#(not. not her child. a child. to be clear. this is a random child that through circumstance is now in her care)

[redlancey]

i love this panel because it just shows so much about Kara and Lena as characters, even if its one two images:

Kara watched her people and language and culture die when she was a child. child = helpless. Now that she's on earth and she's actually /able/ to do something, she takes every opportunity to prove that shes 1, not that useless little kid who couldn't save her people, and 2, she has a purpose on this planet (Yes, she has a family and a job, but you must remember that so many people feel useless in their lives even with all their accomplishments, so its not unlikely to assume Kara, a literal alien on a random planet who struggles to fit in, wouldn't feel alone and useless.)

Additionally, Lena went her whole life having struggled against her family's grip on her and how they dictate her life--even being the victim of her family's evil shenanigans--all while feeling like she has no hope for a new life. Now, after making something of her self--see the relation with Kara as Supergirl??;)--she is able to regain that lost control she struggled with her whole life. I think a lot of sg/sc fans use this attribute in fanfics and scene analysis and stuff, but its so clear that Lena uses her freedom and power as CEO to 1, make something of herself separate from her family, and 2, exercise that control that she had none of growing up.

This scene perfectly depicts how Kara always feels like she needs to defend or fight for someone, and how Lena refuses to be tossed aside and have her opinions disregarded.

Inktober2019 03: bait

[flashhwing]

I'm bad queer rep because it bothers me when a fantasy book goes out of its way to be queer friendly, normalizing queer relationships with every side character and even establishing the main character as queer and then the main romance is m/f

[persephoneflouwers]

[meticulousmaker]

another random thing that stands out to me rewatching Steven Universe as an adult:

throughout the show there's this clear Vibe that Steven has inherited some big magical destiny, right? and it makes sense narratively: he's the son of Rose Quartz, leader of the rebellion, now being raised by her friends who were the last remaining survivors of an interstellar war. he's like a human child in most ways, except he has magical powers that start to become more obvious as he's getting older. no one like him has ever existed before. it's a big deal. raising him and figuring out how he's going to grow is its own unique challenge, because nobody knows what to expect. so of course there's this magical destiny vibe, given all that.

What's interesting to me, though, is that this magical destiny is in no way literally, physically present in the story, it's just something everyone kinda feels. Like, there's not some ancient prophecy about a half-gem, half-human savior. He's not the Chosen One in any literal sense, he just happens to give off Chosen One vibes. And I say that's interesting because it means that the fact he was kinda raised with this Chosen One vibe is completely a decision everyone around him made, for better or for worse. And the show is aware of this, because the weight of Rose's legacy and everyone's expectations of him is a constant theme, and as Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl all grow and develop, they also realize the downsides of them putting those expectations on a child. Like, Steven spends his whole childhood being told about how great Rose was, and how because he's inherited her gem he will probably inherit her powers - and that's not necessarily a bad thing. Imagine how awful things could have been if Steven had no exposure to the Gems and no knowledge of what they were or how they worked, and then his powers started coming in? It was hard enough even when he was surrounded by the most qualified Gem Experts on Earth. But being primed for all of this "you're going to have your mother's magical powers" stuff put a heavy weight on his shoulders, and then the fact that nobody else quite knew how his abilities worked meant he was constantly faced with the adults in his life looking to him with concern because they didn't know what was happening with him. That's gotta leave an impression on a kid - and, well, throughout the show and especially in SU Future we definitely see that it does.

I like the way the show handles the pressure that's put on him, and the fact that everyone is just... trying their best in a completely unprecedented situation. Nobody knows what to do or how to raise this kid, and that inevitably causes problems but everyone is trying. And Steven can feel that everyone is trying without knowing what to do and he just wants to help and not be a burden and none of his caretakers have said that he's a burden but he can feel everyone's confusion and concern and the expectations he's not living up to and he cares so much, about everyone, about everything. He's in an extremely unique position that grants him opportunities to help that nobody else has, and he feels like he's failing everyone if he can't fulfill that, and in the end it never should have been his job to fix things but somebody had to try. Somebody had to try, and he was one of the only people with the ability to stop the Diamonds, stop the war, stop the lies, stop his world and everyone on it from being destroyed... and he was just a kid.

[sourkiki]

riki filming his girl during sex 🫠🫠🫠 imagine his thumb rubbing her little hairs and her clit… and he would take pic of her creamed pussy 😃

#hardthoughts

ALBUM'S CONTENT: explicit mature content, established relationship, dom! 西村力 x fem! reader, recording during sex, one usage of "good girl", very faint degrading, ❀ unprotected sex (wrap it up) 𖤐 769 ... ᧔♡᧓ catalogue.

FROM PRODUCER: anon, let me kiss your brain because this is SO hot hello!!! thank you for sending this.. hopefully i did this justice heh

“You want to what?” You gaped at him, eyes all wide and jaw dropped open, dumbfounded with what your boyfriend just asked.

Riki coughed, scratching the back of his head. His eyes averted to the side, not having the courage to look at you. “I was wondering if I could record us having sex.”

“Not that I’m against it or anything, but what brought this on?” You asked, curiosity getting the better of you. Seeing how he was struggling to formulate his response, you reached out to place a reassuring hand above his. 

“I just wanted to try it out and the idea of recording it is hot,” he shrugged his shoulders, eliciting an amused chuckle from you at the sight of him squirming on the spot, like a child being questioned by his mother. 

“Riki, seriously, I don’t mind it,” you replied and that was enough to loosen the weight on his shoulders. 

~ 

A few weeks passed with both of you busy with your respective schedules, the conversation you had long forgotten. That was until Riki had you straddling his lap one random afternoon, pushing your laptop aside. You weren’t surprised when you ended up tangled amongst the sheets, legs loosely wrapped around his waist as he snapped his hips against yours. 

Your bedroom was filled with the sounds of your moans along with skin slapping against skin, creating a symphony of music. Your back arched off the bed, mouth dropping open in a silent ‘O’ shape at how his cock keeps hitting the same sensitive spot, enough to make stars explode within your vision. 

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he cursed, reaching over to the bedside table without slowing down, managing to grab his film camera. 

Turning the small device on, he switched to video mode and started recording without having your face taken. He slowed down his tempo, switching to moving his hips in circular motions, drawing breathless moans and mewls from you. He continued moving down until he stopped to record where you’re connected with one another, zooming in on how your clear, white liquid was sticking onto his cock with every thrust. His breath hitched with how erotic the sight was—your plump, pussy lips spread to accommodate the girth of his cock. 

“Fuck, you’re taking me so well. It’s like you’re made for me,” he breathed out, awe and amazement evident in his voice. 

Riki reached out with his free hand, his thumb appearing in the video as he made a show of pressing down on your clit that was peeking out, causing you to let out a startled gasp, making you tightened around him. Your action made him moan—the sound getting picked up by the camera. He moved this thumb, purposely rubbing it against your little hair surrounding your clit, feeling the slightly rough sensation against the pad of his thumb. 

“Ngh, R-Riki, fuck,” you whimpered, eyes rolling up to the back of your head as he quicked his pace, fucking you through your orgasm. He could see a visible white ring around the base of his cock as you creampied around his cock. 

“Look at you, creampie around my cock like the desperate girl you are. Does being recorded turn you on?” He mocks you, moving his thumb away and replacing it with his fingers, spreading your lips apart to reveal more of the mess you made. 

You whined, unable to utter a single word, not when how good his cock feels inside you, reaching places that should be deemed impossible. Riki’s grip on his camera loosens, the device slipping from his hand as he spills deep inside you, pumping you full of his cum. He cursed when he nearly dropped it, pausing the recording and placed it on the bedside table, ensuring it was placed far from the edge before turning back to you. 

His greedy eyes drink in your current state—your neck covered in hickeys and bite marks left behind by him, faint marks on your hips left behind by his nails. What caught his attention was how his cum was trickling down from your stretched-out cunt. The sight made his eyes darkened and his cock that was still inside you, hardened. 

You turned to him when you felt it. “Riki, don’t—!?”

Your voice died down in your throat, only for you to let out a pitiful whimper as your boyfriend gave an experimental thrust up, making you visibly flinched. Riki chuckled, leaning over to rest his hands on both sides of your head. 

“One more time, hm? Be a good girl and cum one more time for me, would you?” 

taglist: @byshens, @emisluvr, @riqomi, @rikisoup

[cressidagrey]

In Denial

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: 5 Times Lando Norris probably should have realised that his teammate had a child, but never did and 1 time Oscar Piastri made very clear that he is a father. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

The most colourful beaded bracelet in existence

It was their first official McLaren shoot as teammates. Media day. Race suits. Matching smiles. More lights and cameras than either of them had patience for.

The studio was freezing.

Typical, Lando thought, shivering slightly as someone adjusted the collar of his race suit for the third time. Glossy black floor, high-power lights, white backdrop — the usual setup. All sleek, all clean, all perfectly curated for sponsor-ready content.

Across from him, Oscar Piastri was already mid-shoot.

He didn’t fidget. Didn’t blink too much. Just stood there with that absurdly steady posture and those deadpan, almost neutral expressions that somehow read as confident and composed on camera. Arms folded. Chin slightly tilted. That understated brand of cool that made McLaren’s marketing team positively froth at the mouth.

That was one of the first things Lando had noticed about Oscar — how quiet he was. Calm. Low-effort on the surface, but the kind of low-effort that made you realize it was actually hiding effort in a very specific, efficient way. Not cold, exactly. Just... still. A little private. And hard to read unless you really tried.

They weren’t close yet. But they weren’t strangers either. A few simulator sessions. Some preseason testing banter. Dinner once, in a group, where Oscar had said maybe twenty words total — but had watched everything. Not in a weird way. Just in that Piastri way. Calculated. Patient.

So Lando wasn’t surprised when Oscar handled media day like he handled everything else — with the expression of someone who had long ago accepted the chaos and decided to simply outlast it.

What did surprise Lando was the bracelet.

It caught his eye halfway through Oscar’s solo shoot.

Right wrist. Tucked just under the edge of the suit cuff. Beads.

Chunky plastic ones — definitely the homemade kind, with alphabet letters, random sparkly shapes, a few bright neons. The kind you’d make at a kids’ party. It clashed completely with the McLaren fireproofs, and absolutely no part of it matched the slick, brand-polished aesthetic of the shoot.

