#promises are important to ghosts :)

[little-pondhead]

I’m Not The Sun

—

Y'know, when Kon ‘died’, do you think a grieving Tim could have mistaken Danny for his best friend? Do you think that, in a moment of desperation and exhaustion, he might've kidnapped a floating Danny in an attempt to bring Kon home? And when he realized he kidnapped a random civilian, do you think he still kept Danny for a while as a replacement for Kon?

Do you think Danny got tired of being called 'Conner' after the first week but was too distressed himself to correct Tim? Trying to leave or tell the fellow teen his name was Danny was obviously sending the kid into a spiral. He seemed to think Danny was the dead spirit of his best friend. Maybe if he played along, this Conner guy would show back up?

Hopefully, before Tim completes his cloning research. Danny's been doing everything he can to sabotage the equipment, but even with ghost powers on his side, Tim is a smart person. Every time Danny sets him back one step, Tim takes two steps forward. And since he's well outside of his haunt, Danny is starting to feel weak and ill from lack of ectoplasm. He's running out of time.

Do you think Kon would feel upset that his best friend replaced him?

[multishipper-baby]

Not publishing the ask yet because I want to reply with the playlist but I have to comment on it because

Anon. You just gave the biggest neuron activation.

IT'S 2 AM. BUT HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SLEEP WHEN I'M THINKING ABOUT THEM.

[the5n00k]

Hey so uh I was watching all night plight again... 💔

[pimento-playing-hopscotch]

You know the more I think about it, the more you don’t… have to be doomed by the narrative.

Even if you’re the hero.

Even if you can’t stay.

Barring being stuck in a time loop, if you can’t stay and you have to go- then by all means, go.

Get.

Get while the getting is good.

But you don’t have to stay gone.

You can come back.

You can come back or forward or sideways or slantways or any type of ways you can imagine.

You don’t have to be the lonely hero.

You can choose to return to the people who care about you.

Claire Bennet said it best in 2007-

[tanicus-caesareth]

guarana drama, damage control

[miqotepotatoe]

A Forgotton Soul

[kkusuka]

more roommate simon!

i love the idea that simon thinks he's super open and available with his emotions and reader thinking he's really cold and disinterested. is he ooc? yeah. do i care? no. if you want cannon ghost, play the game!

simon riley doesn't know when you became so important to him.

the only reason he even put out the ad for a roommate was because his landlord though he'd moved out while he was away and he'd rather have some bird in his place than deal with that again.

you were just so easy; showing up to the coffee shop (where you requested to have your first meeting just in case he was some crazy murderer) face flushed, strands of hair all over the place, and sweater a mess; rushing to explain how you got sprayed by a sprinkler on your walk over then chased by a dog. and just as you repeat sorry for the 30th time simon thinks he's in love. you're officially his roommate 30 minutes later.

but it's so out of character for him. he hasn't been around anything other than hard ass military men since he was a teenager. fuck, he's killed hundreds of men in his line of work, tortured thousands more. (he doesn't like to think that that's why he's so drawn to you. that you're so different from who he has to be, someone he's been for so long, that being around you lets him breathe. that he feels like he can actually sit and enjoy his moments away from the field in your tiny manchester apartment.)

he thinks it actually started with the decorations.

the small trinkets you let around the common spaces when he was away. it starts with your room obviously; fairy lights above your bed that spills light into the hallway when he comes home in the early morning hours, paintings on the wall that eventually flow over into the living room, the small plants in your window sill that you ask him to water one day after you leave for work.

then the dinner table suddenly has checkerboard placemats and a vase of flowers that change with the season. and his run-down couch has decorative pillows and a throw blanket (both words he learned from you when he questions what the fuck is on his couch). then the bathroom in the hallway gets a new soap stand, and a mat is placed at your front door, next to the shoe organizer and coat rack.

so he starts buying things too; the penguin plushie in the supermarket window, the vase that matches the curtains in the living room, and a small skull magnet to rest on the face of your fridge.

and before simon knows it his dreary, cold apartment actually looks lived in. and instead of coming home to a dark hallway and an empty fridge, your flower lamp is on, some random show from the 90s is playing, and there's food on the table.

he gets to know you more than he thought he would; he knows what foods you don't like, the books you're reading and the ones you refuse to read again, and even that dick from work he promises to take care of if he bothers you again (it's evident that you think it's a joke and not something that he would genuinely do but simon doesn't think he's ever been more serious).

but he never lets you know too much about him, you don't need to know about it and the less you find out the better.

then came dinners, actual dinner not just him showing up while you already had food ready. you would ask if he wanted whatever you had made ( 'i'm already making food and i normally don't eat is all anyway, so i might as well share' ). so suddenly he was spending his nights at your table with a homecooked meal and simon doesn't think he could ever let this go.

then he gets sent away again, for way longer this time. he makes sure to update his paperwork, changes his emergency contact, your name swirled onto the spouse line. you were probably as close as he'll ever get to one and if you're there they'll tell you if anything happens to him faster. he doesn't want to think of how nice your first name looks with his last name. and you'll probably never even know, simon's never gotten that injured before and he doesn't plan on it now.

months in the heat of the middle east return him to hard shell of a man he was. coming home caked in dirt, blood speckled on his clothes; he doesn't want you to see him like this, he doesn't want you to know this version of him. and for the first time he regrets letting you come into his life.

you are home when he gets back, 2:30 in the morning and every light is off, he opens your door to make sure. you're asleep, not shocking, cuddled into the giant octopus you won at an arcade. he tries not to move, he just wants to look at you for a little bit.

he wakes up the next morning to breakfast and a new pair of combat boots. he's only home for a week this time, not that he's ever home for longer than a month, and he tries to soak up all of your time. you complain about your car, he's on it. the heater started being testy, that's fine he'll take care of it. he's going grocery shopping with you, he watching that weird hospital show, and he enjoys his time in domestic bliss before getting thrown back into some random country.

somehow that all led him here. laying in a hospital bed with two bullets lodged in his shoulder with you sitting in some shitty chair pulled as close to the bed as you could.

"so uh, i'm mrs. riley now?"

"yeah, ya are. 'av been for a while."

[luvbabydoll]

a bunny and a wolf — simon “ghost” riley

wolf hybrid simon riley x bunny hybrid female reader

warnings: 18+ content!!! possessiveness, breeding kink, unprotected sex, primal / hunting kink?

a/n: credit to @issysh3ll for the divider (not proofread sooo be warned!!!)

a bunny and a wolf—pretty ironic, right?

the two animals were supposed to be natural enemies, the wolf hunting while the bunny tried to hide. usually, it would end the same way: the wolf would sniff out the bunny, catch it’s tail in its mouth, and, before you knew it, the bunny would become its next meal.

although that may be the way nature intended? nature most definitely doesn’t always follow its own rules. a prime example: simon “ghost” riley and his baby bunny.

and yes, simon was well aware of the rather odd dynamic, but he couldn’t help himself—he was drawn to that little creature. and, of course, simon never tried to eat his baby bunny. well… not in the way nature intended. he would eat her out until her tail would twitch repeatedly, but it never got too gory.

every week, without fail, simon found himself hunting them down—not for survival or for a meal, but rather for something much more primal and important to him. simon would stomp his way through the halls of their shared home, deliberately making the stomps of his own body louder, his breathing heavier, just to make sure his baby would tremble and shed a few tears.

and without any doubt, his bunny would wriggle beneath the sheets, hiding in their shared bed— the same bed he would worship her on.

and that’s exactly where simon found himself later today. his breath was hot against their neck as he ruthlessly moved his body against their much smaller frame. making sure they could feel the hard outline of his hard cock. a low, guttural grunt escaped him as he tugged at their bunny tail,

"fuck, you feel that, baby? feel how hard I’m getting for you? all cause of my bunny.” simon growled, his voice thick with ecstasy. his rough hands moved roughly over their body, his palms rubbing over their body, as if he’s claiming a prophecy.

"here’s what’s gonna happen bunny, im gonna pin you down, use you how i like, and your gonna enjoy every moment of it," he murmured, his tone dark with promise. "i’m gonna fill you up with my seed—make sure you’ll be filled with our pups. just the way it’s supposed to be." simon growled ruthlessly, his tongue moving to savor the taste of your own fear, kissing your body at the same time, as if he were worshipping his own god—which to simon he was.

[alexiroflife]

"in every life"

curse reincarnation, fluff

ryomen sukuna x reader

Synopsis: you, a former sorcerer and sukuna's wife, are killed in the heian era. sukuna does not believe in a life without you, so he takes it upon himself to bring you back a thousand years later

to sum it up: you are sukuna's life, and no matter how long he has to wait, he will bring you back to him by any means necessary

WC: 3,621

Warning(s): angst in the beginning, reader death (but you're revived), brief icky descriptions of a vessel's possession

-> ask | sukuna fic list

Sukuna remembers the exact moment you left him, soul fluttering almost gracefully from your eyes as your body fell limply into his four arms.

