#and things are still going horribly for her

[no-144444]

miami blues- o.piastri

꩜summary: for some reason he took lando's advice, it doesn't go horribly... kinda

꩜pairing: oscar piastri x ex! single mom! fem! reader

[08.43, 8th of May, Miami] 

“Hey umm,” he sighed, feeling every bit as awkward as he was being. “I was wondering if you’re in Miami yet?”

“Yeah. We just got here. Settling into the hotel. How are you?” you asked, your voice calm but he could tell something was off.

“All good. Okay umm,” he swiped a hand down his face as he tried to muster up the courage to ask yet another impossible question. “Is there any way I could see you guys tonight? If you’re free? And how are you?” he hit himself in the head, embarrassment running through his veins.

The other side of the line was quiet for a moment. “Yeah sure. I’ll drop Mia by your room if you’d like?” you offered.

He paused for a moment. Where would you be? “Yeah of course, that’d be perfect, thank you,” he nodded. “You’re welcome to come too, obviously,” he added, hoping he wasn’t being so blatant about his want for you to be there. 

Again, you paused. “That’s alright. I think you two know each other well enough and I trust you with her, it could be your first time on your own,” the smile you plastered on your face was fake, and so was that cheery tone of your voice. “It’d be nice to have a night off as well, if you don’t mind.” 

“Of course!” he rushed out, wanting to let you have a good night. “No, that’s perfect, thank you.” 

“Great,” you huffed out. “I’ll drop her over at like… 7ish and pick her up at 10?”

He smiled despite the weirdness between the two of you. He had Mia for the night, something to look forward to. “That’s perfect, thanks Y/n.”

You hung up without another word. 

Oscar was nervous to have Mia on his own. She was a brilliant kid and he loved her more than anything in the world, but it was strange, usually he could look at you if he didn’t know what to do. Those parenting books he’d been devouring weren’t doing much either, but they had some good tips and games, so he wasn’t livid. The knock on the door sent the butterflies in his stomach flying all over the place and he literally had to take a deep breath before opening the door. It reminded him of the first time you two went out. You were going to the cinema. You had agreed to go out with him by some grace of God, and he knew he wasn’t messing it up. He had been so nervous, but you just seemed calm, like this was normal. Like it wasn’t the single greatest moment of his life. 

“Hey,” he smiled, immediately taking Mia out of your arms. “Hey baby,” he smiled at her as she hugged him tight, clinging onto his shirt. “How are you?” 

“Good,” she nodded, hiding in his neck. “Excited.”

“Me too,” he chuckled, taking her bag off of you as you watched the two of them with fond eyes. 

“Hey,” you smiled, watching as your daughter clung to him. It pulled on your heartstrings sometimes. You’d always known Oscar wanted to be a dad, and you felt almost… guilty for keeping Mia from him for so many years. Obviously, it wasn’t exactly your choice, considering he was the one who ended it and blocked you, but still, it didn't feel right that he didn’t get to see her when she was so small. “Can I come in?” 

“Of course,” he nodded, making room for you to walk in. His hotel room was the size of an apartment, and you stared. You almost forgot he was an F1 driver sometimes, especially when he was holding Mia like that and looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the world. “How are you?” he asked as he placed Mia down on the couch, starting to unpack the dinner he’d ordered. Of course he already knew her favourite foods, of course. 

“I’m good,” you nodded, arms crossed as you looked around. “Tired, but good,” 

“How was the flight?” he asked. “Sorry I couldn’t fly with you two.” 

“Not a problem,” you smiled. “And thank you for the upgrades, you really didn’t have to do that.” 

“It’s the least I can do,” he shrugged.

A flat smile made its way onto your face. “We both know that’s not true.” 

He looked up, trying to decode whatever that meant, but you were already preoccupied with looking at the view. The Miami seafront. You could see the track from up there. It was beautiful. The low lights of the hotel room gave the entire space a nice glow, you liked it. “So what are you going to do with your night off?” he asked, serving Mia up her dinner. 

You debated on telling him, then decided against it. “Just relaxing. Maybe watch a movie.” 

“Nice,” he nodded. “Well, I’m good here if you’re good to go. Don’t want you to miss your movie,’ he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. You could see that he wanted you to stay. It tore a hole in your heart. 

“Yeah, see you later,” you smiled flatly before heading over to Mia and giving her a kiss, then out the door. He felt that hole in his own chest ache. God, why was this so fucking confusing?

“Dad,” Mia was grinning, he could hear it. It pulled at his heart in the best way when she called him dad, and maybe all this heartache was worth it for her.

Mark was usually right about things. Going to McLaren. Putting a number two driver clause in. Doing physics for his A levels. 

“They’re no good for you.” 

That was complete and utter bollocks. Oscar’s jaw tensed. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Maybe he’d been bragging about Mia and how he got to have her for the night, and yes, he knew it was getting repetitive for his dad and Mark, but holy shit. Who says that? That’s fucked. His dad stared between the two of them, watching it play out as the air filled with tension.

Mark scoffed. “I mean, you broke up with her for a fucking reason Osc, get your head out of family life and back into the car mate” 

“I happen to enjoy putting my head into my family life, mate,” he spat. “And it’s not like it’s having any effect on the track, and if it has, it’s been good.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “You’re 24 and have a 4 year old. Your ex-girlfriend didn’t tell you about her. Maybe you’re not meant to be in her life,” he shrugged. 

“Well, I am in her life, and that’s what’s happening. If you don’t like that, you can keep it to yourself mate,” he scoffed. “And I broke up with her because you told me to. You said I needed to put my head down and work. Well I have worked. I’ve worked so fucking hard and maybe Mia and Y/n are the nice part of my life that really aren’t worth sacrificing right now, considering everyone here has gone insane,” he gestured to the table, his blood boiling. 

“Osc, I think what Mark is trying to say is that you have a real chance this year. We just don’t want you to throw it away for her. And we are also aware of the timing and how… opportune it is,” Chris added, and Oscar saw red. 

“Dad, you out of everyone should be able to see the fact that Y/n isn’t anything but completely honest. She told me everything, she told me I didn’t have to help with Mia in any way, this was my choice. This was what I wanted. Have you guys gone insane?” he questioned, really feeling like he was the only sane human in the room. “She hasn’t asked for child support, she didn’t ask me to move to London, she didn’t ask me to take Mia. I love Mia, and yeah, I still love Y/n. Is that complicated? Sure. Is it ideal? Not really. But it’s the truth. I care about them, and they’re part of my life whether you like that or not.” 

Mark and Chris watched as he walked away, more fired up than they’d even seen him. 

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[nquesoxlies]

I wanted to write this on the off chance it makes certain people reconsider their harassment of LFJ, particularly the people who are tagging him in comments about his family.

This month the Ferrigno children had to testify in court against their own father, on behalf of their incapacitated mother. Their mother had to take out a DV restraining order against their father in the early days of her dementia diagnosis. Their father has totally cut her off financially, leaving her kids to fully support the round the clock in-home care she needs.

