with notifications. Your name was trending.

#GOODLUCKGRAFFITIGIRL had taken over social media.

You scrolled in disbelief, seeing hundreds—no, thousands—of posts from people cheering you on. Fans from across the city, even people who had just seen the murals online, were hyping you up. Some were posting pictures of the new graffiti, while others were leaving comments like:

“She’s not just an archer, she’s an icon, a hella pretty one.”

“Whoever this artist is, they’re singlehandedly running a one-person PR campaign.”

“I don’t even know much about archery, but now I NEED to see Graffiti Girl win.”

Your face burned as you kept scrolling. There were even clips of your past competitions being shared with captions like “She’s insane at archery. Watch this shot.” Some posts even tagged you directly, wishing you luck.

Phainon and Stelle appeared at your side, both peering over your shoulder at your phone.

“Damn,” Stelle whistled, eyeing your phone with her golden eyes, “You’re famous-famous now.”

Phainon leaned in closer, resting his chin on your shoulder as he smirked. “So, how’s it feel to be the city’s most beloved archer AND street art muse?”

You groaned, stuffing your phone back into your pocket. “I—this—WHAT IS HAPPENING?”

Phainon chuckled. “The people love you, Graffiti Girl. Better give them a good show today.”

You huffed, gripping your bow tighter. “Oh, I will. But first—if I ever find this artist, I swear—”

Stelle nudged Phainon with a knowing grin. “Yeah, that’d be interesting, huh?”

Phainon only smirked wider, cerulean eyes glinting with mischief. “Yeah. Real interesting.” ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The tournament grounds were packed, buzzing with excitement. You had expected a crowd, sure, but not this many people. And definitely not this many people holding up signs—actual signs—with your face on them. Some were even prints of the murals, and others had bold letters saying “GO GRAFFITI GIRL!” with little spray paint designs drawn around the words.

Your face burned. You had never been this flustered in your life.

As you walked toward the competition area, people waved at you, called out your name—or rather, your new nickname. “Graffiti Girl! You got this!” “We believe in you!” “HIT IT, Queen of Archery!”

You tried to keep your composure, but the overwhelming support made your heart swell. It was… kinda nice. Embarrassing, but undeniably nice. You smiled, even let out a giggle, feeling lighter with every cheer.

Then the tournament began, and you switched into focus mode.

Arrow after arrow, target after target—you gave it your all. The wind barely mattered, the noise in the background faded, and it was just you and your bow. The final shot came down to a near tie, and with one last deep breath, you let the arrow fly—

Bullseye.

The crowd erupted. Your name—no, Graffiti Girl—was chanted over and over, people on their feet, cheering, clapping, screaming. The wave of excitement crashed over you as the realization hit—you won.

Grinning, you lifted your bow triumphantly, beaming as you took in the cheers. Stelle tackled you in a side hug, shaking you back and forth.

“YOU DID IT! WINNER WINNER GRAFFITI GIRL PAYING FOR DINNER!” she cackled. (my friends used to chant this whenever I won)

You laughed, still breathless, before suddenly remembering—

Phainon’s tournament.

“OH, FUCK—” you gasped.

Grabbing Stelle’s wrist, you sprinted toward the basketball court, dodging through the crowd, ignoring all the people still calling out congratulations. You weren’t missing his game.

The moment you burst into the gym, the match was just about to start. Phainon stood near the court, spinning a basketball effortlessly on his finger, golden eyes glinting under the lights.

He turned just in time to see you practically skid to a stop in the front row, waving your arms dramatically.

“PHAINON! KICK THEIR ASSES!” you yelled.

Stelle cupped her hands around her mouth and added, “YEAH, SHOW ‘EM WHY YOU’RE THE BEST, PUPPY BOY!”

Phainon’s smirk grew as he caught your gaze. Instead of responding, he simply lifted his hand—then mimed shooting an arrow, as if mocking your earlier win.

Your stomach flipped.

Still catching your breath from running, you huffed, crossing your arms. “Just play, show-off!”

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ The match was intense, fast-paced, and full of electrifying moments. Phainon moved like he was born for this, his fluid movements and precise shots making the game look effortless. Every time he made a basket, the crowd roared, and you and Stelle screamed the loudest.

“ PHAINON, YOU’RE A FUCKING MONSTER!” Stelle shouted, practically jumping.

You clapped your hands over your mouth as Phainon landed a perfect three-pointer, his sharp gaze flicking toward you for just a second. He was smug. He knew he was winning.

The final quarter arrived, and with only a few minutes left on the clock, Phainon’s team was ahead but not by much. The tension in the gym was thick as the opposing team tried desperately to catch up. But Phainon wasn’t having it.

With one last perfect steal and a smooth drive to the hoop, he launched into a jump, executing a flawless dunk just as the buzzer rang.

Game over. Victory.