The moment replays in his mind as though it had only happened yesterday, or perhaps as recently as a few hours prior. Time has never been something the king of curses worried himself over, for his strength and existence exceeded such mortal constructs, but when his thoughts wander to you as frequently as air fills and deflates from his lungs, the very concept grows skewed and suddenly, time is a matter of great importance to him.

A king is nothing without his queen beside him, his rock, his partner, and that is what you are. That is what you were, but Sukuna refuses to address you in any form of past tense because your temporary withdrawal from the planet and from his side would never alter the fact that you are his, that you have been his, and that you will be his until the end of time. 

Sukuna has never been one for romantics, for connections that tie his free spirit down from the unfettered, terrifying rule that he leads, but when you entered his life, his opinions shifted and his ambitions changed, making room for you at his side upon his throne. 

The two of you had been married for years before you left him. Sukuna had never bothered to count, but now he finds himself mulling over the years’ contents in search of a piece of your memory that can stay with him until the time comes for you to return to his hand. 

When you were alive, Sukuna never fathomed you leaving his side. He almost feels he should punish you for so abruptly taking an absence from him without permission, castigating your spirit until he feels that the space you once occupied close to him emanates remnants of an apology, of guilt, of a promise to never do such a foolish thing ever again. 

When you were alive, you were a sight to behold, a perfect fit for the title of his wife. You were deserving of each and every privilege he bestowed upon you; of holding his face in your small, dainty hands, of pressing your lips to the textured plate of his face, of throwing your legs over his thighs as you settle onto his lap with a large, burly arm coming around you and securing you there for all of his servants and former concubines to see how high you sit amongst him and how low they remain beneath the two of you. 

You always said what you were thinking. While he ensured that everyone within and outside of his temple feared him, you were always unaffected by his intimidating presence. He remembers one instance in which you were lying beneath him, a mess of silk fabrics swarming your bare figure over your reserved place in his bed with your hair splayed out messily over the pillows and your eyes weighted with a foolish look of what he could only describe as enchantment and tender allegiance.

He feels the ghost of your fingers trace his jaw as he looks down at you quietly, dwarfing you in his mass. A smile touches your soft lips with a rosy hue swirling over your (s/c) skin. 

“Your eyes are quite beautiful.”

Your voice is a whisper of past enamorations through Sukuna’s ear as his brows arch in reminiscence. He remembers how he glared at you in confusion, face hard though he always allowed you to continue admiring him, to continue touching him without consequence. His eyes, which mirror the color of fresh, crimson blood as he has watched it gurgle from the mouths and limbs of his victims, staining the streets, his hands, and his monstrous legacy, are windows you believe to be… beautiful.

Your sentiments never failed to befuddle him. He never did understand why you associated such a ferocious beast with beliefs so light and pure. He is not beautiful, he had thought. He never desired to be beautiful. He is simply Ryoman Sukuna, enough of himself to be categorized in unique isolation, separate from your labels of aesthetic charm and peace. 

You’re silly. Silly with love and submission, he thinks, but he has never denied you of these admirations though he fails to agree. 

Besides, you are his wife. He would have allowed you to worship him in any way you pleased if you asked, and in truth, you hardly did ask. You knew what you were to Sukuna, how you and only you remained the only soft spot that the salmon haired demon withheld in his breast. You were beyond requesting approval to love him in the ways you saw fit, and Sukuna was pleased because you knew, in all spaces, that you were his and he was yours. 

Among all the trophies of battles won, of cities conquered, of titles obtained, you are Sukuna’s greatest prize. 

His love for you was always silent, long glances and grips of the waist, orders to slaughter on your behalf and the pat of his hand over his beefy thigh to beckon you over. His love was an unrestrained space for you to express your desires, to demand his attention, and his compliance with a veil of frustration poorly masking his easy willingness to give you anything you pleased. His love was long, sleepless nights, the marking of his territory by means of stinging bites and purple bruises over your smooth skin that no living being in his wake could mistake for anything but a reminder of your connection to him. 

His love was you incarnate, just a woman before hell’s greatest crown, but his love no less. His wife. His queen. His eternity.

Sukuna does not know why he mourned you when you died. He found himself reacting impulsively, in a short-lived panic when your blood spilled over his skin and your eyes lost the light that he’d been following through the tunnel of his rein for years. 

He knows death is a taboo concern only for mortals to fret over, but when you die, he feels as though he has died himself. Your life flashes before his eyes, your time with him, and this strange ache swarms his body and manifests as a ball in his throat as his ruby hues melt over you in alarm. 

He struggles to accept your parting. He’s viciously angry, a horrible wreck that his servants fear stepping too close into proximity as the time passes and your vacancy weighs itself over his temple and his body like a mountain. He had believed your death to be painful, but the period that follows, the period of waiting stings him like no pain he has endured before. 

A king needs his queen, and without you, no matter for how long, he feels empty. He rampages his heartache away, but it no longer holds the satisfaction it did when you were with him, watching from the sidelines and cheering him on. His estate feels colder somehow, the dent you’ve left in his bed losing its shape and the memory of you fading from others’ minds, but not from his. Never from his. 

Sukuna knows that he will see you again. In any era, no matter how much farther into the future, he will find you once more, bring you back to his embrace, and dust off the crown that he has reserved for your pretty head alone. 

He holds onto a piece of you, storing it safely, awaiting the time to revive you even within his own cursed slumber after having sealed himself for a millenia, severing parts of him and scattering it over the country.

You, however, remain stowed safely in one place. A place he will remember to return to when he reawakens in rebirthed flesh.

Now, a millenia following your untimely death, Sukuna stares emptily at the woman before him, curling and tossing around with bound wrists and ankles at his feet.

She’s crying, screams of horror rising into the starry sky as Sukuna’s eyes glint menacingly beneath the moonlight. He watches her carefully, curling his lips. He looks at this pest, this fragile, forgettable mortal woman and sees everything that you are not. For a moment, he hesitates, his fingers clutching over the ancient parchment wrapped object he holds protectively within his grasp at his side. 

His brows draw together in frustration induced by your vessel. He knows he picked wisely, however, he can not deny the hesitation that captures his mind when he contemplates whether this vessel will do your worth justice. Whether it will truly bring you back the way he plans for you to be. 

He holds up the object in his hand, your energy emitting from behind the paper and through his veins, easing into his blackened soul. You are practically calling to him, holding his hand, murmuring into his ear that it will be okay. 

Sukuna is reminded then and there solely by the spirit of you that nothing in this world could even begin to dwindle the brilliance in which you shine, that even within the body of a bird or a squirrel, your essence would burst through. You will reincarnate wholly as how you left him, and as nothing less. 

With a heavy exhale through his nose, Sukuna unravels the object, tossing the parchment to the ground, and takes a step forward to approach the young woman squirming in the grass before him. He walks over her, feet planted on either side of her figure, and bends down. Her eyes go white with terror as snot and tears dribbles over her nose and down her cheek. Sukuna looks into her coldly, grasping a hand over her face and digging his black nails into her jaw. 

She shudders an agonizing, shrill screech that is soon muffled by the manner in which Sukuna squeezes her cheeks inward and forcefully pries her mouth open. 

With a steely, disconnected glare, Sukuna takes the object imbued with your cursed energy, your ring finger. He pulls your wedding band from the decrepit digit and pushes it to the woman’s lips. Her eyes go wide as she chokes over her jaw’s lack of mobility, and the taste of something foreign and timeworn on her tongue. Her stuttered, whimpering gasps release and she gargles once Sukuna pushes the object down her throat. He slaps his hand back over her mouth as it slides down her throat and she twitches uncontrollably, eyes cracking with red veins. 

The king of curses holds her still as her body flops wildly, her chest lurching forward and limbs flying about. Her body can not handle the intrusion of a thousand year old sorcerer’s influence, so it fails. Her eyes roll into her skull and her fingers twitch once her limbs have stilled in the grass. A symphony of crickets chirping lifts into Sukuna’s ears as the woman beneath him goes completely silent, dead, still.

He waits. After a millennia of existence confined to cursed flesh, after years of the cold left in your wake nipped at his skin, after battling bodies for dominance over a vessel, he waits just a few seconds more for you.

After it seems as though he has lost you for a second time, the body’s eyes flicker. Sukuna stills above you, pupils shrunken in anticipation.

Movement shifts beneath him. A chest rises, and breathing begins steadily through it. The color of this vessel’s skin shifts, transitioning slowly, milking into the hue of gentle (s/c) that Sukuna once caressed with his rough fingers. Color flushes through pale cheeks, and irises of (e/c) roll back from the skull and stare widely ahead, directly into Sukuna’s gaze. Finally, your voice comes, a gentle hum of confusion and discomfort as you regain your lost senses.

Sukuna’s heart skips as the familiar warmth of your body emanates from beneath him again, and his hand is slowly sliding from your parted lips. He feels as though he’s just run a marathon despite his inability to wind himself. He breathes out heavily, gradually, and silence envelopes the two of you in the darkness of the late night. 