Lando narrowed his eyes. There was a glittery dinosaur bead. He was almost sure of it.

He leaned over to one of the stylists nearby, curiosity piqued. “Hey. Is he supposed to be wearing that?”

The stylist glanced at the screen, then rolled her eyes fondly. “Tried to take it off. He said, and I quote, ‘It stays.’”

Lando raised both eyebrows. Oscar, the human embodiment of “yeah, sure, whatever you need,” had refused to remove a beaded dinosaur bracelet?

“For real?”

“Dead serious. Wouldn’t even consider it. Said it was for ‘focus.’” She shrugged, like it wasn’t the weirdest thing she’d seen today — which, to be fair, it probably wasn’t.

Lando stared a second longer, then turned away, biting back a smirk. “That’s so weird.”

But not in a bad way. Just… unexpected.

It was his turn soon after.

They swapped spots in front of the camera. Oscar stepped down, took the bottle of water someone handed him, then wordlessly handed Lando one as well — like he’d read his mind.

“Cheers,” Lando muttered.

Oscar just nodded, sipping his own. Then:

“Nice accessory,” Lando said casually, nodding toward the bracelet as he took the water.

Oscar didn’t even glance down. “It’s for focus.”

Lando raised a brow. “Right. Because nothing says elite athlete like a kindergarten craft project.”

Oscar did glance at him this time. But not with offense. Just a kind of calm indifference.

“It helps me remember what actually matters,” Oscar said calmly. 

F1 Driver and Snack Mule

Lando looked up from his phone when he heard the private jet door seal with a soft thunk, expecting to see Oscar stroll in like he always did: calm, quiet, annoyingly composed, maybe a hoodie half-zipped, headphones around his neck.

Instead, Oscar Piastri appeared in the aisle looking like the final boss of an airport convenience store.

It was almost comical. One over-the-shoulder canvas tote, handle fraying. One plastic bag from what looked like a 24-hour corner mart — already strained to breaking. One very full backpack that absolutely should not have been that heavy unless it was packed with bricks, hardcover physics textbooks, or illicit quantities of pineapple tarts. And dangling from his wrist: a second tote with a glass bottle poking out of the top like the flag of carbohydrate surrender.

Lando stared. Horrified. “…Why do you look like a snack-themed pack mule?”

Oscar dropped into his seat across the aisle, completely unfazed by his appearance. “Oh. I had a list.”

“A list?” Lando echoed, eyes darting between the bags like one of them might spontaneously explode. “Of what? Food to outlive the apocalypse? A year’s supply of… squid?!”

Oscar adjusted the seatbelt over his mountain of bags. “Some of this is hard to find in the UK. It’s just smart logistics.”

At that exact moment, one of the plastic bags betrayed him. It split with an unfortunate pop and dumped half its contents across the aisle carpet.

Lando leaned forward to get a better look and immediately recoiled.

Out spilled: —A large bag of sweet chili crab chips. —Two packs of pastel-wrapped milk candies. —A sealed glass jar of something brown and deeply alarming. —snacks with so many chili peppers printed on the bag it looked like a dare —Five types of instant noodles, all labeled in languages Lando didn’t speak. —Something that was either a sesame snack or a trap. —And, inexplicably, a box of Hello Kitty band-aids.

Lando blinked harder.

Oscar saw his face and added, like it helped, “Some of it’s not for me.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Lando muttered as Oscar started sorting the contents of the split bag into the other bags.“You opening a snack stall mid-flight?”

Oscar opened a shrimp chip bag and popped one in his mouth. “Want some?”

Lando took one sniff.

Gagged audibly.

“OH MY GOD,” he wheezed. “THAT SMELLS LIKE SEAFOOD DIED IN A TRASHCAN.”

Oscar shrugged, chewing peacefully. “You’re dramatic.”

Lando had fully recoiled into the corner of the seat. “That is not food. That’s a warning sign. I’m going to smell like a fish market by the time we land.”

Oscar opened a second bag. “This one’s milder.”

Lando peeked. “What’s that?”

“Dried squid.”

Lando gagged again. “You have layers, Piastri. None of them are good.”

Oscar reached for the closed glass jar, filled with some brown paste, checked the lid, nodded like he was mentally ticking off inventory. “Hard to find a good brand at home.”

Lando stared. “Who even eats this much weird stuff?”

Oscar’s eyes flicked up just slightly.

And that’s when it clicked.

Lando didn’t say anything. Not out loud. But his brain — finally — started piecing it together.

This wasn’t “Oscar the Snack Enthusiast.”

This was “Oscar the Supply Mule for Someone Else.”

Someone very particular. Someone who didn’t want the Tesco version. Someone who sent him out with a list that included: “the pink milk tea, not the yellow one” and “not that brand, the other brand, you know the one.”

Oscar crunched another chip, calm as ever.

Lando eyed him. “So. Just you doing some shopping, huh?”

Oscar nodded.

Lando didn’t ask again.

But he did silently move one seat over when the durian candy came out.

Oscar being shockingly competent with kids

Lando didn’t think much of it at first.

It was just another media day.

Some local promotional thing for McLaren — sponsor meet-and-greet, fan Q&A, a few demo laps in a two-seater. The kind of chaotic-but-managed event they’d both done a dozen times. A little exhausting. A little awkward. Mostly harmless.

There were fans, of course. Grown ones. Screaming ones. Cool ones. Weird ones. The whole buffet.

But this one was different. There were kids. Lots of kids.

Some had come with families. Others were part of a junior karting initiative McLaren was launching — a handful of lucky young fans picked to tour the paddock and meet the drivers. There were matching T-shirts, oversized hats, those little paper lanyards they always lost within fifteen minutes.

Lando was fine with kids. Ish. He’d gotten better at it.

He crouched for selfies, signed baseball caps, knelt to high-five a girl who asked if he liked unicorns, and almost let one small boy sit on his shoulders until PR made eye contact with him and shook their head like he was about to commit a legal crime.

“Next time, little man,” Lando had said cheerfully, patting the kid’s head.

Then he’d stepped back, reached for his water, and glanced down the row toward Oscar.

And paused.

Because Oscar Piastri was crouched on both knees, arms resting loosely on them, eye-level with a girl who couldn’t have been more than four.

She was talking. Earnestly. Tiny hands flailing, expression serious.

Oscar was holding something — a piece of paper, maybe. Crinkled. Bright markers. Stickers.

He wasn’t rushing her. He wasn’t giving the half-smile-and-nod routine that Lando had seen a hundred times from drivers and team staff alike.

He was listening.

Really listening.

He held her earmuffs in one hand — the glow-in-the-dark kind with a space pattern on them — and tilted his head as she explained the rocket car she’d drawn for him. He smiled at the picture. Asked if she’d used glitter glue. Told her she had a good sense of aerodynamics.

Then, completely seriously, he handed her his cap.

“Wanna sign it?” he asked. “So I can remember you.”

The girl beamed. Lit up like a Christmas tree. She took the offered marker with the solemnity of a royal decree and scribbled something right on the brim of his hat.

Oscar glanced at it. “Best handwriting I’ve ever seen.”

Lando blinked.

Alright.

That was... weirdly natural.

Still watching, he saw Oscar gently return her earmuffs and wave her off toward the line of handlers. The girl skipped away, ecstatic.

But Oscar’s attention had already shifted.

There was a boy now — maybe five or six — standing stiffly just behind her. His hands were pressed against his sides. He looked overwhelmed. Pale. Eyes darting around. The noise, the crowd, the lights — it was too much.

Oscar stepped out of the way. Smooth, instinctive. Like he’d already clocked the signs.

He knelt again, this time a little more to the side. Not directly in front of the kid. Just there. Present. Safe.

And then, as if by magic, Oscar pulled something from his jacket pocket.

A juice pouch.

A whole juice pouch. With a bendy straw already poked in.

He offered it without a word.

The boy hesitated. Then took it. Slowly. Clutched it like a lifeline.

Oscar said something Lando couldn’t hear. The boy nodded.

And the moment passed. Quiet. Undramatic. But… important.

Lando stared.

No one just had juice pouches on them.

Unless, you were Oscar Piastri apparently. 

Redecorating

Lando was bored.

Which, to be fair, wasn’t unusual.

But this brand of boredom was especially aggressive. The kind that clawed at your brain and made you wander aimlessly until you accidentally annoyed every single person in the building.

They were in the middle of a weather delay and a telemetry glitch. The engineers were scrambling like caffeinated ants, and even the usually chill media team had gone slightly feral over a reshoot that got rained out. There was nothing to do. No one to annoy who hadn’t already threatened him with a torque wrench. 

Which was how he ended up outside Oscar’s driver room.

Hovering.

Like a stray cat looking for food and attention.

The door was cracked. A faint tapping sound came from inside — someone scrolling. Or texting.

“Yo,” Lando called through the gap. “You in there?”

Oscar’s voice came back, muffled and flat. “Yeah. Come in.”

Lando shoved the door open with the dramatic flourish of someone who had absolutely nothing else to do and flopped down onto the tiny couch tucked along the back wall like he owned the place.

Oscar didn’t even glance up from his phone.

“No, you can’t have my last protein bar.”

Lando scoffed. “I didn’t come here to rob you.”

Oscar looked up. “You always come here to rob me.”

“Well, not this time.”

“Suspicious,” Oscar muttered, but he didn’t seem bothered. He just turned back to his phone, thumb moving slowly over the screen.

Lando let his head loll back against the wall, eyes scanning the room.

It was, predictably, the most Piastri-like space ever. Minimal. Tidy. Not much flair. A clean stack of team shirts in the corner. Spare gloves lined up in perfect pairs. Charger cables coiled like they’d been arranged by a computer.

But then something caught his eye.

Drawings.

Not many — maybe six or seven in total — but they stood out. Bright against the otherwise monochrome setup. Crayon. Marker. One done entirely in glitter gel pen, which sparkled faintly in the overhead lights.

They weren’t on display, exactly. More like… tucked in. Slipped into corners of the mirror. Taped carefully to the inside of the locker door. One pinned to the corkboard with a bright pink pushpin.

One had Oscar’s race number scribbled in purple and red, surrounded by stars and what might have been hearts or tire marks.

Another showed a very vague interpretation of a Formula One car — lopsided wheels, dramatic flames, one suspiciously smiley face on the helmet.