The gym exploded with cheers. Phainon’s teammates swarmed him, patting his back, ruffling his fluffy white hair. The crowd was on its feet, chanting his name.

“PHAINON! PHAINON! PHAINON!”

You grinned, cupping your hands around your mouth. “LOOK AT YOU, MR. MVP!”

Stelle hollered, “GRAFFITI GIRL APPROVES!”

Phainon, drenched in sweat but still frustratingly attractive, turned toward you, shaking his head with an amused smirk. He made his way toward where you and Stelle stood, stopping just in front of you.

“You didn’t miss a second, huh?” he mused, his mischevious eyes glinting.

You crossed your arms, feigning nonchalance. “Had to make sure you didn’t embarrass yourself.”

His smirk deepened. “And?”

You huffed before breaking into a grin. “Not bad, Puppy Boy. Not bad at all.”

Phainon chuckled before reaching into his gym bag and pulling something out—a can of spray paint. He casually twirled it between his fingers, gaze never leaving yours.

Your heart skipped a beat.

…Wait.

What?

Stelle gasped dramatically. “OH—”

Phainon just grinned. “Funny thing about graffiti…”

The moment Phainon casually twirled the spray paint can between his fingers, the world seemed to freeze.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, as if everyone simultaneously pieced together the puzzle. People exchanged wide-eyed looks, pointing between Phainon, the can, and you—Graffiti Girl.

Even Stelle’s jaw dropped. “OH SWEET MOTHER OF TRASHCANS.”

Your brain short-circuited. Your mouth opened and closed like a fish as you stared at Phainon, completely speechless.

“…Wait. You—?”

Phainon, still frustratingly smug, simply lifted the can and gave it a little shake. The soft rattle of the ball inside felt deafening. Then, with the most innocent, playful grin, he looked you dead in the eyes and went:

“:3”

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

The crowd erupted. People were screaming, cheering, some laughing in pure disbelief. “PHANION WAS THE ARTIST?!” “OH MY GOD, HE WAS DOWN BAD THIS WHOLE TIME!” “GRAFFITI GIRL AND PUPPY BOY SUPREMACY!”

Your brain couldn’t keep up.

“You—you—you did all of that?” you stammered, eyes darting between him and the can. “The murals? The portraits? The ‘GOOD LUCK GRAFFITI GIRL’ everywhere?”

Phainon just shrugged. “Seemed like a fun way to support my favorite archer.”

Your entire soul left your body.

Stelle absolutely lost it. “OH AEONS, HE’S DOWN HORRENDOUS!” She grabbed your shoulders, shaking you like a ragdoll. “GIRL, DO YOU REALIZE WHAT THIS MEANS?! HE’S BEEN SIMPING PUBLICLY!”

The crowd agreed. Loudly.

“GRAFFITI GIRL X PUPPY BOY! GRAFFITI GIRL X PUPPY BOY!” The chant started slow but quickly picked up speed.

Your face burned hotter than the sun. “OH MY GOD, SHUT UP—”

Phainon just leaned in slightly, voice low enough for only you to hear, his cerulean eyes glowing with amusement. “So… do I get an autograph, Graffiti Girl?”

You wanted to throw yourself into the sun.

Instead, you grabbed the front of his jersey, yanked him down, and kissed his cheek.

The crowd went feral. Screams, camera flashes, Stelle wheezing in the background.

You leaned back with a smug smile, still holding onto his jersey. “I think this is better than an autograph.”

Phainon.exe stopped functioning.

For a second, he just stood there, blinking, before his entire face broke into the biggest, most lovesick grin imaginable. He looked like a golden retriever who just got told he was the best boy in the whole world.

Then, with absolutely zero hesitation, he picked you up, arms wrapped tight around your waist as he spun you around like some kind of rom-com protagonist.

“OH MY GOD, PHANION, PUT ME DOWN!”

“NEVER! YOU’RE MINE NOW, THE ARTIST HAS FINALLY GOT HIS MUSE!”

day 791683639 of wrting abt things which will never happen to me

[productofaritual]

Post was getting longer than my phone was willing to work with so I cut the rbs, but I was tagged by prev ^^

There's not really much to it (the properly separated name would be "Product of a ritual"), I was basically just joking around with myself and somehow I got the idea. The ritual in question is a demon summoning btw, don't get any ideas ಠ_ಠ. So basically it's like a joke way to imply I'm a demon or some other malicious entity summoned through a blood sacrifice

Tagging all moots and anyone who sees cuz I'm laaaaazy

Tag game🎉

Tag your moots and ask them where they got the idea for their tumblr accounts name!

For my name it was a nickname I was giving back in middleschool! One of our teacher had a system where we worked with 'wifi' eachtime we talked in class we lost a bar of the "wifi" (was a weird joke and we never held count on that) All the kids usually joked if they needed 'wifi' , they would borrow mine if they wanted to talk more. (I was incredibly shy in middle school, I only talked to like 3 people at school;^;)

They called me Ms. Wifi because of that. I just thought it would be funny if I put 'miss' instead of 'ms' because of my terrible actual wifi connection I have at home lol.