While Sukuna had planned this from the very moment you went dead in his hands, he feels somehow starstruck by you. You look as beautiful as you were centuries in the past, skin smooth, brows curled, lips soft as though you had not been gone from his life for more than a brief second. You have returned to him as he had thoughtfully calculated, and yet, he can not fathom the fact that you are here at long last, mere centimeters away, manifested into truth by his graze of your chin. 

The muscles in your brows pull together in disbelief, glimmering eyes shining over as you take in the sight before you. The last thing you felt was a blade slicing into your heart and ripping down through your body, the last vision of Sukuna racing to throw you into him as your opponent met his end with the selective mutilation of his internal organs at your husband’s hard, feral, red glance.

You blink hurriedly, shooting a hand out to your husband’s bicep. “...Ryo?” you whisper in a trembling voice, knowing him by gaze and presence and touch alone. 

The said demon’s brows angle and his body lurches forward with a sharp exhale upon hearing your voice utter his name outside of the confines of his mind’s nostalgia and imagination. He is overcome by the return of you to him, eyes fiery with longing for his once lost love and shoulders aching as the weight that had been crushing down finally releases. The sensation of your fingers curling over his arm sends chills down his spine, for time has never altered Sukuna’s course of existence, but time tells in the way he physically shivers when your loving contact revives on his skin after having been stripped of him for what feels like eternity.

Tears pool in your eyes and your shaky hands raise to smooth over his face, exploring his marked skin and familiarizing yourself with the structure of the being you fell in love with many lifetimes ago. Sukuna’s brow flinches as you feel over his face, and his own palm cradles over your cheek, dwarfing your head in the fashion it always used to as the back of his fingers skim over your heated flesh. 

“Ryomen,” you say his name again, voice crumbling and your shoulders jerking in awe.

He trips down into you, hands clutching over your head as you guide his face down with his hasty movements. Your name tumbles hoarsely from his rumbling voice, against your lips, and slotting into your mind in a haze as his lips meet yours urgently. 

You cry gently into him, lips parting and pushing back in as he kisses you fervently, savoring you, burrowing you into his body’s memory to recover the time he has spent deprived of you. Your hands fly over his neck, down his back, detailing the ridges and the muscles rippling beneath the fabric of his shirt that you know so well. He presses himself down into you, pulling you in closer by your head, flushing your chests together to intertwine your souls once more. Heady grunts and growls heave into your mouth between frenzied, stunned, satisfied kisses, and each time a tear of yours catches into the liplock, Sukuna is pulling it into his lips, saltiness swirling through the sweet release of his misery. 

He’s missed you. So very much, he’s missed you. He doesn’t know how he has managed to go so long without you now that you are here again, now that he is holding you again, kissing you again. 

“My king,” you whimper when you get a chance to break away, foreheads bumping as Sukuna shushes you gently.

“Do not fret, peach,” he soothes you, lips brushing yours as his now loving gaze spills into your own. “You are alright.”

Despite Sukuna’s ruthlessness and his wild murderous expeditions, as well as his blood-curdling tone that further accentuates the weight of his threats when thrown into the direction of others, Sukuna melts into calmness for you, his low voice mellow and meditative, enraptured in the peace that you bring him. You know all sides of your dear husband, and yet this is the rawest side of him that you know, that he treats you with. 

“What happened?” you whisper as his hands run over you, catching your tears and tracing the curves of your flesh. “Where are we?”

“In the garden,” he answers you easily, kissing the corner of your mouth gently. 

“At… at home?” 

He hums in affirmation, leaning back just a bit to stare into you. The pairs of your eyes shine as they absorb the image of one another, still and sincere. Grass tickles your ears and your arms, and you look down, realizing that you are lying in a patch of greenery. You slowly tilt your head to the side, and Sukuna keeps his gaze glued to you like you will disappear before him. Your eyes capture the stems of daffodils and lavender that sprout around your head, pointing into the night sky and swaying gently in the warm breeze. You recognize the plants as the ones you had always taken to tending by the creek behind Sukuna’s temple, which he had the servants fashion as a suitable garden for you to indulge in. 

You do not recall being here last. You recall dying. You recall your world going dark.

You turn back to meet his heavy eyes. “What did you do?”

He is silent for a moment, taking his time to study you before answering as though the question is the simplest one he has ever been asked. “I have brought my queen back to me. As I have always sworn to do if we were ever separated.”

“...How long have we been separated?”

“It does not matter.”

“How long was I away from you, Ryo? How long did I leave you for?”

“It does not matter,” he reiterates gently yet ever so firmly. “Do not think of it.”

“Please-” you frown, eyes shining over again. “I hadn’t- I didn’t mean to leave you. I don’t know how I even let it happen… I can’t imagine what that must have gone through…”

Ryomen catches the guilt in your gorgeous eyes and he is quick to gather you up in his arms. He pulls you up slowly, keeping your eyes locked as you allow him to lift you from the ground with his arms wound tightly over your waist. Your hands go to Sukuna’s shoulders as he kneels over you, keeping you steady and upright, face to face, nose to nose, eye to eye. 

“I refuse to allow the first thing you do in reincarnated life to be reminding me of what life was like without you,,” he says. “I do not wish to revisit it. It does not matter,” he repeats for a third time. 

You tilt your head with the tug of your lips downward sadly, threading your hands through his pink locks and holding onto the nape of his neck. The moonlight milks over you regally, as though the stars have aligned for this very moment, to illuminate you both in the universe’s joyous eye. You swallow hard. “Am I a curse?”

“You are my wife. I will not tolerate you labeling yourself as anything different..”

You inhale deeply, bringing your forehead back to him and closing your eyes. His arms pull you in tight, rhythmic breaths easing you into this reality complacent, affectionately, lovingly. 

“I’m sorry I left you, my love,” you murmur.

Now that he’s heard you apologize, seen your remorse sparked by something out of your control, he doesn’t fare well with it. 

You are not a plague to him, a burden, and telling him that you are sorry in his mind now insinuates such. Even after leaving him, after stealing away his warmth, after haunting his slumber and his consciousness for eons, he does not fault you. He would never fault the woman he chose to keep by his side in wellness and in death. 

He does not accept your apology. You have done nothing but love him, yet Sukuna is the one who should have protected you. 

He runs a hand over the back of your head, down your hair, and exudes his message of impenetrable love to you through his embrace and sweltering red eyes. “All I ask of you is that you stay. In this era and the next. Stay by my side as you are meant to be.”

You nod eagerly against him. “I will,” you whisper. “I will, I promise.”

Sukuna reaches down at his side for the ring he had set down. With one hand to your back, he pulls your wedding band forward and presents it to your twinkling eye. You gasp. 

“You still have it,” you sigh.

“In what world would I not?” 

You bring your hand down, spreading your fingers, and you watch as the kind of curses slips the rusted treasure over your finger, fitting it perfectly into place with the renewal of your marriage and the reunion of your hearts.

You admire the way it looks upon your hand happily, and Sukuna drags you back into his lips, pecking you tenderly before moving back in with his hands firm to you. You shift further up so that his arms can completely take you in, heads bumping as your lips swim together in commemoration of a rebirth into a new life.

[bywons]

PRETTY ON YOU ꣑୧ hot things they do

𝗔𝗖𝗧𝖵────𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗉 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋

❪ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝒾𝐒 ❫ ｡ 𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 1O11 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 ✿ 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 贅沢 ／ 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐄

★REBLOG4KISS

LEE HEESEUNG is cheerful most of the time. you can’t get to sway his mood even when you steal his favourite ramen packets and poke his cheeks a little too harsh. he finds it all cute and lets you experiment all that's going on in your mischievous mind on him. he just loves you so much. however, he doesn’t like it when you get too close to one of his friends, laughing a bit too loud. heeseung’s voice drops low when he is serious with you, his usual innocence gone as he easily cages you between his tall figure when he snakes his arm around your waist and back. his grip is gentle, but firm enough to remind you—he’s not playing. his lips brush your ear as he whispers, “don’t test me, baby.” his gaze holds a promise you can’t ignore.

PARK JONGSEONG loves to compliment you at every chance he gets. he loves when you try to hide your giggle when he calls you a princess, how you shove your face in his chest when he showers sweet words on your hard work. jay loves the feeling of this quiet dominance, tha only he can make you flushed. but jay has a bad habit of calling you a ‘good girl’ to see you malfunction. “how was work today?” jay smiles, pulling you onto his lap. “just know that i’m getting that promotion,” you giggle. “that’s my good girl,” jay murmurs, voice like silk as he presses a kiss just below your jaw. you pause—heartbeat skipping—and he feels your reaction, grinning smugly against your skin. his hands rest firmly on your hips, grounding you while his praise leaves you dizzy. “knew you could do it.”