I also wanted to share that Mama Ferrigno is a badass. She was assaulted by Bill Cosby and came out publicly to support survivors in a video. She defended her children from her abusive husband for years. What's happening to her now is appalling and she, and her children, deserve better. And that includes not having randos on the internet saying awful shit about her and tagging her son in it because of a TV show.

The entire situation is fucking horrible and I don't talk about it because we shouldn't need to bring up people's personal lives to try and stop harassment, people should just be kind. But it is good to remind others that even though it's "just the internet" you don't know what someone might be going through at any given moment.

We need to stop sending threats and off the wall accusations to people we know nothing about. It's one thing to comment about a blatant homophobic or racist take, but it's completely unacceptable to just @ someone randomly on a Tuesday and tell them to go kill themselves.

And I appreciate you, Annie for typing this all up for people to read and maybe change but I'm afraid that the handful of people we're still dealing with are too immature and hateful to give a shit about anyone other than themselves.

[jikookncity]

HockeyPlayer!Mark x Tutor!Reader

WC. 3.4k, mainly fluff, one vanilla smut scene, lots of cute kisses, hand holding, etc.

Mark Lee was a lot of things — captain of the university hockey team, wildly popular, infamously late to class, and currently staring at his failing calculus midterm like it personally insulted him.

“Mark,” Professor Kim sighed as he flipped through Mark’s paper, eyebrows furrowing. “You're the captain. You lose eligibility, and you're off the ice.”

“I know,” Mark mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m trying, I swear.”

“You need help. And I know just the person,” Professor Kim said, sliding a post-it with a name and number across the desk. “Y/N L/N. She’s top of every class, especially math. And kind enough to help students who are willing to try.”

Mark stared at the name. He recognized it — who didn’t? Y/N was always at the front of the lecture hall, answering questions no one else dared raise their hand for, notebook meticulously organized, and seemingly unaware of the way every professor lit up when she spoke. She was brilliant… and way out of his league.

Still, Mark was nothing if not hopeful — and desperate.

First Lesson

When he met her at the library that Friday, she was already seated, books open, highlighter in hand. She looked up when he approached, offering a polite smile.

“You’re Mark, right?” she asked.

He nodded, suddenly hyper-aware of how sweaty his palms were. “Yeah, uh, thanks for doing this. I’m kind of... hopeless.”

“You’re not hopeless,” she said kindly, patting the seat beside her. “Just a little behind. We can fix that.”

She made math feel… less like a nightmare. She didn’t laugh when he messed up or scold him when he forgot basic formulas. She explained things patiently, her voice calm and soothing, and Mark found himself nodding along not just because he understood, but because he liked hearing her talk.

By the second session, Mark wasn’t just showing up on time — he was early. By the third, he was bringing her coffee. By the fourth, he was falling, hard.

He liked the way her eyes lit up when she solved a particularly difficult problem. The way she scrunched her nose when concentrating. The way she’d smile softly when he finally got an answer right.

She was smart — ridiculously smart — and kind, and funny without even trying. And she didn’t treat him like some dumb jock. She treated him like he mattered.

Finally...

“Hey,” Mark said at the end of one of their tutoring sessions, nervously bouncing his leg. “I, uh… I was wondering…”

Y/N looked up, pen between her fingers. “Yeah?”

“You’ve helped me so much,” he began, “so I thought maybe I could… teach you something?”

Her brows lifted in curiosity. “Like what?”

Mark smiled, heart pounding. “Ice skating. You ever been?”

She laughed softly. “Not since I was ten. I was horrible.”

“Perfect,” he said, grinning. “Then I’ll be the smart one for once.”

They met at the rink on Saturday night, the place quiet except for the occasional hum of the overhead lights and the distant echo of their laughter. Mark laced up her skates for her, fingers brushing her ankle. Y/N felt the flutter in her stomach but said nothing.

He helped her step onto the ice, holding her hands in his as she wobbled.

“You got this,” he said, squeezing gently. “Just trust me.”

She nodded, clinging to him tightly as they took slow, careful steps across the rink. He didn’t let go. Not even when she fell — twice — right into his arms.

By the time they were gliding, somewhat steadily, she was laughing, cheeks pink from the cold and proximity.

“See? You’re doing amazing,” he said, slowing them to a stop in the middle of the rink. His hands lingered at her waist.

“You’re a good teacher,” she said softly, eyes meeting his.

They were close — breath-clouds mingling in the cold air, hands still holding one another, hearts beating just a little too fast. Mark’s gaze flicked to her lips, then back to her eyes.

He swallowed hard. “Can I… take you out? For real this time?”

Y/N’s lips curved into a smile. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

Official Date Night

The campus festival was in full swing — the grassy courtyard transformed with rows of colorful stalls, string lights twinkling between trees, and the air filled with laughter, sizzling food, and indie music playing from the main stage. Mark adjusted his denim jacket as he looked around, heart racing faster than when he was skating full speed toward a goal.

He spotted her immediately, waiting near the lantern display, wearing a soft sweater and jeans, hair pinned back. She turned at the sound of his footsteps and gave him the kind of smile that made his stomach twist in the best way.

“You made it,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Mark smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

They walked side by side, weaving through the crowds, stopping at booths for games and snacks. She won them both matching cat ear headbands at a ring toss booth — “for team spirit,” she claimed, laughing as he pulled his on with mock pride. Mark was a little obsessed with the way she looked when she laughed — completely carefree, eyes shining.

When they reached the food stalls, Mark bought them a double scoop of cookies and cream in a waffle cone.

“For the best tutor-slash-skater I know,” he said as he handed it to her.

“Sharing?” she teased, offering the first bite to him.

He leaned in and took it, their eyes locked the whole time. His heart was thudding. He wiped a bit of cream from the corner of her mouth with his thumb and swore she blushed.

As the sky dimmed into evening and fairy lights flickered to life overhead, they strolled beneath the glowing trees. Music floated through the air — couples were dancing near the stage, but Mark felt too nervous to ask.

Instead, he glanced down at their hands. He’d been thinking about holding hers since the start of the night, but now his palms were clammy and his brain was short-circuiting.

Do it. Just do it.

He took a breath and slowly reached out, his pinky brushing hers. She looked at him, confused for a second, then smiled so sweetly it knocked the air from his lungs — and gently linked her fingers with his.

Warm. Soft. Perfect.

He looked down at their hands like he couldn’t believe it, then up at her face, flushed pink. She was looking ahead, but her smile hadn’t left. Mark’s grin was unstoppable.

They walked hand-in-hand for the rest of the night, sharing ice cream, shy glances, and quiet giggles.

Later that night, Mark flopped onto the couch in the shared apartment he rented with a few of his hockey teammates. His head was still spinning from the festival — from the way her fingers had laced with his like they were meant to be there.

Johnny looked up from the video game he was playing, pausing mid-round.

“So… you finally held her hand?” he asked, grinning like he already knew.

Mark blinked. “How did you—?”