That's my story! Now moots, only if you guys want to, tell us your story.

Tags-> @slipping-lately @firequeenofficial @noagskryf @twinklstarrrr @halfbakedspuds @polterwasteist @rokushi-san @mygedagtes +anyone that sees this and wants to do this as well

[walkinaroundtheuniverse]

i wonder if there was ever a chance of shen jiu and liu qingge geting along. like, did liu qingge think sj was like a pampered master? but there are clear differences between people who were born to wealth and who got it later (at least i think so), so shouldn't he be able to tell the difference? and besides that, i don't think that besides his appearance, sj got many "young mastery" things going on

that is to say, i wish that there was ever a chance of seeing them interact more. sj might be intentionally awful but lqg just unknowingly dropped bomb after another (like when they were choosing the desciples. or maybe knowingly but he was not aware of the real efect he had i guess)

i'm trying to think about it and i don't think they could get along without like reliable third party. sj would never admit it if he had non hateful feeling towards lqg (i doubt he would like recognize them. i think the real link sj and sy had was the amout of delusion and self gaslighting they were able to subject themselves to) and lqg seems like he would just not care if it was a person he disliked (sj in question)

but that dislike is grounded on misunderstaning and lack of like, heart to heart? (writing that with them in question made me cringe. one tries to not have a heart and the other is very particular who he shows the hart to and drop kicks the rest)

but that seems to be like, every relationship in here, and usually it takes one party to die (or die several times, yes sqq im looking at you) and many years for the truth to come up. every except moshang? i am yet to read the official extras but from what i remember it went well for them. truly an author of the story, using his godly powers to avoid dying before getting his feelings out there

[greenapplespider]

(Dark/explicit fic prompt ahead, this is M rated- mind the tagged tw’s) otherwise here’s Iorveth from this fic idea I’ve had floating around in my head but sadly not a lot of time to write. So anyone that likes the idea pls take it and run with it <3

This fic idea is intended to be extremely whumpy with eventual enemies to lovers. Read more for world building and an in-depth fic prompt/plot.

Post Witcher 2, after the Nilfgaardians have thoroughly taken over Temeria. Both Squirrels and the Temerian army have been trounced. Iorveth is captured by the Black Ones and catches the eye of a rather vicious officer, who has a sick and perverse view of elves. Roche, ambushes a Nilfgaardian camp, finds Iorveth and takes him prisoner. Some two way Stockholm syndrome and a couple months, leaves the two developing a surprising reciprocal romantic relationship.

—

World building for the ‘elves have both parts’ bit of the AU: Poor Iorveth- an ancient but rather embarrassing fact of elvish biology rears its ugly head and once the process begins there’s nothing a male elf can do to stop it. Within a small contingency (about 15-20%) of male elves exists a fail safe which activates if there are no available, fertile, females for a prolonged period of time.

The body begins a transformation of sorts- hormones start to shift, one’s guts rearranged themselves- shriveled and vestigial organs awaken. The gonads shrink, receding into the body and in their place is left an opening not to dissimilar to a females. Resulting in a cock with a cunt behind it.

The process can take several years, but once the scale tips this change is instantly noticeable by any other elf. A ‘changed one’ has softer skin and shinier hair than the average male, the scent of their pheromones becomes distinctly different from either male or female elves. The rapid change in hormones, in tandem with once dormant hermaphroditic traits attempting to find balance, can cause rather severe mood swings- with some experiencing psychosis.

And most embarrassingly, during peak fertile periods, hormonal shifts can cause a changed one to be rather insatiably desperate, in terms of breeding. Fertility spikes happen over 6-8mo cycles (similar to a human females but over a much longer period). Within the 6-8 months cycle there will be an approximate 2 week window of fertility, marked by a hormonal and mood change.

Changed one’s are viewed negatively within elvish society, historically they are seen as the fruit of suffering, as they only come about as a last resort to help rectify famines, plagues, and any other mass die offs. Since humans have largely taken everything over, charged ones are now more common and are a constant reminder of the downfall of the elves. Most changed one’s either hide themselves away, join human society wherein none will notice, or kill themselves.

Most outsider races have little knowledge of them save for the stereotype that even the ‘boy’ elves have dripping cunts just waiting for a proper man to take (which humans enjoy, as they view elves as inherently feminine and their males as weak). Within this stereotype is also the prevailing thought that there may just a lot of very ugly she-elves and that you can’t always tell when one’s female. Regardless, humans find these things both funny and perverse.

—

The implication of this is that all male elves are potentially hermaphroditic- but only a few have the markers for those traits to awaken given the proper environmental factors.