SIM JAEYUN always wants you close to him, whenever you are not, jake whines and pouts until you notice it and come closer. he loves sharing body heat with you— hugging you close from behind, placing his hand on your thighs or simply guiding you by the small of your back. but when you are within arms reach, jake hooks his fingers through the loops of your jeans and pulls you closer with a lazy grin. his eyes drag over you like he’s starving, gaze flicking from your lips to your waist as he tugs you flush against him. “there you are,” he murmurs, voice low, fingers tightening slightly on the loops. your breath hitches when his other hand trails slowly up your spine, settling at the nape of your neck. “why were you so far, huh?” he leans in, lips ghosting over your jaw. “you know i hate that.”

PARK SUNGHOON doesn’t mean to do it so often, he doesn’t mean to look so in charge when he knows he melts beneath your touch. but as soon as he sinks on the couch after a tiring day of work, sunghoon manspreads like it’s his birthright. long legs spread wide, head tilted back, one arm slung over the backrest. it's not intentional, but that's what he'd say. his sharp eyes flick up when he notices you staring. “something on your mind?” he smirks with amusement, head tilting sideways. but when he doesn’t get an answer from you, he curls his hand inwards and pats on his thigh, “come sit,” he sighs. and when you do, sunghoon just smiles lazily and guides your head closer to his chest like you belong there, and starts to caress your hair like a much needed ritual. “i love you” he murmurs against your hair, “stay.”

KIM SUNOO is determined to be your favourite listener. he drops anything either important or trivial, just to listen to your honey voice. sunoo doesn’t like any distractions in between— it falters your pace which makes you wonder if he even is listening to you, and he likes to leave no space for doubt. sunoo gently pushes the stray strands of hair away from your face whenever they fall over when you are talking, his fingers brushing over your bottom lip. he hums softly when he sees your face flushing, stuttering in your words. “keep going,” he whispers, his voice soft as his hand settles on your jaw. sunoo presses a kiss against your forehead, “why’d you stop? i love hearing you talk.”

YANG JUNGWON always has to make sure you never have any difficulties, at least around him. he makes sure to remember all your favourites when out at a cafe, and urges you to wear comfortable clothes around, whatever is best for you. but the moment he sees you wincing, looking down at your heels, he knows you need his care again. after all, he doesn't like to see you in trouble, jungwon kneels in front of you without hesitation, undoing the straps of your heels. “why didn’t you tell me they hurt?” he asks softly, when they’re off, he rubs your feet gently, his thumbs pressing where it aches. “next time,” he murmurs, glancing up at you with a look that leaves no room for argument, “you tell me. i’ll carry you if i have to.” and with that, he slips off his own shoes and offers them to you, because your comfort will always come before his.

NISHIMURA RIKI never fails to tease you about your height. the difference between you two is endlessly amusing to him—he’s always resting his chin on your head, using you as his personal armrest, or ruffling your hair just to hear you whine. “so tiny,” he grins, every time. but when you lean in to whisper something, needing privacy, riki bends down to your level with slow intention. his lips brush your ear as he murmurs, “what is it, shortie?” his voice is low, teasing—but his eyes, locked on yours, are darker, more intense. you hesitate, suddenly aware of how close he is, and that faint smirk on his lips only grows. “you wanna say something?” he asks, pulling you against his chest with ease, voice barely above a whisper. “or want me to get closer?” and god, he means it—every word dripping with love.

스루 ܃ not a favorite one, but i still hope you pretties love it 💗

© bywons, 2025 div ctto —taglist open ! nets. @/k-labels @kflixnet @k-films

[livinghalfway]

Filling the Nest

Damian (16) assumes his father is getting empty nest syndrome or something similar with him growing up because Bruce has recently been talking fondly about past years when all of them were much younger. He even heard Bruce tell Alfred that he’s gonna miss having a kid around the house.

Damian figures that it’s only a matter of time before his father is bringing another child into the family, and decides that if he is going to get another sibling it might as well be one that he approves of. He’d hate to end up with another one like Drake after all. 

He’s on the hunt now for the perfect younger sibling. Damian won’t say it, but he’s also excited to no longer be the baby of the family. As well as be the favorite older brother, which he will make sure he is by teaching them everything he knows. This new kid is most likely going to be his successor; his robin one day. Bruce is getting older ultimately, the years of crime fighting were starting to take its toll the older he got, and he promised to discuss the details of passing the mantle of Batman when Damian was 23 years old. 

All of this to say is when Robin is on a solo patrol he finds a de-aged 6yr old Danny Fenton defending an older woman from getting mugged, and despite his small size manages to scare the mugger away. He makes a note of the assailant's appearance for later; right now he has something more important to take care of. 

When the child turns to the woman Damian finally gets a good look at the young boy, and sees that he has both black hair and blue eyes; he’s perfect! “This is my younger brother,” he immediately thinks to himself before jumping down next to the boy and woman. 

It only takes a bit of convincing, but he manages to persuade his new brother Daniel, or Danny as he insisted, to accompany him escorting the older woman home before getting a bite to eat with him at the nearest Batburger. The only thing he needs to figure out now is how he is going to get Daniel back to the manor. 

Meanwhile Danny, who was dropped in this dimension by clockwork a week ago with his last words being to enjoy this new life and vacation away from ghost king duties, is wondering what he should do about this vigilante that doesn’t seem to want to leave him alone. 

[beloveds-embrace]

(a start to lady whistledown!reader x poly 141)

You never set out to become a sovereign in shadows.

Born the third daughter of a minor earl with more debts than land, your future had been inked long before you ever touched a quill. Like so many women of your station, you were meant to bloom early, marry well, and wither quietly behind silk curtains and social niceties lest you became one of those dreaded spinsters. Instead, you discovered something far more exhilarating than ballrooms and broken promises: the subtle power of knowing everything and saying just enough to keep the entire gentry on edge.

Lady Whistledown, thus, began as a lark.

A whispered alias, used first in a letter slipped beneath a dowager’s tea cup at a dull spring fête: “The Marchioness feigns fainting spells to avoid her husband’s touch. One wonders if it is for lack of desire… or fear of discovery.”

The reaction was immediate. The ripple that followed, delicious.

You wrote again. And again. And again and again and again.

Now, five seasons later, your words are sold at every reputable bookseller in London and traded like gold dust at every party of note. Men fear you; women envy you. Debutantes pray for your blessing; scoundrels pray for your silence. Your identity is the capital’s most carefully guarded mystery- your voice omniscient, your signature anonymous.

Only a few suspects have come close, but none have dared confront you without any solid proof.

Until now.

The parlor of your modest, yet exquisitely curated Mayfair home is unusually silent. Outside, snow slicks the cobbled street, muffling the sound of carriage wheels and gentlemen’s canes. A fire crackles in the hearth, fed with orange blossom logs you had imported from Florence. It perfumes the air; delicate, expensive, calculated. Like everything else about you.

You sit poised in a straight-backed rosewood chair, gloved hands resting on the pages of your most recent Whistledown column fresh off the press, ink still faintly damp.

Across from you sits Duke Price.

John Price is everything a man of his station should not be; rugged instead of polished (albeit still very, very handsome). Weathered by time and war, not just years at court. His dark hair is peppered with gray at the temples, and his trimmed beard frames a mouth set in a line of quiet command. He does not fidget. He does not look away. And when he speaks, it is not with the idle charm of so many peers but with the weight of a man accustomed to obedience.

He has not come to court you.

He has come to uncover you, uncouth and vulgar as that description may be.

“Lady Whistledown,” he says softly, but without pretense. “How long will you pretend not to be her?”

You smile. Not coquettishly, but dangerously; a smile used to wield power.

“A scandalous claim, Your Grace,” you reply, voice honeyed and lethal. “Do you accuse every woman in London who dares to read?”

“You write as someone who’s too clever to tolerate boredom. Someone who’s always watching.” His eyes narrow slightly. “And you knew things about my trade dealings that were never public.”

Ah. There it is.

That last column had struck too close. You had written, subtly, of a sudden dip in Price shipping contracts. “A shadow looms over Price’s waters,” you’d penned. “One wonders if it’s mere fog- or the presence of a rival wolf in the mist.”

Price had wolves, but so did you.

Behind him, standing just out of frame but not out of reach, looms Simon Riley, the other Duke in this tangle of quiet power. He’s dressed far less richly than his title would allow; dark wool, well-cut but subdued. He is known to London’s gentry as Ghost, a nickname born of war, whispered in mercantile corners and port cities, and a nickname that had strayed your hand from writing about him. But also because the textiles and fabrics Duke Riley had were to-die for, and you’d hate to be on his bad side even anonymously.

He says nothing, and he watches everything.

You had noted his habits before, of course. His silence, his precision, his loyalty to Price that went far beyond politics (and vice versa). And you had suspected the others, too.

Johnny MacTavish, Price’s resident chef, seemed entirely too cherished for a servant. His food was the talk of the Belgrave Quarter- decadent, intimate, nourishing in a way no cook-for-hire ought to be. But it was the way Price looked at him during one of your many watched-from-the-balcony dinners that gave the game away. Not just affection- but also Possession. Partnership far too close to be the scandalous friendship between a Duke and his servants.