“Dude. You’ve been talking about this girl for a month. We’re not blind.” Johnny tossed him a bottle of water. “Did you kiss her?”

Mark blushed instantly. “No.”

“No?!” Jaemin leaned out from the kitchen. “Bro, you bought her ice cream, held her hand, she wore the cat ears — what more do you need?!”

“I just…” Mark sighed. “I didn’t want to rush her. I didn’t know if she was ready.”

Johnny leaned back on the couch and studied him. “You really like her, huh?”

Mark nodded slowly. “She’s… different. Not just hot — like, obviously she’s beautiful — but she’s smart, and kind, and she listens. She makes me wanna be better. She actually sees me.”

Johnny smiled. “Then tell her. But not with words. You’ve got all the signs, Mark — she’s into you. You held her hand, shared a cone, walked under lights like a cheesy rom-com. You think she’s doing all that for her health?”

Mark laughed, rubbing his face. “I just don’t wanna mess it up.”

“You won’t. Just be you. Next time you’re with her — go for it. Kiss her like it’s the last ten seconds of overtime.”

Their tutoring session took place off campus for the first time — tucked into a quiet corner of a small café downtown, the kind with mismatched mugs, indie music playing softly, and the scent of espresso lingering in the air.

Y/N sat across from Mark with her laptop open and a half-eaten croissant between them. He was trying very hard to focus on integrals, but it was difficult when she kept smiling at him every time he got one right. She looked cozy in an oversized cardigan, her hair loosely tied back, cheeks flushed from the autumn chill outside.

“You’re actually improving,” she said, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “I’m impressed.”

Mark grinned, pen spinning between his fingers. “Are you saying I’m smarter than I look?”

“I’m saying you’re not hopeless. Which is saying a lot,” she teased, nudging his foot under the table.

He nudged back, heart skipping.

Outside, the sky had gone from gray to pouring. Rain streaked the windows in thick lines, softening the glow of the café lights and making the world feel smaller — like it was just the two of them, tucked into a perfect little bubble.

“You don’t have an umbrella, do you?” Mark asked as they packed up.

She glanced out at the storm. “Nope.”

“Good,” he said, grinning. “Now I get to drive you home.”

The inside of Mark’s car was warm, the heater humming low. Raindrops drummed steadily against the roof as he pulled up in front of her apartment building, headlights casting a glow over the wet sidewalk.

Y/N unbuckled her seatbelt, but didn’t reach for the door yet. Her fingers played with the sleeve of her sweater, lips parted like she was thinking hard.

Mark looked over at her, unsure if he should say something. His heart was pounding — not from nerves this time, but anticipation. Hope.

And then she turned to him.

Her voice was soft, but steady. “You’re really not gonna kiss me?”

Mark’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard — and then he laughed, almost breathless.

“You’ve been waiting for me to?” he asked, leaning a little closer.

She smiled, a touch shy now, but playful. “Obviously.”

Mark didn’t hesitate after that. He leaned in slowly, watching her eyes flutter closed, and then kissed her — gentle at first, their lips brushing in a soft, unspoken promise. She sighed into it, one hand resting lightly on his cheek, pulling him closer.

The second kiss was deeper, slower — like they were finally speaking a language they’d both been trying to understand for weeks. His hand slipped behind her neck, thumb brushing her jaw, her lips warm and sweet against his.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and smiling, she didn’t move away. Her forehead rested against his, rain still tapping on the windows like background music.

“About time,” she whispered, brushing her nose against his.

Mark chuckled, his heart completely full. “You’ll come to my game tomorrow, right?”

She nodded immediately, eyes still closed. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Game day

The rink was electric — packed bleachers, pounding music, the sharp scrape of blades against ice. But Mark wasn’t thinking about the crowd, the rival team, or even the scouts rumored to be watching.

He was thinking about her.

Y/N, wrapped in his oversized team hoodie, sitting dead center in the front row. She stood out in the sea of faces like a spotlight. Her hands were wrapped around a paper cup of hot chocolate, but her eyes — warm, steady, glowing — never left him.

The first time he scored, he didn’t even celebrate with his teammates. He just looked right at her through the plexiglass, grinning, and pointed his stick her way.

The second time, he actually skated past the bench to tap the glass in front of her, chest heaving, sweat curling at his neck. The crowd caught on, cheers turning to teasing laughter. Mark didn’t care.

Even the announcer chuckled into the mic: “And that goal’s clearly for someone special in the stands…”

By the third goal, Jaemin was elbowing him mid-shift. “You’re embarrassing yourself.” Mark just laughed. “I don’t care.”

The locker room was humid and noisy, echoing with high-fives and victory shouts. Mark tugged off his gear quickly, hair damp, adrenaline still riding high. His thoughts weren’t on the scoreboard — they were on Y/N waiting just outside.

When he opened the locker room door and saw her standing there, still in his hoodie, cheeks pink, he smiled like an idiot.

“You were insane tonight,” she said, walking up to him, barely waiting before throwing her arms around his neck. “Everyone was talking about how you kept looking at me.”

He grinned against her hair. “That’s ‘cause you’re my good luck charm.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. Her eyes flicked down to his mouth, then back up. “You smell like sweat and victory,” she said with a grin, “and I still wanna kiss you.”

Mark didn’t need more of an invitation. He cupped her face and kissed her hard — all of the want, the buildup, the unspoken ache that had been simmering since the cafe, now spilling into the way his hands gripped her waist and pushed her gently against the locker wall.

She moaned softly into his mouth, fingers tangling in his damp hair, tugging him closer.

It got hot fast — Mark’s hands exploring beneath the hoodie she wore, her hips arching toward his, her legs brushing his in a silent plea. Their kisses turned hungry, messy, desperate.

“Mark,” she whispered breathlessly, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “I want you.”

He stilled, forehead pressed to hers, his chest rising and falling.

“God, I want you too,” he whispered, voice rough. “So bad.”

His thumb brushed her cheek, trying to calm both of them down. “But not here. Not like this.”

She blinked up at him, pouting. “Why not?”

He smiled softly, kissing her again — this time slower, reverent. “Because you deserve better than a locker room quickie after a sweaty game. I want our first time to be private. Comfortable. Just you and me. No interruptions.”

She groaned, leaning into his chest. “You’re too perfect, you know that?”

He chuckled, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “I’m trying to be. For you.”

Mark had it all planned out.

The night after his game, he texted Y/N with an address and one simple message: “Wear something comfy. I’ve got us a night in.”

When she arrived, she found herself standing in front of a cozy little Airbnb cabin just outside the city. The windows glowed gold against the twilight, and soft music drifted out through the slightly open door.

Inside, everything was warm and thoughtful — blankets piled on the couch, a flickering candle on the coffee table, and Mark, in sweats and a fitted black tee, waiting with two mugs of hot chocolate and a nervous smile.

“I figured… no pressure,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “But if you’re still sure, I wanted our first time to be… special.”

Y/N melted on the spot.

They started slow — curled up on the couch, sharing drinks and soft laughter. He played with her fingers absentmindedly while she leaned on his shoulder, and eventually, she turned to face him fully.

