#there's a few missing but I'm not confident enough to post them just yet

[angel-roses-delight]

collection of doodles I've been doing during classes ☆

[pomefioredove]

mirror

summary: vil falling in love with you type of post: short fic characters: vil schoenheit additional info: romantic, FLUFF, reader is yuu, reader is gender neutral, takes place during/after book 6 author's note: vilyuu is such a good and underrated dynamic I'm never not obsessed with it. always thinking about him. holding them like dolls making them kiss mwah mwah

One might be bold enough to assume that actor and model Vil Schoenheit had been a victim of Eros before.

With the world under his thumb and millions of adoring fans at his beck and call, it was easy to fantasize about the image of a shining star that had left a string of broken hearts behind him. His persona of perfection gave off such a dazzling impression that any other truth is simply unimaginable. Beautiful, talented, devoted...

...Untouchable to such a degree that the very truth of the matter was that Vil Schoenheit had never been in love. He had no use, let alone time, to indulge himself in something that he found distracting at best and frustrating at worst. For most of his life, romance was nothing but another part to play, a frustrating rumor to dispel, a disaster to witness, something that nagged at him from the outside yet never made itself a home within him.

This idea of the confident heartbreaker Vil Schoenheit was nothing but a reflection of the image he put out, shone back at him by tabloids and fan accounts. It was a hollow interpretation, fueled by fantasies of a Vil that didn't exist in flesh and blood. And so, every time an invasive interviewer or pesky reporter inquired about the state of his personal affairs, he answered truthfully: Vil Schoenheit could easily go throughout life focusing solely on his career, on improving himself, and not miss out on anything at all.

There have been very, very few things that Vil has called himself an idiot over. That answer was one of them.

Because the very second he saw you again after being separated by Styx, the want to smack you for being so reckless in coming after him was only secondary to his want to hold you and cry until his water-proof mascara was running.

Love is such a strange emotion. Vil could never understand why Rook was so obsessed with it, how the vice housewarden fell in love with every beautiful person he saw. For his whole life Vil thought it to be painful, to be distracting, to be finite and often times nothing but a shallow reflection of all of one's ugliest traits.

And now, it made him feel weak and messy. He hated feeling messy.

...And yet, what he wouldn't do to have his lipstick smeared over your mouths. To have you see him with his hair undone and eyes bleary with sleep, and to see you in that state as well. It was not the time, nor the place, but he wanted to cradle you in his arms until this terrible, sickly feeling of longing you'd left him with went away.

For the first time in his life, Vil was suddenly terrified of being alone.

No, not alone- he was terrified of being without you.

To never see your smile again would be a fate worse than death, worse than growing old and haggard. How terrible to think that just one simple person could so easily undo everything about him, and yet, he wanted more of that very feeling. He would unwrap himself layer by layer for you if you asked, taking off all of the years of discipline and poise, and lay vulnerable before you so that you could be soft and simple together. Vil had always regarded romance as difficult, but falling in love with you was surprisingly easy.

He did not have to save Grim from the Underworld, despite what he claimed. Such a risky move cost him everything he loved, everything beautiful about him, everything except for you. And as much as he mourned for himself, he knew he would do it again and again if it meant saving the smile on your face.

And perhaps he was too wishful with his thinking, but he could have sworn he saw that same familiar glimmer of affection and admiration in your eyes when you met his gaze. As if you couldn't even see the pasty, wrinkled mess he'd turned into, and were peering at something behind it.

It made him feel utterly exposed and offered him no comfort, but the thought that you were looking at something not even he could see lingered in the back of his mind, even after his magical energy was rejuvenated.

He had become so familiar with everyone around him being a mirror, reflecting his carefully crafted image right back at him, showering him with two-dimensional praises, that being seen as an object of flesh and blood and tears was a strange notion. To behold his presence and see a person with wants and needs and flaws rather than a flat surface, a decorative magazine atop a coffee table, left him with a strange feeling in his chest. The thought both bothered and warmed him.

Vil Schoenheit was so hopelessly in love with you, and it didn't hurt. It wasn't difficult or ugly or forced, it took not even the least bit of effort. He sunk into the feeling like a warm bath which never grew colder, and he let that be his new reality. It felt strange to imagine that there was a time where he didn't love you, where he didn't look at you as if you were the moon itself, where you weren't such a part of his being that he couldn't imagine life without you.

And he never expressed these feelings in words. They existed inside of him, running through his veins like the very blood that kept him alive and warm, and they weren't distracting, just another part of him that he kept tucked away to occupy his thoughts on rainy days.

...But the best part of it was that he didn't need words. Because when you looked at him, when you saw the Vil that not even he could see, you could already tell they were there. The mirror, the pane of glass that had always existed between himself and others, was non-existent for you.

Vil thought that someday he might be able to see himself through that glass the way you did, but he was perfectly content with simply looking at you instead for the time being.

[goldsbitch]

Light Roast Mosaic

Five stages of a relationship, little moments captured at a small café in Monte Carlo, one melting into another. Is it one story? That is for the universe to know and for us to wonder.

warnings: fluff, angst featuring: Franco, Lando, Oscar, Charles, Max

//

Franco's first sip

"Another espresso?" the not-so-polite waitress glanced over both of them, her thick French accent pushing through.

Franco needed to look confident. Third coffee was totally fine and probably on brand with him, so what that his fingers were shaking?

"Yes, exactly," he smiled at her, doubting whether he kept the eye contact for too long or not enough. He was trying not to let his composure down.

His palms were already sweating, they had been for the past hour. Part of him wanted to get up and run away, the other would do anything to make sure you were glued to the chair you were sitting on forever.

The waitress left, leaving her opinions to herself and you were back at the semi-awkward conversation break again. He looked back at you, you averted and blushed, missing the part where he blushed too. The French waitress had just interrupted you telling a story about your sibling, one that still made you laugh years later. Your heart was beating fast - because you managed to make him laugh too.

"I'm sorry, so what happened next?" Franco asked leaning forward towards you.

You fiddled with your fingers. "Um, nothing, that is it, I believe," you replied, regretting that the wind was taken out of your punch line. You were nervous, hell, nervous times seven. And yet, the conversation flew back and forth, as if you wanted to use up all of your words on him and choke on his.

"Sounds like a fun childhood," he remarked naturally. You could feel his gaze burning through you. For some reason, you dared not to look back. Was this a date? You had just met few days ago at random and he kind of asked for your contact. Few DM's and one post-poned meeting and now you were here. Across him. No idea why his presence felt so exhilarating. This was a coffee in the afternoon. Just talking. Why did it produce the same chemical reaction as a rollercoaster ride?

"It was, but definitely not as cool as Argentina must have been," you replied and nonchalantly grabbed a sugar packet of the table and broke it apart on your small plate. You just had to do something with your hands, it was getting riddicculous and he would notice unless you did something. "Tell me about Argentina."

"I will, one day," he responded and your stomach exploded with butterflies at the thought of him suggesting another date, "but, first you tell me what you're doing," he asked, hinting at your sugar creation. In the meantime, another coffee cup landed in front of Franco.

"Um, nothing. It's something I always do. A habit, I guess." Lies, lies, lies. You'd never done this. But it was either this, or staring into his incredible eyes and you were not ready for that yet. Freaking him out was not the plan.

"Looks like you're drawing something," he observed and took a sip of his third coffee. Not that he was such a big of a fan of the bevarage. He just wanted to keep sitting there with you. You smiled, mindlessly. Perhaps yes, it did appear like a drawing. A flash of the memory of your grandma, pretending to be a tea leaves fortune teller, when you went young, came to your mind. You looked at him with a challenging look.

"Do you want me to read your future?" you asked, gaining some confidence from unknown sources. It was as if your body wanted to tease him. To lure him in and then never let him go. But you were also scared of the attraction you felt, so you know, casual confusion going on there.

"Can you read the future from, em, sugar?" he raised his brows with an amused, skeptical look. Then he took a big gulp on his coffee and failing at keeping it cool, he choked like a little kid. You couldn't help but laugh at the sudden loss of his "suave" look.

"You ok there?" you said, trying to push in your laughter.

Took him few coughs and deep breaths to compose himself before he spoke. "Ay, don't worry. Three coffees might be just enough...But, guess what?" he spoke, quickly back at his irresistible self.

"What, Franco?" Oh, you were so doomed.

"I just saw the future," he challenged you and licked his lips. Not that you noticed, no. Definitely not.

"And what did you see?" you replied, keeping a firm eye contact.

"Next Tuesday."

"Hm, so not that strong coffee, I guess," you diverted.

"Strong enough," he countered, not letting his gaze of your face.

You took a breath and surrended. "So, what did you see?"

"You and me on another date."

//

Two sugars

A quick coffee run before going back to the safety and comfort of your apartment. You and Oscar had a good run of days lately. Maybe too good. Your core almost ached when you walked, but that was a fair price for the bliss he made you feel. How many times in one day is too much? It looked like you were about find out. But first, coffee and some carbs.

You two picked a quiet corner away from the window, trying to enjoy the privacy Monaco offered sometimes. Sitting next to each other rather than across and having a whole table dividing you provided you both with a clear view on the café. Oscar was about to give a cheeky kiss and pushing you further into his embrace when you lightly pushed back and nodded to door. Oscar let a loud sigh out when he finally spotted Colapinto and Bearman walking in to get a take out after their run.

"God, I hope they don't notice us. I am not in the mood for F1 bullshit today," he murmured and sunk deeper into the chair.

"Uuh, beware, the young ones are coming," you teased and watched them. It was a relief to see them walk away immediately, locked in their own conversation and not noticing the self-absorbed couple in the back corner.

Oscar looked at you, puzzled. "Young ones? They are our age."

"I'm not talking about me, but you! Age works differently in F1," you said lightly and put your hand back on his upper arm.

He brushed your cheek with his hand. "Sweetheart, two years ago, you had no idea racing existed. Look at you now, almost ready for your own podcast!"

"Uuh, what would I talk about? Interesting..." you pretended to be lost in the thought of it and he did not buy it at all.

With a smirk, he made a simple comment. "Knowing you, you will always find something."

"I could talk extensively about prep before a race," you replied and stole a quick kiss from him.

"Is that so," he said and pulled you even closer to him and locked your lips again.

"Yeah. You know," you whispered between kisses "..stroke first, the touch the balls before you take him in your mo-"

He pulled away and put his finger on your mouth, trying to hide his amusement and quickly stepping in to avoiding finishing so easily. A habit, one might say. "Ok, ok, stop, there are people here," he pointed out, observing the cafe again. He was not that keen on PDA, but you managed to break through that wall, especially if you managed to keep him comfortable for longer period of time.

"Fuck people," you hoped one day he's become less worried about other people.

"You wanna fuck people? " he frowned, mildly disgusted once he eyed the cafe again. "Not an impressive crowd, interesting choice on your part," he teased you with his dead pan expression.

You rolled your eyes, typical Oscar. "Well, maybe not people, a person."

"If you say Lando again, I swear to God.." he added without missing a beat.

Oscar smirked and you mirrored his action. Even after a year and a half of teasing each other 24/7 it still felt fresh, like a ripe strawberry, still warm from the sun. You had each and every of his freckle mapped, he could tell just by the way you did your hair in the morning what kind of mood you'd have throughout the day.

"Come to the next race with me. Please," he pleaded, changing the tone of the conversation to more of a serious one, as he fiddled with a random strain of your hair. Then he licked his lips, as he would always do when something bothered him.

During the time you'd dated you visited only two races. People kept constantly nagging him about it, but he tried to put as little pressure on you as possible. Remembered more than vividly how a crowd of fans surrounded over you the first time around, nearly causing you a panic attack. You were never a crowds person. There wasn't much of a choice during a Grand Prix. You loved supporting him, sent him videos of your reaction to the race whenever something happened, for him to watch on the plane ride home. His favorite one was the one where you went on a five minute rant after his dive bomb in Baku. Like a parent who is trying to explain to a child that jumping of a cliff might not be the best idea. He found it adorable. Just wished he could have you there in person.

"I'll think about it."

//

Cold Brew

"Lando, you're lost in your thoughts again."

At the beginning it was easy. No drama, hard conversations avoided. Just pure fun and light weight life. She was willing to drop everything for him, come out to races and twirl around him, without needing any extra care. She was easy. But she was not you.

Lando smiled apologetically and tried to push the train of intrusive thoughts back in and focus on what his current girlfriend was saying. But it was so hard, when a Taylor Swift song was playing and a raspberry macaroon was just brought to the table next to them. Punch to his guts came free with that. It's been months now since you last spoke together. First two months were fairly easy, he found distractions and one of them even made it to this cafe as well and was now sitting across from him. With seasons turning, it was like you started to creep back in from every corner of each room. Impossible to escape your ghosts.

Lando felt like a prey, trying to escape attacks from everywhere. But there was no one attacking him, apart from his own brain. It's not that you were suddenly all over any place he was at, it's that his brain searched for you.

Was that your car outside? Did he just smelled your perfume? He could have sworn he just heard your heels.

He fiddled with a spoon in his almond milk latte. You hated when he would order that and joked about never kissing him again. It should make him happy that the girl sitting across from him has ordered the same drink as he had. She was a good match on paper.

Just not you.

"Lando, can you please listen to me?"

//

Second batch

"Y/N?"

You turned around, nearly dropping your phone and purse. It was a middle of a busy day for you, emails popping off like crazy and your mind was anywhere but present. The plan was to get a quick coffee and get into the office and join the emergency online meeting your boss initiated.

His voice was something you could recognize under any circumstances. But maybe, just maybe you were mistaken. You turned around slowly, just to make sure that you were correct. As your eyes met, it became clear you made no mistake. For few seconds, you just stared at each other.

"Hey, Charles."

Time stopped. There he was, once again in his full casual glam. He was really good at that, always had been. You never felt like you could keep up, back when you used to date. But it was a long time ago, you both grew up and years added on seemed to suit him well. Just like you observed him, he did you. It was clear you were in a rush, but also rushing somewhere where you were important and needed.

"How are y-"

"Your coffee, madame," the rude waitress interrupted Charles, a signature move you were more than familiar with as a local customer. Unlike Charles. He would usually avoid this place.

"Thank you," you turned your attention briefly towards her and took your coffee, balanced your things and took few steps away from the counter, not to disturb the lady more. Charles ignored anyone, but you. When you regained your composure, he tried asking again.

"How are you?"