And then there was Kyle Garrick, the head butler, whose movements through Price’s household were as seamless as silk and as lethal as a blade. You had seen him once while wandering the Price estate during a dinner, shirt sleeves rolled, hands gloved in soot and ash as he helped reset the hearth to an office room himself, Price’s hand low and secure on his back. He was not just the help.

They were a family of secrets, a tangled constellation orbiting Price.

A scandal in a world where scandals could end entire legacies.

You never published it. Not yet, anyways, and not out of just mercy, but also curiosity.

They were hiding. And you were watching, and now, Price is watching back.

“I suppose I’m flattered,” you say, rising slowly, each movement deliberate. You pace the length of the room, silk skirts swishing. “That a man like you would think me capable of undoing dukes with words alone.”

“Not just words,” he replies. “Truth.”

You stop near the hearth, eyes flickering towards the embers. “Why now, Your Grace?”

“Because someone’s trying to end my influence. Undermine my reach. My businesses are being outbid. My name, subtly slandered. And you”- he tilts his head- “have the best seat in the theatre.”

“I am not your enemy, Duke.”

“But you could be an ally.”

You glance at Simon, whose gaze does not waver, and you know he would never leave Price alone. Not truly.

You close the distance between yourself and John Price, stopping barely a breath away.

“And why,” you ask, voice low, “would I choose to entangle myself with four men whose entire existence is a powder keg of scandal?”

His answer is not spoken.

It is offered.

Simon steps forward first. A gloved hand lifts yours, fingers warm even through fabric. He bows- deep, proper- but there is nothing subservient about it. It is a knight’s oath, not a courtier’s gesture.

Behind him, John offers a letter- your name, not your pseudonym, elegantly scrawled in his own hand. An invitation to the Price Estate.

Not for tea, and not for a masquerade, but for the truth he has seemingly promised you.

You’re silent, for now. Because you are not used to being seen like this, unprotected by a fake name and the gossip columns.

John takes your other hand himself. This time, no glove. Skin to skin, scandalous.

“No masks,” he says, voice like thunder over velvet. “Not for us. Come to the Estate. Let us court you, not for spectacle, and not for society. For us, and what we can achieve.”

Your heart- normally ice and ink- stutters. Trembles and beats, excited; so many opportunities, so many chances, new heights of power and fame and the security of a marriage of your choice rather than being given away like cattle-

You exhale.

And for the first time in a decade, Lady Whistledown is speechless.

[ilostthewar]

Your baby is born and Ghost feels like he is on one of the most high-stress stake outs of his life.

He insisted you go to sleep, cause god knows you need it. He watched all your organs leave your body and then get stuffed back in like sausages. Simon has seen more gore than most of these doctors, and he still stared in mild horror when your screaming baby was pulled from your womb and placed on your chest.

So he insisted you get some rest. He promised, unnecessarily, that he would keep watch over both you and the baby. After all you have been through, if there is anything he can do, it’s this.

He has been shot at, held hostage, shared bathrooms with Price. He has dealt with live bombs that haven’t made him as anxious as he is now. You are vulnerable, exhausted and freshly stitched up. And this baby, so defenseless and entirely reliant on him. Unaware of the world outside of his arms.

He’s pacing the length of the room. He’s shirtless. He had fucked up the swaddle somehow and then the baby had started those little high pitched whines that foretold the end of the world, and Simon had all but torn the fabric in half. Skin to skin contact was important, that’s what the nurse had said earlier. So here he was, the big bad Ghost, with an infant pressed against his scarred chest, the world’s softest and most aggressively pastel blanket coiled around their back.

He doesn’t know what he is waiting for. For the door to burst open, for this bubble he finds himself in to pop. For his damned phone to ring, calling him away from you both. There are a billion things that can go wrong, he knows that. He’s seen it.

But then he feels the bundle in his arms wriggle and he angles his head down to see their blurry eyes as they coo, and the weight in his chest lightens, just enough. He raises the blanket to gently wipe their chin. He lowers his nose to smell the top of their head, and they smell like milk.

He hears you adjust and call his name, soft and sweet. And he turns to go answer you, his hand smoothing over your head to see the drowsy smile that forms on your face.

Maybe he can exist in this moment, just for a little while.

[hotbloodcomic]

HOTBLOOD! VOL. 1: THE LAND OF PROMISE SEPTEMBER 9, 2025

In the red days of the West, centaurs and humans coexist. The year is 1871 and centaur Evander Rook finds himself at rock bottom, working for would-be robber baron Asa Langley–a human! As the unlikely pair get closer, Rook finds himself caught up in Asa's ambitions and they are both forced to reckon with the ghosts of their interwoven pasts.

➔ PREORDER

FAQ

How is the Mad Cave edition different from the 2016 Kickstarter omnibus? The Mad Cave edition is totally different (night and day, sun and moon) from what was printed for the 2016 Kickstarter – the script was rewritten, every page was redrawn, and even the trim size has changed. Vol. 1 is a reboot of the omnibus, while Vol. 2 covers Zarco and Vols. 3 and 4 will be all-new material!

Will the Mad Cave edition be published internationally, or possible to order internationally?  This is really important to me! I’m making moves to have it localized––my agent has a lot of experience in this area––but Mad Cave has world rights and it’s ultimately up to them. In the interim, it should be possible to order the US edition internationally because it will be distributed through mainstream channels via Simon&Schuster (Amazon, B&N, Bookshop.org, etc).

You can follow me for further updates on bsky.

The new comic has already been called “postmodernist,” “cinematic,” “breathtaking,” and “a generational achievement” so I really hope you check it out!!

Thank you! 

[syntheticsymp]

tw: smut

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley only has one ball.

The other he had lost in some mission or other. He honestly couldn’t remember which. Every mission came with a fresh new batch of scars and missing flesh.

He never really felt self conscious about it. The one night stands he picked up didn’t seem to mind. In the moment, they had much bigger issues to think about.

But then Simon met you. His precious little bird. He settled down as much as he could, and for the first time in his life, he considered truly living. The transition to this mindset was slow and came with a plethora of thoughts. Most prominently, doubt.

The thick, hot spurts of cum he dumped deep inside you painted your walls, his juices combining with your own. By some miracle, you had convinced him to try for a kid. You had promised you wouldn’t let him become like his father. Though, he mainly agreed just so you’d have to rely on him for nine months.

Simon was silent as he fucked you, keeping you pinned beneath him. The only noise in the room was a harmony of your moans, which he ensured by keeping his fingers shoved in your mouth, and the sound of his ball slapping against that sweet spot by your clit.

It didn’t matter if the task force’s medic said he had a lower chance of fertility. If you wanted a baby, he would give you one. He’d give you the whole world, if you asked.

He came inside you over and over until you had lost count. Simon was not a man who did things half-assed. Being an operative for so long had taught him the importance of endurance.

His breaths came out in labored pants, looking just as half-dead as you. Exhausted was the nice way to describe the matching expression the two of you wore. Even Simon couldn’t continue. While he was young, his energy wasn’t limitless.

Pulling your sleepy body into his arms, he pulled the covers over the two of you. He pressed his thick fingers into your cunt, just to ensure the seed he had so carefully dumped inside you wouldn’t spill out during the night, earning him a small whimper from your lips.

It was Heaven. The broken soldier had found his own little Angel.

“Get some sleep,” he grumbled into your ear.

You didn't have to be told twice. Your breathing slowed, turning rhythmic.

Simon, however, stayed awake a moment longer.

There was something still vying for his attention.

The little green jar on his shelf, one of the only objects in your joint home that he had bothered to bring with him, contained his lost ball. Floating there, mocking him.

Oh, he would show you.

He would keep fucking you until your next pregnancy test came back with those two sweet little lines. Having a family meant you’d stay with him. It meant you were his.

And damn, if he didn’t like the sound of that.

[musicallisto]

· · · · ♡ NO LOVE IN NEW YORK

… starring oscar piastri x f!reader ... 5.2k words ... in which your good samaritan tendencies, and some loser forgetting to show up on your first date, lead you to the most bizarre yet exhilarating nyc commute of your life. ... featuring fluff, humor, meet cute, some forced proximity. female reader (wears 'feminine' clothing). language, reader gets stood up on a date, suspension of disbelief for manhattan geography and the logistics of the mta (please forgive me new yorkers i went ten years ago). english is not my first language. ... author notes tadaaa oscar piastri debut who cheered!!!! not me because i'm scared to death of getting him wrong lowk. i was bemoaning the absence of oscar pictures at the f1 premiere and thought, "i know he just couldn't be bothered to go, but wouldn't it be funny if he'd just gotten lost?" and thats how this fic happened. ngl this is very much out of my comfort zone, i know oscar less than other drivers + much more romcom than i'm used to and idk how i feel about it so feedback would be VERY appreciated! very much open for a part 2 if you'd like that tho!!! enjoy ヘ(≧▽≦ヘ)♪ MASTERLIST / ASK BOX

There was no valid reason dating in New York City should have been this complicated.