—

In depth fic prompt: Iorveth has been going through the change for sometime and only by the end of Witcher 2 does his Scoia'tael start to notice. In the midst of being deposed by his second in command, due to potential mental instability, they are ambushed by Nilfgaardian forces, most of his men are killed in the skirmish and Iorveth (evidently the target of the Ambush) is captured.

The Nilfgaardian’s are well aware that Iorveth won’t break under torture and anything less than an autonomous elvish state won’t tempt him into working them. So he becomes a hostage to hopefully use as a bargaining chip at some later date. Having an infamous Scoia'tael commander in your back pocket is, potentially, a useful negotiating piece.

Iorveth is ‘given’ to a mid ranking officer within the army who has a sadistic and perverted view of elves and their ‘roles’ within human society. Once he realizes Iorveth is a changed one, things take a, dark, sexual twist. The constant assault mixed with his hormonal change and imbalance leaves Iorveth teetering on the edge of a right and true breakdown.

He thinks of killing himself, with increasing frequency, as the weeks turn to months. The worst part being, as he reaches the end of his change, Iorveth’s body goes through a heat of sorts- during this brief 2 week period he craves the touch of even his torturer. Anything to make the burning stop. He feels himself going nearly mad from it all.

The Nilfgaardian officer notices and uses this to his advantage to humiliate the elf. Making him do debased things just for a little relief.

—

After this first heat, Iorveth now truly understands why it is changed one’s so often kill themselves. Before he’d looked at them with some mixture of disgust and pity, now he would do anything to never go through another heat.

Days meld together and Iorveth finds himself disassociating for longer and longer periods of time. Until one night human screams snap him from his stupor and the next thing he know’s is looking up the blade of a sword in his face to see the ugly face of a man he should have tried harder to kill. Vernon Roche.

Vernon takes him prisoner and Iorveth doesn’t have it in him to spit fire back at the human, he’s tired. For the first few weeks the humans interrogate him. One night, the guards take the liberty in beating him after a rather pointless interrogation secession by Roche, and he finds himself wishing they would just end him.

They pushed him around, kicked him a few times in the stomach before being caught and reprimand by Roche himself- only he or whom ever he allowed was to interrogate the prisoner. There would be no torture for the sake of it, they weren’t squirrels.

A few days go by and his stomach wouldn’t stop hurting- he didn’t think they’d beat him that badly, just a few kick’s. He should be sore sure, maybe a broken rib at most, but this? He didn’t understand and his mind was too sluggish to think about it that hard. Then he noticed the blood- blood coming from his- oh. Oh, he hadn’t even realized that he’d been- that’s why he’d been so tired.

He thought about telling one of the humans, but what did it matter? He was already miscarrying and it was a half bread anyway. He didn’t care, it didn’t matter.

They found him later- the human woman with the tits. She started yelling up a storm which made his head hurt.

Roche seemed to change after that, regarded him differently- looked at him differently, pitied him. He hated it.

—

After Iorveth miscarries all the catharsis Roche had felt at finally taking the elf prisoner cheapens. He couldn’t really explain why. He’d known certain elves were like this, but Iorveth being one of them shattered his perception of the other man- was man even the proper term now?

Temeria had been defeated, the majority of the Scoia'tael’s forces had either broken down into little more than disjointed bandits groups or disbanded entirely from Iorveth’s absence. Roche found himself in a rather similar position to what Iorveth had been in years past and it left him with a better understanding of the elf- perhaps even sympathy.

Roche started to hate the dull, listless, look in the elf’s eyes. He started "interrogating" him more and more- which turned into both a way to make the elf eat and anything to try to get a rise out of him. He finally got the elf to play gwent with him and Roche found himself enjoying it more than he should have.

Iorveth attempts to kill himself and this affects Roche in a way he wasn’t prepared for. Roche yells at the elf and tells him that he’s not allowed to kill himself, that such a thing is his job and only once they’ve retaken Temeria. Iorveth is incensed and starts yelling at the human back. Which turns into a rather feral love making session.

Iorveth comes back to himself in the midst of it and can’t stop himself from begging the human not to put it there- Iorveth is surprised Roche listens to him and still makes it good for the both of them.

Things change after that. Iorveth still hates humans, hates Temerians- but he now hates the Black Ones more. He starts helping Roche in his resistance efforts and maybe learns to hate humans a little less. Roche goes through a similar development, mirroring Iorveth in terms of his hatred for elves.

And by the time Iorveth’s next heat hits he finds himself not wanting to die anymore.

[earlgreyrainydays]

I started to go in the tags but realized it would be too long so, as a follow up to the above (because I’ve been screaming about this to anyone who will listen for a solid minute now).

Singular they/them is from Old Norse and entered English during the Old English period. Our indeterminate gender was basically indistinguishable from he/him at the time and since Old Norse was very closely related (and the Viking Invasions were ongoing) it spread into English from the Danelaw before working its way south.