His piercing blue eyes were dawning on you, a painting of conflicting feelings locked in them, begging to be set free.

"Um, yeah. Very busy currently," you spoke in a muted tone, still not fully comprehending that you just randomly bumped into him on a day like that.

Soft smile crept on his face. "You look busy." His eyes were trying to catch yours, without much success. Then they flashed to the top of your head and you knew that your hair was probably all over the place.

"Oh, fuck, is it that bad?" you asked, hoping for an honest answer. At least this one time.

He nodded. "It's just the-em..bun?"

"Can you please hold this?" you sighed and started handing him your things.

Without questions, he took your bag, coffee, another bag, notepad and held all of that while watching you trying to fix your hair. It was shorted than it used to be when you dated, he observed. Curlier. He wondered what kind of person you grew into.

"Ok?" you checked geniuenly for his approval, first time you fully locked eyes with him. Stood there, waiting for what he had to say.

Wondered was an understatement. His curiosity was burning him from inside. You used to never leave a stone untouched when you dated together. A quality he searched for ever since with no luck.

"Yeah, perfect," he managed to get out of him and began handing you your things back.

"Listen, I really gotta rush, so..."

It was obvious you were not lying, so he figured trying to keep you there would just make you mad. "Yeah, of course."

"Uh, see you, I guess," you said, barely waited for his response and hopped off to where ever you were originally headed to.

So many things he never found the guts to say. Never apologized. He was ready now. The forgotten notepad he held in his hand served as a glimmer of hope he might get a chance to fix what he once fucked up.

//

The usual, thank you

"Lady, I am sorry, I am showing you on a map, what else do you want from me?" Max said with his signature dead pan annoyed tone and wiggled his phone in front of a poor lady, who barely spoke English. Originally, he thought she was a fan asking for a photo, instead he got stuck in trying to explain the concept of left and then long straight walk to whichever place the tourist was looking for.

You watched him struggle impatiently as you waited by the door with two coffees in hand, amused as usual. Whenever he was frantic like this, you just could not help yourself.

The two finally parted ways, Max waved her goodbye and then rubbed his face. Annoyed and tired, he was like that the past few weeks.

"Tough day the office?" you joked and handed him his coffee.

"I wish. Give a photo-hungry fan over this anytime, please."

You grabbed his hand, an subconscious gesture at that point. "Come on, we still have some time before we need to leave for the plane. Let's enjoy this walk."

He kissed you, not bothering to turn his head around and search for people with their phones ready to photograph. Max stopped doing that a long ago. His "not giving a fuck" attitude was a turn on for you in any shape or form.

The two of you walked for a few moment before you had your first sip of the coffee. A small frown escaped your face upon the first sip. "Never liked the coffee here, it's so bitter."

He had a different opinion, as per usual. "Yeah, but I like the place. They keep their bullshit levels on low. The staff is pleasant."

Max was always about getting to the point straight. Made it a very interesting quality when you fought. But you would not have it any other way.

"Is that why you wanted us to take the longer route and come here today?"

He calculated his response. "Hm, not really. Apparently they might be closing soon. Slow business."

"Ah, shame. Great location," you replied, not exactly affected by that new information.

"See, knew you'd like it," he said with a suspicious joy in his tone.

"Why are you so interested in me liking that place?"

"Well. I was thinking of buying it if they really go under," his response came with a tone suggesting he had already made that decision.

This time, you couldn't hide your shock. "Max Verstappen, what the fuck?"

He just chuckled. "Oh you'll love it. We'll have our cute little place."

"Is it because of Leclerc's ice cream? Are you jealous?" you asked, still baffled. This man will probably never stop surprising you.

He stopped and looked at you. "Good thinking, we can get his ice cream here. That'll dram crowds. I'm happy you're on board," he said and gave you a small kiss on the cheek.

"Never said that," you tried to protest, but knew it was a lost battle.

"But you'll be. For me, please? I'll make sure you always get free coffee?" he asked, with a hint of sarcasm, but you knew better than that.

So be it. You searched for a hint of doubt in his deep blue eyes, but only found determination and devotion. "Free bitter coffee, what a win!" you cheered sarcastically, but an honest smile formed on your lips.

"And a kiss with it," he bargained with a devious smile.

Was there ever any other choice than the magnificent man standing in front of you? The answer was clear to you. Where ever he went, you followed and vice versa.

"And a kiss with it."

[infamous-if]

Dec ✮ 12 ✮ 2024 – update

Part of me hates doing these mostly because it's a whole lotta nothing and me just repeating everything I said the last update (lol) but I do like doing it because I like keeping people updated, even if it's a non-update. I may sound like a broken record (pun not intended) but I know a lot of people don't catch my updates every time so it's nice to just keep people informed yk yk

✮ — Part 2 + rewrite

Fun fact: I had written an entire essay about my excitement for the rewrite and chapter 3 and beyond but it got too long!

It boiled down to me wondering why I'm so excited for this rewrite and realizing it's because I feel comfortable enough to approach it with complete creative freedom. I wrote the first iteration of the demo with the constant worries swimming in my head like "I hope people understand what I'm trying to say here" and "I hope this situation is being read the way I intended for it to be read." And I think I sort of had those thoughts tenfold while writing Part 2. If you paid attention, you can probably see where I was trying to shut down certain discussions in the narrative lmao

Recently I had a tiny epiphany and reminded myself that it's not always about what I intend to write, but what is being understood by each reader. And yes this is basic writing 101 but let me have this moment of clarity okay. Embracing that means I can proceed with Infamous without holding back and sticking to my guns in regards to what I want for this story aka I'm just going to write what I write and like....not worry about the rest you feel (while of course integrating the common critiques and suggestions and improving on the things Infamous falls short in—I am not Shakespeare lmao)

ANYWAY my point is that I'm excited to fix up the demo !!! and just go back to it with complete confidence in myself and write whatever the heck feels right to me (and write the rest of the story lolol) and return with a better story than I have now for everyone!!

✮ — December will be for

planning what I'm going to improve and squeezing that in a reworked outline so it can flow much better narratively.

Outlining Chapter 3 and hopefully have the bare bones first draft drafted up which is mostly just be writing blocks of descriptions

I'm not sure I'll have anything substantial to justify looking for beta testers so soon yet but maybe!

work on my spice writing babey writing/reading spice makes me actually physically recoil but im determined to get better! which reminds me to finish the 6k follower gifts!

And also take a small breather because I am moving!

✮ — Patreon

I've already mentioned this on Patreon and a few times on here, but I do want to reiterate that Patreon content is coming out in bulk this month, in case anyone was wondering why I'm not posting as frequently. The content is still the same in terms of the quantity, it just won't be released every few days! thank you guys for being understanding of that <3

✮ —

My activity has is decreasing little by little due to my move but I do read every question and try to at least answer one question a day. I get quite a few mentions lately so I have to sort through those since I do get tagged in things, but I miss them due to my notifications. Usually I hope for the best and hope tracking the tag puts it on my dashboard <3 im not ignoring anyone!

That's all for now! Hope everyone has a happy December and Happy Holidays!

[atoltia]

Thanks for worrying, but I'm fine.

March begrudgingly posts a request on the notice board for ore. He didn't expect that he'd have to handle the newbie in town like that.

TW: some blood, some swearing

-0-

The past week was particularly rough.

Ever since Adeline began the upgrades for the town, things have been hectic at the forge. The usual order of nails, screws, and bolts were quadrupled, and alongside the massive order for reinforced tools it had been hell for both him and Olric so much that they had to resort working around the clock just to keep pace with the schedule.

It would have been fine. March was used to high production work, even though it got mind numbing plenty of times. Pressure was nothing. The physical labor of it all was manageable. It would have been under control.

If only they didn't start to run out of fucking ore.

March found out quickly when taking stock. At the rate that they were going, they were gonna run out by midday Thursday, if not Wednesday evening, next week. Olric offered to go back to the mines but he vehemently declined, stating that they would be delayed even more if he went (and he definitely didn't say that didn't want to see his brother hurt).

Getting the ore from Balor would cost them a fortune. And that's assuming the man has the ore in stock in the quantities they needed in the first place.

If they didn't get the necessary materials by then, the entire initiative would be delayed by at least 4 days and he will not have that.

So against his better judgement, he decided to make a request on the notice board.

-0-

He didn't expect much from it

The notice board was often used for small quantity items like missing ingredients for the Friday Night stew or a few sprigs of foraged herbs. Not a fuck ton of metal.

March managed to wrangle a deal with Balor to get the entirety of his stock at a discount, but it wasn't even close to enough. The next town was days away, and ordering from the closest guild would take them a month. He was getting to the point where he would have relented and allowed Olric to go mining and leave him at the forge.

But apparently he didn't need to.

He started noticing it late into the night.

Both the brothers haven't seen Sandra much lately, with everyone being too busy with Adeline's plans. March would see her every now and then, zipping through the town hauling wood and stone from days on end. She'd stop by the inn every once in a while, but she'd only eat her meal, chat for a few minutes, and head back to wherever the fuck. It was insanity.

He'd been seeing her dragging herself through town, the pickaxe that she bought from him weeks ago strapped to her waist, at almost the same time every night. It became a such frequent occurrence that when he'd look out the window at that exact timeframe, she would be there.

She wasn't carrying anything else, not that he could see, besides the pick and a small bag.

Besides maybe the exhaustion.

He could see it in the way she walked - the slow, dragging of her feet instead of the usual confident stride. The loose grip on her bag, the slight unfocused look in her eye.

March didn't know why that sight of her pissed him off.

-0-

The deadline loomed over him as he made the orders to his standard. Olric managed to haggle a few crates more of iron from a few travelling merchants and the cost of them made him very unhappy. But at that point, there was nothing else they could do. It didn't help that Olric injured his arm so the option to go to the mines was no longer on the table, as well as March having to work even more although his brother insisted that he still could be of assistance.

Neither of them has seen Sandra at all since yesterday, but that didn't matter. It really didn't matter.

(And yet why was he annoyed that she kept passing through his mind?)

-0-

They were in trouble.

There was only a small bucket of bars left and still a fuck ton of nails and fasteners to make. None of their contacts pulled through and Balor still hasn't come back from his emergency supply run. Adeline kept asking him if they would make the deadline.

He was at his wit's end.

That was why he was particularly annoyed when someone knocked on his door that night. It wasn't his brother, Olric wouldn't have knocked if it was him.

Tossing a rag rather harshly on a nearby table, March stalked towards the door and yanked it open, snarling when he saw it was Sandra of all people.

"What do you want?"

The woman merely smiled and stepped aside, revealing a trolley stacked with crates. The crates were full of ore- all the copper and iron that they could possibly need, stacked neatly on top of each other. He couldn't believe it.

"Your order."

March looked up and she held up the request he pinned to the board days ago, all crumpled up and torn at the edges with several colors of dirt smeared on it. He was aghast.

"You're insane."

A laugh tinkled the air as she leaned against his doorjamb, her arms folded over her chest, her long, dark hair mussed over her face. A satisfied smile rested over her face. "I'd like my reward now, please."

"Right."

He didn't exactly expected this to happen, but he got the reward as promised. A bag full of rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. Without a second thought, he grabbed the rather large sack of tesserae beneath the counter to give alongside it.

He wasn't prepared for the frown that crossed her face when he handed her both items. "Anything wrong?"

"I thought it was only the jewels?"

The redhead shrugged, waved his hand at her. "You've given us enough to last for months. Just take it."

The frown never left her face, and he really didn't know why it annoyed him even more. His jaw dropped when he watched her give it back.

"Thank you, March. But I don't need it."

"Just fucking take it."

"No."

"God's above." The snarl came back as he grabbed the sack from her outstretched hand, but hastily withdrew when he saw her flinch ever so slightly.

It jarred him.

He looked up with a brow raised, finally taking the time to look her over. She was covered in dirt and grime, her clothes were damp as if she fell into a river hours ago and just left it to air dry, her hair was a tangled mess.

Her usual pristine clothes were torn in several different locations, her hands were raw, scratches riddled her arms and legs.

There was a deep gash on her leg. Blood pooled on the stone at her feet.

Sandra's breath was labored, her eyes almost dead from fatigue. She wasn't leaning against his doorjamb to relax, no. She was leaning against it so she wouldn't collapse.

It infuriated him.

"Fucking damn it, come inside."

March rolled his eyes when he saw her raise a brow, not moving an inch.

"I don't want to track blood on your floor."

"I don't care."

"It's alright, March. I'll just go home."

"You are not," he snapped. With a huff, he took his coat and stepped out, pulling her to him. "I'm taking you to the doc-"

It was quick enough that he didn't fully process it. One moment he had his hand on her elbow and the next he was pressed against the wall of his shop, both his hands gripped tightly behind his back.

His body tensed as he felt her chest press against his back. The warmth of her breath tickled against his ear. He didn't know if the loud pounding was the blood rushing to his ears or the fact that his heart started to beat radically against her close proximity.

"Please don't." Her voice was low, dangerously so, as she gripped him tighter, making him wonder where she got this sudden strength as she was so close to toppling over just mere moments ago. "I don't want to hurt you, March."

With that, he felt her loosen her grip, gently pressing at his wrist in comfort before taking a few steps back as he turned around. The amused smile was once again on her face.

"I appreciate the worry, March." Her voice was a little strained, but lighter compared to before. "Really. But I just want to go home." And with one last salute, she left him there without much of a backwards glance.

And still, he couldn't get the scent of her perfume off of his senses.

-0-

Two days later, he wouldn't ever tell a soul that he sent her a perfected silver pickaxe.

---

This became way longer than I anticipated it to be lmao

I like to imagine March likes being manhandled asdasfas

This is the third installment of my March x Farmer series, you can check out the rest here!

Previous story: What his eyes can see, part 1

Next story: Lean on me

[velvetures]

Helluuuu!! I saw your post about sending requests and mine is actually a really simple one cause I don't have a creative but I just though about a ghost hurt/comfort story

Little Secrets

A/N: So this is very self-indulgent... I hope you don't mind. I think there are quite a few people who struggle with taking meds for depression/anxiety or feel guilty for it. Me included. Hopefully, this helps everyone feel valid, seen, and supported. Summary: Task Force 141 is where you belong. But it doesn't make the work easy by any means. You finally get the help you need and try hiding it. Ghost notices and is the one who sets you straight. T/W: depression/anxiety themes, medication, guilt, insecurity of reader, fem reader, and I'm sure I've missed something, so let me know.

photo by: pedropcl

You couldn't keep fighting it for any longer.