Another still featured a chicken driving a race car.

Lando leaned forward to squint at that one.

Definitely a chicken.

“GO FAST BUT NOT TOO FAST,” it said in glitter pen under the drawing. The O in “GO” had eyes. The "S" in "FAST" had a lightning bolt through it.

Lando snorted.

That was… incredibly specific.

“Wow,” he said, smirking. “You’ve got a lot of fan art in here.”

Oscar finally looked up. “Hm?”

Lando gestured around the room, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m just saying… this is the softest your room has ever looked. What, did a fan send you a care package?”

Oscar blinked once. Twice.

Then followed Lando’s gaze. Paused.

“Oh,” he said casually. “Yeah. It just felt kind of cold in here, you know? So I figured I’d redecorate.”

Lando blinked. “With chicken-themed fan art?”

Oscar shrugged. “Adds character.”

Lando couldn’t help but snort. Only Oscar would think that plastering fan art all over his drivers room would make it feel “warmer”. 

A weird obsession with kid sized merch

Lando noticed it for the first time at the McLaren factory gift shop.

They were doing a casual walk-through after some filming, mostly killing time while someone printed updated media decks. Lando wandered toward the wall of merch — adult sizes, junior kits, baby onesies, even tiny McLaren teddy bears in miniature race suits.

He wasn’t really looking for anything.

Oscar, on the other hand, made a beeline straight for the kids’ section.

Again.

Lando leaned on the shelf. Watched.

Oscar stopped by the back racks — fully absorbed in comparing three different sizes of junior caps.

Children’s sizes. Bright colors. One of them had glitter.

Lando blinked.

Oscar picked one up, turned it in his hands, and squinted at the stitching like he was inspecting it for FIA approval.

Lando wandered over, casually sipping his drink. “Uh… you planning to wear that?”

Oscar barely glanced up. “No. This one’s too stiff. It’ll bug her ears.”

“…Her?”

“Yeah.” Oscar didn’t elaborate. Just picked up another and pressed the inside seam with his thumb. “The elastic on this one’s better, but the Velcro’s weak. It won’t survive more than a week.”

Lando squinted. “Mate, why do you know that?”

Oscar blinked at him like he’d just asked what 2 + 2 was. “Because I’ve bought five of them.”

“Why?”

Oscar’s voice was perfectly calm. “Because the glitter ones fall apart in the wash and the regular ones shrink in the dryer. The 2022 version held up best.”

Oscar was now holding up a toddler-sized hoodie like he was inspecting fabric for a bespoke suit. “Do you think this runs small?”

Lando blinked. “Mate, you’re not gonna fit into that.”

Oscar gave him a look. “It’s not for me.”

“...So you just spend your free time evaluating baby merch like it’s Pirelli compound data?”

Oscar shrugged. “They’ve upgraded the stitching. And the seams used to pill after a few washes.”

Lando stared at him.

Hard.

Because this wasn’t the first time. Oscar always stopped by the kids’ section. Asked weirdly specific questions about youth sizing and durability. Once, Lando had caught him muttering something about how the toddler cap’s brim was too short to be practical. A few months ago, he’d gotten into a five-minute debate with a merch rep about the brim angle on the toddler caps. Something about sun protection and ear coverage.

Back then, Lando figured Oscar just… liked miniature things. Or had a secret side hustle selling baby teamwear on eBay.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

“…You do know you’re twenty-two and not a kindergarten stylist, right?” Lando asked, watching Oscar inspect a youth t-shirt like it had secrets.

Oscar nodded. “I know.”

“And you’re over here comparing fabric blends like you’re prepping a McLaren baby line?”

Oscar tilted his head. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea, honestly. The old toddler polos had awful seams. They improved the 2024 batch.”

Lando just… stared.

Oscar wasn’t joking. Oscar was never joking about this stuff.

Finally, Lando said, slowly, “Mate. What is it with you and tiny clothes?”

Oscar shrugged. “They’re fun.”

+1: The one time Oscar made it very clear that he was a dad. 

Lando heard them before he saw them.

He’d wandered out back looking for a charger and maybe a second espresso—just enough time to breathe between debriefs—when he caught the tail end of a conversation.

Four mechanics. Leaning against the pit wall crates. Talking louder than they probably should.

“Had to FaceTime during lunch again,” one was saying. “My kid wanted to show me his drawing. Looked like a bloody squid with legs. Had to pretend it was good.”

Another one snorted. “Mine locked himself in the pantry last week. Thought it was funny. I told my wife to deal with it—I was too tired.”

The others snorted.

“Mine’s worse,” another said. “Always clinging, always needing something. It’s like—I don’t get a break at work, and I don’t get one at home either. It’s exhausting.”

“Mine told me he missed me,” a third said, voice cold. “Like that’s my fault. What does he want, a medal? I’ve got a job. I pay for everything. That should be enough.”

The first mechanic groaned. “…I swear, every time I get home there’s some new passive-aggressive list on the fridge from the Mrs. As if I haven’t been working twelve-hour days in the heat.”

“Mine’s mad I missed her mum’s birthday. Sorry, forgot to pencil in emotional obligation between Bahrain and Jeddah.”

“Be glad your kid is still cute at least. Mine’s hit the talking-back phase. Thinks he’s a comedian. Little smartass. I swear, sometimes I look at him and just think—God, you ruined my sleep, my weekends, and my peace and quiet.”

Lando flinched.

He didn’t mean to listen.

He told himself to walk away.

But then—

Oscar’s voice. Low. Razor-sharp.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

It wasn’t loud.

But it cut through the air like a switchblade.

Lando stilled.

Oscar stood off to the side, arms folded, posture loose��but his face was hard. Cold. Not angry in the explosive way. Angry in the kind of way that stayed.

One of the mechanics laughed awkwardly. “Oh come on, mate. Wait until you’ve had kids for more than a week—”

“I have a three year-old,” Oscar said. Flat. Unapologetic. “And I’ve never once looked at her and thought she ruined anything.”

That shut them up.

Oscar stepped forward, voice soft, but lethal now. “You sit here and talk about your children like they’re inconveniences. Like they’re parasites who robbed you of something. But they’re kids. They didn’t ask to be born. They didn’t ask for your job or your exhaustion or your bitterness.”

One of the men tried to scoff. “It’s just venting—”

“No,” Oscar snapped. “It’s cruelty. Dressed up as banter.”

One of the mechanics snorted. “Alright, Piastri. Settle down.”

Oscar stepped forward from where he’d been leaning against a crate—quiet, composed, and lethal.

“No, I won’t,” he said. “Because I’ve heard this conversation three times this season. And every time it makes me want to be sick.”

Another mechanic scoffed. “You’re twenty-three, mate. What would you know? Come back and talk to us when you’ve had a toddler scream in your face for an hour straight.”

Oscar didn’t flinch.

“I have,” he said, voice steel-edged.  “What do I know?” Oscar said, low and sharp. “I know more than you, apparently.”

The laughter died.

Oscar stepped closer, and when he spoke again, it was the kind of voice Lando had only ever heard on race comms—precise, icy, lethal.

“I know what it’s like to walk out the door while your kid clings to your leg crying and you still have to leave. I know what it’s like to miss first words and bedtime because your job doesn’t wait. I know what it’s like to hold my wife at night while she tries not to fall apart from doing everything alone.”

One of the mechanics muttered something under his breath—maybe “dramatic”—but Oscar cut him off.

“No,” he said, sharper now. “You don’t get to complain about your kid loving you. You don’t get to bitch about someone wanting your attention when they’re four years old and trying to understand the world. You don’t get to complain about your wives holding down the fort at home while you are gone.”

He stepped in fully now. Lando could just see the edge of him. Jaw tight. Hands still. Eyes like fire under ice.

“You think you’re tired? Your wives are tired. My wife holds our whole world together while I fly across time zones and come home with a smile and a suitcase. She handles everything—school, food, laundry, tears, scraped knees, nightmares. All the invisible things you think just… happen. You think your job is hard? Try explaining to a toddler why Papa’s never home.”

His voice dropped.

“And you sit here and talk about your kids like they’re weights around your neck instead of the best damn thing that ever happened to you?”

No one said a word.

“You think being exhausted means you’ve earned the right to resent your family? No. You want to know what makes someone a man? Showing up. Even when you’re tired. Especially when you’re tired. Because your family doesn’t stop needing you just because you had a long day.”

He looked around, eyes sharp enough to draw blood.

“You are not entitled to love. You’re lucky to receive it.”

Oscar’s face was set. Calm. Controlled. But there was fury simmering just beneath it—grief, too. And something bone-deep and unwavering.

“You think they slow you down? Maybe they’d be better off without you dragging them behind.”

There was a heavy pause.

Then, soft but with the impact of a sledgehammer:

“Being loved that hard is not a burden. It’s a gift. And if you’re too selfish to see that—then don’t be surprised when they stop waiting for you to come home.”

Silence.

Oscar didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t need one.

And then he turned.

Didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t look back.

Just walked away—like he’d said everything that needed to be said.

Lando stood there a second longer, heart still thudding.

Then, quietly, he turned and followed Oscar.

Because that?

That was the most brutal, honest thing he’d heard all year.

And somehow, he knew—

Bee would never have to wonder how loved she was.

Not with a dad like that.

[kashverse]

bedtime stories are essential for a child’s growth—they bring families together, foster creativity, and, occasionally, make your children dream a little too wildly. but when your husband is involved, bedtime stories become something else entirely.

sukuna, with his eyes gleaming under the dim nursery light, cleared his throat. babykuna, bundled up in a nest of plush blankets, stared up expectantly, little hands clutching a well-loved, slightly drooled-on copy of the little mermaid. the two feline overlords of the household, mr. pickles the maine coon and baby the orange tabby, sat at the foot of the bed like judgmental literature critics. “alright, brat, let’s get this over with,” sukuna grumbled, flipping the book open with unnecessary force.

“once upon a time, there was a little mermaid who was a total dumbass.”

babykuna giggled. sukuna smirked, feeling accomplished.