Yet you prided yourself on being quite smart—smart enough to survive in the hostile urban jungle as a twenty-something on her own; definitely smarter than the national average judging by the (frankly depressing) headlines you heard pinging on your phone every morning. Outstanding high school GPA, reading comprehension way above your grade as a kid, and still no damn clue how to score a date in Manhattan.

Well, rather, how to score an agreeable date. Or perhaps just one that turned out to be real.

Monday morning had risen with a yawn from the sun, as though it were remembering only now that June was well underway but the streets remained chilly. Weak light shimmered over the fire escape when you’d drawn your curtains open. Ramen was sitting on the railing, licking his cream paw and staring at you with unimpressed nonchalance, and you’d grinned. Ramen—your downstairs neighbor’s cat, a sandy little imp whose real name you’d never found out but had baptized so after he’d stolen your instant dinner right off your kitchen counter—only showed up on mornings with importance. Like the day you’d aced Introduction to Statistics with nothing but two hours of sleep and five Monsters.

This was a good omen.

So yes, you were enthusiastic by the time you got home from class, scrambled together an omelet, and disemboweled your apartment looking for your favorite earrings. You were optimistic, and that sometimes sounded like the worst thing anyone could be in New York City.

But this first date promised to be nothing like the others, your inner voice hammered home as you tried to cram your feet into shoes half a size too small. He was cute, funny, not a fascist, he waited exactly the right amount of time in between replies—neither psychopathic nor disinterested—, and he’d told you to dress up because it was only fair that real-life art should match the paintings on the wall. After half a dozen insipid dinners at every other pizza place in Little Italy, and as many ghostings, a museum first date sounded more promising than you’d dared to hope.

Even though he dropped off the radar at ten p.m. the prior evening. Even though you shot him a bubbly, “you said 2:30pm right? can’t wait!” at eleven (the appointed time was but a scroll away, but you just needed to say something, diffuse the nerves somehow). Even though you double-texted him at two fifteen, “omw!”. 

But Ramen was there this morning, blinking his slow blinks at you. The date had to go well.

The sun was fully awake, undeniable, blazing above the trees and endless spires piercing the sky beyond Central Park, by the time you sat down on the steps in front of the museum. Alone.

It wasn’t until two fifty-seven that you accepted to face the glaring truth. 

First miss for Ramen.

You collected yourself in a clumsy torpor. Nothing to do with your heels, or the stupidly long dress you’d picked out and whose skirt you now had to lift with every step—this was the inescapable, crushing feeling of disappointment.

Of course New York City would punish the optimistic. The naïve. The superstitious, who put the outcome of their days into the hands of some feline apparition, scan the sky for four-leaf clover clouds. Served you right for still believing in things falling into place.

Your face burned from the sun and the humiliation, eyes prickling from unshed tears as you stuffed your phone into your purse. Pretended not to notice the group of tourists snapping shots of you, perhaps thinking you some roaming Millais muse. Disappeared into the shade of 103rd Street station, green gown flowing behind you like a pennon.

Every step down the long stairway stung more than the last, but you kept your gaze firmly to the ground, careful not to trip—and bury any ounce of dignity left in you for good. Blend in with the jaded city folk, you thought as you swiped your Metrocard; act as if you know exactly where you are going and go there with purpose, even if you could not be more stranded. Where to now? Back to your disordered, sweltering apartment, its haphazard pile of dishes in the sink and Ramen gauging you silently from the windowsill? Or to the campus library, trying to glean whatever productivity lies within heartbreak? And risk bumping into your friends, who’d teased you all day about the giddy bounce to your step, and having to explain you weren’t even worth showing up for?

“Excuse me?”

You looked up and met hazel. A mop of chestnut hair, that he had manifestly tried to arrange before giving up; discreet moles on an otherwise pale face, and brown eyes where danced flecks of gold and the most gripping kind of urgent resignation. The stranger was cute, and for some incomprehensible reason he matched you: he, too, was dressed to the nines like he’d run off from some wedding, and he also distinctly looked like he wished more than anything for the Earth to swallow him.

“Are you going to the F1 movie premiere?”

“What?”

“The, uh, the F1 movie red carpet thing? Are you going there right now?”

You were starting to worry your foreign-accent (British, or perhaps Australian?) comprehension skills had gotten alarmingly bad, or maybe the shrieking of MTA wagon brakes had finally rendered you deaf. 

“No, uh... I…” Oh, what the hell. Like there was any use lying to a beautiful stranger who seemed like he was somehow having a worse afternoon than yours. “I got stood up by my date. F1, you mean like Formula 1?”

What a formidable and ridiculous scene you two must’ve painted—two kids in formalwear, standing in the middle of a New York City subway platform, stuck amidst the pungent smell of piss and nonsensical conversation.

“I’m sorry about your date, they sound like a bit of a dropkick,” the stranger replied, and although you weren’t entirely sure what a dropkick was you were surprised to find him genuine. “But, uh… I think I’m lost, and I hoped you might help me, or else I’m gonna be the one doing the standing up. On about two thousand people.”

You had no time to furrow your brow, or chew on his words. Suddenly everything clicked with an audible bang, right in sync with the train doors closing to your left. The reason you’d felt so familiarly drawn to that cherub face, and why he had mentioned Formula 1… None of the downright lubricious Instagram edits your best friend had ever sent you featured him in a suit, but he was unmistakable.

“Oh my god, you’re Oscar Pia—”

“Please don’t tell all of Manhattan,” Piastri interrupted, grimacing as he glanced around the platform. You suffocated your voice, though found his dread of being heard a little pointless. Two people standing idly in black-tie garments as metros passed them by were eye-catching, for sure, but nowhere near NYC eye-catching standards. “It’s already pretty bad how late I am to my own premiere, I don’t want to have to take selfies in the subway.”

A million questions jostled about inside your head, but all you could do was stare at him, mouth agape in incomprehension. You didn’t keep up with Formula 1, hardly saw any point in cars going in circles, and perhaps a McLaren (was it McLaren or Mercedes?) superfan might have known better than you what the fuck Oscar Piastri was doing there. Not the film premiere gimmick, you were willing to believe that was the kind of fanfare F1 drivers spent their off-days doing—what the fuck he was doing alone at three in the afternoon, asking for your help in some acrid station on Lexington Avenue. 

“Couldn’t you just drive to the damn premiere?”

“Oh, right, so I should just steal a car off the street?” he deadpanned.

“No, I mean… don’t you have a chauffeur? An… an agent or something? A team? How do you even end up…” you trailed off, finding no words that wouldn’t bring you to astonished frustration. Instead, you opened your arms wide, encompassing all of New York’s rickety railways. “Here?”

Piastri parted his lips to retort with one of his impassive quips, but his whole face fractured then with tremendous vulnerability.

“I’ll tell you if you help me find my way. Please?”

He did not look like the type of man who’d ever begged anyone to do anything for him—you expected a high-adrenaline junkie like him to pray for neither forgiveness nor permission—and the contrast made you consider. That, and the sheer absurdity of the situation. And the fact the only other way you could see your afternoon ending was with an onslaught of messages from some guy assuring you life had gotten “sooo hectic” in the last ten to twelve hours.

Piastri was much cuter than him anyway.

“You know what, yeah, sure, what the hell,” you shrugged with a growing smile. “I’ll help you. I could use the good karma. I’m Y/N, by the way.”

This whole plan was utterly ridiculous, and you had no idea how you’d possibly explain that to your friends when they’d ask how your date had gone, but the way Piastri deflated with relief, like his whole body was exhaling, had you convinced you’d made the right call.

“Thanks, Y/N.” He said your name with the slightest of accents, and you caught yourself wishing he could say it again. “Maps said this was the shortest path to Times Square, but I think it’s a little confused—”

“Times Square? Oh, you’re not getting anywhere near that on the 6. We need to get to Central Park North. You coming?”

You tilted your head to the side, to the staircase drenched in hazy summer light, and Piastri seemed to be weighing the pros and cons for a split second—you couldn’t fault him, to be fair; you could’ve been a stalker, or a lunatic, or the lowest echelon to a weird MLM scheme. Still, he must’ve decided whatever you were recruiting him for was less dangerous than missing this premiere, because he took off after you.

When he billowed out of the station and back into the city, Piastri winced, and at first you assumed it due to the piercing sunlight reverberating on glassy panels, or the cacophony of horns and engines. However, you quickly noticed him glancing at the passersby with frantic interest… and looking puzzled at their utter disinterest in him.

“Relax, no one’s looking at us,” you reassured him, striding down the street on autopilot. He jogged two steps to catch up.

“You sure?”

“Certain. There’s so many people in New York City, and so many of those people do weird shit, that practically anyone can go unnoticed. I assure you that this,” you gestured down at your long dress, catching the light like rippling topazes, then at the silver cufflinks on his jacket, “does not even make the top 5 weirdest things any of these people have seen today.”

But the Australian looked unsure still, twisting his thin lips in a crooked zigzag, so you stopped in your tracks and hailed a young lady passing you by on the sidewalk, Airpods firmly bolted inside her ears.