Staring down at the two orange bottles of pills in your hands and the directions packets in the other, you felt like you'd failed despite the psychiatrist you'd spoken to reassure you that this was certainly not a failure. Your brain kept refuting that this was a step in the right direction. Working as a professional and legal murderer should've meant you had no feelings. No failures of regulating your emotions or having such miserable trouble falling asleep at night. That nice woman who'd put the prescription in for you said it would take two to three weeks to see a difference. It felt like no time, yet an eternity all at once. Relief felt so far away, but insignificant compared to other people you often compared your personal struggles with.

You weren't homeless, you could eat without worrying, you had clothes and shoes all of the time, and never needed to wonder if you would have enough money to take care of your responsibilities. Education hadn't been a problem, you were well-respected despite being a woman in such a male-dominated field and kept up with your work extremely well. At least, when your brain decided to deny that you had the ability to do anything. Or... repeatedly try to convince you that nothing you did was worth a damn or actually made you useful. Vicious cycles of fighting with your own brain, knowing that you shouldn't feel or think this way but have no strength or way of stopping. None of the "hacks," meditations, or affirmation bullshit touched that panicky feeling you had mere minutes after laying down at night.

The pills shaking around in your hands were your last resort. And they made you feel so fucking embarrassed as you tucked them in your pockets before entering back into HQ. Praying to god that none of the 141 would see you with them or hear that slight sound of them rattling in their bottles. By grace or luck, you were able to avoid all of them and got back to your quarters to stash them under your bed in a small ammo box repurposed for some personal belongings. The directions you'd thrown away on your drive back, just taking a picture of them for reference and ditching the paper copies so you wouldn't have to keep track of those.

"This better fucking help," You breathe out heavily to yourself.

Staring up at the ceiling and almost dreading having to take one tonight before bed and the other when you wake up the next morning. Daily reminders of how you couldn't be hard and cold like the others. Cool and collected like Gaz, confident like Soap, unaffected like Ghost, or just so very reliable like Price. It made you feel like the weak link needing support. You'd never needed it before, and within two years you'd suddenly realized that your own mind was winning in a fight you'd never even been aware of fighting in the first place.

Keeping all of them in the dark about this would be safest. If they didn't need to question your stability, then it wouldn't feel like such pressure to perform. And hopefully, after a few weeks, things might start to shift a little. Maybe enough to where you could begin sorting out the other problems without the image of a cluttered attic representing the state of your head. Taking care to not raise the alert of the 141 wouldn't be easy. Always noticing everything out of sheer training and sharpened instincts. Having no other good ideas... You just settled on doing everything you could to keep your little secrets under wraps.

In the following couple of days, you’d become adjusted to the routine of taking your medications on the surface level. While the one tasked with easing you anxiety and depression wasn’t going to take effect for quite a while longer the other -a sleeping aid- was definitely making a significant impact. You were able to actually fall asleep and stay that way, problem was, with a couple missions impending in the near future, you were getting concerned that if you took them when you were supposed to -on a schedule- that staying awake would be next to impossible. And if you didn’t take them at all… you didn’t want to deal with the consequences of breaking a much more healthy habit.

And the reason you were so worried about the missions was because of a reoccurring problem that the 141 began finding you falling victim to. Thankfully you were all on leave, making it a lot more acceptable, but they still began walking into different rooms around HQ to see you sleeping soundly. No matter the noise level, temperature in the room, or the space you’d fit yourself into. And no one was quite as intrigued with your sudden change in behavior was the Lieutenant.

Ghost liked things to have order, and often used regiment or habit as a very small form of comfort when he felt that his physical situation was one that could be trusted. And while the others just thought you’d found a new safety in HQ and enjoyed sleeping somewhere safe, Ghost could see that something much different was happening. Your sleeping wasn’t a new habit.

It appeared far too quickly, and you oftentimes didn’t look like you had much control over it. There had already been three times where he’d watched you fall asleep on one of the guys late in the evening without as much as a single attempt to fight the drowsiness. While Ghost didn’t like to think that he cared that much about you, he found himself paying even closer attention to you than he had before.

“There she goes…” Soap chuckled quietly, pointing to you on the couch; head laying in Captain Price’s lap, eyes closed and sleeping deeply with your arms tucked against your chest and lying on your side.

Price had a loving hand on your head, and had been idly petting your hair much like a father would despite being hardly of age to act it. Yet, Ghost felt that Price’s warmth towards you wasn’t the entire reason you had yet again fallen asleep before 11 o’clock. Purposefully he’d been keeping count, and this was the fifth time in a week. More than enough to raise alarm with the others… but he was still waiting silently for someone else to bring it up.

Price chuckled, glancing down at you. “I carried her to bed last time,” His pointed look at each of them was more than enough to guess what he was about to say. “Someone else needs to, otherwise you’ll be voluntold.”

Ghost internally groaned. Not only was that kind of behavior what made people soft, but it also made seeing through the mask of affection far more difficult. But before Soap or Gaz took initiative, the Lieutenant was up on his feet and approaching Price with every intention of being the one to take you back to your quarters. Looks got thrown around the room, and Ghost wasn’t stupid enough to not notice. It was the first time he’d gotten this involved, and there was certainly a spectacle of him picking you up carefully enough to not wake you.

Even though he was quite certain it would take a lot more to get you up than that.

Your door opened up into warm, glowing light from a little lamp you’d left switched on. He catches sight of your quilt on the bed and the little rug that made the polished concrete floors look so much less like the jail cell his own quarters resembled. The whole room smelled like you too. Sweet, and a lot like cinnamon rolls. Probably some type of candle or other smelly thing that you had thought was worth spending money on. Plenty more reasons added to the list of what separates the two of you. Debating your differences or the reason you preferred your quarters smelling like a bakery wasn’t his purpose for bringing you back to your room.

But even with laying you down on your bed and pulling the sheet and blankets over you, Ghost wasn’t seeing any of the possible signs that could lead him to better understand what was going on with you. Nothing is out of place though. Your room is pretty much spotless save for a sleep outfit you’d laid out for tonight, but wouldn’t have the chance to get changed into. And right about the time Ghost decided he’d been looking into your business too much, he bumped into your nightstand.

It knocked something off into the floor, bouncing under the bed and clattering a bit.

Ghost sighed, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling and having quite the frustrating experience of dealing with the sudden responsibility of making sure you were cared for. And that meant picking up whatever shit he’d been too busy watching you, to not knock somewhere under the bed he’d have to fish around and find. So he knelt down and pulled his phone from his pocket and used the flash to spot a tube of chapstick near the bed frame foot.

That, and an ammo box with your initials spray-painted onto the side of it.

Compared to everything else, it didn’t look like it fit amongst the rest of your things. And damn if Ghost didn’t have a sudden gut feeling that it was the reason you’d been sleeping so much. Why you’d been so out of character; Setting his teeth on edge. Reaching out… Ghost grabbed the lip balm and got back to his feet and sit it down on the nightstand where it couldn’t be as easily disturbed again.

“G’night kid.” His whispers fell on your unconscious ears as your Lieutenant dismissed himself from your room and back down to his own space.

***

You woke up in your bed after falling asleep somewhere unintentionally, for the who-knows-which time. Just like before, left in whatever clothes you’d been wearing and all of your blankets tucked up tightly around you. It left a lingering sense of disappointment in yourself. A little pinch of sadness rested like a rock in your stomach. You couldn’t really remember falling asleep to begin with. If you ended up keeping this little habit going, there’d be no doubt you would risk everyone on a mission falling asleep at the drop of a hat.

All because of this damn medicine.

One that you needed to grab from under your bed, and sneak into the kitchen so that you could have some water and food. You'd seen one of the tens of sites -during your research of your pills- that it would help digest it better... whether it actually worked or not wasn't something you could tell. But either way, a doctor had said it, and plenty of people taking it agreed. So you grabbed the pill, shoved it in your pocket, and went out into the kitchen to find a glass.

The floors felt cold even with socks on. And while a steady rain poured from the sky, you were more heated with concern that someone would notice you. Notice your sleeping issues, the way you crawled around in the morning for the first couple hours before the pills began working, or the shady way you hid your face in the refrigerator while swallowing down your medication. Surely the stuff had to be working since you'd not been struggling to get your work done throughout the day. But maybe that was the hard part. Taking pills to fix your head, but needing your brain to recognize whether or not you felt better.

"Oh god help me..." You mutter quietly, searching past Soap's energy drinks and Gaz's revolting jug of green juice to find something you could make for breakfast.

A cabinet door shutting behind you nearly stopped your heart. Seeing Ghost's dark eyes evaluating your reaction didn't make your heart rate drop back to normal either. In his typical day-off wear, a pair of well-worn jeans hung low on his hips and an old SAS t-shirt you'd seen him wear countless times stretched tightly over his chest and shoulders. No doubt he'd been up since four. Quite certain he never actually slept, you wondered momentarily if he could benefit from the sleeping tabs you took. But quickly that got covered in anxiety when his eyebrows furrowed at your expression.

"Nothin' to eat?" He asked with a smooth voice, nodding to the refrigerator door you still held open dumbly.

"N-no... just a bunch of shit drinks." You reply, letting the door shut and noticing that he's got a brown bag with grease spots at the bottom corners. He just nods, looking off into the empty common room. Like he's trying to think of the right way to talk shit about both Gaz and Soap's bad choices in hydration.

"Sit. I've got enough to share." He jerks his head to the other side of the counter, turning that wide back to face you, leaving no room for argument.

You're swallowing down a thick bite of a bagel with god-knows-what in British style as Ghost brews tea. Silently making you a cup as well and standing stiffly with both milk and sugar on the table with the expectancy that you tell him how you like it. Not really unusual behavior from him... typically you get along just fine. But it's the fact that he watches so heavily.

"Just sugar, please." You say through a mouthful, covering your mouth with your hand.

He nods, but then starts putting the sugar in, mentioning something about fucking Americans before sliding the mug closer to you with a couple of fingers. Those damned eyes are just as observant as ever when you crumple up the finished sandwich before he even steeps his own drink. It made you nervous. Wondering if those pills were helping with your appetite too. The psychiatrist said it could; Something about feeling less stressed can give your body more opportunities to worry about being hungry. It was one of those facts on the medication packet you'd taken pictures of.

"Plans for today, L.t.?" You ask, sipping the tea, eyes grazing over the cup rim as you stare at the back of his head.

Mask rucked up high enough to eat and drink freely he nods his head. Leaning his lower back against the edge of the kitchen counter

and resting one hand back.

“Yeah, you?”

You shake your head uselessly, “No. Maybe some laundry, but I’m not really even due. Wouldn’t be worth the water in the machine.”

He hums lowly, taking a drink of his tea. You can hear his swallow and a steady exhale of air that follows. Whether it’s him cooling off the steaming cup or just breathing, you cant tell. But it’s so steady that you actually mimic the tempo of it. Feeling the way it expands and contracts your lungs smoothly. Almost settling. Much like L.t. himself in that way. Terrifying until you see just how easily you can be around him. He’s always quiet and composed, even when there’s plenty of reasons not to be. You wished it was something you could do too. Maybe it would help the task force if you didn’t have to spend your energy keeping yourself at an unnoticeable level of consistent panic.

“Know anythin’ about cars?”

“No,” You’re quick to add on. “But I can learn fast.”

You watch the way the back of his mask slides down further and how his head tilts from side to side to settle it comfortably. Seeing the rest of the tea get dumped into the sink and his own sandwich bag get crumpled up. He’s silent as he washes the cups used and methodically cleans up after the pair of you. Even reaching across the counter to swipe a couple of crumbs off your t-shirt with a subtle nod to his own satisfaction.

“I like to hear it,” His hand palmed at the back of your neck. Gently tugging you off the barstool, and grabbing your jacket to toss it to you. “You’re comin’ with me then.”

Learning about cars actually became quite easy… when Ghost was teaching.

He explained the parts clearly, what his goal was, and didn’t get pissed when you handed him the wrong size socket wrench on the first try. On the other end, you’d only been working next to him -well, sitting on the wheel well- for a couple of hours when you started getting tired again. Almost helpless to your own frustration, you yawned. Fighting the sleepy feeling valiantly, and taking as detailed of mental notes as possible while watching Ghost’s greased knuckles tighten a bracket holding his master cylinder in place. Surely it was a cosmic joke. L.t. was fixing his brakes, and it felt like someone had stomped on yours.

“Hand me that,” He muttered, head stuck down in a gap between his engine block and alternator, still effortlessly pointing at a pair of channellocks. “And get in for me.”

You did as he asked, yawning one more time. Trying to blame your sudden exhaustion on the rain pelting the metal roof above you. Sliding into the back of the car and kicking off your boots to let them rest on the concrete floor outside of it. Attempting to be polite by not getting any dirty spots on the mats of the -very original- DB4 GT Aston he’d given you trust to even sit in. The leather seats help you glide into the driver’s seat, giving you a very slim look at Ghost through the gap in the hood.

“What exactly am I doing in here?” You ask, loud enough so that he can hear you.

It prompts his head to pop up from inside the engine bay, giving you those same, observant eyes from earlier. He looks back down, reaches in and taps on something harshly, then looks back to you.

“Roll it over.”

The car starts effortlessly. Practically purring under you, and echoing in the metal hangar making it sound all the more ruggedly beautiful. The whole car hums, and as you watch Ghost go back to focusing on something in front of him, you feel the heat come through the dash. It’s a perfect storm that lulls you even closer to sleep. A dangerous thing, considering the one man who could figure out what was wrong with you was the only one close enough to see. Hell, you weren’t even sure he didn’t already have it figured out, and wasn’t planning some way to tell Price about it and have you removed from the task force.

Unfit for duty.

You could just picture it now. Red pen in Price’s handwriting detailing your medications and how it was grounds from honorable discharge. Perfectly common in the military, but it felt like death in your hazy mind.

Not that you could fight it for much longer.

Because by the time the Lieutenant had finished his little bit of work, he came into sight of you, slumped over in his driver’s seat with you lips parted and your arms wrapped around yourself. Nothing short of a pretty sight for sore eyes. His car had damn near rocked you sleep, and for once, Ghost felt his heart couldn’t take the feeling of waking you up. He’d watched you all morning. Gauging your reactions, your lack of conversation, and the way you tried to keep from showing him any sign of being tired. Initially he wanted to be angry. Mad that you were hiding something from the team… from him. But seeing you sleeping there, he knew there was a fight in your head. A fight he knew well. So he left you there to sleep.

