#and does everything she can to not have to do that thing

[cressidagrey]

A Secret no more

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

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  The world finds out about Beatrice “Bee” Piastri. 

Warnings and Notes: I have been working on this for weeks and I have finally given up on trying to make it better. So here it is, in all its glory. Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Oscar had just come in from a run, sneakers muddy and hoodie clinging damply to his shoulders. He’d kicked off his shoes by the door and found Bee in the living room, curled on the rug with a blanket, her dinosaur encyclopedia open but clearly forgotten.

She was chewing her lower lip. Thinking. Dangerous territory.

“Hey, Bumblebee,” he said, crouching beside her. “You okay?”

She nodded slowly, then looked up at him with wide, dark eyes—so much like Felicity’s it always made his chest ache. “Papa?”

“Yeah?”

She hesitated. “Why don’t you ever say my name on TV?”

Oscar froze.

Not visibly. Not dramatically. But inside—everything stilled. The breath caught in his throat, the aftershock of the question slamming into his ribs like a missed apex.

He sat down on the rug beside her, stretching his legs out. “What do you mean, bug?”

Bee shrugged, but it was too careful. Too studied. “When they talk to you. After races. You talk about your car. And Lando. And once about Mama. But never me.”

Oscar swallowed. Hard. “You watch those?”

Bee nodded. “Sometimes. With Mama. You always say thank you to the team. And Uncle Mark sometimes. And your engineer. But never me.”

Oscar looked down at his hands. His heart was doing that thing again—tight, full, terrified.

“I do talk about you,” he said gently. “Just not where everyone hears.”

Bee blinked. “Why?”

“Because… for a long time, we were trying to keep things quiet. To keep you safe. So you didn’t have cameras in your face or people asking you questions at the playground.”

Bee frowned. “Do cameras hurt?”

“No,” Oscar said with a soft laugh. “Not like that. But they make things louder. And sometimes grown-ups don’t think before they say things out loud. Things that aren’t fair. Or kind.”

Bee was quiet for a moment. Then: “But I’m not a secret.”

Oscar’s breath caught.

“No,” he said, voice suddenly thick. “You’re not. You never were.”

Bee tugged at a loose thread on the blanket. “Then why does it feel like it?”

He reached for her hand. Held it in his.

“You are the best thing in my whole world,” he whispered. “And I didn’t want that world—my world—to hurt you.”

Bee tilted her head. “But I’m big now.”

“You are,” he said, smiling faintly. “You’re really big. And smart. And brave.”

She looked up at him again. “Then maybe I can be part of it now. The race part.”

Oscar nodded slowly, already knowing what he needed to do.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, maybe it’s time.”

Bee crawled into his lap then, all elbows and blanket and warm little sighs. Oscar wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, pressing his cheek to the top of her head.

***

Sophie was trying, okay?

She had stayed up late. She’d been polite. She hadn’t even cried when she realized Oscar had casually kept a wife and child a secret for five years and now wanted to announce their existence with exactly zero drama.

She had researched tone. She had analyzed his past captions. She had studied Felicitiy’s Instagram, which was somehow more cryptic than Oscar’s was robotic.

She had written three versions.

And now, seated across from Oscar in the McLaren media room, she was deeply regretting all of it.

“Okay. Three options,” she said, clicking through the drafts. “All written. All approved by Zak. All designed to keep the internet from melting down.”

Oscar nodded politely. “Sure.”

Option One flashed up in clean, brand-safe font.

Option 1: The Sentimental Soft Launch

Hi everyone – this season’s been full of surprises, but one thing I’ve been quietly proud of for a long time is my family.

Meet Felicity, my wife of five years. And Bee, our daughter.

They’re my biggest supporters—and they’ll be joining me at Silverstone. Can’t wait for them to see what we do.

#F1 #Silverstone #TeamPiastri

Oscar stared at the screen.

Then looked up at Sophie.

“No.”

Sophie blinked. “No?”

“It reads like I died.”

Sophie made a strangled noise. “Okay. Fine. Too emotional. That’s alright.”

Option 2: The Wholesome Racer Dad Vibe

“Turns out the paddock isn’t the only place I take instructions. My daughter, Bee, will be joining us at Silverstone. She’s three, loves telemetry, and thinks Lando overbrakes into Maggots. My wife, Felicity, is the smartest person I know and the only reason I ever get anywhere on time. They’ve been with me all along. Thought it was time you met them.”

Oscar gave her the faintest raised eyebrow.

“Absolutely not.”

Sophie blinked again. “What now?! This one’s funny! And it humanizes you!”

“It makes me sound like I just discovered I have a personality,” he said.

Sophie groaned. “Okay, fine. One more.”

Swipe.

Option 3: The Clean Professional Reveal

“Excited to have my family at Silverstone this weekend. Felicity and Bee, thank you for being my constants off track. And to everyone else—yes, this is new to you. But it’s not new to me. They’ve always been here.”

Silence.

Oscar read it twice.

Then said, “This one feels like I’m announcing I adopted them out of moral obligation.”

Sophie dropped her head into her hands. “Oscar.”

He offered a sympathetic shrug. “You’re very good at your job. I’m just really bad at being public.”

Sophie dropped into the seat across from him. “Oscar. I am begging you. The world is going to meet your wife and daughter for the first time in the middle of McLaren‘s home race weekend. We need a post.”

Oscar tilted his head. “Why not just post a photo?”

“Because context,” Sophie said, waving her hands. “Because you’ve been publicly single since karting and now you’re bringing a wife and child to the grid. We need to guide the narrative. Gently. Softly. Without causing emotional whiplash.”

Oscar leaned back. “Can I write it?”

Sophie froze. “You want to… write it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Will it contain actual words?”

“Yes.”

“Will I get to approve it?”

“No.”

Sophie groaned and buried her face in her hands. “You are a PR nightmare in a racing suit.”

Oscar stood up, calm as ever. “Thank you.”

***

The sun was low, spilling gold across the kitchen table, catching on Bee’s glitter glue masterpiece drying on a placemat. The house smelled like rain and rosemary and the faint hint of banana bread still cooling on the counter.

Oscar leaned back in his chair, freshly showered, arms crossed as he watched Felicity slice strawberries with the kind of precision usually reserved for surgery.

“Bee’s excited,” he said quietly. “About Silverstone.”

Felicity glanced over her shoulder, half-smiling. “She’s been practicing her wave. And telling anyone who’ll listen that she’s going to meet the orange car.”

Oscar huffed a laugh. “That’s not even the worst nickname I’ve heard.”

He let the moment sit for a beat. Then: “Sophie wants the announcement before the weekend.”

Felicity set down the knife. Wiped her hands on a tea towel. “And what do you want?”

Oscar didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looked out the window, where Bee’s wellies were still tipped over in the grass from earlier, and tried to name the feeling building in his chest. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. But it was close.

“I want her to feel seen,” he said finally. “I don’t want her to grow up thinking she’s… something to hide.”

Felicity walked over and leaned her hip against the table, facing him fully. “We kept her private for good reasons.”

“I know. I don’t regret it.”

“Neither do I,” she said softly. “We had time. Just… us.”

Oscar nodded. “But she’s getting older now.”

Felicity’s mouth pulled into a thoughtful line. “She notices things.”

“She asked me last week why I never talk about her on TV,” Oscar said, his voice low. “I told her I do. Just not where everyone hears.”

Felicity closed her eyes for a second.

“And she’s smart,” he added. “If this goes on much longer, she’s going to think I’m ashamed of her. Or you. And I’m not. God, I’m not.”

“I know,” Felicity whispered. 

Oscar reached for her hand across the table. “I don’t want her to question her place in my life.”

“She is our life,” Felicity said, gripping his fingers tightly.

“Exactly.”

They stood like that for a moment—quiet, steady, anchored.

Then Felicity let out a long breath. “So. We introduce her.”

Oscar nodded. “Softly. On our terms.”

“No Vogue spreads. No baby Dior sponsorships.”

“No grand declarations. Just… the truth.”

Felicity’s gaze softened. “She’ll love the paddock.”

“She’ll own it,” Oscar said. “She already has questions for Lando about his braking zones.”

That got a real smile out of Felicity. “And we’re ready?”

Oscar squeezed her hand. “Yeah. We are.”

She leaned forward, pressed a kiss to his temple, and whispered, “Write something honest. Something you’d want her to read one day.”

He smiled. “Then it’ll be long.”

“You’re getting sentimental in your old age, Tin Man.”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“And a father. Of a girl who wants sea-animal themed cupcakes and thinks mochi should count as a food group.”

Oscar looked over at Bee’s artwork. At the crayon drawing of “Papa’s race car” with a smiling stick figure strapped inside beside a smaller one labeled Me.

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“She deserves the world,” he said.

“She has it,” Felicity replied. “She has you.”

And just like that, the decision was made.

***

Group Chat: Piastri Fam ❤️

Oscar: Hey everyone. Quick heads-up before it’s on social or the news or whatever.

Nicole: Oh god what have you done

Edie:Oscar, please tell me that this isn’t what I think this is about.  

Mae: 👀👀👀👀👀

Oscar: No. We’re just… going public with Bee. Felicity and I talked about it Bee’s old enough now to notice we’ve kept her private and we don’t want her to ever think we’re hiding her

Edie: you could’ve led with that instead of sounding like you were about to admit to a felony

Mae: honestly i thought you’d crashed the car.

Chris: So what does that mean? Photos? Interviews? Bee on a billboard?

Oscar: Just photos. One post. They’ll come to Silverstone. No interviews. No media access. No weird press releases. She’s still Bee.

Nicole: Oh sweetheart 🥺 I’m so proud of you both You’ve done such a beautiful job raising her Whatever you share—we’ll support it 100%

Chris: Just don’t let McLaren turn it into some media circus

Oscar: they tried i said no Sophie tried to write the caption i rejected all three

Hattie: OF COURSE YOU DID

Mae: PLEASE tell me one of them had emojis

Nicole: Bee’s going to be so cute at Silverstone😭 Should I get her a new dress???

Oscar: Mum, she has like seven.

Nicole: BUT NOT FOR HER PUBLIC DEBUT

Edie: what’s her paddock fit??? be honest are we talking cute tiny race suit or toddler chic

Mae: if you don’t get her baby ear defenders in McLaren orange i’m disowning you

Hattie:  Silverstone is gonna BREAK THE INTERNET you know that right

Oscar:  i know but she deserves to be seen

Mae: she’s going to be the most iconic paddock kid ever and i will fight anyone who disagrees

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Mark Webber

Oscar: Hey, just a heads-up.

We’re going public with Bee. Instagram Post. No press, no interviews. Just… quiet and clear.

Mark: I was wondering when this moment would come. You good with it?

Oscar: Yeah. It’s time. She’s starting to ask why I don’t talk about her. Didn’t feel right to keep waiting.

Mark: You’re doing the right thing. You’ve protected her for as long as she needed. Now you’re showing her she belongs everywhere—even here.

Oscar: That’s the hope. Also she’s planning to tell Lando he’s “braking too much into Maggots”

Mark: God help us all. Need me to run interference with media?

Oscar: Sophie’s already having a meltdown. So maybe just… keep Zak from suggesting we sell baby overalls.

Mark:Done.

***

Group Chat: Piastri Girls

Nicole: Fliss, darling—can I just ask? Are you really alright with this?

I know you said yes, and I trust you, but… it’s a big step. And I just want to be sure.

Felicity: I’m okay. Really. We talked it through. We took our time. And Bee wants to be at Silverstone. So yes. I’m okay. 💛

Hattie: ugh okay i’m going to cry and i’m on a tram

Mae: same. I’m in the middle of a dog wash appointment and tearing up next to a cocker spaniel

Edie: just imagining Bee strutting down the paddock in her dolphin dress like she owns every team principal

Mae: you mean when she points at Christian Horner and says “I saw you on TV and mummy said no thank you” ????

Felicity: …I’m begging you not to manifest this

Nicole: You’re sure, love? I know keeping things private was important to you. And I also know the internet can be… cruel.

Felicity: I know. But Bee’s getting older. And hiding her isn’t the same as protecting her anymore. She’s proud of her family. She deserves to be seen.

Hattie: also she’s going to emotionally destroy everyone with her tiny bee backpack. it’s over for all of us.

Edie: I made a Pinterest board called “Paddock Princess Aesthetic” if anyone wants to contribute

Mae: I ALREADY HAVE

Nicole: Alright. Then we are behind you. One hundred percent. No matter what.

You’re a brilliant mother, Felicity. And she’s the most loved little girl in the world.

Felicity: Thank you. 

Edie: we’ll cry with you. but also— do you want us to pre-threaten any gossip accounts?

Hattie: pls i have drafts ready

Mae: TeamBee™ is locked and loaded

Felicity: God help the internet.

***

Instagram Post: @/oscarpiastri 

Caption:

So… I have a daughter.

 (And yes—Lando found out in real time again. I’m 0 for 2.)

To be honest, I didn’t think this was a secret either.

 She’s been the center of my world since the day she arrived.

I just assumed people knew.

Turns out, once again, I was very, very wrong.

So—meet my daughter.

Yes, I’m a dad. I have been since I was nineteen.

Her full name is Beatrice Nicole, but we’ve always called her Bee. 

She’s three now. She likes telemetry, vintage cars, chickens, whiteboards, and chocolate milk with a bendy straw. She’s been asking for a kart since she could walk.

We never made a big announcement when she was born.

Her arrival was chaotic and beautiful and terrifying all at once—and, for a while, all we could do was survive those early days. Felicity was incredible. She always is. And Bee… Bee arrived on her own terms and hasn’t stopped since.

We never planned to keep her a secret.

We didn’t want her growing up in a spotlight she didn’t choose. Fliss and I agreed from the beginning—she’s our daughter, not our content. The most important thing we can give her is a childhood that belongs to her.

She was never hidden. She’s just ours.

She’ll be in the paddock at Silverstone this year—her first real Grand Prix. You might see her in the garage, wearing a headset too big for her and trying to correct our sector data. Now, at least, you’ll know who she is.

Being a father is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever done. It’s also the most grounding. No matter what happens on track—whether I win or finish dead last—there’s a little girl waiting for me at home, arms outstretched, asking for a hug.

I didn’t know I could love someone like this. But then she came along.

So, yeah. I’m married. And I’m a dad.

Still no tattoo.

But I do have a daughter who thinks How to Build a Car is bedtime reading, and calls me “Papa” like it’s the best thing in the world.

And somehow, that word means more to me than anything else ever could.

Comments: 

@/landonorris: i would like the record to show that i knew this time. i was emotionally prepared. (i still cried.)

@/charles_leclerc: This is beautiful. I can’t wait to meet her properly. (Also, Bee is welcome to revise my data any time.)

@/carlossainz55: Oscar this is… wow. This is the best thing I’ve read all season. Respect, hermano. Truly.

@/estebanocon: Bee for team principal 2040 🐝 Also: you win the soft-launch championship. No one else come close.

@/logansargeant: This post made me cry and then google kart prices.

@/danielricciardo: the fact that this child exists AND I HAVEN’T MET HER YET is a personal attack

@/alex_albon: You have a whole child. Like. A child. Who apparently does data analysis. → @oscarpiastri: she’s currently ranking tyre deg across 2023 races → @alex_albon: okay but like… is she free to consult?? asking for a team

@/arthur_leclerc: “Her arrival was chaotic and beautiful and terrifying” Okay dad of the year 😭

@/fernandoalo_oficial: A very small strategist. I approve.

@/lilymhe: This is the best post any F1 driver has ever made and I will be accepting no arguments. → @alex_albon: I’ve been dethroned. by a three year old.

@/pierregasly: I’m not crying. You’re crying. Shut up.

@/maxverstappen1: Protect her at all costs. → @felicitypiastri: already on it 💅

@/mclaren: Welcome to the garage, Bee. We’ve saved you a headset 💛🧡

@/netflix: 👀 → @/landonorris: stay AWAY from her → @/netflix: 😇 → @/felicitypiastri: no → @/netflix: 😭

@/georgerussell63: She reads How to Build a Car at bedtime and I’m afraid of her already.

@/lewishamilton This was beautiful, mate. She’s lucky to have you. And clearly, you’re just as lucky to have her 💛

@/f1wifelore: never thought “i’m a dad” would emotionally ruin me at 2pm on a Tuesday but here we are 🧍‍♀️

@/piastriworshipclub: bee. telemetry. chickens. whiteboards. OSCAR YOU HAVE A MINI YOU. i’m not okay. i’m obsessed.

@/gridgirliesunite: not oscar casually saying “i’ve been a dad since i was nineteen” like that’s a normal sentence??? sir. i am on the FLOOR.

@/motorsportmoms: “she’s our daughter, not our content.” 👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏

@/softpitstops: she calls him “papa” 😭 this is the most soft-launch hard-launch i’ve ever witnessed

@/felicitybrainrot: and the way he talks about felicity??? “incredible”??? i’m biting drywall. this is love.

@/formula1fanficirl: no bc imagine being born into the piastri household your dad’s an f1 driver your mom rebuilds vintage engines and bakes sourdough this child is living my dream

@/gridinvestigator: if bee’s not in a tiny headset at Silverstone i’m rioting (i will also cry if she is)

@/chaoticwagtracker: BEATRICE “BEE” PIASTRI. THREE YEARS OLD. LOVES TELEMETRY. I AM HER BIGGEST FAN.

@/drive_to_sob: “that word means more to me than anything else ever could.” (papa) i’m inconsolable.

@/tifosiforbee: i love this small child so much. i would take a bullet for her and i haven’t even seen her yet.

@/f1girliesunite: the way he said "she was never hidden, she’s just ours” 😭 i’m never recovering.

@/downforcewife: not oscar casually admitting he’s been someone’s papa for three years while we’ve been out here calling him a robot 😭 turns out he’s a cinnamon roll with a child.

@/sector3drama: this post healed my skin, fixed my engine mapping, and restored my faith in soft men.

@/gridgossip: she reads how to build a car at bedtime. I barely made it through the dedication page.

@/chaoticwagtracker: felicity and bee >>>>>> every reality show. give me their spin-off immediately.

@/lan_doughnut: THE WAY HE SAID “I JUST ASSUMED PEOPLE KNEW” SIR??? YOU DROPPED A WHOLE CHILD ON US???

@/burners4felicity: BEATRICE NICOLE?!?! HE NAMED HER AFTER HIS MOM!?!?

@/beesquadforever: okay but bee liking vintage cars, chickens, telemetry, and chocolate milk??? she’s three and already cooler than me.

@/piastristans: this is the most emotionally healthy, grounded, respectful family reveal i’ve ever seen. like. they didn’t post because they didn’t want to exploit her?? AND THEN WHEN THEY DID POST, THEY LED WITH LOVE AND CONSENT?? i’m sobbing in the garage rn.

@/f1softiesclub: “that word means more to me than anything else ever could.” and just like that, papa piastri broke the internet.

@/formulafemmes: oscar is married. oscar is a dad. oscar is calm. oscar is in love. i just want what they have.

***

Instagram Post: @/felicitypiastri 

Caption: 

I wrote a thesis once. It required 284 pages, 737 citations, and a statistical appendix.

This took significantly longer to create. And means infinitely more.

Meet Bee. The best thing I’ve ever helped create.

Comments: 

@/alex_albon: I’d like to formally offer Bee a role on our strategy team.

@/maxverstappen1: Is she free next weekend to look at my suspension setup?

→ @/felicitypiastri: She’ll need a booster step and a Capri-Sun but sure

@/danielricciardo: i love her. she is the future. we’re all just turning laps in her warm-up session.

@/georgerussell63: She’s holding that wrench like she knows things

→ @/felicitypiastri: She re-aligned the steering on her tricycle last week

@/burners4felicity: FELICITY YOU BUILT A WHOLE HUMAN WHO CAN TINKER WITH CARS??? I’M LOSING IT

@/lan_doughnut: this kid’s going to have a TED Talk before Lando finishes a full load of laundry

@/beelieversunite: i would let this child critique my entire personality if she asked nicely

@/oscarpiastri: Still can’t believe we made her.

@/landonorris: does she do pit stops too?? asking for a teammate. → @/felicitypiastri: she says only if you promise not to “slam the brakes like a goose.” → @/landonorris: i take it back i’m scared

@/beesquadforever: i looked at this photo for 0.3 seconds and started ovulating

@/engineeringiconz: Bee Piastri is the future of motorsport. We are merely here to witness her origin arc.

@/womeninsteam: This is your sign to let girls play with tools. And to fear the ones who already know what a torque wrench does. 🛠️

@/softpitstops: She’s not even in school yet and she’s already intimidating me.

@/drivetosob: “She’s the best thing I’ve ever helped create.” I don’t even know this woman and she just broke my heart into 17 emotionally regulated pieces.