“Excuse me, do you know who this guy is—”

She strode past you with the most furtive glance biologically possible and a mechanical Nothankyouhaveagoodday. You turned back to Piastri.

“See? No one cares.”

He chuckled, face breaking like dawn, and you chuckled too with no real reason. You weren’t too sure what was funny about typical New York callousness, but the way Piastri’s eyes crinkled, still somewhat strained from stress but illuminating all his features, made you all fuzzy inside. Up close and under sunlight, he looked even younger than you’d thought, no more than twenty-five, and the shadows on his face had lifted, rounding the angles and softening the corners. Like he’d been oil-painted on canvas, ochres and whites melting into each other at the edges.

“Okay, I guess you’re the local,” he conceded, and you resumed your brisk walk.

Maybe you really were at the museum, after all.

“So,” you spoke up after a bit. “I was promised a story.”

“Right,” he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, clearly regretting his bartering skills.

“How do you, Oscar Piastri, end up late to a movie premiere and alone in a subway station?” You stepped across a grate on the sidewalk, careful not to wedge your heel in the holes. “They just left you behind? Did you oversleep or what?”

No reply, but his dry laughter morphing into a cough was a flagrant enough response.

“Oh my God, Piastri,” you gasped merrily. “Did you seriously sleep through your movie premiere?”

“No! … It’s not over yet. I’m just late for the red carpet part. I can still make it to the screening.”

You stared, unconvinced, and he stared back, unconvincing. Biting the inside of his cheek, he watched your smile grow wider until he couldn’t take your teasing anymore. For heaven’s sake—you’d known him a grand total of five minutes and were already tormenting him!

“What?”

“How do they let you get away with this?”

“I was racing in Canada yesterday! God forbid a guy wants a nap,” he stressed the last as though it were some capital punishment and rolled his eyes.

Something in his demeanor was fabulously amusing. He was all relaxed tension, calculated coldness akin to what you’d expect from a person who’s constantly scrutinized; yet there was something more, a sort of agitation bubbling within, under the pores of his handsome face. Feeling so deeply and letting a stranger see so much was not in his nature, that much was clear. Every microexpression, in the lift of his brows, the curve of his lips, the arc of his eyes betrayed a kind of imbalance. He was losing his footing, like a glacier abraded from the top by the sun.

New York City had trained you for all sorts of people, including still waters like him. How to ripple their surface.

“Does this happen to you often?”

“No. Never.”

“Never missed a flight?”

“Just once. My mom woke me up screaming one hour before boarding the second ti—watch out.”

Swiftly, he grabbed your elbow and switched your spots on the sidewalk, pushing you closer to the wall. Before you could open your mouth to protest, the ground rattled from a firetruck barreling past you, ruffling Piastri’s hair and the lapels of his jacket.

“But I set three different alarms on my phone and I figured, Lando will probably break my door down if I sleep through them, so I’m safe,” he resumed, entirely unfazed. You looked up at him like he’d just performed actual magic. “But… apparently not. I woke up… twenty minutes ago?” That explained the slim, red pillow mark on his face you’d mistaken for a fading sunburn. “I wanted to call a taxi, but they’ve cut off traffic. It’s a big deal, you know? Brad Pitt’s gonna be there.”

The way he said Brad Pitt, with a tone so level it became thick with meaning and the littlest of jazz hands, made it abundantly clear there were few people on Earth Oscar Piastri would’ve been less excited about than Brad Pitt.

“Are you in it?”

“What?”

“The movie. Are you even in it?”

“Uh, my elbow is. Minute fifty-three.”

“Wow,” you giggled, arching your eyebrows in a playful wave. “So am I talking to Oscar Piastri the pro athlete, or Oscar Piastri the movie star?”

“Eh, just Oscar Piastri’s fine,” he shrugged, non-committal, though the glint of a smile now flickered uninterrupted on the corner of his lips, almost real enough to remark upon.

Your steps had carried you to the subway entrance north of Central Park already—too soon, far too soon, you thought with a faint ache in the chest. Piastri stirred in your body some kind of early-summer warmth, soft and shimmering like a drowsy morning. As soon as he would vanish to the far side of the platform, only the icy wind would remain, howling endlessly through the corridors…

Piastri, however, did not seem set on giving you up. At least judging by the tiny, tentative steps he took as he walked up to the turnstile, as though the machine could eat him the way it did cardboard tickets. You saw him take out a small, green-lettered card from his pocket… and stopped him.

“Wait, that’s not gonna work.”

“Huh?”

“Your ticket, it’s a single ride. You used that back there on Lexington, right?”

“Uh, I guess?”

“You don’t have a Metrocard?”

He turned to you, puzzled, and almost slammed into a hurried businessman in the process. Thankfully for Piastri, even assault was too inconsequential to reroute the average New Yorker, and the man just breezed past the turnstile and into the guts of the Earth with a nasty glare and a taunting beep!

“Why would I have a Metrocard, Y/N, I’m in this city about twelve hours a year.”

You glanced toward the entrance, where a faint trickle of light still seeped in. A flock of little old ladies, perhaps en route to a high-stakes bingo showdown, had laid siege to the terminals. Judging by their furrowed brows and squinting eyes, no one else in the station would be seeing so much as a hint of a ticket anytime soon.

Goodness gracious. Your helpfulness would be your undoing.

“How late are you to this thing?”

Piastri checked his watch. “Very.”

“And how much do you care about being late to this thing?”

“Normal dude Oscar Piastri? Not so much, to be honest. Formula 1 driver Oscar Piastri…”

“Say less.”

Veritable horror surfaced on Piastri’s face at your confident strides, as if he imagined you were about to vandalize your way through the gates.

“Come on! Hop over,” you signaled.

“Uh…”

“Or we could wait in line. Your call.” Like trying to get a puppy to jump through a hoop. What was he waiting for, a treat?

Or perhaps the patrol of inspectors coming down the hallway at the exact same second as Piastri gathered momentum and jumped the turnstile. That, too, seemed like a sensible thing to be on the lookout for.

The two men cried out right as his dress shoes hit the ground.

“Oh come on!” you whined. “They’re never here!”

“What do we do?!” he cried.

“What do you mean, what do we do? Just book it!”

You heard a cacophony of footsteps behind your back, promptly echoed by lighter sounds as Piastri ran down the corridor. Without a second glance, you pushed down on your hands, swung your legs forward, and… came to an abrupt halt mid-air. Looked down. Sage green fabric had wrapped around the metal blades of the turnstile, like snakes constricting their branches.

“Oscar!” you yelped.

If you’d had any doubt Oscar Piastri was the real racing deal until now, they were all silenced at once from the way he spun on his heels, ran back to you and, without a split second’s hesitation, not even the span of a breath, picked you up from your perch and took off. Instinctively your arms wrapped around the taut base of his neck as you felt his clammy hands slide down your back: the glossy fabric offered no grip to hold on to, yet his strong arms held you into place as tightly as they could. You gritted your teeth, prayed to God your heels would not fall off, and watched in stunned silence as Oscar raced down the stifling hallways.

It seemed like but an instant had passed when Oscar threw himself into the belly of the train, its imminent departure chime his very own chequered flag, and the old doors rattled shut behind you. For the first time, New Yorkers shot you strange looks. Finally you had crossed their threshold for urban bizarrerie.

And you were still in Oscar’s arms, flushed and panting even though he was the one who’d done all the running. And had barely broken a sweat.

You were about to clear your throat and kindly—begrudgingly, perhaps?—request he put you down… when the announcer’s perky voice began chirping out the next stops through the loudspeakers. You snapped your head at the line map above the doors. No matter what language she said it in, your next stop was always wrong.

“Oscar,” you murmured.

“Yeah?” he breathed out.

“We got on the wrong way.”

“There’s no oil in New York City.”

Oscar remained silent for a few seconds, as if in a trance. His jittery leg did not.

“What?” he mumbled when he broke out of his reverie.

You simply pointed at his knee, bouncing up and down since he’d sat.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to drill a hole in the ground with your shoe for. There’s no oil in New York City. If there was, Trump would’ve sucked it dry already.”

Oscar sighed, throwing his head back against the glass panel, but your heart swelled with satisfaction when you caught a glimpse of his smile.

Rippling anyone’s surface had seldom proven as easy as it was fun.

You leaned a little closer to him, and he closed his eyes with a faint grunt. His leg, however, was now still.

“Why are you so nervous about being late? You’re the main attraction, it’s not like they’re going to hold it against you.”

Hearing his reply proved difficult over the train’s thundering racket, glass windows and moist handles vibrating within their sockets like charged electrons. His eyes, mercifully still closed, allowed yours to linger on his mouth—to decipher each word as it formed, and to savor the quiet contemplation.

“Being fashionably late usually draws more attention than I like to get.”

“So why bother going? You don’t look like you enjoy being in the public eye that much anyway.”

Only one eye opened, tentatively so, and met your small, expectant smile, chin resting on your fist and your crossed legs imperceptibly brushing his. Any story he could’ve told you right then would’ve been riveting, it seemed, and for the first time in weeks Oscar found that for you, he did not mind sharing one.