Turning off the engine to keep from filling the garage with exhaust, but pulling up one of the small space heaters close to the open door to keep you from getting cold while he worked. Making small adjustments, looking over future jobs, and even entertaining the thought of adjusting you over in the seat a little bit so that he could drive-test his handiwork. But that didn’t come, because Soap arrived with a grin on his face and no idea that you were sleeping.

Until Ghost told him to lower his goddamn voice.

“Sleepin’ again bonnie?” Soap chuckled to himself, looking at you before back to Ghost. “How long’s she been out?”

Ghost shrugged, “Few hours.” Really he hadn’t been watching the clock; far too comfortable to concern himself with it.

“I know you’ve been tryin’ to figure it out,” He started back, resting his hands on the hood. “Why she’s doin’ this so much. Have ya’?”

Ghost shook his head. “No. Not yet, but I’m not concerned.”

Johnny laughed softly, slapping Ghost on the back and beginning to walk away. “I never took you for the type to be worried, L.t.. But since you’re so reassurin’ I’ll take it t’heart.”

Any way Ghost came at that statement, he felt himself on the end of a losing battle. Maddening. Losing a fight wasn’t in his nature. Even if that meant he had to take some of the most fucked up torture to reach it. But what bothered him more than Soap knowing he was concerned about you was the knowing you weren’t okay.

Days out in the field were bad enough. But when they got worse, you were always there. And maybe you didn’t feel much better than he did, yet you always held softness. For everyone. For him. A kind of understanding and acceptance that wasn’t required, or exactly approved of in this line of work. You could keep a secret better than anyone he knew, and while he didn’t burden you with a single one of his, there was always the foreign comfort in being able to come with them if he wanted to. Hiding your own feelings wasn’t right though.

Selfish maybe. Thinking it was okay to linger in his own issues and still demand you give him yours.

But hiding behind his rank and position over you meant he could make that kind of decision without any questioning. A type of don’t fucking ask why that saved him face when carrying you from his car back to your room after you still hadn’t woken up nearly seven hours after passing out in his car. Shouldering open the door just like the night before, he expected to see nothing out of place. The same lip balm on the side table, the same rug, and maybe a different night shirt since you’d mentioned doing laundry. But there was something out of place. And damn if it didn’t make his gut twist up in a ugly kind of feeling. One he’d not felt in years, but certainly recognized as soon as he spotted the orange pill bottle sitting on your bed.

It made sense.

The sleeping. The different behavior. The reason you’d practically swallowed a whole fucking sandwich for breakfast when a cup of tea would typically be all you stomached until afternoon. And thank god… you were finally starting to look a bit fuller. Getting prettier every day, and he finally had something to place the blame on. All hesitations about you being able to handle the upcoming missions faded once he got a good look at the bottle. A medication, funnily enough, that Ghost was well-acquainted with. It wasn’t part of his own personal line-up in his medicine cabinet, but it was one he’d taken for a while.

You’d been in need of some help, and luckily for you, it hadn’t been nearly as hard for you to get help as it had been for him. Actually asking for what you needed -and while frustrating- decided to try and manage it without anyone else’s knowledge. Ghost couldn’t think of a better scenario. Realizing that the only thing he needed to know about was your side effects, and how to best manage them alongside you. Thank fuck you weren’t sick… well… sick in a way that someone couldn’t help you with. A way that he couldn’t help.

So, he sit down in on the floor in your room and waited.

Your wake-up call came in the form of sleepy eyes opening to see the massive silhouette of Ghost sitting in your floor. Dark eyes much softer than you’d expected, and a much more concerning sight of your pill bottle resting in his massive hand. A sight that sat you up ramrod straight in your bed, gasping softly and staring at him with wide eyes.

“Don’t tell Price.” You sputter, rushing to get the words out of your mouth. Terrified that he’s going to get up and run out the door. Just sitting long enough to let you get a good look at his plan before exposing you to the Captain as some sick kind of satisfaction.

His eyes narrow a little, “Don’t tell Price?” His voice sounds hoarse. “Don’t tell Price?”

It sounds that much more broken and gritty when he repeats it. Standing up to meet you a bit more level, fisting the pills in his hand, and lightly making them shake. He can’t understand your fear. Completely blind to the fact that -much like him- you’re fearful of being shamed. Misunderstood for it. Or worse. Ghost can’t recognize why you’re looking at him as if he’s going to be the reason your life ends. When in all reality, you don’t see how he’s trying to figure out why you didn’t feel safe coming to him.

“You’ve been takin’ these… fallin’ asleep on everyone, and-and struggling for who knows how the fuck long…” It’s hard for Ghost to keep his tone even, thinking about it. “Why didn’t you tell me. you should’ve told me. Said something. Anything.”

Caving in on itself, your chest burns. Eyes locked on his and scanning every confusing moment of emotion and each shift as it comes and goes.

“You wouldn’t…”

Ghost takes a fast step closer, “I wouldn’t what?” His hand drops the pills on the bed and quickly grabs your face, soft fingers pressing into your jaw. “I wouldn’t get it? I wouldn’t do what you needed me to? Wouldn’t let you sleep on me?”

Your lips open in surprise at the softness in him. All of him. The gentleness of his fingers, how his eyes lay silkily on you. Even his voice, falling so softly despite it’s rough tone and deep sound, feels like he’s terrified of you being scared away from him. Like that gentle hold on your face is all he can manage, and he’d rather do anything other than let you pull away from it.

“You have to know…” he starts weakly. “You have to know that - that I would do… anything you needed me to. Anything to make this easier for you. Even somethin’ small, I’d do it for you, honey.”

reblogs & comments are appreciated 🤎

[legendary-69420]

MOMENTS - 4 (Extras ✨)

(Racing Hearts : VOLUME 2) A/N : If any of you are Italian, I'm sorry in advance..... (I just searched up random things and put that in together) (Also that the last part was inspired by the iconic Adele live) ______________________________________________________________

The interview room was alive with chatter and the hum of cameras as Charles and Mark settled into their seats, visibly drained but still carrying the post-race adrenaline. Both had narrowly missed the podium, finishing P4 and P5 respectively, but their spirits remained light enough to handle yet another round of media questions.

The interviewer smiled warmly, leaning forward. “Alright, Charles, let’s start with you. Your number, 16—why did you choose it?”

Charles adjusted his cap, his expression thoughtful but relaxed. “Ah, well, originally, I wanted the number 7. It’s my lucky number,” he said with a slight smile. “But when I joined Formula 1, it was already taken. So, I thought about my birthdate—16th October—and decided on 16 instead. It’s still personal, and now it feels like mine.”

The room nodded appreciatively. A simple, elegant answer—just like Charles.

The interviewer turned to Mark, their grin widening slightly. “And Mark, your number—69—definitely a unique choice. Care to explain?”

Mark leaned back in his chair, his trademark smirk making an appearance. “Well,” he began, his voice smooth and teasing, “no one in F1 has ever chosen it before. Gotta be a trailblazer, right?”

The room collectively stifled laughter, a few reporters hiding their grins behind notepads. Mark’s mischievous glint didn’t waver.

“But on a more serious note,” Mark continued, his tone shifting slightly, “the number has… a balance to it. If you think about it, it resembles yin and yang—opposites complementing each other. Harmony, you know?”

Charles’ lips twitched, clearly fighting back a laugh. Mark, of course, wasn’t done. With impeccable timing, he turned to the nearest camera and threw a wink, the kind that sent fans into a frenzy.

The room erupted in muffled laughter, and even Charles couldn’t hold back his grin this time. Mark was unapologetically himself, and somehow, he made it work.

---

A few days later, another media event brought them together. This time, the interviewer asked a simpler question. “Let’s reintroduce you to the fans. Tell us your full name and a little about yourself.”

Charles, ever the gentleman, nodded and straightened up. “Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc,” he said, his tone smooth and confident. There was a subtle elegance to the way he said it, every syllable rolling off his tongue with ease. A murmur of admiration swept through the room.

Then it was Mark’s turn. He leaned forward slightly, a playful glint in his eyes as he began, his deep, resonant voice dripping with a rich velvety Italian accent.

“Marco Alessandro di Salvatore Valerio De Fiore Spencer,” he said, his voice lingering on every syllable, each name rolling off his tongue like a melody.

The room fell completely silent. Even the usual background noise—the faint hum of cameras and shuffling of papers—seemed to vanish. Everyone was captivated, hanging onto every word, the sheer elegance of his name leaving them momentarily stunned.

Charles, seated beside him, blinked. His lips parted slightly, and his gaze was fixed on Mark—not in irritation or amusement, but in sheer awe. It was as though he was seeing Mark in an entirely new light.

Finally, Mark broke the silence with a small chuckle. “Well, that’s Marco in Italian,” he added casually, his teasing grin returning. “In English, it’s just Mark Alessandro di Salvatore Valerio De Fiore Spencer.”

The spell broke as Mark's soft laughter rippled through the room. A few reporters scribbled down his full name, while others exchanged amused glances, still processing what they’d just heard.

Charles exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a faint smile. “Of course,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes briefly darting to Mark’s, who was clearly enjoying the reaction.

Mark caught Charles’ gaze and raised an eyebrow. “What? Surprised I have a fancy name, Leclerc?”

Charles’ smirk returned, but there was something softer in his expression. “Not surprised. Just… impressed.”

Mark leaned back, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Good. I’d hate to disappoint."

---

The drivers’ lounge was unusually quiet, save for the soft hum of music playing from the speakers. Mark, draped in his Ferrari hoodie and resting lazily on the plush sofa, tapped his phone screen in an attempt to figure out Instagram Live. He had never done one before but, frankly, boredom had pushed him into uncharted waters.

The live stream flickered to life, and Mark’s face appeared on the screen, brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the interface. “How the hell does this thing work?” he muttered, squinting at the flood of comments already pouring in. “Oh—wait, someone liked my post.” He grinned triumphantly, completely oblivious to the scale of his fanbase.

“Wait, wait,” he paused, holding his phone closer to his face, “what the heck? 20 million likes? WHAT? When did this happen? I just posted that picture two hours ago!” He blinked in disbelief, his jaw slightly dropping. “Is this normal? Charlieeeeeee!” he suddenly called out, his voice echoing through the lounge.

Charles, seated nearby and scrolling through his own phone, looked up in confusion. “What now, Mark?”

Mark turned the camera toward him. “I’m on Instagram Live. Say hi to your fans!”

Charles sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Salut,” he said with a half-hearted wave, clearly amused but too tired to put up a fight.

Mark beamed. “There you go, guys. Charles Leclerc himself! Now you can stop asking where he is.”

A notification pinged, and Mark gasped theatrically. “Yay! Someone started following me!” he cheered, pumping his fist in mock celebration. His excitement was so over-the-top it was hard to tell if he was serious or just playing around.

The comments were already descending into chaos:

“Why is he so cute and hot at the same time 😭😭”

“Someone tell him that he’s literally famous 💀”

“MARK!!! You have 55+ million followers and still get excited over one follow? 😂🥲”

“He’s so unserious, I love him 💀🤣”

“SHOW US YOUR ABS, KING!!”

Mark scrolled through the comments, chuckling. “Show my abs? What is this, a thirst trap competition? Charles, are you seeing this?” He tilted his phone to Charles, who just shook his head, smirking.

Just then, the music from the lounge speakers shifted to a catchy pop tune, and without warning, Mark began to sing along. His voice was rich and melodic, effortlessly hitting the notes. He didn’t even seem to realize how good he sounded, casually leaning back into the sofa as he sang.

The comments exploded:

“HIS VOICE??!?!?! 😭😭😭”

“HOLY SHIT HE’S UNREAL”

“Someone sign him up for a record deal, NOW.”

“The audacity to look like THAT and sound like THIS 🥲”

To make things even wilder, a notification popped up that made Mark pause mid-verse. “Oh,” he said, eyes wide, “Wait. Is that—?” He squinted at the screen. “Oh my god. Sabrina just joined? Are you guys serious?” Meanwhile across the room, Charles' jaw tightened after hearing Sabrina's name.

He laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “No way, this is insane.” Mark started scrolling through more names. “Guys, Sab is here! My Instagram Live is a freaking concert now.”

The comments begged him to continue:

“PLEASE SING MORE.”

“Mark is ICONIC af”

“He’s unreal… cute, hot, talented—someone STOP him!”

Mark playfully winked at the camera. “Alright, but only because you asked so nicely.” He leaned back and started humming a slower, emotional tune, his voice sending shivers down the spines of everyone watching.

The live continued in chaotic perfection, with Mark alternately singing, bantering, and losing his mind over celebrity interactions, all while fans spammed the chat with increasingly thirsty and unhinged comments.

As the stream finally wrapped up, Mark waved goodbye. “Alright, that’s enough chaos for today. Thanks for making me realize how famous I am, guys. Byeee!” and shot a last wink at the camera.

The comments exploded one last time before the feed cut off:

“HOW IS HE SO CUTE BYE.”

“Mark Spencer is a menace to my sanity 😭😭😭”

“I NEED HIM TO GO LIVE EVERY DAY.”

--OFFICIAL END OF VOLUME 2--

(Volume 3 will take time...)

[genericpuff]

Scamlords is at it again.

A few nights ago, there was a sudden blow-up in the /r/webtoons server showing a new announcement from Snailords -

For anyone unaware, Death : Rescheduled has been on mid-season hiatus since October. And it's now, and only now, that Snailords has suddenly decided the comic is ending after it returns, but readers can get an extra 20 episodes... if they fork over $1k in merch sales.

Now, this could be a lot worse. They could be threatening not to return to the series at all unless their readers hand over money. But considering it's practically just one degree away from that, it's still pretty nasty. Not to mention, the further they divulged in their reasoning around this "idea", the more confusing it got.

They also even revived their @snailordsrant account on IG which, for those of you who were there and can recall, was the same account they used to put one of their own fans on blast over some very mild criticism.