@/carlossainz55: This is the most powerful image on the internet today. Possibly this decade.

@/mechanicmomlife: respectfully… who let this child be this cool???

@/sector3drama: forget WAGs. I want a weekly update from the BABY PIASTRI PIT CREW

@/downforcewife: Bee is already living the dream. Cars, tools, chocolate milk, adoring parents. I’m applying to be her intern.

@/charles_leclerc: She is so small and already fixing cars. Oscar is doomed.

@/estebanocon: Oscar’s garage in five years is just going to be Bee with a headset and a tablet. I support this.

@/mclaren: We’ve added her to the garage rota. Wrench privileges pending.

@/gridgirliesunite: “best thing i’ve ever helped create” FELICITY PLEASE I’M FRAGILE

@/downforcewife: she looks so serious about that car

@/beesquadforever: tiny engineer. soft caption. grease-stained chaos. 10/10 reveal. would cry again.

@/sector3drama: she’s three. she has a wrench. i am fully, deeply, irreversibly obsessed.

@/burners4felicity: this kid’s going to build her own sim rig and outperform her dad by age six

***

Meanwhile on Twitter

@/formulafemmes:  OSCAR PIASTRI IS A DAD??? A FATHER??? WITH A TODDLER??? WHY AM I FINDING THIS OUT FROM A SOFT-LIT POST THAT READS LIKE A LOVE LETTER TO HIS DAUGHTER I’M AT WORK

@/gridgossip: The fact that Bee Piastri is THREE means he became a father at NINETEEN?!?!. Oscar: calm. quiet. committed. Me at 19: crying in a lecture hall because my headphones died.

@/burners4felicity:  Let’s talk about Felicity, the secret wife and apparent Goddess of all things mechanical and maternal – Gave birth during a global pandemic – Raised a tiny strategist – Somehow stayed entirely offline – Probably building an engine in the background RIGHT NOW We don’t deserve her

@/lan_doughnut:  OSCAR: “I didn’t know I could love someone like this.” ME: sobbing into my cereal. My cat is concerned.

@/felicityupdates:  You’re telling me Felicity was pregnant during his F3 days??? With a toddler by his F1 debut??? AND SHE WAS NEVER SPOTTED??? This woman is like Bigfoot but with a degree in mechanical engineering and a sourdough starter.

@/piastrirealupdates: “she’s not content. she’s just ours.” is genuinely one of the most beautiful things a public figure has ever said about their child and I am going to go cry into the void now

@/gridinvestigator: THREAD 🧵: Everything we now know about Beatrice “Bee” Piastri, the tiny legend and future team principal:

Age: 3

Name: Beatrice NICOLE, called Bee

Hobbies: telemetry, chocolate milk, chickens

Also probably smarter than everyone at Ferrari strategy

@/drive_to_thirst: Oscar: “Still no tattoo.” Also Oscar: quietly raised a daughter for three years and wrote a caption that emotionally unraveled the internet. That’s commitment.

@/whiteboardwarlord: Bee Piastri is the only nepo baby I will ever support. She’s built different. Like literally—probably building a gearbox right now.

@/formulafemmes: oscar: I didn’t think it was a secret BABY YOU NEVER POSTED HER. SHE WAS THE OPPOSITE OF A SECRET. SHE WAS A STATE SECRET. A CRYPTOCURRENCY. A WIFE AND CHILD COMBO UNLOCKED VIA SIDE QUEST.

@/sector3drama:: bee. her name is bee. she likes telemetry and whiteboards. i’m sorry but i am now her loyal follower. oscar piastri’s daughter owns me.

@/tifosiforbee:: BEE PIASTRI IS THREE YEARS OLD AND HAS OPINIONS ON RACE STRATEGY THIS IS NO LONGER ABOUT OSCAR THIS IS ABOUT THE PRODIGY

@/lan_doughnut:: also the fact that LANDO found out in real time AGAIN i’m so sorry to that man. he’s never catching up.

@/piastriworshipclub: “she’s our daughter, not our content” and that’s how you win parent of the year, goodnight.

@/chaoticwagtracker: felicity and oscar being married for FIVE YEARS with a THREE-YEAR-OLD CHILD and we never knew??? this is what peak privacy looks like. bowing.

@/softpitstops: bee piastri is the only nepo baby i will ever support she reads How to Build a Car at bedtime i trust her more than my doctor

@/downforcewife: Oscar was out here giving cold, calculated post-race interviews while a whole toddler was at home probably critiquing his line into turn 4

@/gridgirliesunite: FELICITY PIASTRI HAD A BABY AND WAS OUT HERE TINKERING WITH CARS AND MAKING SOURDOUGH IN SECRET???

@/formulafemmes: that child likes chickens, reads technical manuals and drinks chocolate milk with a bendy straw she’s PERFECT

@/chaoscompound: “thought people knew” bro you were giving quiet podium robot and you had a WHOLE FAMILY

@/pitwallpoetry: not me crying at “she calls me papa like it’s the best word in the world” i’m not okay. i’m actually broken.

@/mclarenstan69: the way mclaren social media staff probably learned the same day we did no one is safe. oscar piastri runs on silence and full emotional destruction

@/fernandossunvisor: i’d say “he’s so private it’s terrifying” but actually it’s just the most emotionally mature reveal i’ve ever seen like. it was never about hiding. it was about protecting.

@/teambeeforever: bee piastri for f1 champion 2045 i will be seated

@/f1wivesanonymous:i just think it’s VERY RUDE that oscar piastri has been quietly being the best dad ever while we were out here thinking he was emotionally beige

@/drive_to_sob:“her name is Beatrice Nicole but we call her Bee”... oh so you’re just going to gut me like a trout

@/lan_doughnut: me: i’m strong. i’m normal. i can handle it. oscar: “no matter what happens on track, there’s a little girl waiting for me at home asking for a hug.” me: [hyperventilating into a paper bag]

@/piastriwifeupdates: WE WERE SO BUSY TALKING ABOUT THE WIFE REVEAL WE DIDN’T KNOW THERE WAS A CHILD THERE WAS. A CHILD.

@/chaoticwagtracker: Oscar said “she’s ours not content” and I aged backwards 10 years and grew wings. Oscar said “papa means more than anything else ever could” and I disintegrated on a molecular level.

@/f1chronicles: no because the quietest man on the grid just dropped the most emotionally grounded, boundary-setting, heart-expanding caption in history. he’s a better man than most of us and i want bee to design my life plan.

@/drive_to_thirst: me seeing bee for the first time in the paddock wearing an oversized headset and handing lando a whiteboard note that says “too slow”: 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

@/felicitybrainrot: bee’s bedtime story is “how to build a car” by Adrian Newey and i used to fall asleep to peppa pig. we are not the same.

@/lan_doughnut: it’s the “she was never hidden. she’s just ours.” for me i am lying face down on the floor in mclaren merch do not perceive me

@/oscarstan89: oscar piastri: married. a dad. emotionally eloquent. soft. private. intelligent. also oscar piastri: calmest chaos agent on the grid. king.

@/clareo: I work in F1 PR and I would like to send McLaren PR a basket of muffins and two therapy vouchers that post was perfect but also HOW DID YOU LET HIM SOFT-LAUNCH A WHOLE CHILD??

@/bee_watching: we interrupt our usual fernando thirsting to announce: OSCAR PIASTRI IS A DAD REPEAT OSCAR PIASTRI IS A DAD HIS CHILD’S NAME IS BEE I’M THROWING MYSELF INTO COPSE CORNER

@/F1afterdark: it’s not just that he’s a dad it’s that he’s been a dad since nineteen and didn’t say anything and now he’s like ��btw. she calls me papa.” EMOTIONAL DAMAGE.

@/formulafemmes: I was expecting Oscar’s next post to be a helmet render. Not… a whole-ass daughter.

@/lan_doughnut: oscar piastri just dropped “i’m a dad and also completely obsessed with my child” with the emotional weight of a sledgehammer and then logged off. we are not okay.

@/burners4felicity: felicity piastri remains undefeated. built a child, a chicken coop, and apparently a multi-year media blackout. queen of privacy. queen of grease-stained overalls. queen.

@/pitwallchaos: oscar really just said: “so yeah. i’m married. and i’m a dad. still no tattoo.” like he was ordering lunch. someone sedate me.

@/drive_to_thirst: “no matter what happens on track, there’s a little girl waiting for me at home, arms outstretched, asking for a hug.” OH. OKAY. COOL. I DIDN’T NEED MY SPINE TODAY.

@/softpitstops: why does oscar Piastri having a child feel like being hit by the world’s softest freight train

@/chaoticwagtracker: oscar being married wasn’t enough. he had to go ahead and be the perfect dad too. and write the most devastatingly wholesome caption of 2024. i’m suing for emotional damages.

@/oscarupdates: the duality of oscar piastri: – “we didn’t post.” – proceeds to write the most emotionally grounding fatherhood essay in motorsports history

@/motorsportmatt: congrats to oscar piastri for finally going public with his wife and child, i guess.

→ @/motorsportmatt: now that "His wife is smarter than all of us combined, makes a lemon slice that could end wars, and rebuilt an engine while eight months pregnant." line mark webber gave me earlier this year finally makes sense

@/nicolepiastri Yes, I’m a grandmother. Yes, she’s brilliant. Yes, I cried when she was born. No, I will not be sharing photos. Yes, she is the best thing our family’s ever been given 🧡 No, I did not know about that middle name until months later via a birth announcement in the mail.

@/formulaheart: THE WAY SHE SAID “I will not be sharing photos” LIKE A REAL GRANDMA GUARDING THE CROWN JEWELS 😭 protect Bee at all costs

@/burnerforbee: "Yes, she is the best thing our family’s ever been given 🧡" i am SOBBING. Nicole Piastri is grandmother of the year.

@/f1dramagirl: no because why is the most emotionally devastating part “via a birth announcement in the mail”??? OSCAR WHAT 😭

@/gridgossipqueen: Nicole Piastri being like “yes I cried” “no I didn’t know about the name” “yes I’m obsessed” “no you can’t have pictures” is the exact energy I want from a F1 grandma.

@/raceweekroses: Bee being named after Nicole and Oscar just… forgetting to tell her… is so Oscar-coded it hurts 😭

@/landoischaotic: Bee: breathes Nicole Piastri: the best thing our family’s ever been given 🧡 Me: crying in corner because she’s so loved

@/feralgirlsontrack: i just KNOW Nicole Piastri has a photo of Bee in her wallet and shows it to strangers at Woolies like it’s her job

@/mclarenmumclub: “No, I did not know about that middle name until months later via a birth announcement in the mail” Oscar. Babe. That is your mother.

@/softoscarupdates: Nicole Piastri posting that Bee is the best thing to ever happen to the family and also casually shading her son in the same breath??? iconic behaviour

@/grandprixgossip: Oscar not telling his mum he named Bee after her and then acting like that’s normal >>> the man is a menace in a papaya race suit

@/drsdivorcecourt:  nicole: I’m a grandmother me: oh my god nicole: she’s brilliant me: oh my GOD nicole: I only found out about the name MONTHS LATER me: dead

@/piastrilibrary: “via a birth announcement in the mail” is so specific and unhinged in the most Oscar-and-Felicity way possible

@/wheresthedrs: I want the birth announcement. I NEED the birth announcement. I bet it was printed on handmade recycled paper with embossed fonts and smelled like lemon and trust.

@/beepiastristan: bee being the best thing that’s ever happened to the piastris… i’m fine… i’m completely fine 🧡

@/feralgirlsontrack: “No, I did not know about that middle name until months later via a birth announcement in the mail” is Oscar Piastri summarized in one sentence

@/gridmomclub:  Nicole is officially president of the grid grandma union. That is all.

@/oscarwya: so just to recap: – didn’t tell his family about his wedding until after – didn’t tell his mum he named his daughter after her – forgot to tell the world he had a wife or a daughter at all what does oscar piastri tell people. his tyre pressures?

@/piastriburner: felicity: we should send out birth announcements oscar: yeah good idea three months later nicole: you named her after me?!?! oscar: oh yeah. i forgot. anyway how was your week?

@/chaoticgridmoments:  no cause imagine your son gets married and names his child after you and just. never. mentions it. oscar piastri i’m BEGGING you to send a family newsletter

@/teamfelicitysupremacy:  felicity: we should tell your mum the baby's name oscar: yeah totally cut to 3 months later oscar: …so i mailed her the birth announcement, it’s fine

@/chaosinthepaddock:  oscar piastri is what happens when you give an emotionally grounded introvert a family and forget to install the inform people update

@/grandprixchaos:  Oscar Piastri’s family finding out about life milestones after the fact is my favorite subplot of this entire season

@/wagsinloafers: At this point Nicole deserves a medal for how calmly she handles her son’s quiet chaos. I’d be in therapy twice a week and he’s just like “surprise!”

@/formulawife:  I will never get over the fact that Oscar Piastri: – got married – didn’t tell his family beforehand – had a baby – didn’t tell them her full name Like what is WRONG with him (affectionate)

@/mclarenfamilydrama:  His poor mother got a birth announcement in the mail MONTHS later and only then found out her granddaughter is named after her 😭😭😭

@/felicitysupremacy:  You know it was Felicity who ordered those announcements and remembered the envelopes and stamps. Oscar probably forgot until they were in the mailbox

***

The house was quiet in that rare, golden way it only got once Bee was truly asleep—snuggled beneath her weighted blanket, one arm flung over Button the Frog, snoring gently like she'd run a sprint race in her dreams.

The living room was dim. Just the soft glow of the lamp, a half-drunk cup of tea cooling on the coffee table, and Felicity stretched out on the sofa in one of Oscar’s old hoodies, legs tucked under her.

Oscar wandered in barefoot, phone in hand, eyebrows raised like he’d been hit with the emotional equivalent of a tire wall.

“I think I broke the internet,” he said, voice soft.

Felicity glanced up. “You didn’t break it.”

He dropped into the seat beside her. “I dented it. At least.”

“You made the internet cry,” she amended. “That’s different.”

Oscar passed her his phone. “Look at this one.”

She took it. Read. Smiled.

@/softpitstops: "she calls him 'papa' 😭 this is the most soft-launch hard-launch I’ve ever witnessed"

She handed the phone back with a snort. “It was a bit of a hard launch.”

“I mentioned telemetry and mochi,” Oscar said solemnly. “I feel like that softened it.”

They sat in silence for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle. It had all happened so fast—the decision, the post, the explosion of reactions that followed. It was trending. Bee was trending. There were memes. Fan art. 

Felicity leaned into him, her head finding the crook of his shoulder.

“How do you feel?” she asked quietly.

He was quiet for a moment.

Then: “Relieved.”

Felicity glanced up at him.

“I didn’t realize how much it weighed on me,” Oscar said. “Not because we were hiding her. Just… because we weren’t letting anyone see what mattered most.”

Felicity rested her head on his shoulder. “You did what you had to. You protected her. You protected us.”

“I still will,” he murmured. “Even now. Even with the whole world watching.”

“They’re watching,” she said, “but they don’t know her. Not really. She’s still ours. She still gets to be a kid.”

He nodded, quiet again.

Then: “Your post was better than mine.”

Felicity grinned. “Obviously.”

“The ‘best thing I’ve ever helped create’ line? Are you trying to make the entire grid cry?”

“It was accurate,” Felicity said simply. 

And it was. 

Oscar kissed her temple, then her cheek, then her jaw. He lingered, letting the quiet speak for him.“Do you think it’ll get harder from here?”

Felicity didn’t answer right away.

“I think people will ask questions. And speculate. And maybe try to push.” She met his gaze. “But I also think we’ve built something strong enough to hold steady.”

***

[moonyvvamp]

been thinking a lot about Rumi being quirky because of the demon dna and highkey feel like she does adorable shit because of it.

Like we know the demon teeth thing and all that but she probably has that trademark autistic ass smile, and looks like toothless trying to imitate hiccup a lot. Jinu probably got practice looking hot but Rumi's been learning on the go, homegirl doesn't know how to smile, she has to take classes.

Whenever the girls need something found, she finds it because she can track their scent using enhanced senses, she uses heavy duty headphones because her ears are really sensitive.

Accidentally breaks things a lot, whenever they need a jar opened or anything Rumi opens it for them. But when Zoey or Mira make something for her she's extra careful about her superhuman strength.

she also appears out of nowhere a lot, jumpscare queen alert, no one can win in hide and seek against her. Their haunted house bits go hard because half the time Zoey is screaming with Mira trying to calm her down because something touched her and it's just Rumi on stealth mode

Rumi can't go to a lot action movies because the stimuli sends her demon genes into overdrive and she just starts seeing everything in 4D and it gives her headaches. With fancy stages it's cool because she knows the elements that go into it, she's focusing on the honmoon and she has her inear to guide her. But what is she supposed to do in a stuffy movie theater in the dark? she kind of freaks out because she can't focus enough to tell the difference between demons and humans there and the girls have to escort her home.

She probably also whispers in their ears a lot. Mira and Zoey are just sitting and here comes Rumi out of nowhere blowing air into their ears and whispering " Let's finish a tub of ice cream " Like a very adorable devil.

And considering the fact that demons are all literally starving and most of their soul portions goes to gwi-ma some part of her is also hardwired to fight tooth and nail for food, especially when she's really hungry. She instinctively pulls bowls closer and stares unnervingly when the girls reach for it and they have to verbally assure her that she can finish it.

On the inverse I think she also gets very protective, like someone talks shit about the girls and Rumi's there with a scary glint in her eyes going " Take it back or else " She isn't sure about the else yet but she looks terrifying enough that they do take it back and beg for forgiveness.

And this is just plain adorable but I love how they confirmed that Rumi is the type to puff out her chest and stand there like a kindergartener who just managed to colour inside the lines. She probably does that a lot too.

[syluses]

HEART WANTS WHAT IT WANTS

𓍯𓂃 PART THREE (3) of the stepdad! sylus x reader series

(3) LOVE ON THE BRAIN

𓍯𓂃 CONTENT: stepdad! sylus therefore step/pseudocest, eventual smut, nsfw, dubcon, slowburn, yandere undertones, all characters are 18+ (mc is presently 23; sylus is in early forties), possessive & yandere behaviors, age difference, daddy kink, unreliable narrator, drinking, non-evol au, modern au, lowkey enemies to lovers, lots of (sexual) tension, loss of virginity, emotional breakdowns, some angst, some fluff, a lil bit of everything; tags will be added as story progresses— but know the story is relatively triggering

𓍯𓂃 SIDENOTE: hi guys sorry for the wait :,) this one’s a lil bit of a slower chapter imo but it’s still super important to the story. the next part or two might also be a lil ‘slow’ by some definition, but it’ll build onto itself do not fear. shoutout to the anon who gave me that song rec btw bc i was listening to it throughout writing this chapter 🫰 amazing taste. anyway without further ado.…. please enjoy :,) ALSO thank u sm for the support thus far!! i’m so happy yall seem to be liking it!! 🥹 if there’s any typos no there ain’t; i might come back to edit a lil later :,) [art credit: @/chimmyming on twitter/X]

He comes like a flashbang into your life.

And to preface this: you get it, alright? that your mother misses your late father, she’s not doing half as well as she used to be and she technically can be considered single, open for the dating market. This is a trying time for you both. God as your witness, you’ve been slipping down the slope while she’s been putting her nose to the grindstone; there’s no shortage of struggle for you both since your dad died- but finally, it’s settling in for her.

The loneliness.

The need for something- someone- more.

And you somewhat bitterly suppose you just don’t qualify, do you?

It was an inevitable thing.

Away from the metaphorical sand you buried your head in, deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time before a new man walked into her life- some actually half-decent, upstanding suitor- and flipped your world off its feet.

It wasn’t a maybe. Not a what if, either.

It was a when.

…Call it naivety on your end or just sheer stupidity, though, your sixteen-year-old brain having a lapse in judgement, but for whatever reason, you didn’t think that when would come.

You prayed against it. Childish or not, whether it can be considered a secret little attempt to sabotage your mother’s possible, budding relationships you had no proof of but suspected all the same (you recognize her perfume; not the rich cologne lingering on her blouse when she finally comes back from work)- you’d hoped she’d keep off from it, anyway.

From, you know,…

The whole ‘falling in love’ thing…

You’re not so deluded to believe it’s infidelity, her quietly seeking out another man outside of your father whole years after he’s passed (anyhow, you’re sure the legal side of it, the paperwork, doesn’t hold up the same), but that doesn’t ease the blow that is the idea of it.

Sure. He’s gone. That much is clear to you…The days pass- weeks, two years- and it’s almost like your life has reached a stopover, waiting for him to come back. I mean, sometimes, it’s almost like he was never even there.

…But at night, when darkness comes with its unbroken silence, you lie there and your heart thinks of him. Wherever you remember him, it hurts.