“she fell in love with some random guy she saved from drowning, which—let’s be honest—probably should’ve been a red flag for him. but, whatever, she went to a shady sea witch, literally signed away her voice, and—”

mr. pickles gave a loud, drawn-out meeooow. baby, not one to be outdone, stood up and began kneading at sukuna’s arm aggressively, a clear sign of feline displeasure. babykuna’s giggles faltered, little brows furrowing.

the great and mighty sukuna was being heckled. by a pair of cats. “what?” he scowled. “this is realism. the brat needs to know that—”

baby lunged. tiny paws, soft but full of silent rage, landed squarely on sukuna’s chest. mr. pickles followed, his sheer weight nearly knocking sukuna off balance. “oh, you read it then, you furry little dictators!” sukuna barked, trying to reclaim his spot, but it was too late—the feline coup had begun. babykuna, sensing an opportunity, reached out with tiny hands.

“mamaaaaaa!”

within seconds, you were summoned, the true ruler of bedtime stories. with a smug smile, you took the book, settled in beside babykuna, and began reading in a voice so soft and mesmerizing that even the cats curled up, content. sukuna, defeated, crossed his arms and sulked. “i was getting to the part where she turns into sea foam,” he muttered.

“and that,” you said, flipping a page gracefully, “is why you have been overthrown.”

meanwhile, in the nanami household, peace reigned. yuuji was already buried under his blanket, head resting on your shoulder as nanami turned a page in james and the giant peach. his voice was smooth, perfectly paced, as if he were personally trained by roald dahl himself.

“…and then, the peach broke free, rolling down the hill, gathering speed—”

you sniffled. nanami paused. “are you crying?” he asked, a single brow raised.

“it’s just… the way you narrate…” you wiped your eyes dramatically. “it’s so good.” yuuji, completely unbothered, snored into your arm.

nanami sighed, closing the book for the night. “if i recall correctly, you made me read matilda three times in a row last week just because you liked my narration.”

“and i regret nothing,” you declared. yuuji snored louder. nanami shook his head and leaned over to press a kiss to your temple, then to yuuji’s forehead. “alright, lights out.”

meanwhile, at the fushiguro household, bedtime negotiations were in full swing. “megumi, mama’s got an early mission tomorrow,” you reasoned, tucking him in. “so just one story tonight, okay?” megumi crossed his arms, unimpressed. 

“papa’s not home yet.”

“he’s working.”

“so that means i get two stories when he’s back.”

you sighed. your son was already a little strategist. giving in, you started with your usual—a story about a brave princess who tamed a dragon with kindness, something soft and magical. by the time you finished, megumi’s eyes were drooping. perfect. he was almost asleep.

then, the door creaked open, and in walked toji. megumi perked up immediately. “papa, story!” toji groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “didn’t mama already—”

“two stories. it’s a rule,” megumi declared. toji gave you a look, and you simply shrugged. you weren’t the one who raised a bedtime tyrant. so, toji sat down at the edge of the bed, cracking his neck before launching into a very different kind of tale.

“aight, kid, so there was this guy—real nasty piece of work, always hid out in this old warehouse, right? well, guess what? i—uh, i mean, our hero, batman—had to take him out before sunrise.” your eyes narrowed.

“toji.”

“what?” he grinned. “i’m censoring it.”

megumi, already half-asleep, murmured, “what happened next?” toji smirked. “our hero dodged a knife, flipped over the bad guy, and bam—knocked him out cold. then he disappeared into the night.” megumi was completely out, breathing soft and even.

toji shot you a wink. “works like a charm every time.” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “you’re not supposed to use your assignments as bedtime stories.”

“why not?” toji smirked. “keeps him entertained.”

“you’re gonna turn him into a vigilante.”

he kissed your cheek, grinning. “well, at least he’ll be well-rested for it.”

in the gojo household, bedtime stories are a prime-time production. "alright, babytoru," gojo grinned, settling into bed beside his six-year-old daughter, who was vibrating with excitement. "where were we?"

“season six, episode four!” she announced. “princess toru and the forbidden candy kingdom!”

“aaahh, yes,” gojo smirked, flipping through an invisible script. “last time on bedtime stories, princess toru was betrayed by her most trusted royal advisor—sir mochi the talking panda.” babytoru gasped.

“mochi betrayed me?!”

“tragically,” gojo nodded. “but! fear not, for your knight in shining armor—sir papa—has infiltrated the candy kingdom’s fortress.”

"did he bring weapons?"

"no! he brought the power of love and charisma, obviously."

babytoru clapped. gojo, fully immersed, dramatically reenacted the entire rescue operation, throwing in last-minute plot twists, a villain redemption arc, and a musical number (he made up the lyrics on the spot). this bedtime story series started when babytoru was four, and now, at nearly six, they were six seasons in, complete with christmas specials, crossover episodes, and merchandising potential. if gojo played his cards right, he could sell the rights to a producer friend, get an animated series going, and dedicate it all to his little girl.

"alright, that’s a wrap for tonight!" gojo declared. 

babytoru yawned, already half-asleep, mumbling, “next time, we need a new villain...” 

gojo smirked, tucking her in. "leave that to me, princess."

little did she know, next episode was the mid-season finale.

geto believed bedtime stories should be meaningful. something with moral lessons. his twin girls? they did not share this belief.

"okay, papa, one more story!"

geto sighed. "fine. but this one comes with a lesson."

the twins, already suspicious, huddled under the covers. “once upon a time," geto began, voice deep and soothing, "there were two little girls—very much like you two—who forgot to brush their teeth before bed."

the twins gasped.

"they thought, 'what’s the worst that could happen?' but then... the tooth fairy came."

the room fell silent.

"but papa," one twin hesitated, "isn't the tooth fairy... nice?"

"ha! that's what they thought! but this tooth fairy? she didn't collect teeth under pillows. she took them straight from their mouths!"

the twins screamed, clutching their toothbrushes as if their lives depended on it. that night, they slept with their toothbrushes in hand. extreme? maybe. effective? absolutely.

the family dentist was thrilled.

choso’s approach to bedtime stories was simple: classics, classics, classics. his four kids—twin girls and twin boys—were raised on a steady diet of great literature. tonight, they were rereading the great gatsby. "papa," one of the girls yawned, “why does gatsby love daisy so much?” choso sighed deeply, looking out the window as if the tragedy of it all pained him personally.

"because, my little ones," he said, flipping a page, "gatsby believed in the green light, that orgastic future that year by year recedes before us."

one of the boys muttered sleepily, "papa... you read that every time."

"and yet," choso said solemnly, "you still do not understand."

by now, the kids could quote entire passages from memory. sometimes, at school, they would just casually drop lines like, "so we beat on, boats against the current—" and confuse their classmates. one time, during a parent-teacher meeting, their teacher had pulled choso aside and asked, “mr. kamo, why do your children know the complete works of f. scott fitzgerald?” choso had simply nodded in approval.

"good," he said. "their education is going well."

[umbrella-show]

꒰ ʚ🍬𝒮𝓌𝑒����𝓉 𝐿𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝐿𝒾𝑒 🍎ɞ ꒱

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘈𝘱𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘶𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴.

Beast Yeast ep 7 spoilers ahead!!!

You yawned as you were shaken awake, groggily rubbing your eyes to clear your vision. You looked over to see Apple faerie cookie gently poking your sides. She smiled down at you, taking your hand and gently pulling at your arm like an eager child. 

“Y/N! Wake up! I wanna show you something!”

You grumpilly huffed as you sat up. As your vision cleared and your eyes eventually got used to the light, you looked up at Apple faerie cookie. Her smile was wide and her eyes were big and filled with excitement. You couldn’t comprehend why she would feel such joy. Especially when you had just woken from a genuinely deep and relaxing sleep that was much needed. Ever since the start of the journey to the Spire, there were many coincidences that put you on edge. A calming and long rest would do your anxious mind some good.

“A-Apple faerie cookie? What's wrong?... What time is it?”

“Who cares?! I wanna show you a secret. I’m sure you’ll love it!”

“Can’t it wait?”

Apple faerie cookie amazingly managed to hoist your body to lean against hers with incredible strength. You shrieked in surprise before quickly covering your mouth. You feared you might have woken any of the others up with the involuntary shrill that came from your throat. After a few moments, the lack of tired groans and movement told you they were still fast asleep. She pulled at your arm and practically forced you from your napping spot.

“Nope! It’ll be quick, c’mon. I promise you’ll love it!”

Apple faerie cookie carried you through hallway after hallway, staircase after staircase. You eventually had woken up enough to walk without her support, but she still insisted on at least holding your hand. Her grip on you was strong, and she seemed to giddily giggle and pick up her pace at random times. You eventually grew accustomed to her short burst of energy and matched her pace when she began to get so thrilled for whatever reason. 

You both eventually walked in silence for a while. Apple faerie cookie was looking straight ahead and seemingly had a clear sight of where she was going. You, on the other hand, took time to look around at the scenery. The portraits caught most of your attention. There were portraits of multiple cookies framed on the walls. Some young, some old, some male, some female. Yet, they all seemed to have an uncanny resemblance with each other. Your eyes trailed from picture to picture. Maybe it was just a trick of the mind, but it felt as though their eyes followed you as you walked by. 

You shuddered lightly, something Apple faerie cookie apparently didn’t miss as she had begun to hold your hand tighter. The increased pressure on your hand managed to rip your attention from the framed pictures. You took a short glance towards the faerie and found she was already looking at you. When you caught her staring, she smiled, and softly giggled. Then, she decided this was the best moment to speak.

“You know, you’re different. Different from the rest.” She had softly murmured, gaining your full attention. “I understand now what he meant. You would really fit in here! I know it!”

Dumbfounded, you let out a small hum of confusion. She was being awfully and purposefully vague. Your suspicions from back of your mind began to creep up from the to the forefront, and you could feel yourself stiffen. Out of uneasiness, you craned your neck to look behind you, only to see the long hallway you and Apple Faerie cookie had been treading for what felt like a while.

You suddenly realized how far away from the group your two must be. You stowed your pace in an attempt to gain her attention to point this out, but she only managed to pull you forward. She didn’t seem to care about your aversion for continuing onward. In fact, her pace began to pick up again and she began to skip down the rest of the corridor. You struggled to follow as she led you up another staircase. 

“We’re almost there!”

She called behind her, completely ignorant to your protests. This staircase seemed to stretch higher than most, straining your already tired legs. You panted heavily when you finally had made it to the top after powering through. Apple faerie cookie had stopped when you two reached the top. You glanced around to see you two were currently in a smaller room with more portraits. 