Meanwhile, you is derived from French and really only started to get picked up after the Norman Conquest during the Middle English period. It originally served as our formal you pronoun with thou/thee/thy serving as our casual/intimate you pronoun until it began to die out towards the end of the Middle English period and be replaced by you. (Those pronouns lasted until the early Modern period thanks to the King James Bible but that’s another post.)

In any case, we have had they/them/their in the language much longer than you/your/your. It’s derived from a language that we actually share common ancestry with (both coming from Proto-Germanic before the East/West/North Germanic split). You is a product of the Norman colonization of England and shares no linguistic ties other than the fact that it and many other Norman French words were absorbed into English after the decline in use of Old English because English wasn’t considered a sophisticated enough language for court.

I’ll be keeping my they/them/their pronouns, thanks.

“they” (1 word) is shorter than “he or she” (3 words)

“they” is more inclusive than “he/she”

“themself” flows more naturally than “him or herself”

“they” is less clunky than “(s)he”

it’s time to replace the awkward “she or he”

[novaursa]

Hello ❤️ May I request an Otto Hightower x Tyrell reader fic, please?

When Otto is dismissed by Aegon in season 2, he travels to Highgarden before going to Oldtown. Lady Tyrell would be the widow of an old friend. Her and Otto would be familiar with each other, they exchanged letters frequently and/or she often came to court. He confides in her about being dismissed, his doubts about Aegon as king, etc. She is worried about her son going to battle. It would be lovely if they could share some intimacy, finding comfort in each other.

Thank you so much for your consideration. Much love ❤️

What Remains of Us

- Summary: Some things war takes, some it gives.

- Pairing: tyrell!reader/Otto Hightower

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

The banners of House Hightower flapped lazily in the spring wind, ivory and green against the emerald sprawl of Highgarden. The sun had dipped behind a veil of pale clouds, casting a diffused amber light over the Reach, where every hill bloomed with wildflowers and the air hung heavy with the scent of rose and honeysuckle. You stood beneath the carved archway of the eastern courtyard, where the ivy curled up the old stone like a lover’s grasp, your fingers clasped before you as your small retinue murmured polite courtesies and idle guesses among themselves. Your gown was a soft green silk, embroidered at the sleeves with golden blooms—modest but elegant, befitting a lady of your stature and one who had long ago learned the subtle art of courtly restraint. The letter he had sent ahead lay folded and unread in your chamber; you did not need it. You had read enough of Otto Hightower to know the measure of the man even before you saw the shape of him again.

He came through the outer gates at a slow canter, the dust of the road clinging to the hem of his cloak and the edges of his gloves, but otherwise, he bore himself with the same stiff dignity as ever. He rode like a man who had never forgotten who he was, even if the crown had tried to forget it for him. The lines at his mouth were deeper, his beard a touch more silver than when last you saw him at court, but his eyes—the keen, assessing ones that had always made you feel both admired and studied—had not dimmed. You stepped forward as his horse slowed, and he dismounted without waiting for help, the reins handed off to a servant before he turned to face you fully.

"My lady Tyrell," he greeted, bowing his head with a formality that made your chest ache for reasons you would not name. "You’ve not changed a whit."

You smiled gently, as you had so many times in the Red Keep’s gardens, over a shared cup of wine or the corner of some forgotten document. "And you’ve not grown any better at lying, my lord."

A flicker of amusement passed over his features. He did not laugh—not Otto Hightower, not here, not now—but the warmth in his eyes was real. "I had forgotten how sharp your tongue could be."

You stepped closer, and he did not flinch when you took his gloved hand in yours. "And I had not forgotten how heavy your words could weigh upon a heart. Come inside. You must be tired. The road from King’s Landing is long, especially with pride tucked beside you in the saddle."

His gaze held yours for a moment longer, and you saw it there—pride, yes, but also something frayed beneath it. You turned, guiding him into the shade of the trellised walkway, where wisteria curled above your heads and petals drifted like silk on the breeze. Your ladies-in-waiting lingered at a polite distance, and the guards posted at the gate looked on with the idle eyes of men not expecting trouble.

"It was not my choice to leave," Otto said once you were within the quiet of the inner garden, away from ears and judgment. His voice had the worn edge of iron struck too many times, and his hands folded behind his back like a man standing before a council that had already made up its mind. "The boy dismissed me. In front of the whole court. Not even his mother was consulted."

You stopped beside the stone basin where white lilies floated over clear water and turned to him. "You’ve written to me of your doubts before. About what kind of king Aegon might be."

He exhaled slowly. "I had hoped that, in time, he might grow into the weight of the crown. I thought… with Alicent beside him, and my counsel steadying his path..." He shook his head, and for a moment, you saw the weariness seep through the mask of the statesman. "But he is reckless. Cruel, even, though I daresay he has not the spine for true tyranny. He rules by whim and temper, and I fear what will become of the realm if he leads us into war."