“I’ve never wanted anything more,” she whispered, brushing her nose against his.

That’s all it took.

Mark set his mug down and kissed her — soft at first, lips just barely brushing, like he was still making sure she wanted this. Her fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, and the kiss deepened. She sighed into him as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into his lap, their mouths meeting again and again, more desperate each time.

“Tell me if anything’s too much,” he murmured against her lips, voice low and breathless.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please.”

His hands moved reverently — slipping under her sweater to feel the warmth of her skin, fingertips trailing up her sides. She gasped softly as he kissed down her neck, her head tilting to give him more. He laid her back against the couch, hovering above her, drinking in the way she looked up at him: flushed, wanting, and so impossibly beautiful.

Clothes came off slowly — exchanged between kisses and soft laughter, with little whispered compliments between each layer. He looked at her like she was something sacred, worshiped every inch of skin he uncovered.

“You’re perfect,” he breathed, thumb tracing her cheekbone. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

She pulled him down into another kiss, hands roaming his chest and arms, feeling every inch of the strength he carried for his team — and now, for her.

When he finally sank into her, their hands clasped together tightly, foreheads pressed close, it was nothing like she’d ever felt before.

He moved slowly, deliberately, every stroke deep and warm, pulling soft sounds from her lips as her thighs locked around his waist.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, lips brushing her jaw. “So good, baby… I’ve wanted this for so long.”

She whimpered, nails digging lightly into his back, hips rising to meet his rhythm.

He kissed her through it all — messy and slow, breath mingling, fingers laced tightly between them as if he never wanted to let go.

And when they finally fell apart together, panting and flushed and tangled beneath the blankets, he kissed her temple and whispered, “Stay. Please.”

She smiled against his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Official

It was a week after the night they spent together, and Mark hadn’t stopped smiling since.

They were officially in that hazy, floating stage of love where everything felt a little too good to be real — late-night phone calls, study breaks with forehead kisses, and walking her to class just because he could.

But one thing was still unfinished. He hadn’t asked her. Not properly.

So he waited until the next hockey practice ended and texted her to meet him just outside the rink.

When she arrived, he was still in his jersey and padded pants, hair messy and cheeks flushed from the cold. He was holding something behind his back, shifting nervously on his skates.

“Hey,” she greeted him, beaming.

He leaned in for a quick kiss — still never quite believing she was his to kiss now — then stepped back and cleared his throat.

“So… I’ve kind of been thinking about how you’ve already stolen my hoodies, my attention, and all my brain cells. I figure it’s time to make it official.”

She tilted her head, smiling softly. “Yeah?”

Mark pulled the item from behind his back.

It was one of his home-game jerseys — crisp white with navy accents, his number bold across the back. But what made her breath catch was the custom name stitched just above the number:

LEE.

He handed it to her, heart pounding. “Wear it to the next game? As my girlfriend?”

Y/N blinked down at the jersey, then up at him — and her whole face lit up.

“Mark,” she whispered, laughing through the sudden tears prickling in her eyes. “Of course I’ll be your girlfriend. I thought you’d never ask.”

He exhaled hard, grinning, and pulled her into a tight hug — spinning her around before setting her down and kissing her breathless right there in the snow outside the rink.

Later That Night

Mark stepped back into the locker room still grinning like an idiot. The jersey was clutched in Y/N’s hands as she left, promising to wear it to the game and send him a mirror selfie first thing.

His teammates immediately noticed.

“Alright, Romeo,” Jaemin called from the bench, pulling off his skates. “You’re glowing. Spill it.”

Mark sat down with a dreamy sigh. “She’s my girlfriend now.”

The room erupted.

“About damn time!” “Yo, she said yes?!” “Wait, she’s gonna wear your jersey now?” “I swear, that’s more official than a wedding.”

Johnny clapped him on the back. “Proud of you, Captain. You got the girl and your math grade up. Full package.”

Mark just leaned back, towel around his neck, eyes still distant.

He’d never felt luckier — not for the game, the crowd, or the win… but for the girl who’d seen past all that, and wanted him.

Want more? Read with part 2 with more fluff/smut/drama on my Patreon as an early exclusive! Will Release on my Tumblr in a few weeks.

[prettyfuldancingirl]

Honestly, I didn't realize I was still following the Harry Potter tag until I saw this post lol. I agree with this, and also, I honestly am not really in the fandom anymore. JKR tainted the whole thing for me. All the merch I have, my old PS1 HPatSS game that I loved, the fact that some of the friends I made in life were because I had a HP backpack in school, the HP trivia dinner date I went on very early into my relationship with my husband (where I literally won), and, because I so openly and extremely loved HP for most of my life, people (like my aunts/uncles who aren't internet goers) are still giving me HP stuff for holidays/birthdays and I can't be ungrateful bc a few years ago, I would have absolutely loved it. At first, I was like "well, I can still like it as long as I don't financially support her," but as she got worse and worse and louder, I can't even deal with anything relating to HP without feeling angry. My bookshelf with three different copies of the series, my movie set that I used to display happily, all of the Marauders' Map home decor I had bc maps are my aesthetic, all useless to me, and just fill me with disdain. I haven't gotten rid of it bc my husband doesn't feel the same way I do (he's anti-JKR and not buying anything, but he's still in the fandom- which is fine, btw), and there's a part of me that hopes she'll ☠️ of natural causes and then I'll be able to like it again. Also, I will confess that we did get Hogwarts Legacy bc I didn't know what was going on until after we had already bought it, but I found out literally right after we got it, so I haven't played it at all, but the damage was already done anyway.

I am extremely pro-trans people and I've been doing what I can to put the money I would have used on HP towards trans charities and causes in hopes that they can get more rights going forward. I also support trans-owned businesses when I can. I hate that things have been getting worse for them, and I especially hate the hand that Moldemort has hand in it. I wish I knew how horrible she was a long time ago so I wouldn't have supported her for as long as I did (but, to be fair, I was read Harry Potter in the crib, so I was doomed from the start lol).

Trans folks, remember that you are valued and loved, and things will get better! 🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️💕

Trans women are women, and Trans men are men. 

We have to start by being honest. Being in Harry Potter fandom sustains the visibility of the IP. That’s just the truth. Even if you’re not spending money. Even if you’re just reading fic, or making playlists. You are still part of the reason WB thinks this franchise has cultural power.  We think we’re just vibing in fandom, but they’re watching (and there’s this odd sense that this is somehow an underground movement). The WB marketing execs measure every post, and what they see is market potential. That’s why the official WB TikTok teases Wolfstar (and teasing is the operative word because in places where openly queer relationships are illegal they need to have plausible deniability so they can still flog merch there),  they know there’s a market here, and they want to tap into it.

I say all this as someone who came back to fandom during the pandemic while I was looking in the abyss of my soul via EMDR, and who escaped to the HP universe during some of the worst years of my life. I’ve made friends here, and this space has been so nourishing for me. 

But none of that changes the truth: this is a morally grey space, and pretending it’s not is intellectually dishonest.