And yeah, maybe your mother seems growingly eager to leave your father behind… to truly make him a thing of the past even in memory- the final thing you have left of him. But you’re not so chummy with the silent suggestion of joining her there.

You don’t want that ‘when’ to come. Desperately, you don’t.

Oh, but it does.

Out of the blue like a comet from the sky, blindsiding you.

Swinging through the door, chuckling at something she’s said over her shoulder, you think, but the amusement on his face is almost too bare, too shadowed, to tell from where you sit.

You jolt in your chair.

The microwave, droning on, beeps, signaling your frozen dinner’s finally thawed out. But while it draws the attention of your drunken mother- otherwise distracted by the stranger she leads inside your little apartment- your growling stomach becomes the furthest thing from your mind in the moment.

Apparently, the stranger— tall, broad-shouldered, all suave with his sidepart and tailored leather jacket draped behind him like a cape— couldn’t care less for what’s cooking, either.

He doesn’t take his shoes off.

For that, you’re grateful, observing him with a reasonable sum of doubt as he lingers by the entry: It means he doesn’t have plans to stay long.

Which is good, because if he did, you think with a morsel of unease, your brow slowly creasing, you might’ve had to consider grabbing the broom and brushing him out.

The con is that he does wipe them off on the mat, though. Evidently, he plans to step deeper in.

His eyes, a ruby red, sharp as a hawk tracking prey, find yours from where you sit at the table, caught unawares as you scramble to hide your bare legs under your shirt, and he raises a subtle, curious brow at the observation.

“Oh,” he cocks his head, the front door- your front door- clicking behind him as he swiftly fixes his slight surprise into a cool, inscrutable mask.

“What a surprise. Your daughter, I presume?”

Distantly, in your head, a warning bell chimes.

…O-Or maybe it’s just the microwave, but—

Your mom turns it off, “Oh, honey,” in lieu of a greeting, she says, giggling as she walks over and sets her purse down on the tiny, round table you sit at.

Her work blouse is at least intact: you’ll give her that much. But her shift ended four hours ago and by the looks of it, she’s forgotten that promise to stop by the store on her way home- clearly occupied with something else- and in any case, you can’t really say the same for the stranger…

Dapper as he is— what with his perfect posture and urban get-up, the image of dashingly handsome, debonair, imposing (yet somehow just a touch weathered, too, however that may fit)- just to list a few traits off the bat— his top buttons are undone.

His hair, a natural silver all the way through, is almost imperceptibly disheveled. And maybe those things could be reasoned for or go unnoticed- to the untrained eye, they would- but you’re a little too paranoid, on alert as this asshole saunters into your house like it’s his, to miss the outlying factors.

The most damning of them all:

The wine-red smear of lipstick on his neck, only half concealed by his collar.

Your heart shudders in your chest.

And this is scary, this is nerve-wracking, yes, suddenly being force-fed the reason behind all the late nights your mother spent out, the whiffs of man on her clothes and the inexplicably giddy mood she’s been in lately- oh, it’s a million negative adjectives all packed in one- but when he strides forward, confident like you wouldn’t believe, and extends a hand for you to shake-?

You wonder if it’s fury, rising above anything else, that broils in your gut and makes accepting it an all but impossible task.

“Sylus,” he purrs as introduction.

And to be honest, that’s what this feels like in the most grandiose, pervasive of ways: the bad guy being introduced.

It’s true that you caught fragments of him: the vestigial notes of bergamot and vanilla that follow after your mother like some ghostly haunting; the odd lifts in her mood as of late; the phonecalls she gets at night that she always dismisses, but not without a thick swallow and a darting look your way before letting it ring— hell, you’ve even heard whispers within her friend circle of some dishy man dropping by her work building, nonchalant with a bouquet of flowers in tow—

Actually being face-to-face with him, literal inches apart, is freshly alarming.

Meeting him is something cinematic and new. Like a chord in the soundtrack dips; a note lowering to introduce the villain as one of the keys shake.

And perhaps comparing the scene, this man, to a movie isn’t so bad a coping mechanism, because yes, as the surround-sound kicks in and he’s all you can hear- that rich voice of velvet and bass to boot- the room going dark as you tunnel in on him before you— it feels like none of it is even real.

The kitchen blurs. The tiles on the wall smearing into one another, fuzzing together in a way that doesn’t resemble the home you know.

Bergamot, subtle but carrying a little bit of a punch, floods your system and inundates you. Vanilla lays the base for it, as sweet-smelling as nectar.

It settles in your lungs like congestion.

Truffle wrap. Marble and stone. The banister: meant to be sturdy.

It is.

He must be within the same age pool as your mom, yet when his penetrating stare briefly shifts over to her (if you didn’t know any better, amused at your reluctance to accept him)- and he grins that damned grin— he looks young again.

You’re actually almost fooled into believing he’s a gentleman.

There’s nothing… inherently wrong with him, you suppose. But none of that, him seeming apparently decent, matters- not when you’d already decided you’d stay loyal to your dad no matter what. N-Not when-

Not when something is wailing in your subconscious, parting cars in its path. Like a siren in the night shaking you awake to tell you something is terribly, terribly wrong. A wildfire. A disaster.

You quietly wonder if being in places he doesn’t belong gives him a confidence boost, or if he’s just impossibly tone deaf to the environment as it whispers in his ear, ‘you shouldn’t be here.’

All the while, something- mystical in nature, almost, like an angel or devil on your shoulder (it could be either)- is whispering to you, too.

Faintly, that voice in your head, deathly-quiet, says stop. Stop this. Nip it in the bud before it—

This is overwhelming. All of it.

You’re mortified and unsure of yourself; a mite betrayed, even, as you toss a cursory glance to your mom who watches on with a look of both expectance and worry, chewing away at her bottom lip.

It’s a little humorous, the faint concern made ten times more obvious in her half drunken state, as she puts herself on standby.

You can’t help but wonder what face you’re making now. If it’s one of shock, anger, or fear. Or an ugly amalgamation of the three— that’s possible, too.

Truthfully, you’re just as hard pressed to distinguish what you’re feeling: unsure of your next reaction. If anything, you might appreciate if she chooses to step forward and help you figure out just what the hell is happening, whether that means by extraction or a gentle hand on your shoulder to help steady you as he tells you his name.

Two minutes ago, you were waiting for your frozen dinner to thaw (really just a block of something half edible, but with the milk gone, you can’t make your routine cereal), thinking you were in the clear to lounge around with panties and a baggy shirt with your mother out God knows where. Now, you’re looking dead-on at what is perhaps your worst nightmare as the kitchen, not so comfortable anymore, fizzles to nothingness around you.

From this close, he’s… Leonine, that’s a pretty good word for him. As elegant and cocksure, relaxed, as a king of nature.

He doesn’t worry about what he will eat tomorrow: his sheer presence is dominating enough to have it served on a silver platter for him. Something about him just tells you so.

But he’s… beautiful in a way, too, you’ll concede that much (and only that much). Said with the best of intents, he reminds you of some prized thing from an antique shop, lacquered and pretty but weathered all the same.

You can’t imagine all the zeroes on his price tag, but he’s definitely an expensive thing. Part of you wonders what the hell he’s doing with your mother: you don’t come from wealth, so if he has any desire to romance her, it’s not for material gain.

…An admittedly endearing revelation. But it doesn’t quite placate you.

You can see the slight scruff of his chin, the faint wrinkles settling into his angular features. The harsh fluorescence of your kitchen isn’t the most flattering of lights, but he fairs surprisingly well under it regardless.

It’s obvious he takes good care of himself. And it’s also clear to you that he knows his worth- but considering the air of snugness around him, and your flowering dislike for him, you can’t help but wonder if he overestimates it.

The guy is a complete fucking stranger. You know him about as far as you can throw him.

A few beats of silence pass on. Each more unbearable than the last as you wordlessly drink the stranger in, his brow lifting with what you can only assume to be the stirrings of a challenge as he waits for you to take his much larger hand in yours.

Your uncertain gaze- made wide at the unwanted suddenness of it all- flits down to that hand. Despite the many jewels and glittering things that adorn his long, svelte fingers, though, there’s a lack of a wedding ring.

You allow yourself to deflate just a tiny bit at the observation.

It’s good to know he doesn’t have a wife and kids waiting at home for him, you sarcastically guess, while your mom guns for him as they sit unawares.

Still. You don’t know this man. You don’t- you don’t know what he’s doing with your mother (but don’t you?).

And he’s…

Perhaps draconian, actually, is the best descriptor.

Parting your lips in a silent breath, trying and failing to provide a simple hello to the guest or your nervous mother to the side, spectating it all, you’re at a bit of a loss for words when your subconscious realizes it’s presented with the quiet comparison of an animal or a devil for the guy— and no in between.

Sweetie, hey- Are… Are you able to talk? It’s… Important.

I… have some news. Not the good kind. Find somewhere to sit down and breathe.

…Breathe, you remind yourself. Yes. Just…

Just breathe.

Yet, his cologne- that citrusy spritz he wears like a coat, a smell you’re so unexplainably sensitive to for some reason, with its treacly vanilla undertones- is all you can breathe.

“Honey,” a thin, yet encouraging voice, your mom’s, calls out, and then her hand does settle on your shoulder as she sidles up to your chair hesitantly. “Say hi to him?”

You blink, lashes fluttering.

…And his stupid hand is still there, outstretched and waiting.

✦

You’ll give him credit for this:

Sylus, at the first opportunity to ditch his bratty, seething stepdaughter after his wife- his only real obligation to her- passes— doesn’t take it.

He had every chance to kick you to the curb now that your mother’s out of the picture. And to be honest, he has every reason, every right, to give you the boot. You’ve only been a complete bitch to him for the last seven years you’ve known him. Not to the point of ball-breaking, not quite, you were only a teenager after all, but it wasn’t extremely far off from that either.

Sylus, by his own volition, stays.

Moreover, he invites you into his home. And yes, you know it’s technically yours, too, but the circumstances of your filling out the rest of your youth under his roof weren’t the prettiest, and you weren’t the most… pleasant of persons to be around. Let alone live with.

Yet every stolen, curious glance he takes of you and the gentle, half smirks in passing- brushing your shoulder like it’s the most casual thing ever, like you never left- is a reminder in its own that this is your place, too. Whether you believe it or not is irrelevant.

If your stepfather’s aim is to reassure you, it’s working.

Slowly but surely.

Four days into the visit, you let go of much of your resistance and let yourself simply… breathe.

The past is the past, and, capable of rational thought, you’d do well to leave it behind. Let bygones be bygones and forgive both yourself and the people around you for former hurts of former times.

It’s called maturing, you quietly decide at the door one early morning, having been all but hauled out of bed, bidding the twins adieu as they hover at the porch.

This little resolve you let bud in your heart and grow is what compels you to wrap your arms around them when they hug you, embracing them back as Kieran mopes in your ear and Luke reminds it’s only for a few days.

It’s not as much to comfort you as it is to comfort himself and his brother.

You’re well aware of this, but keep quiet on the matter; you’re too sleepy to be in the mood to tease him for it, but mentally pocket it for a later time anyway.

Occupying any sort of space with the twins guarantees that you’ll need a decent deck of comebacks on standby. You’ve been adding to yours.

This short business trip of theirs isn’t some long, drawn-out pilgrimage taken to distant lands, despite their theatrics- it’s not even obligatory- but you know very well how eager the boys are to please their father, and if working a few days at one of the subsidiary companies to better the career he gave them will make him preen, then they’ll do it. Gladly.

You wouldn’t call either of them homebodies, per se… but wherever their father is, so is their heart. It’s only natural they’d want to make him proud. You know that.

You understand why they’re going, you do…

It’s just…

Over Luke’s shoulder, your eyes meet Sylus’s only briefly, but a second is all you need to read his emotions.

Propped against the threshold with folded arms and a spark of amusement that’s only slightly obvious, he watches them sandwich you in a big hug.

If it hasn’t been made clear yet— yes, they’ll miss you.

“Oh, so dramatic,” their father comments, not with any shortage of entertainment. You think if he could, he would’ve prepared a bowl of popcorn for this- but while he’s certainly tickled by the sight, there’s something else in his stare as he divvies it between you three, gathered in a tangle of arms and suitcases, that he won’t admit aloud.

Pride, maybe…?

Satisfaction?

Or… Content. That’s the closest word.

You hope Sylus doesn’t see the slight fluster left on you by his flippant remark. Untucking your chin from one of the boys’ shoulders as you stand upright and pat their backs respectively.

“A-Alright, boys, that’s enough.”

“Say it back,” Luke chirps, “say you’ll miss us!”

Sighing, you roll your eyes. “I just said I did-“

“But do it louder! We’ll be gone for three whole days!”

“Yeah! Don’t you love us, sis?! Will you really just stand there unaffected as we turn our backs and go?”

If unaffected means arms crossed, shivering in freezing temperatures with the faintest of frowns on your face, some inner piece of you experiencing a quiet, unanticipated ache at their departure, then yes- by all means, you’re unaffected.

You purse your lips, snipping back with only half the bite, “If you keep pushing it, I’ll email the firm specifically and tell them to keep you dummies there for longer.”

A deep, languid chuckle answers back; like a slowed song with reverb, it hits differently.

Considering your newfound efforts to squash the beef between you both- even if it was only one-sided- you don’t ignore him out of bitterness, but the slight unease is still something you can’t quite shake, so you momentarily survey the porch below (anything but him, stood somewhere behind you), and sniff.

I mean, it’s reasonable to be a little awkward, isn’t it…? You’ve spent all your adult years clinging onto the straws of a grudge your teenage self kept for him- and back then, you were only fiercer, more vocal, in your stance taken against your new stepfamily.

So yeah, while it’s safe to say the worst of that metaphorical storm has blown over, the debris is still absolutely there: the ruined bits you have to cautiously step across and just- try to overlook.

Too low for anyone to hear, you softly sigh.

Just as you determined to make peace with him, though, you tranquilly think to yourself, you’ll too learn how to navigate the aftermath of that silently-signed treaty.

Of course, that awkward feeling in the air, not powerful enough to take precedence in your mind, but niggling all the same, is only temporary.

Two weeks.

“Geez, sis,” Kieran snickers, Luke grinning ear to ear at your other side, the duo forming a flank, “someone woke up on the wrong side of bed, huh?”

“You’ll be late, you two,” a lilting voice from behind chimes in, effectively putting an end to the antics.

You don’t bother looking behind, but the twins’ focus shifts over your head before they slump their backs and sigh, conceding.

Hmph. Theatrical as always.

“Yeah, yeah, we got it, dad! We’re going!”

Rewrapping your robe, you offer a longanimous exhale when Kieran’s lanky arm unfurls from you, the boys finally stepping away for the car. The thin cotton does little to ward off the December cold, its roots digging bone-deep within seconds of lingering on the porch, and underneath it, your tanktop and panties offer not an iota of warmth, either- but you weren’t about to wave them goodbye half-naked, so the robe does its part to cover you.

Within a few minutes, you’ll be curled up in your bed anyway, allowed to revisit the sleep you’d been so rudely pulled from.

Piling into the car, they holler to you, and with a smile you can’t quite fight off, you shake your head at them all the while.

The engine grumbles to life. The idiots they are, they give it a few gratuitous revs (to impress you? God only knows their end goal) and then the gate is opening for them as they peel off.

Dummies.

And then it’s just you and him.

You and Sylus.

You and… your stepfather.

A hand, broad and big but warm- oh so reluctant- places itself on your shoulder, circling the blade reassuringly with its thumb. To your immense surprise, you manage to keep from flinching beneath it, but just barely.

Still. If that’s not progress, you don’t know what is.

With an only somewhat visible shiver, you turn around and face him as he shifts sideways to the door, his chin trained your way as he offers a slight, deliberate smirk. Something like encouragement is used as its subtext.

His hand leaves as quickly as it came, slipping away. Its imprint of warmth slowly fades, too.

He opens the door wide, gesturing with a nonchalant little nod, “Ready to go in?” In flannel pajamas, bare foot, he doesn’t even shiver.

Vacillating, you spare one last look behind you, out to the courtyard with its sprawling, greyed lawn and erected fences, and watch the stillness. It’s a sight worthy of your admiration.

A flurry— the first of the season— begins to fall.

You breathe out. A cloud of white whisks from your lips and blends into nothingness. It’s pretty in the way that it doesn’t last for long.

And it’s freezing but it’s… strange. How this one cold winter develops this way of thawing you out.

Returning to the man in front of you, waiting patiently, you nod, dipping your head on the way past him. Bundling yourself tighter. “Yeah.”

✦

Not long after midday, you’re a fraction through one of your new books- but you decide to put it down.

It’s for a couple different reasons. One of them being that it’s not gotten good yet- the plot moving at a snail’s speed, the protagonist not interesting enough to even remember the name of- and you figure the chapter you’re closing out on now is a good breaking point. The main one, though, is that you’re awfully bored and this house, despite holding not the best of memories, has lots to offer.

When it comes to fun— exploring its labyrinthine rooms, utilizing its many services and amenities (like a personal chef, for instance, or a home theater and gym)— there’s no shortage of things to do.

It’s just with an ounce of unease that you realize those fun opportunities, however, are only half the appeal without the twins.

Annoying, troublesome, experts at exaggeration and being thorns in your side— yes, they’re all of that and then some. But if we’re listing all their shining traits right now, then for the record, ‘fun’ must be one of them.

And yeah, okay, their absence is starting to kick in just a little bit. But it’s not a big deal. I mean, what’s it matter if they’re gone for a few days? You’ll blink and it’ll be over.

They’ll be back. You’ll greet them at the door after they veer into the driveway, waiting there just as you did when waving them goodbye, and Sylus will be chuckling behind you in that rich, unruffled way he does as they herd you inside and divulge their journey.

Heaving a sigh, you toss your book aside on the dormer window and relocate to your bed.

You belly flop on it before rolling on your back to stare at the ceiling.

For only a moment, you close your eyes and let yourself be barraged by the thoughts you’d been blocking out; the unique responsibilities and aches.

You intake an unsteady, deep breath and attempt to manage them all one at a time— but they don’t stand in single-file, eager to attack you from every angle all at once.

The dress for the funeral…

Looking through your mother’s old things…

And then everything that comes afterward of that, too. Whatever that might entail.

As ambivalent as the future may seem, an abstract thing veiled behind fog and uncertainty, you ruefully suppose not wanting it to come won’t stop it from doing just that.

And then of course, there’s the whole booking your flight thing… leaving this place for, if you’re being realistic, probably the last fucking time and then—

Have you even asked Sylus who’s giving the eulogy?

“No,” you mumble before rolling on your stomach again, legs and arms splayed on the bed like a starfish.

God help you. Half of you is expecting for the twins, just as irksome as they are entertaining, to come bursting through your door at any moment and save you from the woes of having nothing to do. To be fair, sitting around and doing absolutely nothing is better than some things- like work, namely (you don’t want to imagine the stack of papers that’s building on your desk during your leave)- but as you quietly ponder the week and a half ahead, you start to worry it’ll be uneventful from start to finish.

Well, as uneventful that a trip begotten by a funeral can be, anyway.

Maybe it’s being wishful- sickeningly optimistic in a situation with no one silver lining- but you’d like to hope you can at least squeeze out some enjoyment during your stay.

As sheepish as you are to admit it, the twins were a staple in that halfbaked idea.

But now they’re gone. For three days. And God only knows why it was so simple a decision for them to make, leaving you behind when right now, realistically speaking, your little screwed up family should be huddling together now more than ever, but—

(‘Why was it simple?’ Well, why do you think…? Because you’ve been so coldly pushing them away and they finally took the hint and-)

You get up and leave your room, traipsing down the hallway. You can’t find it in you to care, right now, about who you might bump into while the house is left to two people and a whole lot of ice.

Sylus is probably in his study, anyway. Assuming he even is in the home right now, but with the long laundry list of errands and contractual deals that require his flowery, hasty signature to be secured, you doubt he spends too much of his time here on weekdays.

As you walk through the stretching halls, you trace the walls with a finger, bored.

You’re stopped in your tracks by a picture- just one of the many lavish decorations- and tilt your head up to stare at it in its entirety.

It’s a big thing; a large, elaborate wooden frame without dust.

Five portraits stare back at you. But you- squished between the cheerful twins, stood before your mother and stepfather who join in a kiss behind your head, smiling lips smushed together as he holds back her veil- don’t don the same delighted expression.

Maybe it’s immature of you, but as the lingering, subtle whisps of something citrusy waft by, you do offer a slight huff of amusement at the image. It’s just so comically awful, nailed to the wall in a frame so stupidly opulent it’s like some boast against poor people— a should-be perfect wedding photo marred by the bitterness oozing off the stepdaughter.