You reached out and gently touched his sleeve, the worn velvet soft under your fingers. "You fear for the realm, but I fear for my son. Ser Lyonel rides for the Riverlands within the week. He’s but twenty, and I can see in his eyes that he’s eager to win glory he does not yet understand. If there is to be war, he will not be safe."

Otto’s expression softened. He covered your hand with his, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. "He is a fine young man. I met him once at court, do you remember? He asked me if dragons were truly as large as the stories claimed. You said he wouldn’t rest until he saw one with his own eyes."

"He still won’t," you murmured, the ghost of a smile passing over your lips. "But now he hopes to see one from a battlefield."

"I would not have had you worry like this," Otto said quietly, as if the words cost him something. "If I had held my place, perhaps I could have tempered Aegon’s more… dangerous impulses. But it was slipping from my hands even before the boy took the throne. And now I am an old man with enemies in every corner of court and a grandson who thinks power is his by birthright alone."

You looked up at him, this man who had always written to you not as a lord to a lady but as a confidant to another soul caught in the web of power and legacy. "You are not just an old man, Otto. You are a Hightower, the Hand who held the realm together for longer than most dared hope. And you are tired. Come. Rest, speak plainly, and let me bear some of the weight for a while."

He looked at you then, not as the Hand of the King or as a man measured by the legacy of his name—but as Otto. A man you had once exchanged poems with beneath the blossoming trees of King’s Landing, who had written of your late husband with such grace it brought tears to your eyes. A man you had never quite allowed yourself to miss until now.

"Only for a while," he said at last. "And only because it is you."

You smiled faintly. "It was always me."

The nights in Highgarden were warmer now, thick with the perfume of rose blossoms and rich dew clinging to every leaf. A hush had settled over the castle, the kind of silence that came not from sleep but from something deeper—from expectation, from unspoken thoughts swirling like mist along the River Mander. In the days since Otto’s arrival, you had spent every afternoon in quiet conversation or long walks beneath the green canopies, neither of you mentioning when he would leave for Oldtown, only ever speaking in the shape of the moment. You’d grown used to his presence again, the way his voice rumbled low when speaking thoughtfully, how his hands—so often still, deliberate—would sometimes twitch when he was lost in thought, or how his eyes softened each time they landed on you. You had known Otto Hightower for many years, but not like this—not like something close and tangible, like breath warming the hollow of your throat.

That night, the candles flickered low against the stone walls of your solar, and the fire burned gentle in the hearth. You had not summoned him, and yet he came—silent but purposeful, his hand resting against the edge of the door as though asking permission with nothing more than presence. You were seated by the fire, the laces of your gown undone at the throat, a shawl drawn loosely about your shoulders. When you met his eyes, there was no need for words. You stood slowly and crossed the room, each step deliberate, your bare feet whispering against the rug. He didn’t move until you reached him.

“Have you come to say goodbye?” you asked quietly, the words steadier than you felt.

His eyes searched your face for a long moment, as though committing it to memory. “Not yet.”

You nodded, heart fluttering beneath your ribs like a trapped bird. Then, carefully, you reached up and touched his cheek, letting your fingers trace the edge of his beard, the warm skin beneath. He exhaled shakily, almost imperceptibly, and leaned into your touch as if starved for it.

When he kissed you, it was not the kiss of a younger man, wild and eager. It was deliberate, full of unspoken things—regret, longing, years of restraint that no longer held. His lips were warm, dry at first, then softer as they parted yours, tasting of red wine and solitude. You clutched his shoulders and felt the tension in them, how tightly he held himself together. You knew then that no one had touched him like this in years—not truly. You led him slowly to your bed, your fingers unfastening the buttons of his doublet one by one, not out of haste, but reverence. Each layer peeled away until he stood before you in nothing but his skin and the truth of what remained between you.

He was not young. His body bore the marks of time—scars, silver hair, the subtle tremor in his hands—but none of it repelled you. If anything, it made him more real, more dear. When your gown slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet, he let his eyes take you in with a reverence that stole your breath. His fingers brushed along your waist, your spine, pausing at the curve of your hip as if memorizing every inch.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, as though it were a confession.

You leaned forward, resting your forehead to his. “And you are still a man worth loving.”

You lay with him as the fire crackled low, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the hush of his breath mingling with your own. He was slow, reverent, as if afraid to break the moment—each touch considered, each kiss lingering. He held you as he moved inside you, and you held him in return, neither of you rushing toward the end. There was no desperation in your union, only quiet understanding—a meeting of souls as much as flesh. His name slipped from your lips like a prayer, and he whispered yours back, low and raw in the dark.