None of this makes any actual sense, for several reasons:

1.) I literally fail to see how getting $1k in less than 24 hours is worth shoving in an extra mini arc of 10 episodes if you don't even have it planned out. Why do that to your audience or to yourself? Why drag things out just to scrounge up an emergency $1k? Why not just be honest with your audience and run a GoFundMe or just say , "Hey everyone, I've run into some financial troubles, I would really appreciate it if you could FastPass my newest episodes or donate to my Patreon or buy some merch so I can cover the costs". It's really telling that this shithead doesn't have enough confidence in themselves or their audience that practically worships them that they have to resort to this kind of underhanded shit to get the money they need. I wanna make it clear that this is NOT like a Kickstarter stretch goal or anything that incentivizes readers to support their work, they're instead holding the length and future of their series over their audiences' head (which they've done before) for money. That's not an incentive, it's an ultimatum.

2.) Maybe I'm misreading / being stupid (someone pls explain if I'm missing something here) but I literally don't see how their comment about working 50 hours a week explains why they're suddenly getting their fans to pay out $1k worth of merch in less than 24 hours. For anyone who doesn't know, $1k per episode is an example Webtoons uses in its post discussing how they pay out creators (this came after the platform got called out 2 years ago for paying creators too little, there are undoubtedly creators getting paid less). And yet for some reason $1k is apparently the difference between 10 episodes and 20? How does that add up? And is the bit about them wanting to buy boba supposed to be a joke? Where's the punchline here?

3.) They say they have writer's block and they want to use the money to "motivate them", but then just a few slides later they say 10-15 episodes is what would make them the "happiest" so which is it? Do they want to write 10 episodes or do they want people to pay them to write 20 episodes so they can draw the fluff scenes that they apparently want to draw? If you have an ending planned out, why rush it or drag it out depending on how this "fundraiser" goes? Why not just write the ending you want to write that will serve your story best? Why shove in an extra mini arc that you don't even have full confidence in writing and then try to compare it to a "super expensive cake"? What are you doing? Speaking as someone who's had trouble getting motivated in the past, suddenly getting a month's rent worth of money to do it doesn't necessarily solve that, it just turns up the pressure, and if you're not someone who deals with pressure well, then you're more likely to wind up just burning out entirely rather than fulfilling that goal.

4.) The fact that they did, in fact, hit their goal just makes it all the shittier to think about because their audience is mostly made up of teenagers who worship the ground that they walk on. It's horrifying that they keep pulling these stunts with their audience, and getting away with it to boot - and Webtoons, as a company, keeps enabling it by allowing it to happen by hosting and promoting people like this.

Anyways, there's already a lot going on here that's sketchy, but then... they went and deleted their posts. At the time of this happening (as I was there to witness it all play out in real time) I assumed this meant that they had hit their $1k goal - especially as they had been showing their progress on their IG and they were already at $900 after just a couple hours - but it gave me a sinking feeling seeing them delete it because they had also been called out by some brave readers telling them that it wasn't exactly a good look to essentially blackmail their audience through their own content into giving them money.

Snailords deleting it gave me a stronger impression of "burying the evidence", especially now that they had the money. By all accounts, they could do whatever they wanted now.

So what did they decide to do?

. . . Huh?

Okay, take a second to actually think about what Snailords has done here. Because I know some of you will go "oh, it was for charity all along! that was nice of them!" but . . . I don't know about the legalities of collecting donation funds under false pretenses, but morally speaking, it's a really shitty thing to do. They stripped away the choices - limiting them to three - of what their readers could donate to, and what I think their readers don't understand - due to being mostly teenagers - is that they're tax-exempt individuals and they just unknowingly gave Snailords an easy $1k tax write-off. You really, really shouldn't collect donation funds like this without being honest, it's just a shitty thing to do, especially after you've already collected the money. It mostly just comes across as damage control on Snailords' part to make it seem like they were always planning to donate to charity, when in reality, if they wanted to donate to charity, they would have been honest about that at the start. Again, even if they wanted to do that from the start, it goes to show how little confidence they have in themselves or their audience that they have to stoop to methods like these instead of just doing it honestly.

And do you really think Snailords will actually do those extra episodes? Or donate that money? This is the same asshole who has manipulated their readers for money not once but twice, and now seems intent on doing it a third time just for the charm. This is the same person who practically sabotaged their own comic, Freaking Romance, because they apparently didn't like the romance genre and may as well have only done it for clout / views / etc.

What was especially odd - and I found this out from folks who actually read Death : Rescheduled (I do not) - was finding out that it wouldn't make sense for D : R to end in as many as 25 episodes, because apparently, the plot has basically just gotten going.

So it does seem like this is foreshadowing that D : R will wind up just like Freaking Romance, rushed into an ending that wasn't expected. And this, of course, has the people who read their work confused because D : R was supposed to be Snailords' passion project, their magnum opus, the project they wanted to do. So them holding the timing of an ending that shouldn't even be happening yet for ransom contradicts that original intention. Really, it just goes to show that Snailords has no passion, they're just in it purely for the money, to a degree that I can't even cheer them on for being a hustler because it's missing the honesty and integrity.

And of course, every single time Snailords finds a way to backpedal and take his audience for a ride, they hop right in without a single thought for themselves.

And no, none of this is to hate on the readers directly, I hold Snailords entirely responsible for this - they have an audience of impressionable, naive, gullible teenagers, and they know it, and take advantage of it every chance they get. It's why they weren't just honest about wanting to collect money for charity from the start. It's why they resorted to basically holding their own comic's progression for ransom during its midseason hiatus. It's why the deadline was 24 hours and why the posts are now gone.

Thankfully the Internet does what it does - any evidence that Snailords was trying to bury is now all over reddit, and hey, just for good measure, here's a post on Tumblr that's been sitting in my drafts for days now, days after people have already seemingly stopped talking about it. Don't let anyone bury or forget about the stunts Snailords is pulling on their audience, with a platform that they've been consistently given by Webtoons, because that's what they want you to do.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

A Little Bit More

25/12: Promise & Phone Sex - Billy Washington Word Count: 1.6k~ | Warnings: phone sex, dirty talk, masturbation (f and m) A/N: this exists in the Every Little Bit universe!

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

He always knew it was coming around, and yet he always hated it.

Her dad’s birthday was in between Christmas and New Year, that weird time where you don’t know what day it is, never seem to have enough food in and where you’re so disorientated in the post-Christmas haze that it’s like coming down from a sugar high.

It was the few times of year where she went away by herself, wanting to spare Billy from the absolute torture of being around her parents for a few days as she made excuse after excuse as to why they weren’t married yet.

Not that he minded, there was only so much of her mum Billy could take.

He’d seen her off at the train station, her duffel bag looking very much as big as her in the cutest way possible as she skipped off to the platform in her winter overcoat and scarf, the chill nipping at her cheeks.

It was only a few days. It was only a few days. He had to keep reminding himself. 

Billy sighed, tapping the remote control against his knee, only half-watching whatever terrible Friday night tele graced his flat. The pizza box was closed shut on the coffee table, having tried to cheer himself up with a takeaway.

His phone buzzed, and he couldn't help the smile that rose to his face, seeing her name in bright white letters on the face of it.

She'd promised to ring 9 o’clock on the dot, after all.

“Hiya, ya alright?” he answered, his voice sounding perkier already, his muscles relaxing once he heard her voice.

“Hey, you sound happy”, she replied low down the phone, and he could tell she was smiling by the way she said it.

“I am now,” he grinned, “just finished a 12 inch on my own.”

She groaned over the line, “Billy.”

“I'm joking, it's because I've heard your voice again.”

“Better,” she laughed breathily, “what you up to? Other than missing me, of course.”

He sighs, “Being a sad cunt, staying in with a beer watching whatever shite is on Channel 4.”

“Ooh dear,” she says unenthusiastically, “sounds dull, babe.”

Billy hummed in agreement, “What about you? What you up to?”

It was her turn to sigh, “fuck all, really. Mum and Dad went to go and see Mum's mate Jill, you know Jill don't you?”

“Yes, babe.”

“Yeah, well they left at five and are yet to be back. Convinced she's got them tied up in the basement.”

Billy laughed through his nose, “That actually sounds better than what she might actually be doing, chatting their bloody ears off.”

“Poor buggers, eh,” she laughed, “so I'm sat here on my tod.”

“What a shame you've got me to talk to then.”

He could hear her smile, “could be worse. You missing me?”

The alcohol had offered him a kind of confidence, and he sucked his teeth, holding back a grin, “You could say that. Missing something anyway.”

He heard her mischievous tone even over the crackle of the phone.

“Are you now?”

The line went quiet for a while, before a notification buzzed and Billy turned her on loudspeaker for a moment as he pulled his phone from his ear to check.

…has sent an image.

With one flick of his thumb, his jaw dropped, the depths of his gut becoming tight and hot by the picture she'd sent him. It was her figure reflected in a mirror, wearing clearly nothing but a large t-shirt (his, he noted) and pulling the spare fabric to one side to show her curves as well as her pebbled nipples beneath it.

“Jesus..”

She giggled over the phone, “is that a good ‘jesus’?”

“I-fuck, yes…”

Another one arrived, with her pulling up the hem of her shirt over her hips and expanse of her stomach, just beneath the shadow of her breasts.

“Christ, babe, what are you doing to me?”

She hummed, “sorry, you said you were missing me.”

Billy sighed looking at the photos, every now and then closing his eyes to will the feeling of her skin onto his fingertips, the warmth of her, the sounds she'd make for him. 

His breathing grew shallow as he reached into his jeans, wrapping one hand around his length, to softly pump himself, already half-hard since the moment the first picture arrived.

“Are you enjoying them?” she asked, a teasing lilt to her voice.

“Mmhm..” he murmured.

Another few arrived, in various stages. One where the shirt was fully over her breasts, one where she was wearing nothing at all leaning back to show her full naked torso, and one sat on the bed, the lines appearing where her hips met her thighs.

“Oh fuck…”

Over the phone, she could hear the clinking of his belt as he pleasured himself, “are you touching yourself, baby?”

He could only make a sound in confirmation, his throat closing as he fisted himself to the photos of her.

She sighed, as if her touching herself was expelling a deeply rooted desire, her hands sliding between her legs, the other holding the phone to her ear, “Mm…wish you were here…”

“-ffuck-me too, baby-”

His strained voice was enough to coax some slick between her fingers, using it to pleasure herself, laid back on the bed.

“are you on the sofa?...”

He swallowed, breathlessly replying, “yeah..”

“Do you remember before I left…” she started, and the memory nearly made Billy dizzy.

He was sat right where he is right now, legs apart to accommodate her kneeling there. She'd been annoyed that he was playing Xbox, and so, in an effort to make him lose his game, had knelt in front of him, pulled his sweatpants over his hips and eagerly took his length between her lips.

She'd gotten what she wanted. Before long, his controller was long forgotten and instead, his fingers were threaded through her hair, guiding her pace on him.

He can feel his stomach tightening at the memory of the sensation.

“Do you remember, baby?”

“Yes…”

“Hm..” she hummed, over the phone, while in her own bed began to hasten the pace of her self-pleasure.

"If I were there...do you know what I'd do?"

"What..." he breathed, his hold on his phone so tight without realising.

"I'd get up...off my knees...on top of you..." she muses, sighing at the feeling herself beginning to crest, "...maybe tease you a bit..."

"Fuck-no, baby, don't tease me-"

She let out a breathy laugh, "but why not? It's so much fun."

Her hips canted towards her own touch, her eyes fluttering shut as she held the phone loosely as the pressure tightened in her gut.

"What would you do, baby? If I was right there on top of you..."

His voice came strained, every stroke of his length in his fist drawing him close to fulfilment.

"I would - I'd fuckin' pull you down..."

She could tell he was close by the tone of his voice, and she bit back a smile, knowing he was much too far gone to even form a coherent thought.

"I'd let you fuck me...right there...be your little fuck toy..." She mused in a sort of whisper, "...you could cum inside me...as many times as you want, baby..."

Billy's lips parted, not even realising how his movements had become rapid, needy and quick.

"Oh fuck-"

On the other side she was close herself, and then she heard the prompt and pulled the phone away from her ear to see a request to switch to video call. She accepted without thinking and felt her gut twist at what she saw.

His jeans were pushed around his zipper barely, only enough to free his cock as he pumped it quickly. She was entranced as Billy pleasured himself in real time, her face growing warm at the effect she'd clearly had on him.

And then she heard it, a long shuddered whimper of her name, followed by, "Oh baby-"

She felt her thighs tremble as she came, warmth rushing beneath her hips and a tingling sensation rushing from her toes all the way up her spine, as Billy groaned deeply and spilled all over his fingers for her to see.

Her hand has slowed, overstimulation gnawing as she touched herself with Billy's languid thrusts into his hand continuing to pull a deep arousal from her.

Over the video she heard his laboured breaths, gulping for air.

When the video turned off she smiled tiredly and pulled her phone back to her ear, hearing his tired, exhausted voice.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathed. She could imagine him, all spent and limp on the sofa, and the thought made her smirk and press her thighs together with want.

"Mm, you're telling me. Do you feel better now?" She asked demurely.

"Fuck you," he teased, "fuck, I can't wait for you to get back..."

She gave a short laugh, "Oh yeah? What you gonna do when I am?"

He was quiet for so long she wondered if he'd heard her, her brows furrowed in confusion, lips parted to ask him if he was still there.

But realistically, on the other end, a wide smile graced his face, his blue eyes all aglimmer with mischief.

And what he said had the power to shut her right up. Excitement made her stomach flip, wondering what version of Billy she seems to have unleashed. Gone was the shy, unconfident Billy she'd found. Her efforts in getting him to...unwind somewhat shocking even her.

"How did you put it, hm?" he laughed, with a smile so bright like he'd just opened a present, "My little fuck toy?"

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @virtualsweetsqueen @watercolorskyy @fan-goddess

[ultrakill-confessions]

No idea if this goes against the rules, I re-read them a bit to make sure, though I'm not 100% confident. This post isn't intended as a vent, although it may read as one. ULTRAKILL has both helped and warped(?) parts of my life. I have a really horrible fixation on ULTRAKILL. I don't tend to scale things because trying to say "I'm a bigger fan than you are because X, Y and Z!!!1!1!" has always pissed me off and generally rubs me the wrong way. However, for me, I do feel like this is in a similar vein (vein like castle v-), and is GENUINELY to a worrying degree imo. Maybe someone else can relate? Unsure.