Alright, to be fair, you’re not outright scowling or anything, but the smile you plaster on is so clearly fake it’s hard not to laugh at it—

“She looked like you, you know.”

You must jump five feet into the air.

He adds, raising one wryly amused brow, “Somewhat.”

Startled, you turn to find him staring not at the picture he presumably references- but you.

Your brow furrows slightly, and then he does glance over to the frame as you hover your hand over your heart, clutching your invisible pearls in a moment of deja vu.

A soft sigh. Is this how you’ll be seeing him now…? Every time you happen to bump into your stepfather- evidently not the best at evading him- does it mean you’ll be caught off guard as he stands there, unbothered, before apologizing?

Except, this time he doesn’t. He’s content pretending not to notice your shudder- your fear of him. Ruby-red hues drifting off as his jaw imperceptibly tightens.

Murmuring under his breath as he surveys the illustration almost quizzically, “But wasn’t… quite you.”

Ah, right- the wedding photo. Your mother. You resemble her— That’s what he’s getting at here.

“Y-Yeah…” You mumble back. You don’t have much to offer him, but it’s better than ignoring him: the thing you recently decided you wouldn’t be doing on this trip.

Slowly, you close your mouth. You do a quick once-over of him, and then look back towards the hanging memory.

There’s a certain silence that occurs between you both, then. Simultaneous to it- is a weight dropping in your heart, slowly descending the longer you reminisce on the familiar woman’s profile.

Not only has the stepdaughter’s scornful face been immortalized, but so has your dead mother’s.

It’s in a moment of weakness, perhaps, that you reach out to trail her jaw, pondering the past as it sweeps you up in its nostalgic current.

Your mind is less focused on acting cool and indifferent in front of your stepfather and more on the parent that has been ripped away from you- now stood before you in an intricate frame along a dark wall. So maybe later you might regret showing your belly to him, but right now, you really can’t find it in you to care.

You told yourself the past is the past.

Now, all there’s left to do is commit.

“She looked… so happy,” you’re surprised to realize the voice filling your ears is your own, gravelly from disuse, barely audible. Part of you debates feeling embarrassed, but quickly erases the idea because you don’t think your stepfather would have any real intent to ridicule you, least of all right now.

Your younger self has always been fairly good at believing everyone around you is a sworn enemy, out to get you behind your back, but your stepfather is…

Family, a little voice in the back of your head supplies. And you’re puzzled at the lack of backlash it receives this time around.

You start to wonder if he’s heard, the quiet sprawling for just a touch too long, self-consciousness a breath away as something, his attention, you think, bores into the back of your head, but then he hums and you’re at ease again.

“She was so happy,” he agrees. “We both were.”

Sylus, from the corner of his eye, watches.

Some gear turns in the very back of your skull and begs to ask the question of just what he’s doing here right now; the master bedroom- now his alone, you realize with an unbidden squeeze of your heart- is on the other wing of the house. During the daytime, he’s typically downstairs, anyway.

But you suppose that’s besides the point.

Your eyes flutter down, and then your hand follows. Ghosting along the photo in one sweeping motion before you turn just halfway to face him.

You’re making headway on squashing your beef with him, oh definitely, but there’s a sort of intimacy that comes with standing front-to-front, and right now, you think that’d be overwhelming and weird for the both of you.

He’s not… used to you being exactly nice to him, anyway, or open. Or agreeable. Or- or anything, really. For your teen years, you erected a wall in between you both and actively refused to let anyone scale it— and after you moved out, you weren’t so hellbent on keeping him away, sure, not half as immature and bratty as you had been, but the distance was absolutely still there. Just quieter.

No longer screamed, but rather implied.

For a while, you’d even wondered if he’d agreed upon it. If he threw in the metaphorical towel on building a relationship with you; defeated and exasperated. But you guess he’s a multimillionaire for a reason— it requires dogged ambition- drive- to reach those heights, after all— and you’ve sometimes wondered if meeting Sylus was like an immovable object going head to head with an unstoppable force.

For your part, you’re not so used to this, either. Kind of giving into this… paternal subtext to your nonexistent connection.

It’s odd. New, as it creeps in on you, slowly dialing up the temperature. Though the way it plants its seed is too gradual to make you want to dig it out from the dirt right away.

It’s a foreign thing, yes— when your eyes meet his, an inscrutable, glittering red, and a ribbon of warmth unfurls in your aching chest as you quietly realize he’s there for you, that in this tragedy, you’re not alone— but it’s not… bad, per se.

Not like you’d always imagined it’d be, anyway.

I mean, back then you didn’t even want to imagine it, but now—

Two weeks, your nagging subconscious reminds, and then you’ll be gone. Your… family (the pest-like, ever plotting twins; Sylus, even, the persistent but gentle stepfather you’d kept on hold indefinitely) will become just a speck in the distance as it grows behind you. And then….

And then you’ll be alone. And that was what you wanted, wasn’t it?

But maybe if you had just- not been so fucking stubborn and bent on making a point to your mother, if you had just visited a little more, then maybe by some stretch of inagination you could’ve done something to-

Your soul sinks in your chest. The feeling of regret, terrible and distinct, rips you a new one as you try not to wilt in the silence. But Sylus’s eyes are warm, softening into a pass of concern as he drops his folded arms.

Business-oriented, arrogant, competitive, bound and determined. You and the world have seen each of those facets of him, but the gentler side is one that the latter doesn’t own access to.

When Sylus’s fingers twitch, his arm nearly reaching out to you as he visibly vacillates, you feel a strange flash of endearment towards him.

Your mother saw this side of him all the time, you inwardly consider. Because that’s who he reserved it most for.

Sylus assigned things to one of two categories: his family, and then everything else.

And you- you infuriating, lovely little dragon of a daughter- fell to the former.

There’s all kinds of uncertainty swirling in his eyes, but he settles for a soft clear of his throat, looking you over. The gloss in your stare, the one that hangs over your lashes and refuses to fall as if permanently suspended there, makes him open his mouth, but before he can say anything, you undercut his words.

“What are you doing here?”

You ask. Not in a demanding way: you’re just eager to distract you both from your impending waterworks.

You wonder if he knows; what’s running through his head as you stand there and fidget with the hem of your shirt, rapidly blinking to keep the tears at bay. You don’t remember giving them permission to come, but here they are, knocking.

His brow raises by the faintest tick, and then he smiles an easy, slight smile. Dipping his hands in his pockets to rest.

“The twins forgot something on their journey, it seems. They texted me to grab it for them. So,” he says, giving a loose shrug with one shoulder, looking down the hallway past you, tone as mocking yet sincere as ever, “Here I am, letting myself be treated like some poor… errand boy.”

“Oh.”

Poor is… certainly not the word you’d select for him, but…

He finishes, eyes catching yours in a second of boldness, “I’ll mail it out to the firm. They’ll receive it no later than this evening.”

You give a small nod, looking down to his chest because it offers a convenient escape to his penetrating, sharp stare, and frankly, if you’re getting emotional at some old picture on the wall- then you need the respite.

You rub your forearm, “Well, I’ll just be going now.”

“Where to?” A tiny twitch of his lip tells you he spoke too soon. His chest swells out. Your eyes jump to his.

“If you need a car, you can use any of the ones in the garage,” he remedies. You blanche. “Just point, and I’ll give you the keys-“

“Oh, no, no, no,” you chuckle suddenly, shaking your head. Sylus pauses, quirking one brow as he tilts his chin by a fraction, interest and maybe even a little bit of mirth reshaping his face at your change in demeanor.

“I didn’t mean I was going out,” you quickly add, “Realistically, I probably would’ve just went downstairs and ate something... Or brought a snack out to the sunroom.”

He frowns. “The sunroom might be a bit cold, though.”

“I know. I- I just wanna see how it looks after all this time.”

To your surprise, Sylus lets out a smooth, somewhat short chuckle. At your confusion, he elaborates, “This place is still the same, Kitten,” he chides in a harmless, rather loving tone, “All that’s different is that you’re here.”

…And that this time around, your mother isn’t.

Yet Sylus, as if clueless to the glaring elephant in the room, smirks and doesn’t mention it. And truthfully, you’re grateful for that. Just- you have your questions, those little segments of his short account over the phone that you want to pick apart and scrutinize- but all of that is for later. An indefinite later... Right now is too soon.

You’re hardly keeping your feelings in check as is: you don’t need to pile further revelations of your mother’s death onto the plate. In any case, as much as a gritty, inward part of you would like to know every scrap of information possible- at the end of the day, it’d be unnecessary.

Your mother died the way she did. And all attempts or methods of probing for more context, you fear, would only do more harm than good.

“I guess it still feels the same,” you mumble out an agreement, peering down the corridor towards the stairs, his figure standing tall and unruffled to your side. “All the decorations are the same.”

“Exactly,” he hums, “and the sunroom is no different. You wouldn’t want to… catch a cold on your vacation, would you?”

Vacation is a funny word for it, but you won’t shoot him for being optimistic. You’d honestly benefit from following his example.

You snort softly, sheepishly looking down, “I won’t catch a cold. It can’t be that bad. Besides,” you lift your chin, meeting his gaze- wholly transfixed on you, a glimmering, fascinated red- “Back at my apartment, the AC and heating is usually broken, so… I’m used to arctic temperatures.”

You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh at it. In fact, his lighthearted smirk ebbs into a thin line as he parts his mouth and furrows his brow at you. Your breath hitches slightly.

The tears that had been beading at your eyes are gone, but now a sense of uncertainty replaces them in your chest.

He unstuffs his hands from either of his pockets. “That’s nothing to brag about,” he croaks.

Your lashes flutter, ears perking under his uneven timber. You… don’t often hear that voice come from him.

He swiftly recorrects himself, saying in a lighter but just as firm tone, “You should take care of yourself. Have you… been well, by the way? How is it back at your old place?” Sylus lowly ventures, before one half of his mouth quirks up playfully.

He leans his back against the wall, localizing his attention fully to you. Not paying the smallest of glances to the large, idyllic photo you stand in front of.

“I wonder,” he starts, “What a day in the life looks like in your shoes.”

A beat of silence passes. In that time, you realize it’s not just a spoken fragment of his thoughts, but a question. You answer accordingly.

Not without a look down the hall, though, silently wishing to exit the conversation as it begins to drag on.

The sunroom, for as cold as it’s advertised, sounds better and better.

You don’t quite laugh, but by some standard it might be considered one. “Well, it’s not really anything interesting. Obviously, it’s not as glamorous as like, you guys here,” you say, “but I’m fine where I am.”

Physically, fine. Although, the level of content you hold inwardly is a bit of a different story.

You’ll keep that on its shelf. Right now, it’s better where it is: in the dark; in the quiet.

Safe with you.

Sylus simply says, “You… shouldn’t settle for less,” impossibly careful with his choice of words, albeit you don’t fully know why.

“I-I’m not,” you jump to justify. You have a growing inkling that this conversation is going nowhere, and you don’t exactly like small talk, so you aim to wrap this up.

“I work hard at my job, but-“

But what? you still don’t wanna die in a cubicle during your mundane 9-5 job? Hmph. Yeah, get in line behind literally everyone else.

Not everybody has the same luxury that Sylus does, though: he���ll die without regrets, knowing he secured riches for his next thousand generations, but you can’t really say the same. That is… assuming you branch off from the Qins and separate yourself from that golden heritage. Which-

You are. You will. These two weeks will either fly by or slug by, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’ll be bidding the boys farewell one last time.

You’ll do the right, reasonable thing, excuse yourself from the metaphorical table that is your stepfamily (who, if you’re being honest, are probably done with you deep down but are too nice- sympathetic in this dark time- to say something), and go back home. To that shitty, cramped apartment with its broken utilities and cracks in the ceiling. To that cubicle; to all the paperwork on your desk amounting to a miniature Tower of Babel.

You’ll go back to the loneliness and uncertainty.

Yet it will just be even colder, then. Knowing that palatial house on the hills, once a backup plan of sorts- a final failsafe if your humble little life you’d been trying to make for yourself collapsed- is no longer an option.

Because the one precious thread tying you to it—

Snapped.

“I work hard at my job,” you try anew, inexplicably having trouble meeting his eyes. “I always strive for better, just- I know how to be content with what I have, you know?”

It’s not meant as a jab towards him, you swear it’s not, albeit your way of going about it could use a little bit of work. Considering you’ve been making all sorts of revolutionary improvements on this trip, though, you don’t think adjusting your tone should be too big of an issue.

At any rate- you’re not about to start this big discussion with your stepfather on career paths and how satisfied you are with yours, though, and that’s where this seems to be headed.

You gesture down the hall with a shoulder and smile if only to be polite.

“But anyway, I think I’ll-“

“You know,” Sylus starts, glancing up to you expectantly, and it’s only right then that you realize he’d been looking at the floor- or, more accurately, your legs- while mulling over something, silent. His words are measured, slow; his hues more obsidian than ruby in the dimly-lit corridor. The vibrant twinkle of scarlet is still there, but a shadow pours over his brow. His slight crow’s feet can be spotted.

He’s pushing forty one now, but it’s strange- how you look at him and don’t notice the age. He’s as virile and manly as ever. In his prime, you’d say.

Silently, you wonder in a breath if all men are like wine in the way that they age, or if your stepfather was a result of a fluke.

I mean, you’re aware that he takes good care of himself. Those boxing sessions he does on the side in the home gym certainly do their part to keep him physically afloat, and his chef only uses ingredients of the highest quality— but still…

It’s not wrong to make the comment that he’s a bit of a genetic jewel.

You remind yourself to tune back into his words, straightening your spine slightly.

Yes, you can acknowledge- in absolutely no weird way, mind you- that your stepfather is an attractive guy. There’s no science to it: he just… is. Your mother certainty knew it; all her gossiping friends, too. You’re not so taken by an old grudge to pretend Sylus’s charm isn’t universal.

“Don’t… take this the wrong way, I don’t mean to be pushy,” he drawls, the image of casual. There’s a wisp of hesitance in his eyes, though. You don’t miss it. “But if you ever want to try your hand at my company,” he leaves the suggestion open-ended, although there’s nothing you need further clarity on.

You laugh nervously, ignoring the inward part of you that perks a little at the offer.

“Ah, no, I… already have a job back at my place. And I think the commute would be a nightmare,” A commute is a bit of an understatement— if you were to hop aboard your stepfather’s panel, you’d actually have to move back out to Linkon or, perhaps more conveniently, just live out of your old bedroom already here.

But for so many reasons, working for Sylus just… isn’t a great idea.

Besides- he’s just being nice to you, anyway. The four of you are in a hard time right now.

You’ve never gotten along well with Sylus, sure, and he’s well-acquainted with your abrasive exterior, but he’s never been half as immature as your younger self in regards to sympathy, so of course he’s trying to make you feel better— you’re his veritable stepdaughter, after all. There’s not many better ways to do that than to offer you an extremely lucrative job that he knows you’ll ultimately decline— meaning he’ll take no loss.

He’s just being polite… Which makes you a smidgen more uncomfortable to acknowledge your bumpy past with him. Here he is with the twins, flying you out and making efforts to comfort you in his own roundabout way after his wife’s died- no doubt dealing with that loss as well- and you’re still trying to fully commit to ‘new beginnings’ and all.

He’s just a man at the end of the day, you realize right then, a pang of guilt fattening your heart. He fell in love with your mother; so much so that he was willing to put up with her insufferable, brat of a child for years on end.

And you were- well, for lack of a better word you were a bitch.

And yeah there’s a million justifications you can make for it, but the point of the matter right now is that you feel bad. You feel like such an intruder, a nuisance, a burden now weighing on his, Luke’s, and Kieran’s shoulders, and-

Sylus shrugs like there’s nothing on them. Glances down to rub his forefinger and thumb together. Dripping nonchalance right from the pores.

“Suit yourself.” He says smoothly, taking your rejection no different than a duck would with water off its wings. “But Sweetie,” he states, eyes clashing with yours as if to add emphasis to whatever he’ll say, “The opportunity will always be up in the air for you. Do you understand?”

Oh, the emphasis is there, alright.

You swallow. “O-Okay.”

“See you, then.”

And then he’s breezing past before you can even clumsily dismiss yourself. Tall and broad and gone.

His heady cologne remains in a subtle draft and then that, too, disappears.

R-Right, you blink, sighing out a big breath you didn’t realize you were holding all along.

The sunroom.

✦

His large hand, extended like an offering, slightly falters when he understands you don’t have a lick of desire to shake it.

Maybe you’re a bit hangry, yes, and you’ll admit that probably does no favors for your current mood as this ridiculous scene unfolds before you- but all these emotions that bud inside you now, flowering no different than weeds, entangling themselves as they expand- are very much valid and real.

You’re still positively pissed and confused and above all, hurt that she’s been going behind your back and flirting around without so much as telling you.

See, of course you had your ideas and creeping little doubts— it was hard not to what with the way her schedule was warping in front of your eyes, how she seemed just a pinch happier than usual, giddy, almost— but being faced with the truth of it all in its real, physical form is a different matter entirely.

And-

And how she could do this to you? after- after what happened with your father?

Well, you just don’t fucking know.

But she’s doing it to you right now, anxiously peering at you from your side, and she’s smiling.

A beat of silence occurs, loud and tedious.

His hand stays out, dangling like a modifier, and it’s like the sumptuous asshole knows you’ll change your mind and backtrack or something: as if that’s all he’s used to, people parting like the Red Sea and bowing for him without question.

…Audacious: you’ll admit that much. But you’ll give him no more credit than that, as kind of backhanded as it is.

Time slows. In reality, no more than two seconds must’ve passed, but as the eyes of your mother drill into your profile both in a mash of expectance and worry, and your heart lodges in your throat, it feels like you’re stuck in a time capsule.

You’ve been standing here too long. This enigmatic, admittedly dashing stranger (Sylus, your mind- seemingly having shut off in the moment to lend your senses full control- helpfully contributes) has been in your home too long and—

Mentally, you scold yourself for visibly balking. You steel yourself against him and school your expression.

This is your house.

He won’t make you feel like an outsider in it.

The silver-haired man, with the scruff on his chin and the punch of whiskey underlining his fancy-shmancy cologne, with his sharp red eyes, drops his hand back to his side and actually laughs at your blatant rejection of him.

“Very hospitable, I see. I like that,” he tosses behind his broad shoulder to your somewhat mortified mother as he, egregiously enough, goes to take his shoes off at the door, a hand in his pocket. “Your kid is as bold as you are, honey.”

Honey?

…Honey?

You grow a mite afraid in that moment, internally struggling to pinpoint just what degree of involvement this awful yet handsome guy has with your mother.

How deep into this little… fling of theirs are they, anyway?

She opens her mouth, looks at you, then closes it. Blustering out a laughing apology, she leaves your side and flutters over to him. You don’t know if you’re thankful for the reprieve, the momentary alone time to your own thoughts, or unbelievably hurt as you watch her take his jacket and hang it in the coat closet, happy to do it despite the turmoil hidden beneath all her inebriated twirling.

On the inside, your world is fracturing down the middle, drifting apart steadily like the planes of Pangaea— but this stupid awful guy just shrugs out a kink in his neck, turning back to your mother (who’s only slightly embraced on your account) to swoop down and thank her with a peck to the lips.

The rest of your weak appetite for microwaved dinner flies out the window.

And in your undies and that old beloved tee of your late father’s, you take the chance while they’re distracted to hop off the chair and fly up the steps.

For everyone’s sake, you hope the guy— Sylus, your mind so helpfully provides as you sob into your pillows— is only temporary.

♡ tags: @leftpoetrymoon @valhalla-soulstealer @gingybimby @crowsandapples @novthirty @mcdepressed290 @jadeloverxd @satansdaughter123 @blitziwitch @luminaaaz @eialovescats @noliniodeaes @dramaticalsachan @loudhologramturtle @softiepeachess @reni502 @datfangirl @lilyalone @thatsbunnysmind @lioria @floooring @babyx91 @rosie279 @calistaxoxo24 @kingheinrey @msturi2u @theplaid-wearingmoose @blueseachelle @themonotonysyndrome @crazyartist0001-blog @librarydame @deathlycrow @whdhjfjvjvjfjdhsj @terriblesoup @floofycookie @sdlyoongi @hikaakox @melba1982 @crimsonsylus @miuangel @ravynstreasure @corvo-core ✦ ask to be added to the taglist! just make sure you have an age in your bio (17+) ✨ hopefully i got everyone down lol :,)

[riotgurlll]

Chance (From Date Everything) Headcannons... NSFW

Okay so I'm obsessed with DE as well as Chance, And i've seen SO little material for this cutie so I'm taking it into my own hands.

TW: NSFW content, aka explicit material, spelling and grammar errors probably, plz be warned and lmk if I missed anything.