The room almost made you woozy as you looked around. Every exit you could see would lead to more staircases and hallways that looked identical to each other. In fact, to your shock, when you looked behind you the stairs you and Apple faerie cookie had entered from was now replaced by a tall towering bookcase. It felt as though the room was shifting in this very moment, trapping you in this labyrinth of lies. Apple faerie cookie couldn’t have looked more ecstatic.

“Shadow Milk cookie, I brought the cookie you asked for!~ Safe and sound, I promise!”

You froze when you heard that name, whipping your head to face her. You instinctually took a step back to put some space between you two. Theories and suspicions ran through your mind as you struggled to comprehend your situation.

“A-Apple faerie cookie.. Where am I?”

A soft snicker left her mouth that soon evolved to mocking laughter. You saw her change from a faerie into a completely different cookie. It was all an act, a trick, you realized and you pressed yourself against the bookcase. You gave her a wavering glare as you tried to hide your surprise.

“KYA HA HA! You should see your face!”

She cackled, stepping closer as you helplessly pressed your back further and further against the bookshelf.

“Oh, you’re so funny! You know, with a little wardrobe change and a pinch of some sweet deceit, you’d be perfect here! Shadow Milk cookie was right in asking me to bring you! Of course! He’s always right!”

To your horror, the eyes of the cookies in the framed portraits suddenly shifted to lock on you. You could feel your head begin to spin as your vision warped. 

Your legs shook as the echoed laughter of Shadow Milk cookie filled your head. You slid down the bookshelf and fell to the ground as your legs gave out. The last thing you saw was Candy Apple cookie standing over you as she cackled, as her shadow behind her stretched and grew. Blue eyes pierced through the darkness and stared directly into yours as you fainted.

[cakemoney]

leverage truly has some of the most random side plots. sophie can't stand midwestern food until she gets hungry enough to understand the appeal of pork rinds. parker gets put on antidepressants and experiences one episode of being sociable and happy. parker overcomes her fear of horses which she has because as a child she witnessed a horse beat a clown to death (to be clear, a murder committed by a man dressed as a horse, not an accident involving a real horse). actually parker mostly just seems to be experiencing different emotional stakes than everyone else

[a-b-riddle]

Part 8

You had planned to spend Sunday morning nursing a hangover with Mere and Tabitha, but after last night’s events you had decided to catch up on organizing the shop while putting your phone on do not disturb.

You had turned your location services off in hopes that for a few hours the world would just leave you the fuck alone.

A few hours was all you were given before a tapping came on the front door of your shop around noon. Peering through the glass window, you spotted him.

He was holding a huge brown paper bag looking at little worse for wear since the last time he showed up. You debated on ignoring him. He had missed the early morning shower otherwise you really would have left him outside.

Bastard.

"John-" When you opened the door, he entered immediately. No doubt guessing you planned to slam the door immediately after telling him to fuck off.

He would have been right.

"Please," you say flatly before closing the door. "Do come in." After last night, after this week, the last thing you wanted to do was see anybody. Him, Johnny, Simon, Kyle, fucking Meredith or Tabitha. Why was it so hard for a person who had very few people in her life, all of which were on the skirts with her, to leave her alone for a single day?

"Well?" You asked when he said nothing. He cleared his throat, as if preparing himself for a long, drawn out speech.

Instead he handed you the bag, the smell hitting you. Warm and welcoming. Price was the only one out of the four who could cook a damn good meal, which made him extra picky when it came to eating out. “Wanted to check in.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, not knowing what to do with them now. “Simon said you had a rough night.”

You scoffed at the understatement. "Yeah," you hated this. You didn't want to tell John about your shitty night with your even shittier friends. "It wasn't the best night out."

"So you know that bloke who got handsy or was he just some random prick?" Your mouth fell open in shock. You didn't expect Simon to be such a fucking gossip. And how fuckin' dare John for thinking he had any right to know who was grabbing your ass and your involvement to that person.

No. Fuck that.

"We're not doing this," you said putting the bag on an empty display table. Fuck. You need to go ahead and unbox that shipment in the back.

"What?" He asked, oblivious as to what he said that was wrong. You push heel of your hands into your eyes, trying to stop the headache that was threatening to form. "Some prick took a feel of ya' and I want to see if-"

"If what?" You cut in. "If I need some comfort at being utterly fucking humiliated at Simon going all caveman in front of everyone and dragging me outside like a child? Or do you want to finish want Simon start with almost killing him!"

"From what I heard, he didn't kill him," John's audacity to correct you as if Simon's restraint was remarkable baffled you. "There's something to be said about that."

"He held him by the neck in the air like a ragdoll. He choked him out in the middle of the pub."

"But," he held up a finger. "he didn't break his neck. He knew you'd be upset."

"You're not seriously defending him right now." You could feel your blood pressure rising. Your lid ready to blow like a fucking kettle.

"From what Simon said it didn't look like the attraction was mutual." That gave you pause. Simon told John it didn't look... mutual. Could Simon tell you were uncomfortable? Did he hear everything Percy said?

Where the fuck did Simon come from anyway?

why the fuck was he at the pub in the first place???

Your mouth hung open for several beats. Any longer and a bug could fly in. But fuck if it didn't feel like cold water had been dumped on you. Why and how did Simon think it wasn't mutual? Why did he care??? Why was he acting like he didn't?

"He-" You began, trying to think of what to ask only to simply screech out "What?" John held his hands up in surrender. Your kettle whistled. You were pissed. More pissed than John had ever seen you and it was still a miracle you hadn't hurled the take out at his head.

"All I'm saying is if he grabbed you without an invitation and Simon saw, the prick is lucky to be alive, much less still walking around with hands."

"Si-" you started. "He-" You clinched your fists so tightly your nails painfully cut into the palm of your hand. "UGH!" You stomped your foot. It was childish, but you didn't care. "I don't need him rescuing me goddamit! I don't need any of you pissing on my legs like a fucking dog and-" you didn't stop. You weren't sure how long you carried on verbally lashing John nor did you give a single flying fuck.

Fuck him. Fuck Simon. Fuck all of them. They didn't get to stalk you and relay information like gossiping fucking school girls. They didn't get to break your heart and believe that you would let them piece it back together. They didn't get to neglect you only to realize you knew your worth. Only giving a shit until you walked away.

You went on and on until your throat ached. You weren't sure what thoughts had left your lips. You weren't entirely sure all what you said. All you knew is that you didn't feel any better. The look on Price's fallen face didn't give you any relief. You took it out on him and you were still hurting.

"Why?" Your voice was hoarse and pleading. "Why won't you guys just fucking leave? You were barely staying in it when we were together? Why now?"

He took a tentative step forwarding. His hands started to reach out to touch your arms before falling back down at his side. He knew he had lost the right to touch you. To comfort you.

"I miss you, Dove." He confessed it as if it would somehow make it all better. "We miss you." You try not to let it phase you, but fuck you were made of flesh, not stone. No matter how angry furious disgusted absolutely devastated you were with everything that happened, with what they did and didn't do, you still, or at least had, loved them. That love didn't vanish over the span of a week. Lord know your broken heart hadn't. "We'll do better."

"It's not that simple." You shook your head, your palms covering your eyes as they began to prickle. You hoped the motion would come across as tired frustration, but John knew. It was your tell. You were close to crying. You always rubbed your face when you were upset.

"It is." He said, finally taking the chance to touch you. Even if it was just to hold your hands in his calloused ones. "We mucked things up, let us fix it. Give us at least the change to be better."

"How?" You asked. "Stop fucking yelling at me for a couple of months until something makes you blow your fucking lid and I'm left feeling like a little kid who's in trouble?" You were surprised not to see him flinch away, but the soft look in his eyes was enough to break your heart all over again. "Or Kyle actually showing up for dates? Johnny not treating me like a fuck buddy?"

"We haven't been good to you." He admits and you still don't feel better. Leaving them hasn't made you feel any better. Only angrier. Yelling at him didn't. Fucking Johnny and breaking his heart didn't. Maybe Mer had a point. Just not with Percy. "We all wanted you and slacked off in doing right by ya."

"So what?" You press. "You want to resume where we left off? I just take you all back and work through the fact of how shitty you all were and hope that you make it up to me?

"No," he shook his head. "Not like that."

"Then what?" You asked.

"I'm fighting for me and you. No one else." You didn't know what to say. The four of them had always been a part of the deal. All or nothing. I mean, the fact that you even entertained the idea of being with all of them was the reasoning that if one of them had went down on the field, three more were there to take care of you.

"If the others can get their own shit together great." He shrugged his shoulders. "If I can't and they can, that's fine too." He stared in your eyes and for a moment, you thought about the first time John apologized for getting angry. Not at you, just in front of you. How he had gotten on his knees and told you the last thing he wanted was for you to be afraid of him. To look at him the same way recruits looked at him. "But I think where we failed was all of us was expecting another one to pick up the slack."

That much was true. Where others failed, others thrived. Simon always stayed after sex, Johnny never raised his voice, John was insistent on going on dates, and Gaz was emotionally available... when he was around at least.

"I know I wasn't the man I needed to be. I wasn't the man you deserved. I took things out on you that weren't your fault. I spoke to you in a way that if any other man did, I would knock him right the fuck out." He shook his head before giving your hands a squeeze. "I'll do what I need to do to set things right between you and me. I'll put in the work to do whatever it takes to have you trust me again."

"It wasn't about not trusting you." You counter

"But it is now." He said. "You don't trust me to respect you; to show kindness, patience. And I know I have my own shit to sort out before even thinking about us being like we were. When things were good, I mean."

You don't know what to say, but you can't say he's right. You don't trust him. Not with your heart. Not anymore.

Moments of silence pass before John lets go of your hands and takes a quick survey of the boxes around you. Your background music of Van Morrison still playing softly from the speaker near your computer.

"You seem busy, so I'll let you get to it." He takes in a deep breath. You're expecting another spiel about how he promises to work on it. Just to give him a chance. You're actually worried you'll consider it. "I picked up your usual. Figured things haven't changed that much since we last went to our spot down by the river."

"Haven't been there in a minute."

"You wouldn't." He said. "Closed the place and moved shop. It's over by the park."