For context on some of this, I deal with a dissociative disorder, and I'm a split of V1. Even with that, I can only think of one other instance where it complicated an interest of ours this badly. I think about ULTRAKILL every hour on the hour, I'm not even sure if I go ten minutes w/o thinking about it. And I live a healthy (relatively) life! I'm able to do things, go outside, enjoy life to the best of my ability, hold a job, college, etc. and have gotten better w/ socializing (autism really messes w/ this one); I am just fucking insane about ULTRAKILL. This shit consumes a large chunk of my frontal lobe, hand to God. I constantly plan out and/or make fanfictions (though never post em because being an ao3 author is a little spooky, can't lie gehshe), drawings, animations. Dawg I even get GYM MOTIVATION from ULTRAKILL. Body goals? THE MACHINE. I listen to the soundtrack while I work out (my bias to Order, Death of God's Will, Colliding Stars and The Abyss and the Serpent really poke out here). In fact, ULTRAKILL even helped with my gender and sexual (not inherently trying to be NSFW here) identities! Legitimately made me come to the realization that we might align more with being agender than transmasculine, and that we have no idea what our disaster of a sexuality is collectively, so we just say queer! And even though it's still hard to express ourselves, that has helped so much in feeling more .. at comfort? Correct? I dunno. There’s also a lack of need for labels at all now. It feels so fuckin’ goofy to say this because it HAS consumed a part of my life to the point where I feel like I'm peak brain-rotting at times, however it's also really helped, too?? Like in the most oxymoronic way ULTRAKILL has helped me develop as a person. The imaginary scenarios and art I use aids me in my expression and thought and even brings out more of my creativity. Ironically, despite not really wanting to be perceived as a human being, it has made me feel more like a person. I have a love-hate relationship with it only for the intensity of how much I adore it. It makes me upset when I no longer feel like I’m “me” enough, and yet ironically it has helped me to be healthier in other areas. lowkey use it to cope w/ the religious trauma sometimes too haha I will say, though, for a while I thought (and still sometimes do think) it was ruining my mental state. The identity issues, artist envy, missing my source/individuals from it (+ pseudo-memories and heavy dissociation as a whole if I'm being real), and general hyperfixation woes get very heavy at times. Interest so bad I have to look away sometimes when I see voice actor work, SFM's, etc. Not very proud of that. I never express these issues heavily to anybody except my sibling and a few close friends, simply due to the nature of people, especially on the internet, along with the complexity of having to explain an illness that is so severely stigmatized. My current issue is just holding back from spending my money on merch lmao (I may just draw myself with it to cope /hj). I am cringe and I will soon be free! Apologies if this post is depressing and/or repetitive. uhh, I've seen some anons name themselves, so camaraderie anon here?? LOL sorry. (p.s shoutout to the sisyphus likers and people who hate his mischaracterization YOU ARE THE REAL ONES!!!)

-

[odessa-castle]

I'm bouncing around a larger post about Nishiki and the mortifying ordeal of being known, but in the meantime I'm thinking about Nishiki and Kiryu and how the clothes make (or don't make) the man. Like, beyond my visceral horror that Kiryu begged Nishiki to pick out a safe and boring suit for him in Y0 and then said he was envisioning something purple with gold stripes.

I'm thinking about Nishiki's incredible sensitivity to image and his need to control how he's perceived. I'm thinking about Kiryu's inability to let go of the past. I'm thinking about how KIryu dresses like who he thinks he is, and Nishiki dresses like who he thinks he wants to be.

There's some interesting incidental dialogue between Nishiki and Kiryu in Y0 while they're en route to the men's suit store. I wish it wasn't so easy to miss, because there's a lot to unpack here. (I'm just transcribing the English in-game subtitles here; I don't speak Japanese so I have no idea how loose vs. direct the localization is in this part.)

NISHIKI: …now that I think about it, you've been dressing like an old man since we were kids. KIRYU: Have I? NISHIKI: Yeah. The few times we got to pick our clothes, it was always like, "you're choosing THAT?" NISHIKI: I wouldn't say you're a plain guy…You'd pick shirts with weird prints though. KIRYU: Guess I forgot all that. It's weirder to me that you haven't. NISHIKI: Well, confession time. You're why I started caring about fashion. I swore I'd never go out dressed like you. KIRYU: Come on, I'm not THAT bad. [we have already discussed why kiryu is, in fact, that bad.] NISHIKI: [laughing] Aww, did I hurt your feelings? NISHIKI: Well, this time you've got me with you. I'll see my bro gets taken care of. KIRYU: Heh. What an honor. NISHIKI: Leave it to me.

Nishiki doesn't bring up Sunflower Orphanage much; when he does share memories of his childhood, those memories are kind of painful (see: "do orphans not get to dream?"). Kiryu's surprised that Nishiki remembers how they dressed as kids, but it makes sense that wearing a limited selection of hand-me-downs stuck with Nishiki so strongly. His clothes announced his poverty, and they weren't even his -- he had to share them with the other orphans, so what he wore showed he belonged to yet another stigmatized group. And I'm sure people picked up on those visual signals, especially other kids. Kids can be vicious, and appearance is an easy and immediate target! We don't know for sure how young Nishiki interacted with his peers and teachers, but given what the Morning Glory kids go through in Y3 (and given, like, everything about Nishiki), he probably didn't have a great time.

Kiryu frames his childhood as poor but loving, and places much more emphasis on the latter. There might be some rose-colored glasses at work there -- let's look at the flashback where Kazama tries (and fails) to violently dissuade Kiryu and Nishiki from joining the yakuza.

KIRYU: I owe you everything, but this isn’t about that. [...] We’ve looked up to you for all this time. Your car. Your confidence… The way everybody bows to you. We idolized you. I want that life, too. Is that so wrong!?

Nishiki doesn't really speak in this flashback, but like, Kiryu uses "we" enough for us to draw some obvious conclusions about Nishiki's own motivations. That being said, I don't think Kiryu's being dishonest or disingenuous when he describes his childhood as happy, and himself as well-loved. He's not ashamed of his upbringing, and he doesn't hide where he came from. Nishiki seems to have the inverse view. It's not that he doesn't love (at least some of) the people he grew up with, but what comes up first for him is what he didn't have. He didn't have money. He didn't have respect. He didn't have a cure for his little sister. He didn't have a lot of choice, right down to the clothes he wore.

(There's a whole other essay here about why Kiryu's and Nishiki's perspectives diverge on this, but I'm trying to limit the scope of this post. Suffice to say that, while I don't think game canon gives a timeline, I do think Nishiki was a little older when his parents were killed -- old enough that he actually remembers them, at least.)

The same mindset fuels Nishiki's interest in fashion. Yeah, part of it is that he's ribbing Kiryu, but I think it goes deeper than Kiryu wearing ugly shirts. Nishiki doesn't want people to look at him and see what's missing. Fashion isn't a means of personal expression for him, really. It's a message. It's the interplay of knowledge and resources and presentation: knowing what clothes read as successful and trendy and expensive, being able to afford those things, and convincing people that your successful important outfit makes you a successful important person. And he's not wrong about the social dimensions of fashion.

NISHIKI: Try sporting a suit that runs 500 grand for once. Trust me, you’ll see the world in a whole new light. KIRYU: Fashion’s not my thing. Besides, Kazama-san never wore flashy clothes. NISHIKI: You do realize he’s the family captain, right? Number two in the whole Dojima operation? You get to that level, you can wear whatever you damn well please. But for the rest of us, “flashy” is part of the business. KIRYU: So that fancy new car you bought was just “business”. NISHIKI: Yeah, and that fancy lighter of mine, too. Which you still haven’t given back. KIRYU: You want to play the rich guy, quit being so stingy. NISHIKI: But you get what I’m saying, right? People see the expensive car, the designer jacket, and the gleam of that little Dojima pin, they pay attention. A yakuza’s only as good as his image. [...] Take your buddy today. These squeaky-clean idiots, borrowing money just to blow on tits and booze… Nobody in this town gives a crap about substance. What you see is what you get.

That's our first take on one of the major themes of the game: what does it mean to be yakuza? Again, there is truth to what Nishiki's saying here, particularly in terms of the ethos of the eighties. I'm not an expert on the bubble era, but the worldbuilding in the game speaks for itself. People hail taxis with 10,000-yen bills. You punch money out of punks during random street battles. Nishiki keeps a personal bottle of high-end booze at a bar he's visited twice, mostly because he "can’t stand being taken for a bum." The act of spending is important, not what you're spending it on.

Nishiki's outfit in Y0 is perfectly suited (heh) to that outlook. And look, I might be inviting controversy here, but in context, I think it's a werq. Yes, it's loud. But the silhouette -- squared shoulders, single breasted, thinner peaked lapel -- is right on trend for the time period, and it fits him well. The colors look good on him. The bold pattern (no, it's not animal print) under the solid maroon is a risk, but he pulls it off. And excess aside, he knows when to pull back on the accessories. It's bright and confident and memorable, and boy would Nishiki like to be all of those things.

Also -- and importantly -- Kiryu would never go out dressed like that. Because we can't talk about Nishiki and Kiryu without talking about Nishiki's Mt. Fuji-sized inferiority complex. Mastering image doesn't just make Nishiki stand out; it makes him stand out from Kiryu. Let's go back to the beginning of the game.

NISHIKI: I’ll admit, though, you’re finally starting to look the part. You make a pretty convincing yakuza. You’re done with collections today, right? KIRYU: Yeah. NISHIKI: Good. That should put Kazama-san’s mind at ease a bit. KIRYU: Heh, dunno about that. But he always knew all I could do is fight. You’re the one who’s good at the dance.

Nishiki then calls attention to the "rags" that Kiryu's wearing, which...is not an unfair assessment. (TUCK IN YOUR SHIRT, KIRYU. HEM YOUR PANTS.) As the two of them walk around Kamurocho, Nishiki offers Kiryu plenty of hot tips, from meeting girls to making big bucks to cozying up to the brass. But even when Nishiki's opining on his area of expertise, there's a competitive edge to it. "You asking me to pick out clothes for you means you admit you have terrible taste," he tells Kiryu on the way to the suit shop. Kiryu tells him to shut up, but there's no actual hurt behind it. Kiryu doesn't really care that his taste in clothes sucks. Fashion isn't important to him. Most of the things Nishiki knows so much about don't really matter to Kiryu. And that makes Nishiki feel more insecure! Because if Kiryu rolls out of bed looking like a yakuza, if Nishiki's image counseling sessions aren't helpful or meaningful, if Kiryu can skip the dance and get to the top on the strength of his fists and convictions, then who cares about Nishiki's 500 grand suit or his hourlong hair care routine? If image isn't what makes a yakuza, what does that make Nishiki?

At the end of Chapter 6, Nishiki tries to look out for Kiryu again -- this time, by granting him a merciful death before the Dojima Family drags him to the Hole. It's one of my favorite scenes in the game. Nishiki's crying too hard to aim the gun properly; Kiryu tells him to man up and shoot. Finally, Nishiki collapses.

NISHIKI: Can’t do it… How could I shoot you!? Without you, I’ll always be nothing. Can’t make it as a yakuza… No. I wouldn’t even still be alive now if I didn’t have you beside me! I’m just… If you’re not with me, I’m useless! Nothing means anything!

Mastering image hasn't granted Nishiki anything of substance. At the end of the day, Nishiki's playing dress-up, and he knows it.

And I'm almost certainly getting into overthinking-this territory now (if I haven't gotten there already), but I kind of like the spin this puts on Nishiki ripping his expensive suit off in Chapter 14 when he decides to fight the Dojima Family at Kiryu's side. Like yes, ripping off your outer layers to get at the naked (so to speak) truth -- your irezumi, and what it represents -- is just Yakuza Storytelling 101. It's decisive, it's kind of dumb, it's great, it gets me hyped every time. But I like that Nishiki's honest answer to "what does it mean to be a yakuza?" isn't about looking the part. I am genuinely trying not to end this paragraph by saying that Nishiki must become like a dragon, but like...you get where I'm going with this.

Of course, Nishiki's back to playing dress-up in Y1/Kiwami. I'm not the first to call the Patriarch Nishikiyama look a glow-down (though I like the patterned white tie). Like, fashion-conscious Nishiki would look good in a Hedi Slimane/Tom Ford-esque skinny black suit. But he picks a silhouette you'd expect to see on a much older man, torso-swallowing pants and all. The slicked-back hair doesn't help. He's just so transparently trying to look bigger and broader and older, and he doesn't pull it off. Big Bad Patriarch isn't a good look for him, in any sense of the phrase.

A final thought: Kiryu's clothes, and Nishiki's commentary on them, are the subject of their first conversation in Y0 -- and of their last. Kiryu's costume progression in Y0 is a pretty obvious commentary on his journey, to the point where Kiryu and Nishiki explicitly call attention to the color connotations in their final exchange. As a Dojima grunt, he wears black, and it doesn't look good on him because "brutish thug who keeps his head down and does what he's told" isn't a role he's comfortable with. He wears white when he works in real estate, but the change in color isn't enough to sell anyone on his transformation into a civilian. Although it's a little rich for Oda "Red Clown Shoes" Jun to chide someone for not wearing a proper suit. At the end of the game, Kiryu's in his classic grey suit, and well, the game spells it out:

KIRYU: I’m not feeling black or white these days. This is where I’m at right now. I chose it myself. I’m making it a fresh start. NISHIKI: Fine, fine. See if I care! Wear it the rest of your life!

Nishiki, dismayed, tells Kiryu that the grey suit already looks dated, but for Kiryu, "fresh start" doesn't mean "on trend". His image might be out of step with how other yakuza view themselves, or want to be seen, but if he's always going to look like a yakuza, he might as well stake his claim on what being a yakuza means. Still, it's telling that, even as a young man, Kiryu looks like a throwback to an earlier era. As the series progresses, the games hammer this home more and more. How many antagonists tell Kiryu that he's out of touch with the modern world, that he represents a version of the yakuza that no longer exists, that it's time for him to make way for the next generation?

"Wear it the rest of your life!" is a funny little in-joke, yeah, but...it's a little sad when you think about it, isn't it? Kiryu gets new outfits from Y3 on -- and in every game, he ultimately puts the suit back on and heads to Kamurocho. It's exactly of a piece with how Kiryu views being yakuza. We, and he, can debate the exact extent of his retirement from the Tojo Clan's affairs, but the yakuza isn't a career for Kiryu, it's a set of beliefs he carries with him. He wears the suit the same way he wears the dragon on his back: as an indelible part of his self-image.