Contents/Mentions: Dom/Sub dynamic, Roleplay, depictions of male genitalia, mentions non-monogamy, gender neutral/afab or amab inclusive

---

-Chance is a nerd. A dork, if you will. Did you see how excited he was when you indulged in his interest in GnG? The way his pretty brown eyes lit up when you expressed that you'd be interested in joining a session of his? He's such a sweetheart.. The more you visited him, the more he felt himself growing fonder and fonder of you. The way you went along with his stories, listened to him ramble on about the subject in it's entirety- gods, everything about you was just so perfect...

-He'd be a liar if he said you didn't turn him on.

-Chance may be a dork, but that doesn't stop him from teasing you- in his own cute and cheesy way, sometimes. Take things from the character sheets, to the other sheets? Say less! If chance is sure that you're interested in him, he's not afraid of making some flirty remarks.. clearly.

-He's a switch, 100%. Sometimes, when you two are playing a game and you're heavily debating you options, or he's watching you as you write about or draw your character, he can't help but admire your features. His mind drifts to... other things, as well. He just can't help it! You're so... alluring. The way your clothes fit your body- whether they're tight or baggy, doesn't go un-noticed by him. It's not uncommon for him to compliment you openly, simply- because deep down? He knows you love it when he does.

He can't help but imagine taking control over you- to show you how grateful he is that you spend so much time with him.. He'd quietly tell you sweet nothings, praising you for your kindness and creativity. He'll stroke your hair gently, holding it back for you to it doesn't fall in front of your face while bends you over and fucks you on your desk. You can't help but feel flustered... Poor Dasha! Mac too... But let's be honest, Mac has seen all the fanfiction you've read on your nerdy crushes, so they aren't surprised. And Dasha? Honestly probably rooting for Chance in her head. She's... so proud...! (sniffle)

But alas, there really is no true privacy in the house, and honestly, we all know not a single object in that damn house objects to seeing you that way. (haha. get it. objects. ha..)

But what if you were to get on top of him? Even if things started out with him having more control, he'd fall apart. Can you blame him? Seeing you bouncing on him like that is literally one of the hottest things you could do, like... ever. He'd be letting out all sorts of noises- whimpers, moans. I just KNOW he would get all whiny when he gets close, for sure. Feeling you clench around him drives him insane... Don't even get him started on the view.

-Speaking of, I think he's vocal ALL the way. Moans, Whimpers, whines, it doesn't matter. Personally, he hates the whole idea that men should be quiet during intimacy- why would he hide his pleasure from you? He wants you to know. He wants you to know how your beautiful self makes him feel. He'll talk you through it too, his voice getting all soft and low while he fucks himself into you. Chefs kiss, fr. Expect to here "yeah?" from this man. Especially if you're into it, cuz he knows full well what that'll do to you. He'll have the audacity to ask you if you feel good while you're cock drunk.. like mf? Obviously????

-Definitely into praise, both giving and receiving. He'll tell you how good you feel, how pretty/handsome you are.. He'll go on and on about how you're perfect for him, about how he fits inside you just right. He'll tell you that all he want's is to make you feel good, just like how you make him feel.

And if you praise him? That's a quick way to get him into a submissive space reeeeaaaal quick. Something about hearing you compliment him, tell him he's doing so good? He'll fold immediately. Tell him he's pretty- he'll whimper with no hesitation as he rests his head against whatever part of your body is closest to him. Your stomach, crook of your neck- forehead, he's down bad. BAD bad.

-Biceps. this doesn't have to be NSFW, but if you're like me, it is. iykyk.

-^^^ Okayyy, I'll expand upon this... I think he's both buff and chubby at the same time- I mean, look at him. He probably works out just so he can look like an OC of his or something, but who gives a fuck. He's strong, and soft. I just know this man gives the best hugs, don't even fucking play w me rn. Imagine him hugging you close while he fucks himself up into you? Yeah. Yeah. I don't need to say anything else about this.

-He's a solid 4.5 when he's soft- and now I know some of ya'll think that's tiny but it really isn't. Regardless, he's a grower anyways. When he gets hard, he's around 6 inches. I don't think he's circumsized though in all honesty. I just know this mans tip is sensitive. Chance is also thick, like serious girth here. You know those mini sized soda cans? That's probably the closest thing I can compare it to. I'm thinking his base is #f5ae8a- (Yeah. we're getting specific). His tip is probably around a #fb9888 color.

His cock is def curved too- upwards, to the left. It's so heavy that it has to lean one way anyways.

-OKAY. Imma state the obvious here. CLEARLY this man is into roleplaying in the sheets. It's cannon bruh. Now, this can be a spectrum- And if roleplay in bed isn't your thing, he won't force it on you whatsoever. It's not something he requires sexually.

However, if you are into it, he's happy. It doesn't even have to be some elaborate scenario. Cosplay as one of your GnG characters? He's sat. Or just cosplay in general- Put on a Tifa Lockhart (FROM THE LATER GAMES.) fit if you're fem leaning, he's acting like a damn dog. It doesn't have to be a fantasy outfit, it could be any reasonable character, he doesn't give a PISS. Going to a Renaissance festival with friends? Better see him while you're in that outfit cuz he's gonna be all over you. He's a nerd, he can't help it.

-Two man w Parker?- OOP??? Who said that... guys.... oh my gosh...

-When it comes to oral, of COURSE he loves giving. He would eyp or syd for hours if u could take it, that's just the truth- but he does have a guilty pleasure for receiving. Watching you go down on him is literally a dream come true. He'll be grabbing your hair, fucking up into your mouth, all while sounding like a damn porno above you.

"Just like that.." "Please, don't stop.." "y'feel so good...-"

-He'd call you nicknames for sure. Beautiful, Handsome, Honey, Love, Sweetheart- anything,really. And he'd love to hear you call him those things too. Could definitely get behind sir and ma'am in a roleplay scenario.

-Honestly a thigh/ass guy. Phatty or nah, he doesn't give a fffFFFFUCK. Wrap those damn legs around him- crush his head, do whatever. And you best believe he looooves hitting it from the back. He'll grab onto your hips like he needs it to live.

-He doesn't care what you look like, but I feel like he would have a sweet spot for chubby people. Def the type of guy to say there's "more to love". He loves a tummy.

-Sit on that mans face. He loves that shit SOOO much. And no, don't hover either, he'll grab you and make you sit if he has to- he's not playing.

-He'd also love to see you lingerie. Put on something dark red and lacey, he'll be on his knees unwrapping you like a present in seconds. He'll press kisses all over you, down your stomach, your thighs, chest, neck- he can't get enough of you.

-Chance would love it if you grinded on his thigh while he was doing something- maybe updating a character sheet, taking notes for a storyline while also having a hand on your hip/ass as he helped you rut your hips against his strong leg. Occasionally, he'll press kisses to your lips and jaw before getting back to work.

-He loves his hands. He loves running them all over your body in places you like and allow him to. He loves being about to grope at your body, being able to hold you, move you at his will. He's got big hands too, no doubt. Big, strong hands with thick fingers that feel amazing inside of you, or wrapped around you.

-Would mumble "Holy crit" During it. Don't lie to urself, he would. That man will be giving you the most dubious back shots in centuries and you'll hear him whisper it under his breath.

-If you were to tease him, he'd definitely get all blushy. he's so cute!!! He'd get all stuttery, probably avoid eye contact. Just because he's more confident than he may seem doesn't mean you can't make him flustered, and TRUST me, it's easy to make him flustered- if it's coming from you, of course.

-Not smutty or nsfw but I headcannon him to have HELLA tattoos up and down both his arms. I know he already has one on the underside of his forearm, but I'm talking SLEEVES.

-Check ups every now and then. You guys have a safe word too- which just so happens to be Gargoyle.

-Aftercare is sooo important to him. He'll be sure to clean you up gently, get you some water, a snack if you need it. He'll cuddle with you, run his hands through your hair- whatever you need, you have it. And it's the other way around, if you're domming him, make sure you take care of this man. It makes him feel so loved and cared for- if you brush him off, then he just feels tossed around and used.

[heyyoufriendthere]

Nobody asked, but hey. I’m unreasonably sure of myself when it comes to comic book opinions.

Aunt May doesn’t know Peter Parker is Spider-Man.

I mean, she does NOW, but for a good majority of Peter’s career from the sixties up? Hell no. I know it’s cute whenever she’s dying to get that scene where she’s “always known,” and fandom LOVES a “it’s SO obvious when you think about it” moment for when they want to dump on the medium, but no. May Parker doesn’t know he’s Spider-Man and- more importantly- she DOES NOT want to know, and I like it that way.

“Why?” I hear you ask. “She’s been basically his mom since he was a little freaky marvel baby! Who on earth knows him better than her? How on earth couldn’t she have figured out her beat to shit nephew wasn’t Spider-Man when he’s basically just leaving his blood and costume all over his room?”

1. Because as feel good as it is, the Parker household isn’t sunshine and roses. May and Peter shut themselves off for years after Ben died. They love each other to death, but they don’t communicate. He's either shut away in his room, cracking jokes or off running around doing god knows what.

She's talking around him. Walking on eggshells. They both blame themselves, and it took decades for them to admit that to each other. Peter let the robber go, May chased him off because they got into an argument.

This shared guilt manifests in them both desperately wanting to take care of each other.

First, Peter throws himself into being both the Spider-Man, AND, more importantly, the breadwinner. The boy is broke. You know it, I know it, it's one of the single most iconic and relatable things about him. He gets weird about it. He's ALWAYS worried about it. I hear he might even have a money-worrying disease.

Money or the lack thereof has always been important to the mythos, even before Ben's death, but before Ben dies it manifested in things like Peter wanting a car or motorcycle the family couldn't afford and doing a wrestling gig. After Ben dies, his priorities shift.

He treats Aunt May like she’s made of glass (to be fair, she kinda is. Early Spider-Man has that woman fainting or having a heart attack every other week. Her constitution is held up by tissues, the US Healthcare system and Anna Watson’s unbreakable back muscles.)

Now, on top of being a near full time super hero, he's also saddled himself with the responsibility of taking care of the only parental figure he's got left in life while also trying to juggle both school and spending time with a friend group whose bank accounts aren't worried about when Jonah's feeling particular chipper about paying his employees.

Now he's trying to cover May's medical bills. Now he's trying to cover the rent. Now he's more worried about leaving May alone to live with Anna when his burgeoning friendship with Harry Osborn and the Coffee Bean Gang has netted him a free, all expenses paid apartment.

Meanwhile.

May's doing the exact goddamn thing. Richard and Mary dying the way they did kicked off the Parker family habit of keeping secrets, and Ben dying kicked her s-mothering into overdrive. She starts doting on him in a way that makes him feel like a child (modern depictions will try to convince you he was an itty bitty baby boy when he got his powers. They're lying. He was out of high school like 30 issues after Amazing Spider-Man #1.)

She's pawning her jewelry. She's trying to set him up with Mary Jane because she knows what's best for him (he needs someone fun and energetic because he's so quiet, and it's certainly not going to be that awful Betty Brant who will keep him on his toes).

Her entire idea of their relationship is that he's functionally helpless and she needs to take care of him. She’s not getting younger! Practically has one foot in the grave! That’s why she needs to put on an act to show him that everything is fine.

Richard and Mary are dead. Ben is dead. She's barely functioning on her and Ben's savings, the things she can sell and the money Peter's bringing in from his photography work. But it’s fine! Everything is fine and life will be just a bit brighter with a nice schmear on the bagel.

(Shout out to JM DeMattheis for showing up in the 90's to inject some fucking LIFE into Aunt May. Look at that quirked eyebrow. What a legend. Never read his Doctor Fate run, it will give you hives.)

2. Because, contrary to popular belief, Peter’s VERY good at hiding his identity and gaslighting his friends and family, especially when you combine his GGG skills with the good old Parker luck and its passive debuff to everyone's collective sanity.

Is this not the face of a woman doing okay in her relationship with New York's Friendly Neighborhood dirtbag?

I blame the Ultimate Spider-Man cartoon (he's fine with Shield immediately revealing his identity to a group of teen heroes? Absolutely the fuck not.) and the continuing woobification of comic books for how much this idea that Peter's inherently bad at keeping his identity secret comes up, because it's backbreaking work Peter doing to pull the wool over all of their eyes.

Why is he late? His job. Why is he never around? His job. What could his excuse be this time? Aunt May had her bi-weekly heart attack. Why is he beat to hell and back? He got hurt in the middle of getting pictures of Spider-Man. Why won't he ask for help? Why do none of his friends find this suspicious?

Part of it's because he didn't have friends in High School except for Betty and Liz Allen. He was an angry loner too stuck up his own ass about how smart he was to take the NUMEROUS opportunities presented to him to actually engage with his peers except to fight with Flash, (don't let modern depictions fool you either. Flash Thompson and Peter Parker weren't Bully and Bullied, they were enemies. They gave as good as they got. That's also, not coincidentally, why Gwen and Harry's first impressions of him in college were that he was rude little jackass).

So by the time he's in college and finally has a social life, literally everyone is used to him being a flake.

Which isn't to say that's the only way he's keeping his secret.

Here's the first of a few attempts to tell people exactly who he is.

Peter has a habit of telling his friends the truth they need to hear you see. Sometimes when he's delirious, sometimes when he's not, like here at Gwen's birthday party.

Or here when he's finally resolved himself to stop ruining his girlfriend Debbie's life after numerous therapy sessions about how she knows he's Spider-Man.

But that'll never be the end of it! He can't just out himself to the people he loves! No! He just made Gwen cry! Think about what this would do to May! So he does things like going to Hobie Brown to help him sucker the gang back into blissful ignorance.

Or walking back his reveals the second someone doesn't take them seriously.

After all, if it's fixed her and she doesn't suspect a thing, why bother telling her the truth? Yeesh. She goes on to write a book about it, it’s very funny.

But you get my point. Peter gets both very good at keeping his identity secret and is very wary of actually telling anyone over the years, to the point that just about the only people who knew leading up to the Civil War reveal were Mary Jane (don't you love a friendly neighborhood retcon?), the Fantastic 4, off again/on again dead or dying Harry/Norman Osborn, and Black Cat.

Otherwise it’s just people with superpowers or extenuating circumstances ENTIRELY out of his control that find out, like when he gets ambushed by Serial Sniffers like Wolverine and Daredevil. Or when he gets outed by his gooey ex Venom after it oozed onto Eddie Brock. Or the occasional psychic like Cyclop’s and Jean Grey's time/dimension adrift fail-son Nate Grey.

But this is a post about Peter and Aunt May, so let's get back to that before I run wild and free on another tangent.

3. Aunt May has had so many opportunities to know his secret. She finds his costume in his room!

She's literally seen a whole doll made of web fluid in his bed! She faints immediately of course, it was the sixties, but what does he do? Does he say, "Oh Aunt May, I'm so sorry I've been lying to you for awhile, I'm actually Spider-Man"? No! Of course he doesn't! He lies about why the hell there was a webbing doll in his fucking bed!

But why does she believe him?

Because it all comes back to this.

If Aunt May knows three things, it's that Aunt May knows her nephew.

Aunt May knows reality.

And Aunt May knows that she HATES Spider-Man.

Wait what?

Yeah! Aunt May hates Spider-Man, go figure. That rotten motherfucker is the cause of so much grief in her life. Why is Peter getting hurt? He's taking pictures of Spider-Man. Who's always causing trouble in the Daily Bugle? Spider-Man. She's set to marry Otto Octavius, and who shows up to ruin it? Spider-Man. George Stacy died, orphaning Gwen?! Spider-Man! GWEN DIED? SPIDER-MAN, SPIDER-MAN, SPIDER-FUCKING-MAN!

She hates him so much that she pulls a gun on him. She fires it! There's a BKOW effect and everything!

Let that sink in. Not only is this the only time Aunt May has ever used a gun in the main continuity, but it's pointed at him. In her purse you'll find petty cash, some important documents, her change purse, a cooking utensil or two, and Aunt May's Glock For Spider-Man.

To me, Aunt May not knowing and not wanting to know is an important part of the character because her not being able to square these two things she knows are true in the same round hole makes her even more compelling. Peter Parker is her frail nephew who she loves more than anything in the world and Spider-Man is singlehandedly the largest, most destructive cause of stress for the Parkers. If her finding out isn't a shock, if it isn't negative, then something is wrong with the reveal.

Because you can't tell me that this woman finally coming to terms with the fact that Peter Parker is Spider-Man is going to be a peaceful affair. That she'd know and just be waiting for him to tell her.

This is a woman who hates and loves with a passion. Peter is her son and she's going to do what any good mother would do if they found out their kid is actively putting himself in harms way and lying about it to their face. Fic culture and games like Insomniac's Spider-Man, LOVE to smooth over all of her edges. She's the perfect, prim, caring Aunt May with infinite patience and a penchant for dramatic reveals. Can she be sad? Sure. Happy? Always. Worried about her nephew? No problem. Sometimes she can even be disappointed.

But angry? Not the perfect mother? No we can't have that, what about our feel good narrative? God forbid if she occasionally bites Peter the way he bites everyone around him! That would sully the message!

I don't know. I've spent the past five hours typing this up and finding my various images. Section 2 had to be cut way down because I can't hop across 12 more runs looking for the way he let Harry get trucked off to a mental hospital or how he burned Norman's goblin suits to keep him from relapsing from his amnesia and revealing his identity.

Long story short. Let May kill a man. Let her have a reaction less tepid than gasping out how proud she is of Peter. It's what makes those moments when she starts harassing Jonah and the Bugle feel so much better. It's why it's so cathartic to see them finally reconcile. Smooth Aunt May has never and will never hit the same.

[vxnillabxn]

Hiii!! I hope it’s okay to ask, I’ve had this idea where MC breaks up with Zayne, thinking he deserves better. But after hearing how miserable he was, she comes back and admits she was scared and never wanted to leave. I’d love to see how he reacts and how they move forward.

Lowk been needing angst and comfort 🥲

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne x gn!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ hurt/hurt/hurt/comfort! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚did i almost make myself cry? yes. did i also love writing this? absolutely. do i approve of the reader! actions? hell no. BUT, overall, this is as much hurt as it is comfort, i hope i meet your expectations, dear anon! ♡

being with zayne was the best decision you ever made. he was emotionally responsible, he always talked things out, and he made sure you felt comfortable and loved. he made time for you, and he put aside important matters for the most crucial one in his eyes; you.

there was absolutely nothing you wanted to change about him or the lovely, strong relationship you two were building together.

again, there was nothing you wanted to change about him.

but about you?

plenty.

you didn't feel like you were enough for him. he sacrificed everything for you, he was a literal angel, and he always knew what to do to make it all feel better.

you, on the other hand, were sometimes too busy. you didn't know how to handle things, and you felt like the comfort you could offer him during his lowest moments was never enough.

you were not enough.

and you'd been repeating those same words for a month now.

how does he handle everything?

how is he able to have you as his top priority?

why does he love you so much, when you're not even half as special as him?

you can't take it anymore. you're tired, you feel drained, and you also feel guilty. zayne deserves the world. he deserves someone who's up to his level. someone who can silently manage everything perfectly. someone who has their life together, like he does.

it's not fair to be selfish and drag him along with you, not when he's been nothing but selfless all his life. he's been killing his free time, killing his social life, even killing his health —and all for you.

they say to love is to let go.

and after thinking and crying yourself to sleep on the nights he worked late shifts, you finally decided it was only fair to break up.

of course, he knew something was wrong.

he just never expected it would be this.

when you told him you'd wait at a nearby park, —one you two had never visited before— he was worried.

you didn't want to break up with him somewhere he loved. you wanted him to still go to the same coffee shop, the same restaurant, the same patisserie without connecting it to a memory this bitter.

when he arrived, he hugged you and kissed you softly.

it hurt.

it tasted so sweet, so genuine, so devoted…

you let him. it was going to be the last time, and your selfishness wanted a final reminder before you left him, for his own good.

what happened next is blurry in your mind.

you don't remember the exact words you said, but you remember his stunned silence.

you know you said it was so he could find someone better. someone who deserved him.

and you know he wasn't getting it.

he understood a lot of things.

but not this.

his eyes went unfocused, his lips pressed tightly shut.

he didn't speak.

you were grateful for that, because if you'd heard his voice, —his broken voice— you'd have apologized right there on the spot.

you held out the snowman keychain he'd made for you, your hands trembling. you wanted him to take it back.

but he didn't move.

he was frozen in time.

so, as cruel as fate is, you kept the keychain. a reminder of the only truly good thing that had happened to you, and when you least deserved it.

you walked away, trying not to cry, telling yourself you were doing what was best for him, right? for once, you were doing something in return for everything good he'd done for you.

and as your figure grew smaller, there was a soft splash on the ground.

a single drop of water.

not from the rain threatening to pour.

but from the corner of his eye.