Just to add nuance, being here doesn’t make you evil (it doesn’t mean you support JKR’s views), but it does mean you need to hold that discomfort. And that work goes way beyond having “fuck JKR” in your bio or writing x character a wearing  eyeliner (your shipping opinions are not activism and your reimagined canon isn’t a shield). 

Because if you’re still here (and I include myself in this) you need to ask yourself: what am I doing in real life? Not to "offset" the guilt, not as performative atonement, but as a reflection of the values you claim to hold . Are you standing up for trans people in your personal life? Are you donating, sharing resources, pushing back in your workplace or your family? In the UK are you lobbying your MP to challenge the high court decision? There’s a myriad of real-life things you can be doing. 

You don’t have to leave fandom. But you don’t get to pretend it’s harmless, either.

[sometimeslwish]

'Bout It

As promised, part two is here.

Just like last time, honorable mention to this post by @luli-lads I was reminded of it while writing one of the scenes. It's not exactly like it, but it's got the jist of it.

There might be a spinoff fic about Xav and Tanya's first time, written with the reader as Tanya, but it's a big maybe; it's part of one of the many drafts that I lost when my old cellphone broke, so take this with a grain of salt.

Word count: 3890

Tags: Zayne x non-mc reader x Sylus, college au, gn!reader, there's no mc here, reader is addressed as she/her by general public but stays otherwise genderless (I forgot about that part while writing the scene), barely any angst in here, no beta reader we die like Grandma Josephine, pet names (sweetie, sweetheart, my love, darling), cursing, name calling (slut), kissing, sex, no genitalia mentioned, implied double penetration, happy ending, Xavier makes a cameo.

Tag yourselves in this, I'll go first; I'm Tanya near the end. Her ramble about Xavier was inspired by my stream of thoughts when it comes to him.

Part 1

Part 2

You lean in to kiss him. 

You didn't mean to, he just looked so hot using all those medical terms and speaking so confidently that you couldn't help it. You're in the library, to make matters worse, already leaning close to each other so you can whisper comfortably. 

So yeah, you kissed him. 

His lips were soft, sweet from the last treat he ate, and incredibly addictive.

You don't get to apologize because he pulls you back in for a second kiss. It's a bit awkward, so you take the lead by holding his chin and guiding his movements. 

It takes a while for both of you to stop. You separate only to see his blush and go back to kissing him because of the cuteness aggression, and then he grows more confident and decides to lean back in to kiss you like he needs you. You finally break apart when both of you need air, and still, you can't stop from pecking his lips over and over. 

You sigh through your nose, forehead resting against his with a hand you never remember moving at his nape, playing with the hairs at the back of his head. One of his hands comes up to caress your cheek before he kisses you again. It's the last one he gives because Sylus walks up to your table and sits across from you. 

“Oh no, don't stop on my behalf, you two were clearly having fun,” He says when you separate, and the knowing smirk on his face makes you feel like your face lit up in flames. 

“Oh, shut up.” you mutter before forcing yourself back into doing your assignment. 

You keep sneaking glances at either of them. Sylus catches you a few times and grins in that infuriating way of his; Zayne only stares back, eyes dropping to your lips before coming back to your eyes. 

You're the one that looks away first each time. 

You don't talk about it, even though you know you should.

It becomes a little thing that happened.

. . . . .

You’re being hot and cold with them. 

You can't even lie to yourself about it; you cancel some plans and show up to others, make up excuses that hold some truth but not all of it.

You're trying to distance yourself and failing horribly at it. 

It became too much. The shared glances with Zayne and the lingering touches from Sylus. All the flirting disguised as compliments and teasing. It was a joke, none of it was serious, just like it always is when you flirt with your friends.

But then you kissed Zayne and crossed a line you didn't know you were barreling towards, almost kissed Sylus at a later date– someone walked in and interrupted right after he had leaned in and told you to stop him, and you had stayed quiet– and got snapped back into place after being plunged into a pit filled with cold water and realization 

You wanted to kiss Sylus just as bad as you had wanted to kiss Zayne. Sought out their company with equal intensity and interest. Talked about Zayne with Sylus with the same fondness and exasperation you would talk about Sylus with when ranting to Zayne.

It wasn't just Zayne, like you had initially thought, it was also Sylus. 

You had clung to Zayne in the same way a stray cat clings to their new owner– a decision made in a split second because the moment you had seen his eyes you had known, you felt it in your soul, that you were going to be his and he was going to be yours no matter what. But Sylus, oh, Sylus had walked in behind him like he already owned your heart and you hadn't even noticed nor cared to stop him. 

You loved them. A lot more than you cared to admit. 

. . . . .

Rumors start running around.

That they don't know who's dating who, that maybe all three of you are together, or that someone is getting cheated on. Either way, you're the only one getting dragged through the mud.

How dare she come between them? She's such a slut.

They're best friends, does she have no shame?

She's so greedy, is Zayne not enough for her?

She should be grateful for Sylus, does she have to go after Zayne too? 

They're dating each other and she's trying to get in between, she should catch a hint and back off.

The whispers leave you more confused than hurt.

“Are you two dating?” The question goes around and around in your head until you can't keep it in and blurt it out the moment you find them. 

They're at the usual table in the library– not the one you first saw Zayne on, the one Sylus had guided you towards after you had grown close– hidden amidst shelves, a somewhat cozy quiet corner that allowed some privacy, even if a bit impractical because of the distance.

Sylus and Zayne exchange a look as you take a seat. You leave your bag on the seat next to you, pulling out your things.

“What brought you to that conclusion?” 

“I keep hearing rumors and well– I know it's not my business, I just– I couldn't stop thinking about it.” 

There's a mischievous tilt on Sylus's lips as he answers, “No, sweetie, we're not dating,” he looks back down at his book and adds, voice dry, “Doctor Sexy here is apparently much too dense to notice my advances.” 

You giggle as Zayne holds the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “Sylus, for the love of everything sweet–” He starts to say, only to get interrupted by Sylus snapping closed the book he was reading. Sylus carries on, undeterred, telling a story about how Zayne completely missed the point of one of his pick up lines and went on a tangent about the science behind it. Even goes as far as changing his posture to match Zayne’s and repeating the whole speech Zayne had given him while imitating his voice and speech patterns.

You snort and hide half of your face with your notebook, trying to laugh quietly while they continue bickering like a married couple. 

“You look great together– you're even acting like a married couple right now.” you admit in a low voice, interrupting their little stare standoff, “You would make a great couple, you should totally date.” Both of them turn to you, but you're too concentrated on the book in front of you to catch their confusion or surprise. 

You don't catch the way both of them falter. How Zayne goes beyond focused-quiet to thinking-quiet and Sylus's usually sharp, concentrated frown takes more of a duller, thoughtful edge. 

They share a look. 

Zayne is doubtful, Sylus is determined. 

This is gonna take a while.

. . . . .

The rumors die down. 

At least the worst parts of it, you still catch a few whispers here and there, but you're no longer being dragged through the mud.