[gorgeouslypink]

hii pink. i'm a little scared to post this publicly but honestly what's the worst that could happen LMAO.

anyways,, i'm in a little bit of a rough spot w the void. i've reached the point where i can confidently say that i've had enough epiphanies to know that i'm doing everything absolutely right— i know that i'm the operant power and that there's nothing beyond or above me. every morning before my 'attempts' i pep talk myself/subconscious and basically remind myself that i have no limits and there's nothing i can't achieve and all i need to do is decide. i go in so confident and completely convinced that this is 'the one',, i affirm to keep my mind focused and place my awareness on being one w myself. i see the void as a state like any other. everything about my physical body and realm is a product of my assumptions so i know i don't have to jump through hoops to separate myself from my own creations. i could go a little more into this but honestly my mindset is perfect as far as i'm concerned.

i've been like this for a few days now ?? i'm not sure how many exactly but i know it's been long enough to completely purge the old story as i never walk away from an attempt discouraged and immediately revise it. i do have a small amount of opposing thoughts from time to time but they're really weak and i shut down them down immediately with a "these thoughts are not mine and have nothing to do with me".

i'm sorry this is a lot but i just wanted to give insight on my situation before i ask why i haven't 100% tapped in yet. i completely understand if you don't have any advice for me,, i'll keep persisting no matter what.

also to anyone else who might see this; it might not mean much but please don't be discouraged by my situation !!! you and i are totally different beings so my lack of complete success has absolutely nothing to do with you,, keep pushing and don't mind me :)

Hi love! I honestly stay away from LOA asks because I didn't use LOA during my own void journey and I have not researched it enough to be at a degree of giving others advice on it, as well as my opinion that the law is very reliant of interpretation, meaning it might be understood and utilized by everyone in a different way. However, I just thought that your ask was so sweet so I'll try my best to answer. I'll start off with this quote:

"If, having read this book, having a thorough knowledge of the application and working of the law of assumption, you faithfully apply it in an effort to attain some intense desire and fail, what is the reason? If, to the question "Did you persist enough?", you can answer "Yes" – and still the attainment of your desire was not realized, what is the reason for failure?

The answer to this is the most important factor in the successful use of the law of assumption.

The time it takes your assumption to become fact, your desire to be fulfilled, is directly proportionate to the naturalness of your feeling of already being what you want to be – of already having what you desire."

-Neville Goddard, The Power of Awareness

During my own void journey, I struggled with the law. There are a few things that I manifested but others, I struggled with, including the void and I ended up entering without LOA. However, now as I've helped others on their void journeys, and have read more posts from all the amazing bloggers here as well Neville's work itself, I've realized that the thing that I was missing from my manifestation equation was exactly this: feeling my desire to be natural.

And how do you feel your desire to be natural?

"The essential feeling of naturalness can be achieved by persistently filling your consciousness with imagination – imagining yourself being what you want to be or having what you desire."

-Neville Goddard, The Power of Awareness

So the key things to take away so far is that for our desire to come into fruition, we ourselves must rest easy in the feeling of naturalness (It needs to seem natural to you). How do you do this? Be persistently imagining yourself with your desire, imagine and feel it until it feels natural to you.

This is kind of like when you keep practicing something, like a presentation over and over, pretending like you're acctually presenting. At first, you kind of forget words here and there and it just feels unnatural but as you keep practicing, doesn't it feel way more natural and eventually it is just natural and you know youre going to wing it? Same thing applies to the void. You need to keep imagining that you've already entered, with whatever scenario that may be, over and over so that entering the void and succeeding feels natural to you.

This is why I personally vouch for SATS. In SATS, you turn to your imagination and feel yourself in the feeling of the wish fufilled and keep repeating until you fall asleep, so that you fall asleep in the state of the wish fufilled, allowing for you to attain a feeling of naturalness that will guarantee your desire.

You have to understand that the basis of the law is that an assumption, though false, if persisted in, will harden into fact. Anything you can assume and create with your imagination can come true, but the way to bring your desire into fruition is by attaining the feeling of naturalness and the method I personally interpret as the best way to do do is SATS, so I recommend looking into this and this post.

I hope this helps! 💗

[ftm-radio]

My gender is 4 years old

...and four days, as of April 15th. This post is a bit late. 😅

Four years ago, all the confusing little puzzle pieces I'd been collecting came together in a genuine eureka! moment and I realized I was transgender. It was exhilarating and terrifying and it undeniably changed my life for the better.

The last few years have felt pretty damn slow and I've had to scramble over a few frustrating obstacles (never changing my name AGAIN, lmao, that was annoying as fuck) but it's all been worth it and now it feels like I'm really making headway.

I started testosterone this past year! I did that! I'm almost 7 months on T now! Currently on a dose of two pumps of gel, which I have only missed applying once in all that time because I was literally sick. The changes are gradual but they are real and they have already brought me so much joy and made me so much happier in my humble flesh prison. 💗

The most anticipated change for me (and for a lot of transmasc folks, I imagine) is my voice, and BOY (heh) am I happy to share this data comparison with you:

[ LEFT: A screenshot from the Voice Pitch Analyzer app, dated November 3rd, 2021. It shows that OP's voice registers fully within the female voice range. RIGHT: Another screenshot from the app, dated April 12th, 2024. This one shows that OP's voice registers mostly between the Androgynous and Male voice ranges. ]

My voice is so different now. It sounds different, it feels different, and in just the last week or so I swear it has gotten a little rougher and raspier and I am LIVING. I could not be happier!!!

...okay, fine, I could be happier lmao.

I'm adjusting to my deeper voice and still learning how to use it in a way I like & that feels best to me, so I'm starting to do some casual at-home voice training again after basically forgetting about the concept completely since 2021. (Whoops.) But I am already so much happier and more content with my voice than I have ever been in my life, so it's only getting better from here, lads. <3

I've also had to go to a lot of appointments and answer a ton of phone calls about said appts recently because I kinda fucked up my eyeball (it's better now, don't worry! and be gentle to your eyes, they are delicate and eye drops are so fucking annoying when you're doing them seven times a day, jfc) and my voice has reached a point where I was a lot more comfortable interacting with strangers and I also didn't notice any surprise or confusion when I introduced myself with a male name! It was kind of amazing.

Also singing is even more fun now. I love love LOVE singing along with a male vocalist and feeling the way my voice kinda rumbles through my chest. 10/10 sensory experience.

Other changes aren't nearly as exciting or obvious as my voice, but here's a quick (?) rundown, for those who are curious:

Mood — Gotta be honest, I don't think I've really noticed any significant change in my day-to-day mood, though I may not be the best judge for this because I have trouble figuring out what/how I'm feeling in general, tbh. But I think I have certainly gotten more comfortable and content with myself and I'd even go so far as to say I feel a little more confident these days. It's nice, I appreciate it.

Acne — I definitely noticed a change in how my acne presents itself on my face. I wouldn't say it's worse than before (I've had very bad acne since I was a young teenager and only got medication for it like, last year which has helped immensely) but I think it's different. More little red spots and roughness than the unpleasant and painful pimples I'm used to. I don't even mind it, really. Oddly affirming.

Facial Hair — I've got facial hair. I really do!!! Not clickbait!!! It's not much, not enough for me to be brave and take my dad up on his offer of shaving lessons quite yet, but it has grown in enough that I don't feel silly including it in self portraits! 🤭🧔🏻 Got a little bit of a mustache happening, a little bit at the sides of my face, some fuzz on my chin (with one LONG hair that I can only assume has been greedy and stealing his brothers' growth), and a frankly surprising lil patch of hair under my jaw. On a semi-related note, not sure if my brows have gotten much darker/thicker. They might have? idk.

my new discord icon, hehe... 👁💜🪓

Body Hair — I have gotten a little more hair on my forearms, and it may have gotten a little darker too! I have a tattoo on my arm just below my left wrist and it's been surprisingly helpful for measuring arm hair growth because for years my tattoo was not covered by hair at all but the left side of it's a little fuzzy now... 😏 I've gotten more noticeable hair growth on my upper arms, which were basically hairless before (free gender euphoria every time I put on my T) and on my thighs. Don't think my lower legs have gotten much hairier, and I'm a little impatient about it lmao. I want to get hairy enough to rival my brother.

Energy/Appetite — Can't say I've really noticed any differences here? I am not a very active person and I already struggled with appetite and getting myself to eat before I started T (thank you adhd & poor eating habits 🥲💀), so I can't quite tell if I'm ignoring more hunger signals than usual. 😅 I am hoping to get more active and start doing more physical activity now that it's starting to get warmer outside again, so hopefully that will help me see these sorts of changes and also get me into some better eating habits as I expend more energy and work up a proper appetite! (Also, since we're on the topic... a reminder for all of us that taking care of yourself and feeding the body you live in is a million times more important than aesthetics and numbers on a scale. ❤)

Menstruation — I am still getting my period right on schedule, but I am happy to say it is considerably lighter than it was before I started testosterone! My period has begun getting shorter, too. It lasted for roughly 7–9 days before, but I was bleeding for exactly 7 days last month, and only 6 days this month. I'm not sure if this trend will continue at such a dramatic rate, but if my next round is only 5 days I will be very excited about it, lol. My uterus can retire any day now, please...

Bottom Growth — if any of my friends read this part, don't speak to me about it lmao — Yeah... there's a little bit of something happening down there. Not a lot, and I haven't really noticed any pain or sensitivity, but there's a Difference. Aaaaand I like it. 😌 I am looking forward to any and all future developments. 😏👉🏻👉🏻

Okay! I think that's it, really.

I know I haven't been super active on this blog for quite a while now (I have really gotten into fandom blogging on my main lmao, and also discord is my favorite thing right now, it's where 90% of my friends live) so I hope this nice, long, ramble-y post makes up for that a little bit. <3

Not gonna make any promises that I'll post here more often, but y'know. I might. It could happen. Definitely not leaving this blog to sit and gather dust, that's for sure. I'll still be reblogging stuff semi-frequently, even if I'm not writing up my own posts.

So goodbye for now, and thanks for tuning in! 👋🏻📻💖💙✨️

[missycolorful]

omgg, i saw a few posts about the glass child stuff but never really got too into it bc i felt like they were always missing something. i wasn't really sure what that was until i saw your post, where you mentioned lullahs abandonment issues, and everything just clicked. it just all makes sense now bc i know one of the biggest proponents to the "chays STILL a glass child" is qphils seemingly continuing to prioritize lullah over chay, when looking back at most of said moments it does feel more like a dad making sure the child who was abandoned doesnt feel like that ever again. i also feel like some of the issues come with qphils falling into habits, lullah hasn't really needed extra help in a while, but i don't feel as if that notion has fully into qphils mind yet. i would just love if both lullah and chay got one on one time with qphil bc i love them together, but i think each of them often times holds something back for the others' sake, y'know? lullah and bads and/or chay and tubbos recent solo hangouts kinda showcase the difference in dynamic. anyways, tl;dr you have amazing insight and an attention to detail that i, and i feel like a majority of others, missed out on, and i would love to see more character analysis/insights done by you, if you're interested of course!

oh my goodness, thank you you're far too kind, haha!! 😭

yeah, tbh, I'm kinda surprised that part of Phil's reasoning was either not considered or even ignored. When he mentioned them "being alone," Tallulah's abandonment issues instantly came to mind; it's a huge part of her arc, y'know? So, yeah I can't see this as him accommodating Lullah's disabilities while disregarding Chay; rather, it was him thinking about her literal trauma. If it were switched (Chay had these issues, not Lullah), Phil would go for him in a heartbeat. Why people spun it as "he wasn't worried about Chay" is wild to me.

i also feel like some of the issues come with qphils falling into habits,

mhhm, that's about the crux of it. Yes, q!Phil has trained Tallulah in PVP , and neither he nor Chay recently hover over her during pvp, but when it comes to adjusting to how much his kids have changed, we're still getting there. And not just cuz of, like I said, being separated during Purgatory makes it hard for Phil to grasp what they went through. But bc he himself isn't quite in tune with his own emotions/trauma. It's a detriment to helping his children and growing as a parent, and is part of his own character growth that he is surely yet steadily going through.

And YES! I'd LOVE for the kids to have one-on-ones with Philza. They usually come in pairs, which y'know, is what makes a lot of these issues so difficult. The kids don't have time to be alone with their father, bc they're typically online with him at the same time. I crave that sole father/son bonding, not just bc they need it, but because I love their dynamic so much <3

tbh, i usually limit my character analysis to my main POV, sometimes others if I feel confident enough (i.e. Missa, Baghera). Last thing I wanna do is write analysis that does injustice to a character - any cc!phil fan knows this pain, both in this fandom and others lol! and also some characters I'm admittedly… kinda scared to talk about bc some fans get uber defensive if you talk about any of their negative traits; all fanbases have people like this, of course, crows are NO exception, but this one specifically just… I'd need to be prompted to discuss this character whom I won't specify haha. regardless, if you or anyone else ever wants to ask about my insights on qsmp characters, whether q!Phil or others, I'm more than willing to at least give it a try. thank you again! :)

[bethanydelleman]

Jane fairfax anon here with another question 😭 I'm curious as to how secret engagements actually worked? I can understand for edward and lucy that they lived in the same house and were cousins, there must have been some moments when they were alone, just the two of them. But how did jane and frank manage it without attracting the notice of the Campbells and their other acquaintances? If they spent too much time with each other they would have attracted attention. Also, from Sense and Sensibility I understood that it was impossible to receive a letter without the whole household knowing about it. The only plausible explanation is that Jane sneaked out at night lmao but that doesn't really sit with her character? I'm curious about what you think, how do you think they managed to meet in private, often and enough to get into and arrange a secret engagement?

Hey! So quick correction first, Edward and Lucy are not cousins (Mrs. Jennings and Lucy are allegedly cousins, I wouldn't put it past Lucy to make that up). But yes, she would visit her uncle while Edward was at school and then when he was hanging out after graduating. They had a lot of time possibly alone.

On to Jane Fairfax! We actually have some clues as to how they met and fell in love. Firstly, the Campbells might know a lot more than they let on:

With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not told. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to Highbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with those kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells, whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double, or treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that they depended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the recovery of her health, than on any thing else.

This is about Jane not accompanying the family to Ireland, where obviously it would be hard for her to meet with Frank. I will be bold enough to say that the Campbells probably have strong suspicions of an attachment, if not outright knowledge of the engagement. Maybe Frank was going to try and go with them but he was denied by his aunt?