…

one month.

it's been one month now, and you've been too busy working and hunting distractions. you've avoided the hospital even when you've felt worse than ever, both mentally and physically.

but your chest hurts badly, and more and more often you feel dizzy, exhausted, consumed.

it got so bad you had to go to the hospital, or they'd force you to take another month off to rest.

and the last thing you wanted was to stay by yourself, sulking and crying inside your messy, dark apartment.

once inside the hospital, you saw no one familiar. not even yvonne, the receptionist you'd grown closer to when you were zayne's patient before dating.

instead, another nurse stepped up to the reception desk and smiled warmly.

“good morning, dear. do you have an appointment?”

you swallow hard. you forgot to change doctors. maybe zayne did it for you.

“i… yes, i'm under dr. zayne's care.”

her smile faltered.

“oh, sweetie… didn't they inform you?”

her voice turned softer, her expression shifting to worry. your stomach dropped.

something happened to zayne, you're sure. your heart starts pounding wildly, but you keep your voice steady. you have to know.

“dr. gideon took over his patients for now—”

“what happened to dr. zayne?”

you didn't mean to sound so desperate, but it comes out fast, almost sharp.

the nurse flinched slightly, then cleared her throat.

“i'm afraid i can't disclose that information, sweetheart. but i can schedule you with—”

“thank you!”

you rush outside before she can finish. you run, vision blurry with panic and tears. you know the route to his house by heart. every shortcut, every turn.

zayne would never just leave. not unless something serious happened.

you pound on his door.

your breath is ragged, your heart feels like it might break your ribs, but you don't care.

nothing matters more than knowing if zayne is okay.

yet he doesn't answer.

and now your heart beats not from exhaustion, but from fear — because your heart belongs to him, and if something happened to him…

you can't wait anymore. you tear through your bag, looking for the spare key you couldn't bring yourself to throw away.

there it is. attached to the snowman keychain.

you unlock the door, hand shaking.

the sight inside leaves you breathless.

scattered books. blankets draped carelessly over the sofa…

and on the dining table… two mugs. one at his place, empty. another one at yours, still full. as if he kept waiting for you to come back and drink it with him.

two plates. two sets of cutlery. always two.

dusty. untouched. abandoned for…

exactly a month.

you rush upstairs, opening every door.

not in the bathroom.

not in the bedroom.

not in the kitchen.

maybe… his studio?

you approach the closed door, hand trembling. you push it open.

and there he is.

asleep at his desk. his laptop is still glowing faintly. the room is painfully neat, unlike the rest of the house.

but it's freezing inside.

you shiver, but step closer.

zayne looks… different.

his skin pale and unhealthy, dark circles under his beautiful eyes, a slight stubble on his usually clean-shaven face.

his fingers tinged purple from the cold. his brows furrowed, trapped in a nightmare.

this wasn't supposed to happen.

he was supposed to be better. to find someone up to his level.

but seeing him so broken, so not composed… you realize how badly you misjudged.

tears fall as you try to wake him. you shake him, nudge him, tug at his clothes, bury your face in his lap and sob.

“i'm sorry, zayne, i'm so… so sorry. i never wanted to leave, i…”

you bite your lip hard, almost drawing blood.

“this wasn't supposed to happen… you were supposed to be happy without me. you deserved so much better, zayne. so… much… better.”

words come out between sobs, but you cling to him like a lifeline.

and then, gently, you feel his fingers brushing your hair.

your breath catches. you look up.

he's awake. his expression unreadable, until the faintest smile curves his lips.

“you… came back.”

his voice is raw, hoarse from disuse.

you gasp, scrambling up to look at him properly.

you can't stop yourself.

you throw your arms around him, almost knocking him off the chair.

but then—

“stop.”

you freeze.

does he… not want this?

“i can sense it. you're overthinking again.”

his voice is soft, but firm.

“you did that a lot before you…” he pauses, looking away. “have i not made myself clear enough?”

you step back, but he pulls you closer.

“tell me. was i not clear?”

“zayne, i don't—”

“didn't i tell you how much i loved you? how much you meant to me?”

his voice stays calm, but his gaze… it's yours.

“please. answer me.”

your chest aches. you know the answer.

“zayne, i thought… i thought it was for the best. you're perfect. you always made time for me, even while saving lives. i have so much to work on and… it wasn't your fault. i was stupid, and—”

he hushes you gently, his fingers brushing your lips.

“i was perfect for you. everything i did, every choice, every thought… was for you. from the start of my career, and until the day i die, everything i do will always have you in mind.”

you're speechless.

he removes his hand, then stands, towering over you.

“do you know why i waited?”

you shake your head.

“you never said you didn't love me anymore,” he steps closer, caging you in. “and i knew i'd wait, even if it meant endless nightmares. even if i lost myself doing so… even if it took another lifetime.”

his hand cups your cheek, wiping your tears.

“because i only live for you. and that won't change, unless you tell me you don't love me anymore.”

your voice cracks.

“no! zayne, i love you! i did what i did because of love! i wanted only the best for you…”

“and the best for me is you, my love.”

his cold fingers warm at your skin, his voice trembles ever so slightly.

“don't you ever… ever do that again,” he stops, but adds more after a few seconds:

“every night, i woke up reaching for you,” he confesses, voice breaking for the first time. “i saw you leaving over and over in my dreams, and i couldn't stop you. i was dying without you, even if i kept breathing.”

you choke on a sob, and your lips crash into his.

it's messy, desperate —but he steadies you, slowing it down into something deep and aching, until you're both breathless.

you finally feel at peace. because it's him. and only him.

as you part, he kisses your trembling hands.

“my love… shall i remind you every day how much i need you to breathe?”

you sniffle, shaking your head.

“no. i think… it's my turn now to show you how much i need you. how selfish i truly am for wanting you in my life forever.”

“then let us be selfish, love.”

he kisses your forehead.

and everything falls right back in place.

as it used to be.

and from now on, he'll make sure it always is.

[nakylvr]

— DREAMER GIRL ✧ M.S

summary જ⁀➴ general hcs with lacrosse player!megan

warnings/tags જ⁀➴ hcs, lacrosse player!megan, sports medicine major!f!reader, fluff, suggestive, established relationship

part one | part two

• lacrosse player!megan who is on a athletics scholarship, and is nearly failing all her classes except physical education for obvious reasons

• megan who was known as the "literal player" of the lacrosse team despite never actually playing any girl before, she would just get scared and do something stupid to piss them off and stop talking to her

• megan who is actually terrified of being loved unconditionally, dealing with coaches, her mom, and school in general, she grew used to people loving her cause she was convenient, not cause they actually loved her – or they wanted something from her

• megan who watched you from afar in every class you two were in together, but never saying anything cause she was too scared to go forward with her first real crush in her life

• megan who learned info about you through daniela which was through chaewon, literally writing it down in her phone notes to remember the little things

• megan who opens up more the longer she's with you. even if she's slow, it's progress. she's still afraid of loving someone, thinking she isn't good enough for you, but your constant reassurance helps her a little bit

• megan who still texts some girls that are obviously trying to hook up with her, cause she doesn't realize that's what they want. you caught her one day and it caused the first real argument in your relationship, and it made her realize that she didn't want to lose you, not to anything or anyone

• megan who watches cooking videos to surprise you with something new if you're having a rough day or just cause she's bored and wants to do something nice

• megan who teared up when you showed her the custom jersey you got with her last name and number on the back, but grins widely when she sees you wearing it at a game

• megan who brings you to every practice and game, claiming she does better when you're around – and she is, actually to your surprise

• megan who is the chaos to your calm, she may be dramatic about everything, but she always ropes you into it and giving you the time of your life you never would enjoy by yourself or with others

• helping megan with leg exercises cause she's worried she might tear something again, coming up to you and quietly asking if you can help her out so she doesn't do something stupid and hurt herself (she has before)

• also helping megan study for tests and classes, leaving video/audio notes of everything in case she misses a class or doesn't understand it in class and needs it better explained, though sometimes it ends with her dragging you to your bed cause she "thinks you're hot when talking all smart"

• megan who buys the most random things when she's at away games, telling you it reminded her of you so she immediately got it, it ranges from cute little trinkets to some...other things

• megan who goes all out for your birthday every year after you start dating. she makes a cake, food, buys presents, or takes you out to some expensive fancy restaurant that she can barely afford, doing it cause she wanted to spoil you

• megan who always asks for a good luck kiss before a game and a victory kiss when her team wins

• cooking her favorite food when she's stressed and she just looks at you like you're her whole world (you are)

• megan who gets terrified whenever you two fight, worried that she'll say the wrong thing and lose you forever

• and when you do fight, she always takes the blame even if it isn't her fault. she can never stay mad at you, and will be the first to break the silence majority of the time.

• megan who hosts movie nights every saturday night for you both, making popcorn and buying a ton of snacks and drinks, setting up a fort in your living room and watching any movie you pick

• megan who kisses you like it's the first time every time, her hands shaking trying to find your waist and pull you closer, and her face bright red when you pull away

• megan who says "i love you" for everything, if you do something for her, when she's leaving for practice, or sometimes for no reason when you're cuddling in bed. she just wants you to know she loves you, more than anything else

[milksnake-tea]

━━ stone and skin .

Weeping Angels are both an enigma and a threat to the human race. Quicker than bullets, stronger than steel, yet vulnerable to something as simple as sight - everything about their biology defies the rules of the natural world. Only now, with a Family of Weeping caught in captivity, can scientists finally study these creatures. As for you, you are the current taker of one of these Weeping - an angel who calls himself Sunday.

weeping angel!sunday x gn!reader

contains: alternative universe, freakday, mild gore, sunday is explicitly not human in here so he might be a little ooc. this is not reformed sunday. this is oakday.

word count: 2.36k

a/n: hey sunday kisser nation did u miss me. im back.

taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs, @apathicace , @flurrina , @tragedy-of-commons , @cakechase , @kiiyoooo , @moineauz , @dawnsigil

“Hello, Caretaker.”

His voice is as rich as honey and as deceptively sweet as nightshade. There is almost an echo around it, like a synth or perhaps a harmonious choir, given the appearance of his species, that serves to draw you in.

To even hear him is a marvel in of itself. For decades, the scientific community had been convinced that Weeping Angels did not speak - why would they? They moved too fast, their spare moments of life too fleeting and too quick for conversation to unfold. Even if they did speak, it would surely be at a frequency that cannot be understood by man.

And yet, all of those researchers would be proven wrong. In this facility, where a “Family” (that is what they called groups of their own) of the Weeping have been captured, they soon learned that the Weeping had voices sent from beyond the skies.

You cannot see it, but you can feel it as Sunday’s eyes rake over your form. His gaze is searing, far too intense to belong to any normal organic creature - but then again, anything that turned to stone as a defense mechanism could not be considered normal.

“Ah, I see you’ve brought breakfast,” he observes. “How punctual of you."

You think he steps forward, but truthfully, you could never tell. With every one of the Weeping, one step for them could mean five for you - one second they are in the corner of their room, and the next they are in front of you.

“The last Caretaker wasn't as organized,” Sunday continues mildly.

His hands brush against yours as he takes the tray of food - today, it is a steak, cooked just past rare and garnished the mildly sweet sauces you know Sunday likes. You didn’t think that the Weeping had a preference for their meals - they ate whatever they could, whenever they could, and as fast as they could. Cooking wasn’t exactly an option for them.

“It’s a good thing you’ve replaced them. I wouldn’t know what to do if the next Caretaker was as slovenly as the last.”

Steak as a breakfast item is certainly a choice, you think as the tell tale signs of utensils clinking come from three to four steps before you. Sunday refuses to eat on the ground or standing up, so the facility has taken it upon themselves to grace him with a properly furnished office, complete with a large, mahogany desk in the center.

What use a Weeping has for a desk, you don’t know.

“Have you finished?” you ask after a few seconds. Like all Weeping, Sunday eats quick - does he even stop to savor the flavors so carefully crafted for him by the chef?

“Yes,” Sunday replies with what you’ve come to know as laughter - a mix between a hum and a purr, and full of deliberate breath.

That was another abnormality - unlike his sister who at least has the grace to pretend she is human, Sunday breathes as if he doesn’t need to. His breath is not vital, rather it is an extension of him, it is his expression. 

“Give my regards to the chef; like always, the steak is most delicious.”

There’s a swish of cloth as he dabs his lips.

“Of course.” You keep your head bowed and your eyes closed. In a flash, Sunday leaves his desk, returns the tray to you, and flashes back to his desk again. “Is there anything you need?”

Normally, you would clean his room at this time. But Sunday is rather particular in how he arranges his living space, and the last time you dared to meddle, you could feel the repressed rage radiating off of him.

You had to walk around with your eyes open for a week, for if not, Sunday would’ve likely killed you. As kind as he may try to appear, he is a Weeping, and they are violent in nature.

Although, keeping your eyes on him might’ve angered him further. Ironically, the Weeping hate being statues. Sunday told you once - while he is safe as stone, it is akin to being drenched in sweat. It’s cold, clammy, and disgusting, and worse of all, he can’t do anything about it.

And so every time he annoys you or makes your life difficult, all you have to do is open your eyes.

Honestly, you’re surprised he hasn’t killed you yet. He certainly has the means and the willpower, and the facility has plenty more where you came from. You can still smell the blood of his last Caretaker, whose iron still lingers on his lips.

“Ah, yes, actually.” There’s the faintest hint of joy in his voice, and you wonder if Sunday is smiling. He sounds farther away - perhaps he is looking outside his faux window, which always shows a bright and sunny morning. But the glass is fake - no one is stupid enough to put glass near a Weeping.

Feathers flutter slightly, and he is before you again. This time, the pads of his fingers ghost alongside your cheek, hovering but not yet touching.

“Might I trouble you again?” he asks softly, with a gentleness that he shouldn’t have. You can’t believe it to be genuine - you refuse to. The Weeping have no heart, nor do they have the capacity for affection.

And yet, you can’t help but remember the fondness of which he speaks of his sister, the female Weeping that resides in the room next door. He often asks you-

“What color are her eyes? What does she look like when she smiles? Is her hair like mine?”

-for he has never seen her outside of grey, that dark, freckled grey that they both despise. And she has yet to see him, and so she asks you the same. 

Truthfully, it is only because of the security cameras that you can even answer them. When no one watches, the Weeping are able to shed their stone skin. Robin is like a field of lavenders, her eyes a meadow with a clear blue sky. Sunday, on the other hand, is polished gem and steel, like a precious stone found in a cave.

What he feels for you is nothing more than a faint curiosity. Never before has a living creature willingly closed their eyes before him, and never has he allowed one to live so long with them closed. And as such, he knows nothing of warmth, of flesh and of emotion.

“As long as you restrain yourself.” 

Sunday chuckles at that.

“Of course.”

Restraint - such a funny thing to ask of a Weeping, who strikes whenever they can and takes what they can get with a hunger that is devouring. But Sunday, you’ve come to find, puts great importance in keeping his word, and as such, he will refrain from tasting your blood once more.

His hands cradle your face, thumbs squishing and molding your cheeks as if they are clay. What would he shape them into if they were?

There’s a twisted sort of fascination as he squeezes and melds your flesh and your skin. No matter how many times he does it, he cannot bring himself to understand just how soft you are - how easily you could be destroyed. Stone is perfect. Stone is unyielding. Stone is strong. Flesh is weak - vulnerable. To be human, to be alive, is to be weak.

And yet, there is something insatiable about it nevertheless. He wonders, if he were to take a bite from you, would you still be as warm? Would your cheeks still be soft between his teeth?

He tries not to get too close to your eyelashes. If he does, he might try and pluck them out, just to see the color they try to hide. But he mustn’t - he promised you.

What color are your eyes? 

He’s asked you this before, but you always give him the simplest of descriptions, descriptions that he cannot use adequately. He wants to know - are your eyes meadows like Robin’s, or are they gemstones like his? If he were to lose himself in them, what world would he see? What colors are reflected in them? Would your pupils dilate when you see him, like most animals’ do when they see their mate? Or would they shrink in fear, as a prey does when faced with a predator? Do they ever shine with joy, fill with tears, blaze with anger?

But alas, he could never know. For once you blink them open, his world becomes black, and he’s thrust back into that stone cage which he detests. And then, he is just like you, forced only to hear and feel, never allowed to see.

And if that is all that he allowed, then he will make use of it. After all, he needs not sight to devour.

“Say,” he murmurs, digging his thumbs into the corners of your lips to stretch them into a smile, “are you happy?”

It seems an eternity passes before you answer, if he could even call what you said an answer.

“Why do you ask?”

Sunday hums in that song of his, tilting his head. “I’m simply curious, that’s all. In all my years, I’ve yet to see a human that was truly happy. They are always… fearful. Sometimes, sorrowful. Other times, defeated. But never happy, never… fulfilled.”

“That is to be expected.” You squirm a bit in his hold, but Sunday’s hands are as unyielding as the stone he despises. “You are one of the only species known to have a diet consisting of mostly humans.”

“And yet you aren’t afraid. Why is that? I could kill you much faster than you could open your eyes.”

As if to prove his point, one of his hands flickers to your neck, the sharpened tips of his nails ghosting over your throat, yet never once drawing blood. You will never bleed in his presence unless you allow for it - for if there is one thing that Sunday can be commended for, it is his control.

You swallow, and Sunday retreats just enough to permit the movement. It’s an awkward position for you to be in, with one of the Weeping’s hands keeping a lopsided smile on your face, and the other poised to cut you open.

Slowly, a smile slips onto your lips, and you can hear the metallic clink of Sunday’s halo as he tilts his head. Curious as ever, the Weeping’s thumb lightens so that he can see a real, natural smile.

“Because I know you won’t,” you whisper, voice filled with humanity’s hubris. “You’re too curious.”

Sunday’s eyes narrow, and the burning concentrates to your lips like how sunlight passed through glass burns paper. Truth be told, you’re surprised that you’ve yet to be set on fire by his gaze alone.

“And what makes you say that?” he asks. You cannot tell if he is angry or amused, or both.

Your grin widens. This is what will get you killed, you’re sure of it. A sun holds you in his embrace, and yet you’re daring to question his power.

“Crush me then, if you’re so sure you can.”

Your heartbeat has never been so loud in your ears. Sunday seems to have frozen, but given that his hands are still warm against your skin, he hasn’t turned to stone. Rather, he is pondering, weighing your life on an imaginary scale, wondering whether he should snap the neck of this blasphemer and be done with it.

That was the funny thing with the Weeping - they looked and acted like the angels of legend, with their halos and wings and eerie demeanor, but as far as you could tell, there was no God that they answered to. No scriptures to govern their morals, no rules they had to uphold. They were animals, humanoid and sentient only because that was what allowed them to survive.

And yet, they always seemed to be praying. For what, you cannot begin to fathom. What kind of salvation would such a beast wish for, anyway?

Short, sharp, shaking breaths snap you out of your thoughts. Sunday laughs, in the only way he knows how.

“You’re right,” he concedes, a smile in his words. “Astute as always, Caretaker.”

And then he strikes.

One moment, you are cradled, and the next, you are devoured. Sunday’s fingers sink into you like anchors as he molds your lips into his. He steals your breath greedily, hand pushing it out from your throat, as if it would make his any more genuine.

It doesn’t take long for his teeth to show. Craving more, as a starving animal always does, he bites down, his fangs almost like needles with their precision. You seize up, mouth parted to gasp, before he steals that too, tongue darting out to finally, at last, taste you.

For a Weeping, this is slow - agonizingly slow. Sunday has always been a patient angel, but even he falters when in the middle of a feast. Forcing himself to slow down is as painful to him as clipping his wings, and yet he does it anyway.

His tongue drags against the nicks in your lips. If it weren’t for the way he kept coaxing out the blood, you’d think he was trying to soothe you.

In his feast, he forgets that you are still human, and that for you, breath is not a luxury, but a necessity. You begin to fight against him, pushing and squirming, and only then does he snap out of his instincts.

He doesn’t let go, not yet. Only after he drinks from you one last time does he finally part, and it’s when you are free that your eyes snap open.

And everything freezes. Sunday’s warmth disappears like a flame blown out, and his skin hardens into marble. You cough and sputter and gasp, prying yourself from his hold. Tears blur your vision and saliva coats your lips - whether it be yours or of the Weeping’s, you don’t know.

But through it all, you see him. That blasted Weeping, a statue within the enclosure. There’s blood on his lips and glee in his eyes.

He’s smiling.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[jude457]

OKAY i have finally decided on the premise for the jude fix-it fic™

- the officer betrays inho. like he’s just shot jung-bae, he’s on his way back to his rooms for a much needed shower, probably already replaying gihun’s face in his head, thinking about getting blackout drunk on whiskey—and then he gets ambushed. rifle to the skull. goes down hard. he doesn’t even get the chance to fight.