Afterward, he did not retreat or rise as you feared he might. Instead, he gathered you into his arms and drew the coverlet over your bodies, his hand resting at the curve of your back, his mouth brushing your temple. You curled into him, your leg tangled with his, your heart beating in rhythm with his chest.

“I was afraid,” he said after a long stretch of silence.

You turned your face to him. “Of what?”

“That I would lose myself in this. In you.” He looked down at you then, his fingers brushing lightly along your arm. “But I’ve spent so long being the Hand, the father, the keeper of peace. I forgot what it was like to just be a man.”

You traced a line over his chest with your fingertip, watching his skin shiver beneath your touch. “Then let this be your remembering. Even if it’s only for a little while.”

He kissed your forehead, lingering there, his breath warm. “It won’t be just a little while. Not for me.”

You closed your eyes and let yourself believe that, if only for the night. You fell asleep wrapped in his warmth, lulled by the sound of the fire and the steady beat of his heart. But when the morning came, you knew he would rise before the sun, and ride eastward to the Hightower, to duty, to the shadow of war. And you would remain, a garden left behind—but one he would carry with him, always.

[cod-bin]

behind the mask pt.2

Simon (Ghost) Riley x fem!reader

genre: slow burn

warnings: some violence, traumatic backstory, soft!ghost

part 1

The debriefing was routine, but you could feel Ghost’s eyes on you the entire time. He didn’t hover, didn’t fuss, but he was there. A shadow at the edge of your vision, watchful.

By the time you got back to your quarters, exhaustion had settled into your bones. You peeled off your tac vest, wincing at the pull in your side where the stitches Ghost had carefully placed now tugged against your skin.

A knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts.

You frowned. It was late—too late for casual visits. But when you opened it, you weren’t surprised to see Ghost standing there, his gloved hands resting at his sides, posture as unreadable as ever.

“You’re not supposed to be up,” he said, his gaze flicking down to your side before meeting your eyes again.

You crossed your arms. “Neither are you.”

A brief huff of amusement. Then, more serious: “Can I come in?”

You hesitated for only a second before stepping aside. He moved past you, his presence filling the small space. You weren’t sure why he was here—Ghost didn’t do small talk, and he definitely didn’t make house calls.

He stood near the window, looking out into the night. His shoulders were tense, as if he was waging an internal battle.

Finally, he spoke. “Back in Prague… you asked why I didn’t sleep.”

You nodded slowly, recalling the quiet moment between you.

He exhaled, the sound almost lost beneath his mask. “Been like that for years. Too much in my head.”

You studied him, his guarded stance, the way his fingers flexed at his sides. Simon Riley was a fortress, walls built high and reinforced with steel, but here he was—cracks showing, just enough for you to see him.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” you said gently.

Ghost shook his head. “You should know who you’re fighting alongside.”

The weight of those words settled in your chest.

“You think I don’t trust you?” you asked.

“You should,” he said simply. “But I don’t want you to regret it.”

You took a step closer. “I don’t scare easy, Riley.”

A beat of silence. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, Ghost reached up and pulled back his mask—just enough for you to see the lower half of his face. Scars traced the curve of his jaw, a history written into his skin. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but for once, words failed him.

And yet, he let you see him.

Something unspoken passed between you, an understanding deeper than words.

You reached out, fingertips barely grazing his hand. “You’re not alone in this, Simon.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, his fingers curled around yours, firm but hesitant.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe not.”

—————-

a/n: later chapters will be longer I promise!! pt.3 will be coming very soon because this one is so short. also I am starting a tag list for this series. comment on this post to be added for later parts💋

[mcsr-events]

hi mcsrblr!!

mcsr-events is looking to run another event in several months' time. as it's unclear what sort of event will occur, i've decided to run a poll that will help influence this decision!!

more information about each beneath the cut:

Mini Gift Exchange: the good old mcsr mini gift exchange, as run twice before. each person submits a prompt and is able to write or draw for somebody else's prompt. then a grand reveal is done during posting.

Big(ger) Gift Exchange: a gift exchange run across a longer time period than the typical two weeks. longer/more complex pieces will be expected, though more time will be allocated for creation. if you have any other ideas for how gift exchanges could be developed, let me know!

Big Bang: writers have a certain period of time to write a fic. artists are then able to claim fics to create art for, the two collaborating to produce coherent pieces!

Reverse Big Bang: the opposite of a big bang, in the sense that artists will produce art pieces then collaborate with writers who'll write for them!

Secret Other Option: let me know in the tags!

[buck-up-buck]

Soooooo I didn’t do this last season but I decided to do a bingo card for everything I think/would like to happen in season 8- let’s talk about it shall we.

Let's talk about the obvious- the one thing I think the fandom all collectively wants. Mr Diaz to come out of the goddamn closet. Now, Gay Eddie makes so much sense, but also, so does Demisexual Eddie. I feel like, especially with his relationship with Shannon, him coming out as Demi would make so much sense.