Next, some hints, mostly dropped by Frank Churchill:

I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.... I have been used to hear her’s admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:—a man [Mr. Dixon], a very musical man, and in love with another woman [Miss Campbell]—engaged to her—on the point of marriage—would yet never ask that other woman [Jane] to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down instead—never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other.

Now this last statement from Frank gives Emma suspicions, but there is an easy second explanation. By having Jane play, Mr. Dixon could talk in confidence to Miss Campbell. But we know Frank can't stay away from the instrument, he was no doubt there, turning her music pages and singing duets. Also, sounds like they hung out at Weymouth a lot. We know they both danced and sang duets at Weymouth.

The early letter from Jane to her grandmother also gives me suspicions:

and as Jane used to be very often walking out with them—for Colonel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about their daughter’s not walking out often with only Mr. Dixon, for which I do not at all blame them

So either Frank (who seems to have a lot of autonomy to travel within England) is meeting them during these walks in London or Miss Campbell is taking Jane to the post office. Sneaky sneaks!!!

I also suspect that it was Frank, not Mr. Dixon, who saved Jane from falling off the sailboat. This would be perfect actually because Emma's suspicions that Jane fell in love with Mr. Dixon also stem from this dramatic episode.

I do think it is a whirlwind engagement, but the key really seems to be Weymouth and I have strong suspicions that Miss Campbell was playing matchmaker.

[yourgirlniki]

Jackie and Wilson

"For whatever poor soul is coming next"

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x f!reader

3k words

Tags!: No use of y/n, fluff, down bad Johnny MacTavish, not completely canon accurate Soap, first fic! 😎👍

A/N: This is based on Hozier's song Jackie and Wilson - I'm thinking I want this to be the beginning of a collection of one-shots based on his songs, depending on my free time! But again, first fic so please any comments would be greatly appreciated! Was nervous to post but ya only live once Hope you enjoy!

The cushion on the back of the booth wasn’t the most comfortable thing ever. The deep red bump didn’t do much to help an aching back, more of a thing that somewhat fixed the posture of those who sat at it. But who goes to a bar for comfort anyway? Dingy bars aren’t the first place most people would think to go back to after nearly dying halfway across the world.

The sticky floors, the mesh of posters and old mementos hanging on the brick walls. The neon lights, the potent smell- its headache inducing and you don't even have a hangover yet. And there are too many people in here, crowding pool tables and the small dance floor, (if you can even call it that), to be called someplace one would go to calm down and relax.

This is a fact that is true for most people.

But most people aren’t military. Even fewer are SAS.

And absolutely none are John MacTavish.

The man who idolizes the chaotic ways of the world above all else. That’s what has him still in the job quite frankly. The chaos, the ability to live and thrive in an insane environment. For someone like him, these things never truly bothered him. In an odd sense, the smell of alcohol, sweat and far too many bad ideas feel closer to home than he’s been in a few months. A comfort that most don't understand. But he does.

So even as exhaustion tries to take hold, the scott wears a signature giddy smile, adds a seemingly impossible pep to his step, and he drags the 141 into a back table, somehow always energetic. Even after practically wasting away in a desert for the past 3 months, he has energy. It’s honestly absurd.

Even worse is that he always finds a way for that energy to become contagious. As much as his teammates joke and grumble about it, Johnny was their way of restoration, to push forward. He would choose a shitty bar, and even shittier alcohol over a quiet apartment or the pile of paperwork that had to get done at some point. And so, the boys would too. Even if they hid it behind the facade of “babysitting” the grown man.

So now, here they sat, against the trashy cushions, with crappy music, in the dimly lit bar, with smiles and a sense of belonging. They call it a “celebration” of a mission well done, a nod to their success. Definitely not an excuse to just drink the night away, to get the mission out of their heads for a bit. To laugh with comrades and just be… domestic? Is that right? Close enough.. Yeah? Finding their small slot back into normal society.

Don’t get him wrong, Johnny loves his job. Loves what he does, but who doesn’t want to just have a drink at a bar with his mates every once and a while? And that's why he has his third beer in his hand and is snorting and a story Gaz is telling about one of his most recent hookups. A lady who was.. “Bloody crazy! I mean it. Seemed nice at first but don't be fooled, she was insane!”

Yeah, this is home. It’s where he belongs, where he wants to belong, he thinks. With his men, in the middle of nowhere chatting about anything and everything. Confiding in and teasing each other. He trusts them with his life, he can trust them to listen when need be. And yet… there is always that ache. The strange pull in moments like these like something is still missing. It’s been happening more often lately. And it's like an itch Johnny can't scratch. A puzzle piece he can't find but is still absent mindedly searching for. The only issue is he doesn't know what it is, that it just- isn't.

The chatter fades to a muffled sound in the scotts ears for a moment as he lets out a small, genuine smile looking at his group, sipping at the drink in his hand as his forearms lay themselves on the table, hands clasping. Taking a moment to truly thank whatever may be pulling the strings. Bringing him and his boys to safety. And maybe even a small prayer to tell him what the odd nagging in his brain is about. He takes a breath and relaxes, just for a moment. Looking around the bar, truly just admiring the world around him, the bustle of it all, the people with their own lives and ambitions.

How was he supposed to know that was a fatal mistake on his part?

He couldn’t. He didn’t.

He found out a second to late, registered it after he knew he was done for. It was one moment, a mistake, a pause, that would stick with him for as long as it dared. It was a magnet, an invisible force that pulled his very being toward it. The moment he nearly drooled his drink out from his now slack jaw.

Because when his eyes connect with the woman walking through the door, he swears time stopped.

Suddenly, the crappy bar didn’t smell as bad, the music wasn’t too loud, the cushion no longer made his back ache, the room got brighter just from her smile. The very ground shifted, and not in the drunken haze way. He warmed up, eyes wide. A thought process that if he opened them more he would see more. God, it felt like getting a cavity by now, she felt too sweet to even look at.

In a single moment the world shattered around him, everything he knew was thrown out a window, as his mind was occupied by one thought only.

It was only a moment… but by then he knew he was fucked, utterly and completely.

Fate or destiny, call it what you may. An answered prayer, an utter coincidence. It didn’t matter. The bar turned into a museum, a place to observe and admire as his eyes widened impossibly more as his head tilted watching her move. A giggle slipped under his breath as he thought he could be mistaken for Ghost at this point, with his starring.

But your pull, it was undeniable. Even the thought of looking away would cause you to vanish in a blink, never for Johnny to see again. And he couldn’t have that. Not when it was astonishing in the way you simply were.

It only got worse as your group got closer to theirs. A mere table away. When you first walked in it was a trap, a line that was cast into his pond and he was falling for the bait. Confidence is something he is used to in his line of work, but it was usually the cocky kind. The kind that made him want to kick a recruits teeth in for. But you were something different entirely. You demand attention, even if you didn't know it. A high held head, a testament to the world that you were there, and you were aware of it. Thank god it was his attention it demanded, because it was nothing short of a miracle.

The air you lived in became breathable, spreading to his little corner of the bar as he had to remind himself to actually inhale and exhale as he took in the sight over and over again. Committing it to memory. The world became a movie, a fictional place where he wasn’t. One he could only watch and revel in. It was the type that you knew was going to be good before it even began. The one you had been anticipating for and knew wouldn’t disappoint. His heart rate picked up, the same way it would in the field, but in a much less stressful manner now. Jesus, what was happening to him? You must have cursed him. That’s it. The only explanation. Bewitched by not only the view, but the melody of your laugh flooding his ears now at the closer proximity. Leaning against a standing table with a glass in hand, head slightly tilted enough that a stray hair fell to cover your face.

It was comical the way his heart sped up, watching as you chatted with your own group. Something so normal, something you see every single day, was making the big strong man’s hard race like it life or death. And he knew life or death.

Romeo had nothing on him.

Absolutely nothing in the way his brain knew he was to be yours. It had to be, he had to be. It’s how the story will be written, and he will play his role. Stealing your hear that way you have entranced his own. He wouldn’t be able to tell you when he got up. He can’t tell you how his body moved on its own, knowing what needed to be done but not conscious enough to alert his brain.

What he can tell about how perfect it felt to so much as stand there by you. Soaking in your presence was one thing, standing in it next to you was another entirely.

And that's how he found himself face to face with you, who turned to him with a puzzled look, but a kind smile.

He was a goner.

“Oh… umm- Hello, can I help you?” Is all you had to say to him to confirm his every thought. This woman could heal every wound with her voice alone. And her eyes so much as finally looking back at him felt like he was seen for the first time in his life.

“Uhh.. sir? Are you alright?” Your voice rang out again, pulling him back to reality as you hand waved in front of his face slightly. A flattering smile on our lips and your eyebrows furrowed slightly, almost concerned. What came over John MacTavish in that moment is unexplainable.

“I seem to have lost my number—can I have yours?”

Her eyebrows raised. She blinks. Then tilting her head slightly.

He could die right then and there.

Leaning against the table next to her with a stupid, crooked smile and a raised eyebrow, as if he didn't just embarrassed the hell out of himself. A pick up line? That's the best you could do, John? Really? Welp, there goes every chance you had, cut your losses and- Laughter chimed in his ears like wedding bells. And that’s when he froze, every negative thought draining him as he became light. You laugh was intoxicating more than any drink or drug. The kind that was unapologetic and genuine. The kind that has the back of your palm finding your lips as you cover your giggles, nose scrunching and eyes squinting due to the smile. One that made both of you have pink cheeks for different reasons. A joke that probably shouldn't have been laughed at, but coming from the man before you, it eased the tension in the air.

It must have been the prettiest sight Johnny had ever seen.

He doesn’t know how he did it, probably because it wasn’t him at all. Must have been pure luck that after that horrible entrance she seemed kind enough to humor him that night. He bought you a drink and hung on every word you so much as muttered in his direction. You laughed at every joke, good or bad. He made it his mission to make sure he always heard that laugh from then on. To produce it from you.

Oddly enough, it turns out you were one of few words when it came to the actual conversation. And yet it was never rude, ore quiter nature. But more like you were always listening. Every word John rambled on about you picked up, asking questions or simply nodding, expressing your thoughts in your facal expression. Because of this, it seemed like he never looked away from you either, not that it was a bother, it was strangely alright. It wasn’t judgemental, only observant.

He thought he might go buy a ticket for the lottery after you agreed to give him your number by the end of the night. He was more smitten than he’s ever been, and on the dates to follow the swooning only got worse.

Every moment with you felt exhilarating, like he found that missing piece finally after a long search. And that piece loved him back He was insufferable, always gushing about the woman he has the opportunity to take out on a date. And the dates where nothing less of spectacular. The pair was stupid like teenagers in love, but more sentimental, understanding the weight of things better. Arguments never lasted long and if they did they were cleared up before any damage was done. She understood what his job ment to him, and told him she would never make him change that about himself. It was his passion, she can share.

“Just so long as you promise to come back to me.”

And from that day forth he would make a pinky promise every time he left. He was to come home. Time passed quickly, in flashes. It felt like his life went from downtime in between missions, to missions in between downtime. His heart ached for you in the days he was gone, but he always knew he would be home. He would see you again. He found a want to live, even more now that he found his world.

And as time passed them by, he found out she was perfect in the all the ways he could dream of. Especially in the impossible task of calming him down as well. Rough mission? She already had his favorite meal ready and was soothing him over. Nightmares? She was there either on the phone or more recently next to him to hold him and run her fingers through his hair. To much energy? To rowdy? You always found a way to settle him down. His anchor. And he would do the same for her if the day presented itself.

Another plus that made it all that much more, everyone liked you.It wasn’t hard too of course, but it proved even moreso how lucky he got. His family adored you, his sisters taking you in as part of the family already, much quicker than any of his other past relationships. It made him well up with pride.

Even when he officially introduced you to the 141, it was with open arms as well. If he wasnt a unit before, he absolutely was one now. Maybe just a tad bit more annoying with his bragging but of course he brags. Those boys knew how much you were doing for him, and you knew they were keeping him safe. It was a harmony that both sides respected.

A part of him knew that even if all of those people didn’t like her, (an impossible feat if he does say so himself), nothing would change for him. You were his, he was yours. Irrevocably and absolutely. If the world didn’t want them, the world wasn’t for them. Simple as that. Life became sweeter, dreamlike as he fell into a comfortable rhythm. It was almost unbelievable, no, it was unbelievable.

One day, as he was laying on the couch, laying gently on you, nearly dozing off. Then he felt your hand on his shoulder, a soft pat that made him stir but not move as he hummed in response. “Johnny?” You said, soft enough that he had to stir slightly closer to your voice. But he didn’t look up, kept his heavy eyes shut as he mumbles a small “what?”

“Earth to Johnny..” Hmm, that's odd. It mde him sit up the slightest bit more. Must have been laying on his ear wrong, your voice sounded weird. And another pat on his shoulder, a bit harder this time.

“MacTavish!”

And then he blinked. He was sitting up straight, eyes wide as he made eye contact with his Captain across from him, in the same place he left him at the bar. The bar? His cheek stung from the movement of no longer resting on… his palm? His? No that’s not right. His head hurt slightly as the smell of bar flooded his nose. What was he doing in a-

“Soap, you alright? You were out for a bit. Staren’ at nothing.” Gaz said with a smile, slightly concerned.

He looked around, baffled as he took in the same dingy bar he had met you in. In fact in the same spot exactly, same clothes, same drink. Hold on, that can't be right. His head swung back around as he took in the table next to them was, empty. Bottles and cups discarded to the side, napkins crumpled. He heard the bar door shut as his eyes flicked over and spotted the same woman walk away outside, smiling the same as she was before. Only then did it make sense.

His mind filled in the blanks for him as he rubbed his face with a groan. When something is too good to be true, it's probably because it is. Gaz was patting his back as Ghost and Price shared a look that had Price hiding a smirk. But it didn’t matter to Johnny.

What mattered was she’d already left.

The boys decided that's where the night should end, Johnny's head almost embarrassingly hung low as they paid their bill and called a car to take them back to base. This is the first time Scott has sulked in a while, running his hands through his mohawk as he kicked himself for being so stupid. Caught up in a daydream of a random woman at the bar, what a stupid fantasy to get caught in. he was practically mourning something he doesn't even have, never did have. And now something he wouldn’t have either.

The moment changed his life for sure, a memory of fake memories that will haunt his little brain every once in a while when he's bored and remembers this night.