- inho is brought into the dorm room in a coffin alongside gihun. he wakes up stripped of everything—his rank, his immunity, his power. and when he sits up, gihun is already there. kneeling beside him, stunned. “young-il?” he says, and there’s this flicker of hope on his face, like he’s just been given something back. and then—relief. real relief. he pulls inho into a hug before he can protest. tells him he thought he was dead. says he prayed he was alive. inho can’t even speak. he just nods and lies and lets gihun believe it.

- and the worst part? the ptsd comes back like a curse. there’s no mask to hide behind now. no control room. no black mask to keep him untouchable. he’s just another number in a green tracksuit, helpless and terrified. every gunshot makes him flinch. every announcement triggers something deep and ugly. he forgets how to breathe sometimes. he also has to grapple with the fact that he is powerless to ensure gihun’s safety. gihun doesn’t get it at first—he remembers young-il as composed. cool. not warm, exactly, but always calm. and now he’s watching that same man fold in on himself. something is deeply wrong, and gihun can’t figure out what.

key things you will see in this fic:

- inho in a blue bib. gihun in a red one, full protective boyfriend mode. says he’s gonna keep inho safe no matter what. and inho’s just sitting there like 🙂🔫 because he’s the last person worth protecting. the guilt is chewing through his stomach lining. because he doesn’t deserve gihun’s care. but god, does inho want it.

- inho gets hurt. his leg gives out (yes i am putting inho in a position to have a fracture set without pain relief)—maybe he takes a bad fall, maybe he hesitates for one second too long—and suddenly it’s gihun yelling at him to get on—but not onto his back. no, gi-hun drops down and scoops him up, arms under his knees, one hand gripping his back. carrying him through jump rope like he weighs nothing. swearing the whole time while holding inho tight. and inho’s shaking with pain and shame and something deeper, his face pressed into gihun’s neck, trying not to sob. it’s humiliating. it’s tender. it’s the closest he’s felt to safe in years. (side note: in my ideal version of canon, junhee survives and gives birth at the end. i do not care. it’s what she deserves.)

- identity reveal happens after jump rope. they make it through. just barely. and then: the finalist suits. the dagger. champagne flutes clinking somewhere far away. it all hits inho like a truck. he completely spirals. panic, disassociation, hands shaking. gihun’s trying to calm him down and inho—he just breaks. tells him everything. confesses in the most pathetic way possible. “i’m the frontman. you should kill me” and gihun goes silent. their beds end up being pressed together. their backs against the wall. they don’t sleep. an ideological war is waged between them in whispers and glances and the brutal quiet of “you let this happen” vs “i didn’t know how to stop it.” (they may or may not fuck)

- inho and gihun stop the final game and reunite with junho. they live happily ever after. THE END. (junhee and hyunju are finalists too and they jump myung-gi’s ass and survive).

[sillyswriting]

okay gang, hear me out on father johnny and his big family.

you know mama’s tired after like five pregnancies. she loves her wee bairns to death, but really, sometimes you just need a break, right?

in come simon and kyle, offering to babysit johnny’s babies for the weekend so you guys can have a small moment of peace. in reality, kyle volunteered and roped simon into it, knowing he couldn’t handle five babes on his own.

the entire weekend is hell. your kids are absolutely not used to being away from their parents. wet, fat, heavy tears keep streaming down their cheeks because they miss you, breaking kyle’s heart a little more each time. they refused to sleep without their dad’s silly made up stories and their mom’s goodnight sleep. making them eat is also a nightmare.

however, kyle is full of resources though. he makes up stories and brings a couple of fun activities the kids love. takes them out to the park, the pool, anywhere they can forget about their parents, and also where they can get tired out. drawing, pottery, singing, dancing, running, kyle does it all.

for comfort, they cuddle up to simon because he feels just like their dad, soft and strong, while the man sits on the couch, stiff like they’re tiny bombs ready to explode. he feels just as warm as their daddy, the youngest even falls asleep on his lap during tv time.

it’s all very funny. it does make you laugh when kyle sends you pictures as updates while you both relax in bed.

by the end of the weekend, kyle and simon are tired like they’ve never been in their lives. not even the military drained them like five small mactavish children. yet, all the dumb drawings left behind at kyle’s flat and the ghost feeling of little hugs from chubby wee things fill their hearts with adoration.

big tears and tight hugs are what welcomed you when you picked up your kids. it was a very heartfelt and exhausting weekend for them. and they’d been so good to uncle kyle and simon, at least, that’s what kyle said.

to appease them, you promised they could all sleep in mommy and daddy’s bed tonight, something very rare, so they were the happiest again. gone were the fat, sad tears.

before leaving, johnny asks if they are up to do it again in a month. to that, simon just scoffs.

“never again, soap. keep your litter away from me.”

and yet, the way his tattoos are filled with silly coloring that the lieutenant didn’t bother cleaning. the way kyle’s eyes linger on his bairns as they left, a quiet longing shining in them.

all this tells johnny everything.

in a couple of years, his little ones will have friends to play with.

read more

[mona-risms]

imagine Rumi with oblivious reader like she’s so in the mood to go HARD and she’s dropping hints like crazy but reader just doesn’t get the hints cause she’s not trying to over step or misinterpret so she doesn’t trust nothing meanwhile Rumis feral af and is about to just say it straight up

Oh this might be me I fear LMAOOOOO anyway

You just wanna be respectful!! And Rumi gets that!!! She gets that really well but she swears if you don't go down on her Right Now she won't know what she'll do. No but seriously though she does understand you wanting to be careful and to take it slow bc honestly she'd be EXACTLY the same if you wanted her to redirect her on top (which she'll happily do btw she'd wanna listen to every instruction you have for her just so that she can make her girlfriend feel good).......BUT. COME. ON.

This would probably be a whole thing that happens when she's ovulating LMFAO bc otherwise I don't think Rumi would have much of a preference in whether she'd want soft or rough sex—she genuinely would want whatever you want, as long as she gets to feel you and she gets to feel so so very cherished and loved by you in any way, whether it's through you worshipping every inch of her body and the patterns she'd hated for so long or getting railed so hard the Honmoon's getting shockwave disturbances. But rn? At this particular moment? Please for the love of everything holy all she needs is to feel used IT'S OKAY TO LET LOOSE ON HER 😩😩

She only has so much patience before demonic temperament takes over a lil bit while you're about to let her braid loose. She keeps hinting at wanting to go hard but also honestly ngl she probably really sucks at hinting bc it kinda gets her a lil enbarrassed in the first place. But then that embarrassment and white-hot desire kinda just mixes together and eventually she pushes you down and grinds down on you from the top before telling you to stop holding back and fuck her until she's screaming

She'll be embarrassed at the desperation the morning after and will absolutely hide her face in a pillow or her hair, but at least you're both feeling well-fucked 🫶 and she might even eat you out as a thank you before actually getting up and going through her routine (or try to, with shakyass legs LOL)

[formulafanfics13]

Just the Tip - LN4 🔥

Masterlist

TW: mentions of potential SA (full consent not exactly given)

She's shaking a little. Just enough that Lando notices when he brushes his thumb across her bare hip.

The bedroom is dim, quiet, velvet-soft. The curtains are pulled, the hum of the air conditioning almost too low to hear. There's no music playing, no sound but their breathing, hers shallow, his slow, and the slight shift of the mattress every time one of them moves.

She's already undressed, if clumsily. He helped. Of course he did. Two years of being together, and he's always been patient, always kind. His voice low, lips soft, hands warmer than they should be. She loves him for it. She trusts him for it.

That's why she says yes.

Not to all of it, not to that. She's told him so many times before, breathlessly, awkwardly, between kisses and hands slipping under her shirt. She's not ready. Not yet. It's not him, it's her. She's terrified of the moment being wrong, of it hurting, of losing something sacred just because they got carried away. And he's always respected it. Always whispered "of course, baby" and curled himself around her after with nothing but love in his voice.

But tonight is different.

Because he asked again. Whispered it this time with his forehead pressed to hers. His hand cupping the back of her neck, his other between her thighs, coaxing out soft noises she's never made before. She's wetter than she's ever been, legs trembling, face flushed and hot and sticky with kisses he won't stop giving her.

"Just the tip," he murmured, voice like silk and sin. "Baby, please. I swear, I won't move. I just want to feel you. Just for a second."

She hesitated. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Her whole body tense under him. But he kissed her, slow and careful, kissed her like she was glass, kissed her like he loved her, and whispered again, "Just the tip, baby. I promise."

And she said yes. That's how she ended up here, on her back, thighs spread, Lando's cock twitching against her entrance while he holds her hips still and looks down at her like he's trying to memorize every single expression that crosses her face.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says, but he doesn't wait for a reply before leaning down to kiss her again.

She nods into his mouth. "Okay."

And then he pushes. Her mouth falls open, breath catching. It burns, not unbearable, not awful, but foreign. Hot and aching and full. She gasps and grabs at his arms, fingers digging into muscle like she needs something to ground her.

Lando groans. Not just softly, deep. Like it's taking everything in him not to thrust. He stays still, for a moment. His hips pressed flush to hers, just the head of his cock buried inside. She can feel him pulsing. He's shaking, too.

"Oh my god," he breathes against her jaw. "You feel, fuck, you feel like heaven."

She doesn't speak. She can't. Her throat is tight, heart pounding against her ribs like it's trying to escape. She didn't know it would feel like this, not just the stretch, but the emotion. The weight of it. The closeness. Lando is everywhere, in her, on top of her, his breath in her ear, his hands on her waist, his body trembling against hers.

"Are you okay?" he whispers, kissing her cheek. "Does it hurt?"

She swallows. "A little," she admits. "But I'm okay."

He brushes a strand of hair from her face. "You're doing so good for me, baby."

The praise makes her shiver. Her eyes flutter closed.

"Can I..." he starts, then stops himself. She can feel the tension in him, the way his muscles are locked tight like he's holding back something animal. "Can I move just a little? Just one inch. I swear I won't go further. Just, fuck, I need more."

She hesitates. But he's looking at her with those eyes. The ones that always undo her. And his voice is breaking. Like she's the only thing he wants in the world, and it's hurting him not to have her properly.

"...Okay," she says again, barely above a whisper.

He doesn't wait. The second the words are out, he pushes in further, one slow, shallow thrust. She gasps again, louder this time. Her body jerks. It hurts, yes, but not in the way she expected. It's overwhelming. She's never felt anything like it, so full, so split open, like he's cracking her wide with every inch.

"That's it," he pants, voice low and frantic. "Just like that. Fuck, you're taking me so good, baby, shit, just the tip, just the, fuck-"

But he doesn't stop. He should. He promised.

But his hips are moving now, slow, so slow, but steady. Another inch. Then another. Her nails scrape down his back, and she whimpers, torn between pain and something that feels dangerously close to pleasure.

"Lando-"

"I know, baby. I know. I'm sorry. I just, I can't, I need to be inside you. All of me. Please let me, just this once. Just, let me, angel, please."

She should say no. She should push him off. She should remind him what they agreed, remind him this wasn't the plan, that just the tip was a boundary and he's already crossing it.

But she doesn't. Because he's already all the way in.

With a soft, broken groan, Lando sinks into her until his hips are flush against hers, cock buried deep, and she can feel every inch of him, the stretch, the fullness, the obscene intimacy of it. Her virginity's gone. Just like that. Her eyes sting, heart hammering, thighs trembling.

He exhales like he's been holding his breath for years. "Holy fuck," he whispers, forehead pressed to hers. "You're mine now."

And she is. Completely. Ruined, wrecked, his. She lets out a tiny, strangled sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan.

He starts to move. Not hard. Not rough. Just slow, like he wants to make her feel all of it. His cock dragging against her walls, her body clenching around him on instinct, her legs falling open wider without her realizing. Her eyes roll back, head tilting, mouth parted.

"Oh god," she chokes out.

"You're doing so good for me," he breathes, kissing her jaw. "Taking me so fucking well. I'm never gonna last. You feel too fucking good."

She didn't know it would be like this.

Not so intense. Not so... filthy. She's never made sounds like this, never grabbed at someone like this, never let go like this. It's like her body's not hers anymore, just a desperate, trembling thing that wants more of him. All of him. Forever.

"Lando, please-"

"I've got you, angel. I've always got you."

And he fucks her, soft but deep, slow but unrelenting, until her body doesn't know whether to cry or scream or cling to him like he's the only thing tethering her to the earth. Maybe he is. He moans her name like a prayer, praises her until she's dizzy, kisses her until her lips are raw.

When he cums, it's with a guttural groan, buried deep inside her, shaking all over. And she cums too, not from the pressure or the rhythm but from everything, the emotion, the closeness, the overwhelming wrongness of it being so good.

He holds her after. Kisses her neck. Whispers that he loves her. And she just lies there, body sore, thighs sticky, heart broken open. She'll never forget this. Ever. And he knows that. That's why he lied.

[sinofwriting]

Glowing - Charles Leclerc

Words: 631 Summary: Charles comes home and everything falls away when he sees her.

Masterlist | Support Me!

The exhaustion isn’t deep set into his bones, not yet, but he knows he's on the edge. Eight days away from home, away from her does that to him. He’s not sure how he’s going to handle the last part of the season depending on how things go and dread curls in his gut just considering it.

The exhaustion, the dread, the guilt that she’d smack him for holding, seeps out of him as soon as he crosses the entryway and sees her.

She’s resting on the couch, fast asleep, a throw pillow under her head, his PT pillow under her lower back and he’s kicking off his shoes.

Charles pretty much falls to his knees beside the couch, eyes glued to the exposed skin of her stomach, her, rather his, sweatshirt rucked up and her hand resting protectively on the just barely there swell.

It’s the smallest change, just barely there, but he knows her body so well that it was glaringly obvious even from the entryway. His fingers reach out and touch, gentle, featherlight, not wanting to disturb her, not when she’s carrying, growing, their baby, doing all the hard work, but he needs to touch, to not just see but feel.

She snuffles a little at the touch and he stills, fingers wanting to twitch and his eyes move from her stomach to her face and his lips move into a grin. She’s glowing, her face is lax with sleep and peaceful rest, and she’s glowing. He hadn’t quite understood the jokes and things on the internet and from his one friend about how there was something about when someone carried your child they became even more beautiful, but she had, something he had thought was impossible, but she had always done that to him.

She had become more beautiful after the first time he woke up next to her, watched her get ready for a race, the first time she had been there after he won a race, and now she was somehow even more gorgeous carrying their child.

“You’re staring.” She mumbles and he smiles, hand moving to rest on top of hers while he leans in to brush their lips together, enjoying the way she tries to follow him for another kiss, eyes still closed.

“You’re showing.”

She smiles, eyes finally fluttering open. “I know. I have an appointment tomorrow.”

His brows furrow in concern, “Your appointment is on the ninth.”

“I’m probably keeping that one, but I noticed this,” she gives a gentle pat to her stomach, “two days ago.”

“It’s normal, no? To show, I thought?”

He had meant to start reading that pregnancy book but had only caught a few excerpts too busy with simulator work and then the race weekend.

“Not at eleven weeks. And not for my first pregnancy.”

“You think something is wrong?”

“No,” She intertwines their fingers, soothing him instantly. “I just think maybe they got the conception date wrong or,” she pauses, biting at her lip.

He frowns, reaching with his free hand and pulling it away. “What?” Charles’ voice is gentle, his turn to be soothing.

“It could be twins. People can show this quickly when expecting multiples.”

“Twins?” His eyes are wide and they drop back to her stomach and he’s gently, so gently, moving her hand away from her stomach and pressing his lips to the skin. “Twins, we could be having twins.”

She laughs, a wide smile spreading across her face at his excitement at the idea. “Most guys would not be having this reaction.”

He shakes his head, moving to kiss her. “They are our babies, I’d be happy if there were five.”

She winces at the thought, but he’s kissing her before she can say anything to the thought, the idea.

[animeandhorrorgirl]

Huntrix with Chubby! reader

Content warnings : fluff,I’m new to writing fanfics,reader has boobs , reader is a civilian but knows what the girls do,the girls being down bad for reader, wlw, GAY

Rumi<3

She couldn’t care less what you look like but she still love your chub

If you ever start to feel insecure she’ll pick you up in a bridal carry (she kills demons and her dad is a demon you KNOW she’s strong) and sit you on the bed before kissing all over telling you everything she loves about you while making you repeat it back to her till you get it through your head.

PILLOW! she uses you as a pillow more specifically your tummy and thighs all the time! after a hard day of practice, killing demons, preforming or just relaxing during a rest day.

Her randomly picking you up and placing you on her lap or chest like a weighted blanket even in public because to her it’s comforting

Her making jokes that you’re stretch marks are like her stripes and tracing them and you tracing hers

Also

Mira

Again she doesn’t care what you look like but she does like the contrast between the two of you she looking intimidating and you looking sweet

She’ll just randomly picking you and and carry you around just because you once told her you’re ex couldn’t

She’ll have you sit next to her during press runs and interviews with your legs in her lap just to show the world you are taken (we love a possessive woman)

I feel like she just randomly grabs you boobs for no reason other than because she can, she also dose this mostly in public

When you are out of the public eye she’ll lay her head in your lap so you’ll play with her hair because it’s calming to her.

Also when yall are alone she’ll literally play with your boobs like a cat with a toy, just randomly poking them and moving them to see them jiggle and she acts like it’s the funnest thing in the world

Also random butt grabs

Zoey

I don’t know why but I feel like she would prefer a chubby girlfriend over a skinny one (no hate to my skinny girls)

She has on more than one occasion asked you to squish her head in between your thighs, your thighs are her favorite she always has a hand on them, laying her head on them, or she’s sitting on them , or you’re sitting on hers

KISSES KISSES YOU EVERY WHERE

Loves to show you off to the world

Calls you her wife during interviews and says yall are married if they ask her if she’s single

Wears your T-shirts to sleep in

Polly! Huntrix

Y’all have group cuddle sessions at the end of the day just basking in each others presence as they unwind

You’re always in someone’s lap no matter what and you’ll never have to pick up silverware again because they just love feeding you

Your going to be covered in kisses when you go to bed

If you show up in a silk or satin dress I think they’d die of happiness they love how you look in them

Please warn them when you’re going to wear something revealing they end up dying from a nose bleed if you don’t

Love yall and I hope you enjoyed it! Please give me advice on how to improve my writing and remember to drink water and that the world is better with you in it 🩷

[solarhysm]

DUST OF US - 09

> synopsis: 7 years ago Y/N broke Jungkook’s heart when she decided to end their relationship without an explanation. When they meet again at a friend's wedding, after almost a decade, Jungkook needs answers to move on.

> pairing: Jungkook x reader

> genre: romance, ex to lovers au

> warnings: explicit languages, violence, smut, cheating, nsfw, angst, +18 minors dni !!

> word count: 4.3k

*french writer, i apologize in advance for my awful english!

It feels like the world is falling on Jungkook.

He’s let things drag on, and now he’s stuck. Hina traveled all the way here to see him—because he neglected her. Spending those weeks with you felt like living in his own little paradise, and even though he texted Hina sometimes, she was long forgotten the moment you were around. And now, Jungkook feels like an asshole. He became what he always despised: a player.

Slowly, he sits up on the bed, palming his face as he looks at the sleeping body next to him. Neither of you deserves the way he’s treating you. 

He knows where his heart lies—it belongs to you. But he can’t just sneak back into your life like nothing happened with Hina still unaware that her ‘fiancé’ is the villain in this story.

He gets out of bed, giving one last glance at Hina before walking to the living room, soaked in darkness, and collapses on the couch. He has explaining to do. To both of you. 

He scrolls through your messages—each one asking if everything is okay, to call you when he can. He didn’t reply to a single one. And he knows he has to, before you knock on Jimin’s door, worried.

“Fuck,” Jungkook mutters, throwing his phone aside and burying his face in his hands.

“Is everything okay?” Jimin’s voice pulls him out of the spiral.

Jungkook lifts his head to find his best friend standing in the doorway.

“Does it look like it?” he breathes, watching Jimin grab two beers from the fridge before heading out to the balcony.

Jungkook follows him silently and sits next to him, mumbling a quiet “Thanks” for the bottle. The cold beer is a pathetic contrast to the heat burning in his chest.

“I’m going to lose Nabi… And hurt Hina.” He mumbles taking a sip of his beer, jaw clenched as Jimin nods slowly, looking at the city above them. “I’m a fucking asshole. I deserve neither of them.”

“You’re right.” Jimin hums without hesitation.

“You’re supposed to comfort me.” Jungkook turns to him, frowning.