Anyone who ever “whispered”– because let's be honest, they weren't really whispering, they wanted you to hear how they insulted you– while staring at you will not even look you in the eyes anymore. 

You don't notice the way they're more careful around you, how they make way and keep quiet when you pass by.

You're too lost in your troubled head to take notice.

. . . . .

“You keep zoning out,” Tanya states, “what happened?” Her stance doesn't hold space for you to lie, so you sigh and start airing the thoughts out. 

You're stressed– 

“As always, it's your default state at this point.”

“Yes, but not in that way, more in the ‘I don't know what the fuck to do about the men I love'”

“‘Men’?” She parrots, you nod nervously, “Plural?” She checks again, “Oh, we need snacks and shit for this, hold on–” she scrambles through the dorm, grabbing a lone bag of chips and two water bottles. (Life of a college student, everyone; broke and making due with what you’ve got.) 

She pulls you toward the couch so you can sit down and leaves, only to come back with blankets. She gives you yours, making you wrap yourself with it before doing the same and sitting down beside you.

“Okay, start talking.” 

You go into detail; tell her everything from the beginning, add in the details you omitted before and things you forgot to tell her about. 

She reacts, incapable of keeping her face blank and her thoughts to herself; gasps, smacks her hand to her mouth when you leave her speechless, ‘oh my god’s and ‘no, you/he didn't’s. 

“Damn,” she says– unhelpful but relatable ‘cause damn indeed, what a peculiar mess you got yourself into– when you run out of breath and all your worries have finally run free from your mind. 

“Do you have to choose?” she asks, and the emphasis on “have” makes you frown, “I mean– to me, it looks like you're all into each other, so maybe you could just tell them and talk about it. Who knows? Maybe they'd be into it.” 

“But–” you scratch your arm, “don't you think I'm being, I don't know, greedy? Selfish?” you stare down at your hands, “A whore?”

“Everyone has to be a bit selfish to be happy, you know? And it's not like you're cheating if both of them were to agree–” she pauses and squints at you, “do you plan on cheating if they don't?”

You blanch, “No! Of course not!” 

“Then you shouldn't worry about it,” she shrugs before popping a chip into her mouth, “go for it, get those dicks and have some fun, nasty, consensual sex.” 

She laughs when you smack her arm, teases you some more before the conversation centers on her.

. . . . .

You’re being sandwiched by them. 

Actually sandwiched. It's not a dream and you're not drunk. 

Sylus is on one side, Zayne on the other. The latter currently leaving kisses over your neck and shoulder while the former is kissing you like he wants to syphon your soul out of your body through your mouth.

You can't do much besides cling to them, breathless and out of it as they have their way with you. 

Their attention is overwhelming in a way you welcome. Compliments, encouragements, reassurances, it all turns you into mush in their dexterous hands.

You don't know who to call for as their hands roam your body. You moan and gasp and whimper as they litter kisses and marks over your body. 

The pleasure is a lot and you're addicted.

“Please,” you say, but you don't know what you're asking for. 

“Please what, my love?” Zayne whispers, and hearing that pet name from his lips is like seeing the pearly gates. You nearly roll your eyes when he nibbles your ear. 

“I don't know,” you whine, pulling at them to get closer, “Just– please.” 

Sylus chuckles, deep and rich and amused, “Need more of us, sweet thing?” 

You nod, looking up to him through your eyelashes, “Yes.”

“So greedy,” Zayne teases, you can hear his smirk on his voice, feel it against your neck as he nuzzles the skin there.

“Don't worry, we got you.” 

And oh boy, do they. 

They work in tandem. If you thought the beginning was overwhelming, you were in for a treat. 

They take turns undressing you and kissing the newly exposed skin. You get to cum in Sylus's mouth during that process, sitting on Zayne's lap with your legs kept open by him. Seeing them make out after re-lit the fire in your veins. 

Then it's their fingers. First Zayne’s, then Sylus’s as they stretch you out for them. You come again, lying between them with your legs held open. 

You're really close to begging when Zayne is finally inside you. Sylus’s fingers never leave you as you ride Zayne, working to keep stretching you until he finally relents and joins in. 

The stretch leaves you trembling like a leaf in the wind, but nothing compares to them moving together inside you. 

Internally, you know that you're ruined. Nothing else will measure up to this– to them, to their touch and their attention. Their love.

. . . . .

“You fucked them, didn't you?” 

Tanya's voice comes from the speaker of your phone. A second into the video call, and she's already clocked it.

“How the fuck did you know?”

She raises a finger, “One: you're glowing, you can only glow in that type of way after an orgasm– or a good fuck, in your case.” she wiggles her eyebrows while smirking. Your face feels hot at her statement, but she pays no mind to your flustered state and carries on. 

“Two: I don't recognize the background, that means you stayed at..”

“Zayne's” you fill in the gap.

“Zayne's instead of our dorm, wonderful. Three: you got a stupid smile on your face.” You splutter at that and she laughs, loud and unashamed. 

“Four: you got hickeys on your neck–” You cover your throat, but it's already far too late for that.– “And five– speak for me again…” 

“Uh… what do you want me to say?”

“Yeah, five: your voice sounds a bit rough.” She brings her phone closer to her face and smirks, “They made you scream, huh?” 

“Get the fuck out my face.” 

She giggles and pulls the phone away. You want to be mad at her, but that's your best friend right there. You stare at each other in silence before you start laughing and celebrating. 

“Ohhh, look at you go, you little minx. Did you talk before or after? Please, tell me you talked.” 

You nod before speaking, “Last night, actually.” You bite your lip and smile, “We're all dating now.” 

“Let's fucking gooooo!” The screen goes blurry, you guess she's either shaking the phone or jumping. Or both.

“It's gonna be just us and we'll be taking it slow, figure things out with each other.” You speak again once you can see her clearly again; she's lying down in bed, phone propped on the mattress.

“Aaww, that's so sweeet,” she sighs and looks up at the heavens, “god, when will it be my turn? I've seen what you've done for others, why not for me?...” 

You giggle at Tanya's antics and shift a little when Sylus comes into the room. He's decent, wearing some borrowed sweatpants from Zayne– scratch that, you don't think you could call that decent, he's not wearing boxers and there's a fucking out line of his dick. Not to mention the marks littered on his chest and neck, there's also a few scratches you don't remember leaving, but oh well.

His steps are quiet as he approaches you, crawling on the bed until he reaches you. 

“Is that Tanya?” The question comes in a low whisper. You nod with a soft smile, you can still hear her monologuing about romance and luck, but you're more focused on the man in front of you to properly listen to her. He settles between your legs, lying down to rest his head on your stomach. You can't help but combing your fingers through his hair.

“... Am I asking for too much? It's literally just one guy.” You tune back into her rambling after Sylus kisses your stomach and huff out a laugh once it clicks.

“Still no progress with Xavier?” 

She groans, “Dude, you don't get it. He's so fucking–” her hands grip the sheets like they're a life line and you nod solemnly.

“Of course.”