I would respectfully like the writers to leave Henren alone this season. Give them a win, give them Mara back, let Hen beat the shit out of Ortiz, and then leave them ALONE. I want no drama for my moms this season please and thank you.

Now saying that (don't hate me) I think Hen is due a major injury... I am just saying, if someone is gonna be hurt this season, it being Hen would make sense.

RIGHT, give me a BuckTommy argument, give me some BuckTommy angst, and then, have them make-up. We have seen so much growth for Buck these past few seasons, let's see him resolve a problem in his relationship by communicating. And then, have them make out afterwards. Please.

I feel like we are so overdue a Halloween episode. We have a full season this time around so I want them to make full use of it. Saying that, let me also bring in the fact that I do also want a Christmas/Thanksgiving episode as well. Give me family bonding with the 118. Another Christmas Party, Bathena using their new place to host Thanksgiving, something, anything.

I know we all want it but, GET GERRARD FIRED. I don't want him to be injured, I don't want him to die, I don't want them to skip over the arc they ended with entirely. I want someone to get dirt on him, and take it to the chief, and for his ass to be dragged out of that firehouse.

I don't know where this sudden obsession with seeing Sal again has come from, but I would love a Sal redemption arc, or even for him to be a little bitch for Gerrard and also get dragged through the mud. Just, Sal.

SHALL WE INJURE OUR FAVOURITE HOT PILOT. I am not saying a major injury, but something, a little sprinkle of worried!Buck. Let's see him panic over his boyfriend.

I know I will hate it if It actually happens, but a mid-season cliffhanger. I think, we need something to keep us on our toes while they break. GIve me "missing groom" but more drama.

I have been asking for this since season 3 but GIVE ME A MADDIE BEGINS EPISODE. I want to see baby Maddie meeting Doug for the first time, I want to see them moving to Boston, and then moving back. The first time he hit her and his pussy ass apology. The day she escapes, and her journey to Buck. I BEG.

Bring Chris home please. Just, give Eddie his son back. PLEASE.

I want a Bathena cracking a case wide open and going full blown detective. I want to see Bobby with a murder board and Athena being so done with her husband but so in love. Give me treassure hunt vibes, but just, Bathena solving murder.

RIGHT- HERE ME OUT (this will get a separate post here). I want a Buddie begins episode. I want, realisations, and then, flashbacks galore. I want snippets of Buddie during Bucks recovery after the bombing, different POV's of things that have happened throughout the seasons, Buck sleeping on Eddie's floor the night he got home after the snipper. I want- I want so much.

Saying that, I also want, another Buddie argument. I want an argument over Buck and Tommy, or over Chris, or over work, just, give me, some Buddie beef. And then another hug when they make up. (or a kiss lol)

HOW ABOUT WE GIVE OUR OG GAY BOY A BOYFRIEND. Give Josh some loving.

BuckTommy having a dinner date with Bathena and/or Madney. URG, yes please. Cute vibes all the way.

Right, so when Madney got married, I so wanted the fact that Jee had a baby-girl balloon to foreshadow another baby. I know they were in a hospital and improvising, but OMG that would be such good foreshadowing. I want Maddie freaking out because what if she messes up again, I want Chimney doing the same, thinking he is going to lose Maddie, and then I what them to talk about it. I want Maddie to witness all the firsts she missed with Jee. I want another Madney baby. Or give them a dog. That will appease me.

Dosed is probably one of my favourite episodes ever, so if we could get another episode on par with dosed and jinxed, I would love.

Let’s get Mr Diaz in therapy shall we. I want to see Franks reaction to all the shit he did in S7.

I mean, I wish for this every season just because I love whumping my favourite Buckley so bad, but how about wr injure Buck again. Give me worried!Tommy/worried!Eddie/Dad!Bobby.

It would be such a missed opportunity if someone doesn’t get stung by a bee. I am just saying.

I am soooo obsessed with Christopher already suspecting that Eddie is gay, or at least having feelings for Buck. Like, I want him to come out and Chris be all like “thanks for telling me but I know dad” (insert teen eye roll).

I WANT BUCKLEY PARENT BEEF. Their redemption arc is so over and done with, especially after their reaction to Tommy, so I want drama.

Yuuup, I think that pretty much covers it. Let me know your thoughts, and if you made it all the way through this, I love you, have a cookie.

[shayneysides]

hobie: kill yourself

pavitr: WHAT THE HELL BRO WHAT DID I DO

original format from @ha-youwish in this post!

[xxplastic-cubexx]

[right to left]

finally finished This Wip from Ever ago and so now i ask you ever look into another dudes eyes and suddenly want to do whatever he wants

[pien-art]

yippee more SVU art :3 (r)Olivia beloved !!

(timelapse of the Olivia drawing here)

[orionis13]

Jeans that are gonna sell for 300 dollars on poshmark after they kill this old man