“I’m your best friend, not your fan. I’m supposed to call out your bullshit.” Jimin corrects him making Jungkook nods in defeat. “I told you to end things with Hina before starting something with Y/N. I told you to tell her the truth. Didn’t I?”

He sighs, nodding again. Jimin has told him. Again and again. He knows it.

“I was supposed to buy that plane ticket weeks ago… to end things with Hina. But I let time pass, and now it’s worse.” Jungkook whispers, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“What are you gonna do?” Jimin asks quietly, letting his friend find his own answers. 

“I can’t lie to Hina. I don’t love her. I don’t want to drag her into a loveless marriage.”

“You didn’t want to marry her to begin with.” Jimin points out.

Again, his bestfriend is right. He had no intentions to marry Hina to start. Jungkook is a people-pleaser, especially when it comes to the people he dates. When Hina found the ring he had hidden, he didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t for her.

“If she didn’t find the ring,” Jimin asks, “would you have ever proposed to her?”

“No.” Jungkook admits, looking at the floor. “I never imagined marrying anyone but Y/N.”

“That’s your problem. You always let life make decisions for you.” Jimin sighs, staring at his friend. “What are you scared of?”

Jungkook looks down, taking a deep breath.

“Hurting them.” He replies in a whisper.

"You're hurting them more by lying." Jimin shakes his head. "When Hina found Y/N's ring, you could have told her it wasn’t what she thought and told her the truth. Instead, you let her believe the ring was for her when it clearly wasn’t. And now you have to watch her wearing the ring of your first love."

“You’re right.” Jungkook pinches his lips together. “I’m a fucking loser who runs from his problems.”

But he wants to fix that.

“I’m telling Hina the truth tomorrow morning. I’ll pay for her return ticket,” Jungkook says. “And then… And then….” He swallows hardly before hiding his face in his hands. “Fuck, Nabi is going to hate me.”

“You don’t know that,” Jimin says, trying to comfort him.

“No… I know it. She told me.” Jungkook shakes his head. “I can only blame myself. Fuck… I feel like the day she left me.”

Jimin sighs and looks down at his beer.

“She’s not a kid anymore. Y/N’s mature. She knows you.” He gives Jungkook’s shoulder a small squeeze. “She knows you’re a dumbass, even when you’re being genuine.”

Jungkook nods slowly, but it doesn’t make him feel better. He knows Jimin is just trying to be kind.

“Kookie… you’re not a bad person. Some part of you was just too excited to have her back, and you stopped thinking with your brain,” Jimin adds, and Jungkook lets out a dry chuckle. “But you’re not sixteen anymore. Be honest. Tell her the truth. She’ll explode, yeah, but once she calms down, she’ll come back to you.”

“I don’t really think so,” Jungkook mutters, taking a breath.

“Dude. We both know her. She plays tough, but she never loved anyone the way she loves you. She’ll come around—with time. Just… don’t push her.” Jimin tilts his head to catch Jungkook’s eyes.

He knows Jimin is probably right. If you didn’t love him back, you wouldn’t have let him come back into your life. It only took a few months, a few dates and one trip to Busan, to ignite something again. 

Even after seven years. Because deep down, Jungkook will always have a special place in your heart. Just like you in his. You’re meant to be. And it was written a long time ago already.

Jungkook reads your messages but doesn’t answer. Not because he doesn’t want to. But because he has to have that conversation with Hina first.He sleeps on the couch that night. At least he had a few perfect weeks with you.

That’s the only comfort he can afford right now. Jimin gives him space for that big conversation he’s about to have, dragging Kentaro out of the apartment.

Jungkook stares into his coffee, hands clasped tightly around the warm mug when Hina walks into the kitchen with a soft smile.

"Good morning," she says.

"Good morning," he replies, avoiding her eyes. She leans in for a kiss, but he gently pulls away. "Hina... I-I have something to tell you." He adds, stepping back to grab a mug for her.

Hina tilts her head curiously as she watches him pouring her a cup of coffee before setting it on the counter in front of her.

"Did something happen?" she asks, her voice laced with growing worry.

"I... I saw her."

Hina’s face falls. She knows exactly who he means. She’s heard every story, seen the pictures at his parents’ house. You’ve always been there, like a shadow, like a memory he couldn’t quite shake.

“I see.” Hina says, swallowing hard.

“I’m sorry.”

She takes a deep breath, nodding.

“I understand.” It’s all she manages to say, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Hina has never had a problem living with the ghost of you hovering behind Jungkook. When she met him, they were two heartbroken souls trying to heal. She turned the page. He never did. And she knew that.

She envied the love he had for you. And a part of her always hoped… that one day, he might love her like that too.

“I love you,” she says, softly.

He pinches his lips together, staring down at his coffee. Silence hangs between them before he finally lifts his gaze.

“I love you too… but not in the same way.” He swallows, standing straighter. “Hina… I can’t marry you.”

His eyes fall on her as she’s silent, chewing the inside of her cheek. He wants to punch himself for hurting her. She doesn’t deserve what he’s putting her through.

“Hina—”

“I heard you.” She nods. “Does she love you back?”

“She does.” His voice is low. He looks like it’s physically hurting him to say this to the only genuinely good person he’s ever known.

“I’ll never be the one to stand in your way.” She takes his hand in hers. “If it’s meant to be, go. I want you to be happy.”

Jungkook gets up when he sees the tear fall from her cheek. He walks over and pulls her into a hug as she starts sobbing.

“I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” His voice breaks as he tightens his arms around her.

Hina pulls back and looks at him as he gently wipes the tears from her cheek with his thumb. He feels horrible to hurt her. Jimin was right, if he did that earlier, he wouldn’t be here right now.

“I want you to find someone who’ll love you… completely.” Jungkook says as she nods, sniffing. “That person isn’t me. If I marry you, I’ll always think of her. You don’t deserve that.”

“Thank you… Jungkook.” She whispers, looking down. “And I hope she knows how lucky she is to have you.”

He wants to say she’s wrong. That he’s just a coward who cheated on his fiancée with his first love because he can’t keep his dick in his pants. But this isn’t the time to make it about him, and he knows he’d look even more like a narcissistic asshole if he talked about himself right now. So he stays silent. 

“Well,” Hina takes a deep breath, wiping her cheeks. “I’m here for five more days. I’m probably asking too much, but can I… at least have you for that time?”

“W-What?” Jungkook blinks.

“Not as your fiancée. Just… as your friend.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. She should hate him, but instead she wants to make the most of the days they have left.

“You did promise to show me Seoul,” she adds with a sad smile.

“I did.” He gives her a soft look.

“She’s lucky to be loved by you,” Hina says again, then hesitates. “I, uh… I’ll move my things out of your room—”

“No. Stay. I’ll sleep on the couch,” Jungkook insists. “You’re not going to spend your last days here stuck in Jimin’s living room.”

She nods. And maybe Jungkook is the lucky one—for having known someone like Hina at all.

“Do you think we’ll still be friends after I go back to Tokyo?” she asks quietly, playing with the spoon in her coffee.

“Do you… want that?” Jungkook frowns. “I disrespected you. I cheated on you. Lied to you.”

Hina chuckles softly, her fingers caressing the wood of the counter as she takes a deep breath.

“I won’t lie, I’m a little upset that she came back in your life. But I also understand that you love her. You were still healing when we met. I knew what I was walking into when I fell for you.” Hina explains as Jungkook nods.

He looks down at his mug, guilt crushing him.

“But… thank you,” she adds, voice barely above a whisper. “For not letting me be the other woman.”

That hits him hard. Because she could’ve been. So easily.

“Maybe… if she hadn’t come back, you would’ve moved on. Maybe it would’ve faded with time,” Hina adds, chewing her bottom lip.

He doesn’t agree. Not even a little. Because he never forgot you—even before seeing you again at Hyesun’s wedding. He had actually hoped never to meet you again. Because he knew. He knew he could never erase you from his memory. You were, and still are, the love of his life—now and forever. And Hina couldn’t change a thing.

You were never going to fade. Not from his skin, not from his bones.

“I need to call her now… to… explain.” Jungkook says simply, exhaling deeply before leaving the kitchen.

He knows Hina is probably still watching him. Raking a nervous hand through his hair, he grabs his phone and starts pacing in Jimin’s room. He sits on the edge of the bed, thumb between his teeth, praying, just a little, that you won’t pick up.

But you do.

And he hears your voice—slightly breathless like you were waiting for his call and ran to your phone, slightly worried.

“Kook? Why didn’t you reply to my texts? I tried to—”

“Nabi…” he murmurs, and you go quiet. He can feel your silence in his chest.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls and texts. I had something going on here, and—”

“Is everything alright?” you cut him off gently. “Are you okay?”

“I am. Please, don’t worry about me,” he says, wishing he could just teleport into your arms and kiss the worry off your face. “I’m okay. Just… yeah.”

He presses his palm against his face. Hina was the easier part. You… you're going to be the hardest truth he’ll ever have to face.

“Do you want me to come?” you ask softly.

He shakes his head instinctively, as if you’re standing right in front of him.

“No. I’ll be back at the end of the week. I just… I have something I need to finish here.” His voice drops. “Nabi… I’ll explain everything. I promise.”

“What?”

“Just… trust me.”

Silence.

“Y/N?”

“I’m here,” you whisper. He wonders what you’re doing. Are you sitting? Standing? Crying?

“Don’t worry, okay? It’s nothing. Really,” he lies, swallowing his own guilt. “I love you, Nabi.” His voice cracks. “I just wanted you to know.”

And before you can say anything before he can hear something that might break him further, he hangs up.

You only just found each other again. You haven’t said it back yet, and with the way things are now, he doesn’t want to hear it. Not like this. Not when he knows he still has a storm to confess. He doesn’t want to break his heart harder once he’ll tell you the truth.

When he steps out of the room, Kentaro and Jimin are unpacking groceries. Hina’s still sitting at the counter. Silent. Like she has been all day. Jungkook sinks into the stool next to her and feels the weight of everything crash back down. But he knows that he’s the only one to blame. Jimin glances a few times in his direction, without saying anything.

The rest of the afternoon blurs. He dissociates, barely notice when Kentaro put a beer in his hand. His brain is somewhere between regret and memory. Somewhere between your laugh and Hina crying in his arms.

The sound of Kentaro’s voice yanks him back.

“Why do you look like someone just died?” he groans playfully, tossing a pillow at Jungkook.

“What?” Jungkook blinks, barely registering.

“You’ve got your fiancée, your best friends, and you still look like you’re on another planet.”

He is. He’s on your couch, in your arms, watching some dumb drama with you and stealing glances every time you laugh.

“Sorry.” He sighs, rubbing his face and taking a sip of the beer.

“Let’s play a game!” Kentaro suggests.

“We’re not in college anymore,” Jimin groans, playfully shoving him.

“So? You’re not fifty or something either.” Kentaro replies, pushing him back in return.

The doorbell rings.

Jungkook doesn’t flinch. His eyes stay fixed on the droplets sliding down his bottle. Jimin gets up. Hina squeezes his hand, still trying to be the gentle one. He doesn’t deserve her kindness.

Then he hears you.

“Where is he?”

You sound breathless. Worried. Urgent.

“Y/N—” Jimin starts, but you’re already through the living room.

You freeze.

Jungkook is sitting on the couch. Hina’s beside him. Her hand is on his. Her other hand rests on his back. And when your eyes lock on his, the world stops.

“Hello?” Kentaro raises a brow.

“I came here as soon as the shop closed,” you say, voice tight, eyes darting between their hands and Jungkook’s blank face. “I thought something was wrong. I thought you needed me.”

“Y/N…” Jungkook breathes, getting to his feet, panic crawling up his throat.

You take in the setting: half-finished beers, snacks, music humming in the background. It’s not the emergency you pictured when he said he couldn’t see you until the end of the week.

“So you’re here, partying with your friends?” you ask, your tone sharper now. “That’s why you couldn’t see me?” You step closer. “Cuddling with… who are you?”

Hina stands up, understanding who you are without being told.

Jungkook’s brain short-circuits. He wanted to tell you this...not like this. Not with everyone watching.

“We weren’t—” Hina starts.

“Of course you weren’t,” you cut sarcastically, shaking your head.

“Nabi…” Jungkook reaches for your arm.

You step back.

“Wait. The Nabi?” Kentaro stares like he’s seen a ghost. “You're the Nabi?”

You frown at his words like they’re absurd, and yet Kentaro is staring at you like he’s seeing a ghost. Of course, all of Jungkook’s friends know who you are, even the ones you’ve never met. Jungkook can feel the dominoes falling.

“Can we talk in private?” he asks, gently, stepping toward you.

You’re trying so hard not to explode. You want—need—to believe there’s a logical explanation. That you misunderstood. That this isn’t betrayal, not really.

“Are you okay with that?” Kentaro asks, worried for his friend, as Hina who widens her eyes and shakes her head for him to not say too much. “What? You’re his fiancée after all.”

Your brows widen, your gaze falling on the other woman in the room, right behind Jungkook. Jungkook sighs, closing his eyes.

“Fiancée?” You repeat. Your gaze whips from Hina to Jungkook. “Fiancée?”

And just when Kentaro opens his mouth, Jungkook raises his voice.

“Shut your fucking mouth, man. For God sakes!” Jungkook snaps making Kentaro freezes.

It’s the first time that his friend sees him explode like that.

Jungkook knows that Kentaro is loud, it’s not his fault. He’s not aware of the situation here. He doesn’t even know half of the story.

“Y/N…” Jungkook says your name in a breath as he takes a step to you, taking your hand. “Let me explain—”

“Explain what?” you hiss, yanking your hand from his. He sees that you’re connecting dots in your head. “That story about your friend juggling two girls? That was you, wasn’t it?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I knew something smelled off,” you laugh bitterly. “But I told myself, ‘Jungkook would never.’” You glare. “And yet… here we are.”

Jungkook’s heart clenches at your words, and he swallows hard. His throat is so dry he almost coughs, though he’s not sure if it’s a cough or a cry he swallowed in that moment. The look on your face right now is exactly what he tried to avoid. But deep down, he knew that with all the shit he did, it was only a matter of time.

“And you’re okay with it?” You turn to Hina, who takes a deep breath, her eyes dropping to the floor like she’s intimidated by you, and Jungkook can understand why. “I can’t believe it,” you say, letting a dry chuckle escape your throat as you take a step back.

Jungkook is bleeding his emotions through every pore. His skin burns. His throat aches. He can’t breathe.

“You should dump him. In that story, he said you were just someone ‘special.’ Someone you’re about to marry shouldn’t think so little of you.”

Jungkook’s eyes fall on his thumb, which he’s nervously scratching, ripping the skin next to his nail until it bleeds.

“He played both of us.” You shake your head, grabbing your bag from the floor. “Don’t try to contact me ever again,” you spit at Jungkook before turning your back and walking to the door.

Jungkook takes a tentative step forward, but he’s stopped when the door is kicked closed. He’s torn between apologizing again to Hina, showing her the respect she deserves, and running after you. But when his eyes meet Hina’s, she gives him a small nod, silently telling him to go after you.

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook whispers to Hina, not waiting for anyone’s reaction as he rushes to the door.

He stops at the elevator, jabbing the button with shaky fingers. You’re probably already inside. His mind races—no, panics—and he doesn’t waste a second before sprinting to the stairs.

Jungkook catches your arm just in time, right before you reach the front door of the building.

“Nabi, let me explain,” he pants, out of breath.

You push him away and keep walking, stepping out into the night.

“I’m not with her anymore!” he shouts, chasing after you.

“I should give you a medal, then,” you snap, yanking your car door open. But before you can get inside, he slams it shut, trapping you between him and the car.

“Get off.”

“Y/N,” he pleads, steadying his breath. “I’m not letting you go until you let me explain.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, probably hard enough to taste blood. Your arms cross tightly under your chest, and Jungkook exhales shakily. You're not walking away. You’re angry. But you’re listening. That flicker of hope nearly kills him.

He reaches out to touch your arm, then stops himself. You don’t want him touching you. Not right now.

“You’re the only one I want, Y/N,” he says softly. It sounds more like a beg than a declaration.

“You played on two boards, Jungkook.” Your voice is cold. “You lied to me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He swallows hard. “But that wasn’t what I wanted. None of this—”

“What?” you cut him off. “Sleeping with me? Or asking her to marry you?”

You try to open the door again. He blocks it.

“Shit, Y/N, listen to me.” His voice raises instinctively. Your eyes widen. He instantly backpedals. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”

His tone softens.

“Nabi…” He gently cups your face to make you look at him. “Have I ever made you doubt that I love you?”

Your eyes meet his. For a moment, nothing exists but the two of you.

Then you shake your head slowly. No...he’s never made you doubt that.

He never hid that you were his entire heart.

“I never thought I’d see you again after you left. I tried to move on, date others... but fuck, Y/N. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to marry. You know that.” He swallows. “When I saw you at Hyesun’s wedding... I didn’t even think. I had to. Because our story wasn’t over. We both knew it.”

Your eyes close briefly like his words cut too deep.

“But that girl,” you take a deep breath, reopening your eyes. “She was still your fiancée. Maybe not now, but she was—when you asked me out. When we kissed. When we fucked.” You gesture wildly; your voice full of fire.

Jungkook sighs, his head falling forward as he rests his forehead against yours.

“Things got out of control. I hurt both of you, I know. That was never what I wanted.” His voice breaks. “I was just so fucking happy to have you back, I lost sight of what I needed to do. I should’ve broken up with her the second I realized it. Wherever you are, I’ll be there too. That I will never love anyone the way I love you.”

You shut your eyes. It’s too much. You feel it, he knows you do. But will that be enough?

“Please, Y/N. Forgive me. I fixed it. I swear. I told her everything—I’m with you. Only you.”

Jungkook sees the way you take a step back, bumping into your car. His stomach drops.

“I don’t date cheaters,” you say quietly, lifting your chin. “You should’ve never come back into my life, Jeon Jungkook.”

“Y/N…” he breathes, taking a step back like your words physically knock him down.

“You think because you broke up with her recently, I’m just going to smile and open my bed to you again?” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re a fucking liar. A narcissist who thought he could have both. What was I, huh? A side chick?”

“How could you say that?” Jungkook frowns looking at you, rolling your eyes. “I’ve never treated you as a ‘side chick’. You were never that to me. Never. Fuck, Y/N. What should I do to prove to you that I’m genuine about my feelings for you?”

He watches as your gaze drops, your jaw tight. A tear slips from your eye, trailing down your cheek.

“Disappear from my life.” You reply with difficulty before wiping your cheek angrily with the sleeve of your jacket.

“No…” He shakes his head, his view blurring slowly. “You can’t ask me that.”

You take a deep breath, pulling your car door open again. He grabs your wrist—not hard, but desperate. This conversation isn’t over for him. He wants to fix everything; he wants to go back to how perfect you two were a few days ago.

“Let go.” You warn making him frown. “Let go, or I’ll punch you. I’m not kidding.”

Jungkook’s hand fall back on his side at your words. Not because he fears your punch. But because he fears your hate more than anything else in this world. He watches your car drive off, the red of your taillights disappearing down the street.

And even though his heart is in ruins, he clings to one thing: This isn’t the end. You both just need time to cool down. He just got you back. he’s not going to let you go. Not again.

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WATTPAD.

[im-out-here-living-tho]

the more i think about kpop demon hunters the more i love this movie

because they managed to integrate two types of villains in the movie, even if one of them wasn't as prominent as the other one

not only did they use the classic villain, gwi-ma, the demon king, with bad intentions and morals and ethics and purely selfish who looks out only for himself

but they also managed to use this representation that we have seen more and more of, that portrays generational trauma and what not as a big influence on the outcome of someone, and we see that through the relationship between rumi and celine, because so much of the movie could have been avoided if only celine accepted rumi's demon heritage, but she couldn't, because she was told that all demons are evil and was trained to kill them on sight, and suddenly she has this child that is half of her friend and half of everything she was taught to hate, and she can't conform the ideia that maybe it's okay for rumi to be half demon because that goes against everything she's been told, so she does the only thing she knows and teaches rumi (and mira and zoey ofc) what she was taught, and tells rumi that she will only be completely good once they get rid of her patterns (using a method that, let's be honest, she's not even completely sure will work), of the evil inside this little girl she was raising on her own, and that is all rumi knows, and that goal, to seal the honmoon so that she can erase the patterns from her skin and be a whole human and huntress because that part of her is wrong, is what drives her to the edge, to overwork herself, to try to do anything in her power to close the honmoon forever, to create a distance between herself and her friends, to not know who she really is, to take so long to accept herself wholly, as a human, as a hunter and as a demon

but yeah, i don't know how to finish this post because i feel like this last idea of celine's ideals and incapability to accept rumi as she is is still very much unfinished, but i still find of so interesting how they managed to incorporate this two very different but still slightly similar in some ways villain images in the story