“Like, his eyes, oh my god, his eyes. How is it that a mere shade of blue has rendered me so fucking useless? I'm smarter than this, yet that man turns me into a fucking buffoon with just one look!” 

Oh, that intense. She only brings out the big words and elegant manner of speech when rambling about something she feels passionate about. A habit of hers you've always found adorable and funny.

“There's that thing he does where he looks surprised and his eyes get wider, it's the cutest fucking thing I've ever seen in my life; his puppy eyes would be killer if he ever chose to use them on me. Honestly, I'd give him my soul, I am not even joking...”

You don't judge her. The shade of red you would do anything for is currently in your arms, looking like a pleased cat as you play with his hair, and your shade of hazel…

“... I don't know how he does it, like, how can he be so adorable and hot at the same time?...”

“Where's Zayne?” You ask in a whisper, tilting your phone slightly so you can see him while still being on the frame.

“Went out to get some desserts and food, told him he could just order in, but there's a specific pastry he wanted and they don't do deliveries this far out.” 

You can guess which one it is, you're the one that introduced that place to him.

“...Oh! And his hair, dude, you gotta see his hair. It's so fucking fluffy!...” You smile at Tanya as she rambles. It's the liveliest you've seen her in weeks, you really hope it all works out.

“And you decided to stay behind.” 

“Didn’t want you to wake up alone and confused when no one was home.” 

Your smile grows bigger at that and you lean to kiss his forehead.

“My sweet baby.”

The soft moment gets ruined when Tanya stops rambling about Xavier. 

“... Sylus is there with you, isn't he?” you yelp at her accuracy and how much louder her voice sounds. You look back at the device to see only her forehead and top of her hair on the screen; as if getting closer to the phone might let her look into the room.

You laugh, parts embarrassed and parts amused. Sylus lifts up his head and you tilt your phone in his direction to make it easier for him. 

“Tanya.” he says, in lieu of a getting.

“Sylus.” she answers, in the same tone and everything, “I'll have you know that if either of you cross her, I know how to dispose of a body without leaving evidence behind.” 

Sylus laughs. Not mockingly or nervously, but amused, “Noted. But you won't have to worry about that, we plan on absolutely spoiling her.” 

There are hearts in his eyes when he looks at you, a soft smile grazing his features and the red in them gleaming like rubies. You wonder if he's always looked at you like this. You wonder how you missed it all this time. 

Tanya gags from behind the screen, “Okay, that's enough of that, I'll leave you to it. Have fun! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!” 

“But–” You don't get to say anything because she hangs up. You look at Sylus, a little lost, “But there's a lot of things she would do, how am I supposed to decide?” 

He chuckles and your phone gets forgotten on the bed as he rises up to tower above you, “Want some help?” he leans closer, his lips a hair away from yours, “Yes? No? Maybe so?” 

By the time Zayne comes back home, Sylus is thrusting deep into you while you add onto the scratches on his back. He joins in on the fun and you and Sylus get to torture him a little bit before it's time to eat. 

. . . . .

Neither Zayne or Sylus care about hiding their affection towards you, or each other. 

They kiss, hold your hand, pull you close.

They don't hold back in public at all, now that the relationship is officially established.

It takes you a while to get used to that new change. 

“Why am I not surprised?” Tanya asks when you reveal to her that they had been together before you met them.

You hadn't been surprised to learn they were friends with benefits before you came into the picture, right on their way to being lovers right as they got to know you. They had decided to wait for you to make anything official, because both of them knew the moment they met you. 

“Yeah, no, me neither. Had you been there with me, you would've been like ‘oh, they're fuckin’, for sure’” she hums and drinks from her smoothie.

“Look at you, having your destined love and everything, I'm proud of you.” 

She reaches over for your hand, squeezing before patting it and sighing.

“You lucky little fucker.” She mutters. The sudden switch up startles a laugh out of you. 

. . . . .

dude

(Media attached)

im gonna jump this motherfuckers bones

how fucking dare he look so hot

wish me luck

It's a picture of Xavier. He's wearing form fitting clothes in dark colors that makes his grey hair pop more. The angle is odd, like Tanya is hiding behind something while he looks somewhere out of frame.

Godspeed, soldier 🫡 

“What's so funny, my love?”

You look up at Zayne and smile. You don't think you'll ever get used to him calling you like that, no matter how many months pass. 

“Tanya's out on a date with Xav, she just sent a picture of him with the caption ‘I'm gonna jump this motherfucker’s bones’” 

Zayne raises a questioning eyebrow at the choice of words and you giggle while leaning close to him. 

“I see she finally made a move.” Is what he settles for saying, putting a hand on your back as you walk through the restaurant, following the waitress towards your table.

“Yes and no.” You grin, in on a secret he doesn't know, “Remember that downpour that happened about two weeks ago?” He hums in affirmation and pulls back your chair to help you take a seat, ever the gentleman when it comes to you, “Well, they might've gone back to his apartment…” you pause and stare at him as he takes the seat across from you. You see the moment it clicks for him, a simple, small twitch of an eyebrow and a knowing, barely there smirk. 

“They didn't.” 

You nod, your lips falling into a thin line, “They, in fact, did. Right on the couch too.” 

“And then?” Comes Sylus's voice from behind you. You didn't even notice he arrived.

“Sylus!” you scold in a whisper-yell, clutching your chest to contain your leaping heart. He chuckles and leans to kiss your forehead.

“Sorry, darling, I didn't mean to startle you.” He takes advantage of his position to give Zayne a quick peck before sitting down. The four seat table allows him to sit between the both of you. 

“You said you would be late.”

“Managed to get out early.” You know what that phrase means, but you hold back from scolding him; nothing you say will change his ways. You share a look with Zayne and shake your head.

“As I was saying…” 

You continue talking about Tanya and her adventures until it's time to order, and then the conversation goes through other topics as the sun sets and the night goes by. 

It's like everything and nothing changed at all.

The banter is still there, the jokes, the teasing, the flirting. But now, there's nothing holding you back from reaching for them and holding their hand or kissing them. Nothing holding you back from being bolder with your touches and words. 

It's liberating.

[hrizantemy]

Nesta didn’t remember leaving Amren’s apartment. One moment, Feyre’s face—ashen, broken—was twisted in something close to betrayal, and the next she was on the street, running. Her boots hit the cobblestone like war drums, her lungs burning as if the Mother herself had cursed her, and perhaps she had. Nesta didn’t care where she was going. She didn’t see the street signs or the fae who jumped out of her way; didn’t hear the distant cries of market vendors or the clang of bells from the Sidra’s docks. All she heard was Feyre’s voice—quiet, crumbling: “If I die…” And then her eyes. Bright with tears. Too bright. Feyre never cried like that.