"The one with the asshole geese or the one where Johnny and I were flashed by that guy strung out?" That makes him laugh. You can't remember the last time John laughed. The way his eyes crinkled and his smile shifted his whole face into something entirely joyous.

You missed it.

"Asshole geese." He answered before turning and heading to the door. You didn't speak until the chime of the bell rang.

"What if the others don't?" You ask before he had the chance to close the door. "Get their shit together, I mean."

He turned, giving you that signature closed smile that makes him look like a quokka. You told him that once and he had to googling before arguing that he didn't look like the world's happiest rodent. "That's on them. I have my own work to do." His smile dropping into something softer. Something pleading and pitiful. "But, we still want this. We all still want this. Want you."

You shook your head. The threat of tears returning as you realized how wrong he was. Maybe he did. But not all of them. "Simon doesn't." you huffed, arms crossing over your chest. "He's made that much clear."

"That I don't believe." He shook his head. "Not for a minute."

"Believe it." You sucked in air through your nose as if trying to clear it. Price knew he had to leave. He knew he couldn't see you cry. He knew you wouldn't want him to even if he wanted to stay and make up for all the times he was the reasons behind your tears.

"I didn't do what I needed to and I'll do whatever it takes to get you back." He promises. "But if it came down to it... if you want to settle down and just chose one of us to have you, to keep you," he took in a deep breath. The next words like a knife twisting in his chest. "I wouldn't truly love you if I didn't tell you that Simon is the only one of us who deserves you."

"Why?" You knew in that moment Simon hadn't told John about that night. About his cruel words and your realization that he was right. There was never a true happily ever after with them.

"Because he's the only one willing to hide in the shadows and let you live your life," his smile now gone completely. "I'm sorry that I'm too selfish to do that."

[stackslip]

fujimoto is the absolute king of creating a world where mass death is a regular occurrence and yet every single time it feels singularly devastating. i've seen people say his work is nihilistic, that people die over nothing--i profoundly disagree! again and again, it is made clear that the deaths and horrors in chainsaw man aren't random acts of god, and that the people who die aren't random faces in a crowd but people who are willingly sacrificed in the name of social cohesion and the comfort of a few. the people killed by the gun devil all had names, lives, ages that were inescapable and their deaths are just as bad of a tragedy's as aki's. asa's mom's death might have been forgotten by all, and yet it has a profound impact on asa's own life and outlook. the people convinced to commit suicide by falling had long discussions about their everyday life before they fell off their balcony. it is power and nayuta's deaths--people who mattered little to makima and to barem, who were simply seen as tools for an end--that utterly crush denji and awaken pochita. himeno lost her partners, one by one, and every time she got more and more depressed. these are real people, all of them! their lives mattered! death is a normal occurence in chainsaw man, but the loss of a life is a tragedy every time

most importantly; most of these mass death events, as normalized as they are, are not random or natural. they're the result of devils being used as tools, of the powerful using those that they consider belong to them as payment for their comfort or to further their goals. in chapter one, denji got murdered after a lifetime of abuse as payment for his abuser's eagerness for power. the president of the united states pays for the gun devil to fight makima with one year from each american's life. the japanese government pays for makima's every death with the death of a citizen. public safety regularly sends its employees to cut their throats for a devil to wipe out a building. the german government contracted santa claus and gave her children in return. the chainsaw man cult used its desperate, scared child members to gain an army.

and now, foreign children are given citizenship simply so they can be gunned down coldly and used as blood and payment to use chainsaw man and make scared, rich old men live longer. idk how much more explicit you can be here. look at these kids! do their lives mean nothing? they're drawn in loving detail. they're real people being sent to be butchered!

death in chainsaw man isn't meaningless. far from it! this isn't saying "this world is absurd and has no meaning". this is about exploitation. chainsaw man has always been about exploitation and abuse, at its very core. these people mean something. these are real human beings, being fed to the grinder, again and again. they're being fed to it BY the rich and powerful, by their governments, by their employers, by their abusers. hell, yoru has fed her own children to this grinder, just to get a little more. ownership and greed, this is the core of what's happening. this is murder, not random acts of violence!

[kacchans-waifu]

A BUSINESS PROPOSAL — the pro-hero, dynamite, is forced on a date with some ceo's daughter. except, it's just you and your best friend doing your absolute best to scare him away.

word count: 2.4k

cw: suggestive, fluff, not proofread

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for quite literally a year. i decided to rewatch the drama and omggggg i still love it. i might make a part two bc this was kinda fun to write.

requests

pro-hero, katsuki bakugou, was rapidly climbing the hero ranks the moment he graduated high school. by the time he was 23, he was already one of japan’s top heroes. he had been working his ass off, spending countless hours training and fighting for the dream he had worked for since he was a child, and all of his hard work had finally come to fruition.

unfortunately, there was one thing he didn’t have.

“you need to get a girlfriend, katsuki.”

the blond found himself now trapped in another dreadful conversation with his mother. for the past year, his mother had been pestering him about finding a partner and it made him want to tear his hair out. he groaned as he did his best to tune her out.

“i’m being serious, katsuki,” she pestered, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “we’re both getting older and I want grandbabies.”

“you’re not getting any fucking grandbabies if you keep fucking bothering me about it,” the man huffed. “i don’t know why you care so much about me fucking some chick. it’s creepy.”

mitsuki scoffed. “well, sorry I don’t want to you die alone and unhappy.”

those words still ricocheted in his head as he shuffled through paperwork a few weeks later. die alone, he thought. like hell, I need some woman and kid slowing me down.

there was a soft knock on the door of his office followed by the calm voice of his assistant. “mr. bakugou?”

“open,” he responded, not looking up from the papers.

his assistant walked in, closing the door behind him. “todoroki’s agency wanted to ask how the paperwork is coming along.”

“tell him to leave me alone.”

the still unnamed assistant checked his watch, huffing. “sir—” he leaned forward, the tablet in his hand now curled up near his chest— “have you called your mother at all today?”

katsuki raised his eyes, immediately suspicious. “why?”

“yes or no, sir?”

he sighed. “no, I have not.”

“that explains it,” the assistant muttered, leaning back. “she wanted me to tell you that she-”

“KATSUKI!” like clockwork, mitsuki stormed through the double doors of katsuki’s office. the man swore under his breath. the assistant stood aside as the older woman made her way to her son’s desk. “I have incredible news for you!~”

he place the papers on the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose, anticipating the worst. “oh boy, I wonder what it could be,” he spoke, sarcasm lacing his jaded voice.

“curb your enthusiasm, buddy.” mitsuki stood tall. “the ceo of XXXXX has agreed to a blind date with his daughter!” she did jazz hands to emphasize it.

katsuki froze. “sorry?”

“you’re going on a blind date with the ceo’s daughter.” she did the jazz hands again.

“are you fucking kidding me?!” katsuki began to raise his voice, evidently pissed off. “you went and set up some blind date with a random woman because you want some fucking grandkids!?”

“I fail to see the issue katsuki.”

“well, there’s fucking plenty!”

“listen, and listen well; you’re going to find a woman to settle down with whether you like it or not, katsuki. plus, wouldn’t marrying into a ceo’s family be good for business?”

“this is fucking ridiculous.” the man stood up and was ready to leave. “it’s not happening. i’m busy all this month.”

“not anymore!~” mitsuki had the biggest shit-eating grin the man had ever seen.

katsuki looked over at his assistant, eyebrow cocked. “that’s what I was trying to tell you, sir, before she…” he shifted his gaze to the older woman “…before she walked in.”

“i also had him clear your schedule.” she chimed in.

katsuki huffed, wanting the world to swallow him whole.

~

“another one? did he forget every other date you’ve gone on?”

your friend had invited you to a nice debrief at the cafe you two had been eyeing for a while. being from a wealthy business family, it was common place for her parents to try and marry her off, but your friend would rather eat lead than have anything to do with this.

your friend huffed, crossing her arms as she looked out at the nearby street. “that’s what I’m saying.”

“and you literally have no idea who this dude could be?”

“well, it is a blind date after all.” she looked back at you, hands now on the table. “but he knows I don’t wanna be set up with some dude just because he’s rich. I only plan to marry for love.” she waved her hands in a rainbow motion on the word “love” to really get the point home.

you took a sip from your drink. “your dad, yeah. doesn’t he know we’re just gonna scare him away again?”

she raised her coffee cup to her lip, chuckling a bit. memories of your two’s shenanigans flooding her mind. “should we do that again?”

“is that even a question,” you grinned.

~

you and your friend had planned for you to go on the date instead. you’d be dressed neatly in expensive clothing borrowed from your friend. she gave you a cute makeup look to make you look expensive and a pretty wig with scarily realistic hair.

the plan was simple:

be as unappealing as possible.

you sat down and waited for your friend’s date to show up. as you waited, you did your best to calm your nerves and fix your makeup a bit. after a few minutes of waiting, a deep voice spoke from behind you.

“you XXXX XXXXXXXXX?”

startled, the compact mirror in your hand shook. you turned around and began to shake even more. the man your friend had been set up with, the man you are about to scare off, the man standing in front of you right now was absolutely, unbelievably attractive. what was his name again?

katsuki bakugou.

katsuki saw your eyes widen for a moment and was about to leave, a bit worried that you were the wrong person.

“yes,” you answered, voice a bit meeker than you had hoped. not only was he undeniably attractive, but he looked oddly familiar. was he some kind of model or actor? “take a seat.” you gestured to the seat across from you.

the blond sat down, visibly uninterested. you, on the other hand, were doing your absolute best to calm your nerves, hands trembling a bit as you raised your water glass to your lips. you took a deep breath. you were determined to make this date fail.

thus began tactic number one.

you let out a deep sigh, drawing katsuki’s attention. “it’s warm in here, isn’t it,” you asked smugly, carefully peeling your jacket off. the dress you were wearing underneath was sleeveless and showed off your shoulders and collarbone. it was far from warm in the restaurant you two sat in, but you were without a doubt going to pretend you were burning up.

no one likes a woman that shows too much skin.

katsuki didn’t even bother with a verbal response. instead, he just cocked an eyebrow. he examined you as you practically flaunted your arms and noticed goosebumps painting the exposed skin. “you have goosebumps.”

crap.

you chuckled, fixing your hair. “i just get goosebumps a lot.”

time for the next strategy.

you kicked your foot against the table. you fake winced, saying a sweet “sorry” as you pulled your leg back. your voice then switched to a high-pitched baby voice as you cooed at your expensive heels, gently brushing them. “it’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” you then turned your attention to the equally expensive clutch near you. “oh, did you get scared, baby?” you continued cooing and kissing your clutch.

a woman crazy about luxury goods. how’s that for a turn-off?

you looked away from the clutch and watched as katsuki typed away on his phone.

was your performance not worth watching?