“I told Lando I’d go. We collided yesterday on track and they thought it would maybe look bad if one of us showed up and not the other. Like we’re avoiding each other or something. I don’t know, PR stuff. But I promised Lando, so.” He pursed his lips then, and blew air through his nose, holding back a giggle. “Also, I don’t know, I felt like I had to go. I had a… a premonition.”

“A premonition?”

“Yeah, I don’t know, some kind of hunch. In my cereal.”

You stared at him long, assessing him and the likelihood of a lie, but he was a master of the unreadable smile, the one that could mean anything from I’m one look away from bursting into laughter to I have never dissociated more than I am currently, and even, perhaps, I wish this train ride with you would never end.

“In your cereal?”

“This morning, at the breakfast buffet, I had cereal and there was this kinda cornflake clump that looked like a clapperboard. You know,” he mimed it with his hands and the click of the tongue to match. “So I thought that was some… sign? The universe was telling me to go to this premiere, or something.” His neck tensed abruptly as he suddenly remembered himself. Who he was, and what he believed in. “But uh, that’s a little stupid. Forget it.”

The subway doors opened and closed, chimes rang and accordion tunes from the platforms faded in and out of the background chatter. You had close to lost count of how many stops were left until Times Square. The incessant ballet of New York’s illustrious unknowns would still play out, with or without your attention.

When Oscar looked down at you, almost entirely hunched over his lap and taking him in like he was an August rainshower, he found you beaming.

“No, I totally get you. This date I was supposed to go on before I ran into you… I went because Ramen showed up, even though there were so many red flags that I could’ve seen coming.”

“Who?”

“Ramen.”

“Who’s Ramen?”

“The neighbor’s cat. That’s not his real name, just what I call him.”

Oscar stared at you, expression frozen in one of delightful incomprehension, the one you get when you are not entirely sure a miracle is destined for you just yet. And you stared back, awaiting his next words for as long as it’d take them to come.

“So you went on a date because a cat told you to?”

“He didn’t tell me anything, silly, he’s a cat,” you retorted like it was the most obvious thing in the universe, to which Oscar rolled his eyes and muttered Of course. “He just stared, and every time he does it, I know I’m gonna get lucky that day. He’s never failed me before. Well, until today.”

A beat passed, during which you refused to elaborate further out of fear you’d betray the words lingering at the front of your mouth. Maybe this hadn’t been a miss for Ramen, after all. Maybe his magic had worked in unexpected ways. Oscar, on the other hand, just basked in the whole of you, and his lips slightly parted without a sound, as though they didn’t quite know where to begin.

“What?”

“It’s just… My job, this whole universe I live in, there’s no room for good luck charms or silly little superstitions. They’re just… distractions. All the answers are in the data. Our only faith is in the numbers.” And you sensed him about to say something else, something he had to wring out of the very cloth of his ribcage, but suddenly the deep wells in his pupils were sealed off with his favorite lid of deadpan humor. “Well, except the Italians. But they suck, so I wouldn’t take them as an example.”

“Oh my God, Oscar,” you gasped, “you can’t say that, do you know how many Italians there are in New Y—”

A sudden jolt shook the entire train, knocking the carriage back onto its breathless tracks; the momentum sent a teenage girl flying into a tall gym guy, who in turn crashed into you—your hands were too slow to catch you, not lighting-fast and gloved in greatness—you fell on top of Oscar, your nose buried against the open buttons of his shirt.

You were upright in less than a second, locked in a litany of Oh my God sorry’s to which Oscar replied his own recitation of No worries it’s not your fault’s. The train resumed its journey through the depths of Manhattan as if nothing had happened, and truthfully nothing had—except you were now a little closer to each other than you’d been before, and you hoped with all your might that he wouldn’t notice the way your eyelids fluttered, or how your fingertips had started burning up, or how the air was now thicker, or maybe you hoped he did, so you wouldn’t have to speak it aloud—nothing had happened, and truthfully everything had.

“Why did you think I was going to the F1 premiere back there?” you asked softly, not sure why that was the question you’d elected to go with now.

Oscar’s face was impassible—he’d found his calm, collected control back. But he didn’t know, or didn’t care to know, that you could hear his heartbeat louder than the railroad racket below.

“You looked funny.”

“Okay, you’re literally wearing a bowtie, and it’s crooked, by the way.”

“No, I mean, you looked pretty.” The faintest flick of his tongue showed above his bottom lip, undoubtedly accidental. “You looked really pretty, so I assumed you were a guest or something.”

Maybe what you’d heard and thought was his heart pulsating in sync with the wobbly tracks had not been his, but yours. Somewhere indistinct, the lady’s mechanical voice crackled something about Times Square. 

“Thank you,” you smiled, with no mischief attached, this time.

“I’m… pretty glad that your date didn’t show up in the end, huh,” he laughed half-heartedly.

“Oscar, Times Square,” you sprung to your feet, nearly twisting your ankle. “That’s you!”

The doors almost chewed down on the hem of Oscar’s pants when he jumped out of the train. Without so much as a glance back or a single word of forgiveness, all the carriages vanished into heavy shadows, and the world was back to normal again.

Or almost. If there was anything even remotely normal about Times Square.

Every single light blinded you—no matter how many times you came you could never wrap your head around how the place managed to dazzle you even in broad daylight—as you both exited the metro station. Summer lay heavily on the commotion of cars, police whistles, loud music, and… screaming bloody murder?

“Ah, I think that’s my cue.”

Oscar held his hand over his eyes as he took in the scene, and only then did you notice the race cars parked in the middle of the street, some fifty meters ahead. It was probably a fair assumption, then, that the thousands of people massed near the makeshift stage, underneath gigantic screens, were all waiting for him. A fair assumption, and an incredibly odd one; to think you had spent such a mundane moment with the man they would soon shout themselves hoarse for!

“Yeah, good luck with that, I’m not going any nearer,” you forced between clenched teeth. “I hope you don’t get into too much trouble.”

When you spun on your heel, you found Oscar extending his hand out for you to shake, squinting his eyes against the sun. Or maybe it was an excuse not to have to look you in the eye more than absolutely necessary. In the same way you couldn’t tell whether your hand was slightly clammy from the heat or the nerves.

“Thanks for saving the day. Or at least mine,” he said, a little too solemn, a little too final. Like this was a farewell rather than an acknowledgment.

“Thanks for saving mine,” you replied, hoping the little smile you forced on your lips looked appropriately warm, and not inexplicably aching. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

To anyone else Oscar would’ve replied the truth—Probably not—but that was not what his bowl of cereal would have wanted of him, so he said:

“Maybe.”

He gave you a wink half a second too long, and immediately looked horrified at what he’d done, which made you double over in a flurry of giggles. When you opened your eyes, he was a few steps ahead, waving you goodbye, and you returned the salute. You watched him jog the distance to the first cameras until he was but one more black and white dot in a sea of elegant millionaires, your throat hollow save for a funny kind of longing.

Then you walked back the way you came, carrying the end of your skirt down the stairs of the metro station.

Thirty minutes later, as you rummaged through your purse for your keys in front of your apartment complex, you noticed your phone lighting up. Usually, when you went on a date, you’d put it on Do not disturb so as to not be tempted—basic education, you reckoned, and something not many dates of yours had had the courtesy of reciprocating—, but you always sent your best friend your location beforehand and allowed her and only her to go through. She knew better than to text you unless it was life or death.

Clearly, this was of the utmost importance, and the fact there were only three messages instead of the fifty-seven you were expecting did not reassure you one bit.

“bitch” “who tf is that with oscar” “and why tf is it you??????”

A link to a TikTok came up mere seconds later.

The sage green gown was unmistakable. Anything else could’ve been explained otherwise, maybe blamed on some uncanny resemblance, a fortuitous angle—it looked like the video had been shot from very far away, and the protagonists not at all aware of the recording; but you would’ve recognized that lilypad-bright dress anywhere. Just like you knew that the blurry mass of pixels near the man’s face was a pathetic excuse for a wink, and the woman doubling over for no reason was actually laughing. That she’d watched him disappear into the crowd, immobile and longing, to commit to memory the very way his bones moved when he walked.

“Oscar Piastri’s Mystery Date Gets Cold Feet Right Before Red Carpet Debut?? 👀”

You stared at your phone even as it kept going off, its vibrations tickling your palm. A series of interrogation marks, each its individual message, popped up one after the other on your notification bar, and all you could do was clutch the screen as though you could shatter it with your bare hands.

This meant nothing, you calmed yourself down. This would blow over soon, you swore. As soon as they realized Oscar Piastri would never be seen again with this mysterious woman, and that it was never anything serious. Anything at all, even. That the New Yorker in apple green was just a mirage on his path, pertaining only to him and for a split instant.

And even if things didn’t smooth over… you had a feeling Oscar’s team would have no problem tracking you down.

©musicallisto, 2025

⤷ liked this fic? then you might enjoy... endless giggles (ln4)!