“what are you doing?”

katsuki’s head darted up before he sheepishly tucked his phone away. “a text from work. sorry.”

this won’t do. on to my last resort.

“I’m so sad,” you blurted out.

“what?”

you crossed your arms, huffing. “I’m so sad. you seem so uninterested in me.” you pouted. “it’s making samantha and rachel very sad.”

the blond’s brows furrowed as he took a sip out of his cup. “samantha and rachel?”

you smirked, holding the sides of the table so your chest was open. “the left one is samantha. right is rachel. i spent a wopping half a million a piece on these babies.”

he nearly choked on his water, coughing as he placed it back on the table. you did your absolute best to not break character. you giggled, leaning back in your seat. “i’m rambling, aren’t i?”

one could say this was your best performance. there was no way in hell that he was going to ask for a second date.

—

“HE ASKED FOR A SECOND DATE?!”

you sat with your head in your hands across from your friend. “I did my best, I swear.”

“if you did your best then why am I going on a second date with him,” she asked, practically crushing her cup.

“he was very persistent, in my defense.”

your friend sighed lowly. “jeez, I guess I’ll have to go and scare him away myself.”

“how,” you asked, lazily looking back up her. “he thinks you look like me.”

“well, i don’t want to see him anymore regardless, so him finding out you’re not the real me should only drive him further, yeah?” your friend feigned calmness as she said that, but you could tell that she was thoroughly irritated. you watched as coffee leaked from under her lid and onto her fingers. she was no indeed crushing the cup.

sheepishly you offered, “I’ll buy you a new drink.”

—

“you want to…meet her again?”

katsuki decided to visit izuku on his lunch break. they were in a nearby cafe, casually debriefing about how their days had been going. izuku, like most of katsuki’s friends, had long known of his mother’s desire for her son to get married and have kids. katsuki had told izuku about the date his mom had set him up on, complaining about how that “old hag”, in his words, had no respect for his boundaries and was weirdly obsessed with him getting hitched off. so izuku was very surprised to hear that the dreaded date went well.

“yeah,” he admitted, digging his fork into his pasta. “I mean, she didn’t seem half bad.” he looked back up at izuku, who held a stunned expression. “quit looking at me like that.”

“sorry, I just didn’t expect for it to have gone so well. she must be a real catch.”

katsuki thought back to what you considered a disaster of a date. it had been so long since he’d met such a straightforward woman. you came across as so honest, so genuine. he…liked that about you. and sure, you were pretty and wealthy, but things like that meant nothing to him. he’d be a liar if he said he couldn’t stop thinking about you on the drive back to his apartment. “i guess so.”

suddenly, there was a loud crash outside followed by a scream. the two men perked up, both now looking out the window. a villain attack?

at the sound of another crash, they dove out of the cafe and onto the street to be met with what they expected. what katsuki didn’t expect was to see was a woman that looked suspiciously familiar.

you had somehow ended up in the middle of the crossfire of this low-ranking villain’s attack. if a hero hadn’t saved you just in time, you would’ve gotten seriously hurt. unfortunately, the moment you got a good look at the hero that saved you, you realized why the man your friend was set up with looked so familiar.

you had gone on a date with the top hero, dynamite.

the two of you stared at each other, face inches apart. katsuki examined your face. he could barely believe it. here you were, standing right in front of him, and he had just saved your life. now would be a bad time to ask you on a second date, right?

“you’re the…”

quickly, you backed away and bowed. “t-thank you so much!” you tried to run away, face burning with anxiety, but his large hand instinctually grabbed your wrist.

“wait a second, how the hell did you get yourself caught up in a villain attack?”

“it was an accident, really,” you said as you attempted to wiggle yourself out of his grip.

“y/n, are you okay,” you friend asked, running up to you. she had gotten separated from you when the attack started. however, she halted the moment she saw katsuki right next to you. “oh no..”

katsuki’s brows furrowed. “y/n?” that’s not your name, he thought. his grip loosened just enough for you to release yourself.

your heart was racing. katsuki, decked out in his signature costume, looked at you with the most perplexed expression you had ever seen. you jogged up to your friend, trying to push her away. “XXXX, we should go,” you muttered.

“hey,” katsuki called out. “you just got attacked by a villain.”

“we’re just fine,” you friend responded.

“i was telling her, not you.” he didn’t want to believe it, but the name your friend called you rang through his head like bullets. it couldn’t have been a nickname. it sounded nothing like the name he knew you as. could it really be…

“let me walk you to the police station, y/n. i have a lot to ask you.”

[dc-comics-enjoyer]

Random things I like to hc (part 1)

- Constantine calling Batman "love" anytime.

"Good plan, love. Now, if I may add..."

- Diana constantly fighting the urge to add multiple times in the footnotes of her research papers : "*I know that because I was there."

- Clark feeling some type of way whenever anyone from the Batfam calls him Uncle Clark (he does tear up a little the first few times).

- Anytime Booster would get cancelled for a tweet, he'd go back in time just far enough to prevent from tweeting it. He did that way too many times.

- Barry and Hal being that one best friend duo that are big on PDA. Most of the time during JL meetings, Hal's leg would be intertwined with Barry's.

- Given that the way they usually interact correlates with what he learned about married couples, J'onn assumed for the longest time that Bruce and Clark were spouses.

- Much like how Clark switches off his kansan accent when he's being Superman, Bruce switches off his "posh" accent when he's being Batman.

- Everytime someone mentions (any) Robin, Hal's mind still can't fathom that Batman's sidekick is a literal child.

- Dick is a bisexual flirt in and out of costume.

- Regular occurence : Batman enters the meeting room, sees Booster's stupid expression that's a clear sign he's going to share very stupid ideas, and Batman exits the room without a word. He doesn't come back for the rest of the meeting. After it happened more than once, some of the members get the clue and walk out as well.

- Superman can recite entire movies by heart. Not surprising in and of itself, but surprising that Bruce silently lets him do it over his shoulder when he's working in the batcave. Lets Clark unwind and gives Bruce background noise.

- After multiple complaints, Batman had to soundproof Dinah and Oliver's room in the watchtower.

---------

(Part 2 here )

(Good dad Bruce hc here)

[bamsara]

sorry can you explain. what's happening with forneus and shamura there

Not sure if canon to my au or headspace because I may rewrite a few details, but the gist of it:

Forneus made a deal with Shamura in order to get what she considers her one true love; a child. We know that there's no canon indicator of who the twin's father is, and the devs were clear that Narinder isn't the father, so it's pretty solid for a headcanon that she aqquired them through other means (kinda like cloning? is possible

I imagine through this deal, she ends up with her kits. If it was Shamura she made the deal with, then that ties a connection with Shamura to Aym and Baal for the Bishop to retake them later in life and give them to TOWW, without just picking some random kits.

If it's paired with the Forneus is a vessal headcanon, then it would make sense if Shamura were to make a deal with her that way in order to trade her vessalhood for children, only for it to blow back up in her face

Just an idea though, not entirely fleshed out

[dontpulloutman]

spring seventeen (2).

tags: owen taylor x reader. the starling girl. Owen Taylor Is His Own Warning. a/n: *clicks post and runs* … i hope u guys like this

(masterlist)

On the next field trip with the youth group, you take the chance to slip away. The yellow shirt itches on your skin. If you let your eyes close for too long, if you let your mind wander too far, you'll start thinking of Owen. How he left when he used to promise that he would never leave you alone.

He's a liar.

Your reverie is broken by the jingle of a bell above you. Behind the counter, a girl in her early 20s with bright blue hair looks up from her phone. You can feel the heavy stare on your shirt. Then she looks back down as casually as she could. With a deep breath and shaking hands, you walk up to her. Chest and palms pressed against the cold display case, you clear your throat.

"How can I help you?" She takes her attention away from her phone.

"I've been feeling sick a lot lately. And I threw up a few hours ago."

She takes a clipboard from beside the cash register, "Any allergies?" you shake your head no. "Fever?" you shake your head again.

She takes another quick look at the text printed on your stupid yellow shirt. "Sexually active?"

You take a pause. The lump in your throat refuses to let you speak. Through tears, you catch how her own eyes soften. You're speechless when she opens a drawer and places a rectangular box on the counter.

"There's a bathroom near the back."

"Satan has its grasp on you," she moves her accusing finger from your face to the small swell of your belly, "And that creature is its abomination. You are ruined!"

"Momma," you raise your hands, palms open, pleading, "Please, momma..."

She flinches back as if your touch would burn. As if you were the devil itself. "You stay away from me!" she shrieks. Gasping back a cry, you try to get closer to her. You're sorry. You're so sorry. You haven't been sorry yet.

"Get out of my house."

It brings a chill down your spine. Like a coward, you shrink into yourself. Like a mother, you move your hands to protect and cradle the life growing inside you.

"You better leave before your father comes back. Lord knows what he'll do if he sees you like this."

Your spine goes rigid. And then, almost stubbornly, you turn away. And then, you run. You run like its all you've ever known to do.

"What a raging bitch!"

You curl into the pillow pressed against your chest. Eyes following the girl pacing across linoleum tiles. It's only been a week since that fateful day, but she already has platinum streaks in the blue of her hair.

You didn't expect her to be so accommodating. Showing up at her parents' pharmacy on a random Wednesday evening. She quickly brought you in, ushered you into her basement bedroom, screamed a "Don't disturb us!" before she prodded at you to tell her what's going on.

"I can't believe she'd do that to her own daughter!" You can feel the rage in her voice.

"It's fine," you try to placate her. It doesn't work.

"No, the fuck, it isn't! I mean–" she stutters, at a loss for words. She parts her lips to continue her tirade, a new string of curses toward your mother, when she realizes the tears forming in your eyes. She immediately sags at the look on your face.

"What do you wanna do?" She says. Instead of more hate, more profanities, more choice words about your 'cunt of a mother'.

"I want to keep the baby."

"You have other options," she gently reminds you. But the thought of it is bitter. Less than five weeks, and yet you know you won't ever let this child go. The babe is a sacrament of the love you once had.

"I can't... I want... I need to keep it."

Joanna sits on the bed beside you. Slowly, but with such tender care, she places a hand on your knee. "Okay, babes. That's your choice."

There's a moment of silence.

"Do you know any way to contact the father?"

He's completely and utterly fucked. Waking up alone on a random motel bed, only to find that his truck (his one-way ticket out of dodge) was missing from where he parked it last night. He's tried to call the cheap cell he bought for Jemima, only for it to beep in his ear. Out of service, out of range. He's in deep shit. Running his hands through his hair, he lists down all of his options.

Hell has to burn over before he returns back home. And without his truck to sell, he won't have enough money to afford a ticket back to Puerto Rico. Unless... He's quick to go through his duffel bag, deep into its inner pocket, where his old notebook lays tucked away.

In it, there's a slip of paper. Worn and tattered, an envelope with its seal still intact. The words inside having been accessed by a letter opener. Obvious through the jagged cut at the seam. Like a source of salvation, the light at the end of the tunnel, there it is.

It was sacrilegious. But with the taste of his gasps and the press of his lips, you knew you were on sacred ground. Leaning across the console of his truck, with his hands in your hair, and the dangle of your Benedictine medallion, you are reborn.

Owen pulls away, his palms against your cheeks. There’s a furrow to his brow. With a gasp, your cheeks turn red. His jaw moves, chewing. “Is this gum?”

You nod. How sordid to think of it. Candy passing from one’s lips to another. It’s downright sinful.

“I didn’t notice you chewing it the entire drive,” he comments, almost thoughtful while he plays with the candy in his mouth.

“I like mint.”

He chuckles, looking out the window. “You always taste like mint.”

(Are you chewing gum? Spit it out.)

Infatuated, like a school girl with a crush, you bashfully ask, “Do you like it?”

He’s leaning across the console again, grin on his lips before he kisses you once more, “I love it.”

He’s probably lost. Following the return address scrawled in your writing, he ends up in front of a pharmacy. He looks up at the sign, blue and white with the paint chipping. Above the pharmacy, he sees floral patterned curtains on brick-lined windows. With a breath, bracing for the unknown, he steps into the store. A bell rings above the door. There’s a lady with pink hair behind the counter. And a little girl sat beside the cash register. The lady looks up from where she was babbling at the girl. Owen doesn’t miss the way her eyes widen for a second. And then, she lifts the girl, placing her down on the hardwood floors.

“Sweets, go to your momma.”

The little girl, chubby fingers clutching on rubber teethers, nods with a smile before disappearing behind a curtained doorway.

“How can I help you?”

His lips part to speak, but he’s interrupted when someone else bursts into the store.

“Jo, these just came in.”

And there you were. With a box pressed against your hip, eyes focused on a piece of paper. His mouth dries. You’ve always been so beautiful.

“It’s the antibiotic we ordered last week—”

After years, your eyes finally reunite with sinful blues.

“Owen?”

He’s rushing forward. You’re numb, almost unseeing while he cups your face between his hands. He’s trying to get you to listen. “I’ve looked for you everywhere,” he says. “I missed you. I tried to go back,” he insists.

“What are you doing here?”

He pauses at the cold of your voice.

“I came back for you. I missed you.”

“You came back for me?”

You notice Joanna leaving the room, giving you privacy. Knowing her, she’s probbaly waiting by the curtained door. One ear out just in case something happens.

“Yes, baby. My darling girl,” he presses his forehead against yours. Your fingers tighten around the corners of the box you hold.

“You came back for me?”

Harsh and biting, a deep-seated rage bubbles inside you.

“It’s been three years. Almost three years. You only came to me now?”

His fingers are desperate, palms cupping your jaw. Thumbs rubbing into your cheeks. “I tried. I couldn’t get out of Puerto Rico for a while. I did everything I can to get back to you.”

His thumbs catch the salt tears running down your cheeks. The kiss he presses between your brows is solemn and pleading. The anger in your heart turns down into a simmer. You will always succumb to him.

You kiss him. It tastes like salt and relief. Desperate in how he tries to take it further. With one hand, slowly, softly, you push him away. His forehead presses against yours. Nose breathing you in. Quietly, almost scared, you whisper, “There’s someone you need to meet.”

[monicahar]

“my wife.”

how they address you. why does it make your heart skip a beat each time?

characters; neuvillette, wriothesley

—female pronouns obvi, aaaa this is so random😭 fluff, tad bit of crack, has suggestive themes/dirty jokes cause that's my humor in general, just tryna get into writing again heehaa don't mind me ʘ⁠‿⁠ʘ

NEUVILETTE always accompanies the term with unmatched affection. it rolls off his tongue perfectly like a match made in heaven, coupled with the serene image of you instantaneously appearing in his mind before he even thinks of the uttering the endearing term. he still finds it surreal that you are both even lawfully married, yet the way he calls you his wife is already on instinct. is it too presumptuous of him?

well, in the end, he can't find any means to worry about it when you seem to equally adore the nickname.

“ooohh, say it again, say it again!”

he can't tell whether he married a child or not, but he still obliges your request and calls you his wife affectionately once more.

meanwhile, furina nearly gags everytime she hears him say it so softly—like using any other tone when referring to you would land him in the hands of the fortress of meropide. sure—she might've been the one who set up both of you—but the drama and thrill akin to watching a romance film has delightfully ended, and she can only meddle so much in marital matters. the iudex just might actually have her head in a platter if she were to do anything mischievous at that point.

but while a happy neuvillette is running around announcing 'my wife' this and 'my wife' that, you are currently stuck on what to call him in return, sadly enough.

“at this point, i think i'm just going to call you daddy.”

it was unfortunate with the way he choked on some of the water he was drinking—well, thank goodness he didn't spill much as before. for this wasn't the first time you said something unprompted while he was in peace with his water—he can only internally sigh.

“and what exactly has influenced you to arrive at such a conclusion, my wife?” he does not miss the tiny shudder of your body that followed the endearment. your face burns a tad bit at that, and he softly chuckles.

“your effect on me is no joke, you know?” you pout at his amused smile, “the way you refer to me so sweetly makes me want to call you my dearest husband everytime.”

“i don't recall voicing any complaints. is something else holding you back from doing so?”

you nod solemnly in agreement at that, which prompts him to raise a brow in mild curiousity.

“thing is, i really like calling you by your first name. same with monsieur neuvilette. there's something mildly erotic within it—you get what i mean, hehehe...” he only stares at you, clearly unimpressed, and a bit concerned at the implication. you clear your throat, apologizing under your breath.

“still—it's such a devastating predicament to be unable to choose between the three.” you sigh defeatedly, moving to slump your entire weight on his lap. you mutter, “my dearest husband monsieur neuvillette...mmm, no, that's too long.”

chuckling at your dramatic antics, he plants a soothing hand on your waist, the other fixing your wrinkled clothing as you practically melt against his hold. “and you thought settling on daddy was the appropriate option?”

“i'm not hearing any objections.” you jest, feeling cheeky.

“please refrain from calling me such a thing in the eyes of the public atleast.”

“...huh? you're actually allowing it??”

WRIOTHESLEY on the other hand, says it as if he's flaunting. it leaves his lips like a taunt each time, indirectly telling the other party 'i have a hot wife and you dont' even though most of the time the people he mentions you to don't even know what you actually look like. it's silly, childish even, but you still love it nonetheless.

sigewinne and the other inmates have collectively told you that ever since you got married, he has never uttered your actual name to anyone else. some find it weird, some find it somehow disrespectful, and some are now convinced he's crazily obsessed with you, and now he's showing it off every chance he gets, much to everyone's dismay.

it's arrived to the point where a small percentage of people have actually forgotten about your name, and now refer to you as the duke's wife, or even duchess, to which you made a face at. that's kind of pushing it by then.

anywho, in the end, it's funny and endearing, maybe even makes you a bit giddy, but there is no way you're telling him that. the situation might escalate even more if possible.

“you know, my wife is very mean to me today.”

as a pair of strong yet gentle arms wrap around your waist, you resist the growing smile on your face, deciding to mess with your husband for a bit.

“is that so?” you continue your chores without a care in the world. he huffs.

“mhm. she won't look me in the eye the whole day, even though she seemed sooo happy last night.” face instantly burning, you hiss as you slap his arm in a fit of embarrassment, pulling a hearty chuckle from the man behind you.

“—and now she's hitting me as well. i can't believe this.” you both know very well he was not fazed in the slightest bit.

“if her husband wasn't such a pervert then maybe—”

his facade cracks as he forces out an awkward laugh, “hey now, baby, you know i'm nothing like that.”

“wriothesley.”

he clears his throat awkwardly, “okay, maybe a little. it's exclusive for you though! my wife doesn't have to be so mean about it, you're making me reallyyy sad here, y'know?”

there it is again, you think. that nickname. that damned word that makes you want to turn around and smash your lips against his and—wait, hold yourself together! don't forget the reason you're being cold to him!

“you deserve to feel remorse. i've been struggling to even move the whole day because of you.”

you go rigid.

you didn't mean for that to come out so bitter...oh no.

“oh. so that's what this is about.” you don't even have to turn around to know that there's a smug look on his stupidly handsome face, his grip on your waist turning into soothing circles as he presses a kiss to your neck.

“if my wife wanted a massage, she could've just said so.” it's husky when it leaves his mouth, leaving you to shiver with the chills he enunciates.

flustered, you completely disregard the way your knees buckle at the endearment laced with that low voice of his, hitting his arm once more, earning a tiny 'ouch' from him.

“pervert. i want rest, not another round!”

“heh, i didn't say anything about another round, my perverted wife.”

“you—” you are abrupt cut off as you yelp in surprise when your feet are raised off the ground, your face now much closer to your husband's as he carries you gently in his arms.

“shhh, just let me take you to bed. if my wife was feeling terrible the whole day, she should've just told me in the first place so she could stay in, don't you think?”

he's right, but you're still angry. “shut up.”

“just letting you know i'm not completely at fault, wife.” you attempt to ignore the furious beating of your heart, face burning at his smug expression. “i'm not the only one who wanted it.”

hsr version...? if i feel like it...🤔🤔