The wind slapped Nesta’s face, clawed at her skin, as if trying to peel away the truth embedded in her bones. The boy’s Illyrian wings will get stuck in your Fae body during the labor, and it will kill you both.She had said it. She had spoken it out loud. She had hurled it into existence. Nesta had wanted to hurt Rhysand, yes—crack that perfect Night Court mask, pierce the smugness—but not like that. Never like that. Feyre’s baby. Her nephew. Her sister. Her stupid, hopeful, glowing sister, who had looked so proud when she said she was going to be a mother. Nesta had watched that joy crumble to dust under the weight of her words. Words she couldn’t take back. Words that had torn through that apartment like a blade.

And now they tore through her.

She stumbled down an alleyway, the scent of garbage and old rain thick in the air. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest tight, and still she couldn’t stop running. As if she could outrun the truth, as if she could tear herself away from the moment when Feyre turned to Amren—not her, never her—and whispered, “You… all of you knew this?” Nesta had seen it then. The crack in Feyre’s heart. The way it shattered beneath her feet. And she had caused it.

Because she was a monster.

She collapsed behind a stone wall, her knees scraping the gravel. Her body shook. She curled in on herself like a child, forehead pressed to her hands, her breath hitching in wild sobs she couldn’t swallow down. She wanted to claw the words from her throat, rip them from her memory. But they were lodged there. Fixed. Permanent. Etched into her soul like the iron-tinged smell of death.

She should go back.

The thought pierced through the screaming chaos in her head like a shard of ice, sudden and sharp. She should go back, should face what she’d done, should fall to her knees in front of Feyre and beg. Beg for forgiveness, not just from her sister, but from the child who hadn’t even been born yet. From the boy whose wings she had named as his death sentence. Nesta didn’t know if groveling would fix anything—gods, it wouldn’t, it couldn’t—but maybe it would be something. Maybe if she crawled back to the apartment and pressed her forehead to the floor like a penitent priestess, Feyre would see that she hadn’t meant to unravel her like that. That she hadn’t meant to become every horrible thing they’d ever feared she could be. Maybe—maybe—she’d still be allowed to love the child she had cursed with her words.

But before she could move—before her legs could obey that first fractured thought of go back—she heard it. The rhythmic beat of wings slicing through the air. Not thunder. Not some beast come to devour her. Worse.

Cassian.

She looked up and saw him, his massive form descending from the clouds like a storm incarnate, those Illyrian wings that had once been her shield and shelter now nothing but a harbinger of everything she couldn’t face. His hair was tousled from the wind, his eyes already locked on hers with a look she couldn’t read from here, but didn’t want to try. He was coming for her. Coming to find her. Coming to drag her back, maybe—to yell, or to say nothing at all. And Nesta could not bear to see his face. Could not bear to see his disappointment. His disgust. His pity.

No.

The word slammed through her like lightning. No, no, no, no. Her breath hitched as terror seized her again, but it was a different kind of fear this time—not the kind that made her freeze, but the kind that made her flee. She surged to her feet before he could land, before he could touch the earth and close the distance. Her feet pounded the stones, slipping on wet leaves, nearly falling—but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Not when she knew what he’d see if he looked too closely. Not when she knew the weight of the truth she’d poured into the room like poison.

She was a coward.

A coward who ran from the wreckage she caused, who couldn’t even stay to see the ruin in her sister’s face or the grief in her brother-in-law’s silence. A coward who left Amren holding a room full of broken hearts because she couldn’t stand in the ashes of her own making. And now she ran from Cassian, too—from the only person who might have still held some sliver of belief in her. She knew how fast he could fly. Knew he could catch her in a heartbeat if he really wanted to. But still she ran, stumbling down the side street, clawing her way into shadows like some feral, cornered thing.

Because it was easier to keep running than to stop and let him see the monstrous thing she had become.

Nesta didn’t know where she was going.

Her feet carried her through the twisting, uneven streets of Velaris like they belonged to someone else, darting down alleys slick with mist and crumbling with ivy, past shuttered windows and glowing streetlamps that blurred into smudges in her vision. The city was a labyrinth and she welcomed its confusion, its darkness, anything that might keep her hidden for another moment. The harbor’s salt breeze burned her throat as she sucked in air too fast, chest heaving like a hunted animal’s. She didn’t have a destination. She only knew that she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t turn around. Couldn’t face him.

Cassian.

She could still see his face in her mind—hovering, unreadable, his wings poised like the war general he was, like a man who knew how to face the worst. And she… she couldn’t. She had faced monsters before, horrors beneath mountains, death and power and gods. But nothing terrified her like the look she knew she’d see in his eyes when he landed. Nothing chilled her so deeply as the idea of Cassianlooking at her like she was no better than the father who had abandoned them all, like she was the kind of person who could shatter her sister’s joy and leave her bleeding in the ruins of it.

So she ran blindly, half-blinded by tears she wouldn’t allow to fall, half-aware of the ache in her legs and the sting in her lungs. She rounded another corner, stumbled through a narrow passage behind a row of bakeries, and nearly tripped over a pile of broken crates. Still, she ran—until she felt it.

Talons.

A pressure. A clawing. Not on her skin, not physical, but far more invasive. A scraping at the edges of her mind, at the crumbling, splintered shields she had barely remembered to keep in place. Not Cassian—no, he had never dared touch her like this. These talons were colder, sharper, deeper. The presence that loomed at her mental door was not just a High Lord, but a mate. And not just any mate—her sister’s mate. Rhysand.

Nesta’s body jerked mid-step, stumbling to a halt as her head throbbed with the contact, as if her very soul recoiled. He was trying to get in. Trying to see. And gods, she had given him reason now, hadn’t she? She had done what even he had not dared to do—she had told Feyre the truth. Had thrown it like a dagger into her heart. And now, Rhysand was clawing at her mental walls like the wrathful, protective beast he was, trying to rip through her silence and find the monster who had wounded his mate.

She gasped and pressed her back against a cold stone wall, slamming her shields up tighter, jagged and uneven but impenetrable in her panic. Stay out. Her mind screamed it, snarled it, Stay out, stay out,but still she felt him scratching, testing the seams, waiting for weakness.

Nesta turned her face to the night sky and squeezed her eyes shut. She had to keep running. Because if Rhys got in—if Cassian found her—if she saw what her sister’s mate wanted to do to her…

Cassian was getting closer.

She could feel it—his presence like a storm bearing down on her, a thunderhead chasing her through the alleys of Velaris. The steady beat of his wings behind her was growing louder, more defined. She knew his flight pattern, knew the way he flew with terrifying precision when he was hunting something down. And right now, she was the prey. A part of her—a broken, fractured sliver of herself—wanted to be found. Wanted to be held, maybe. Wanted him to say it was okay, that she wasn’t the monster she knew she was. But the rest of her, the part that had been made of knives since girlhood, that part knew the truth.

There was no forgiveness for what she’d done.

Nesta didn’t think. She ducked down another crooked alley, her boots slipping on the wet stone, almost going down hard before she caught herself on the wall. Her heart pounded like a war drum in her ears, drowning out the city around her—until she heard laughter. Loud, lilting. Feminine. And the smell of heavy perfume curling through the air like incense. She stumbled toward the sound, toward the warmth and the noise like a moth toward flame. There was a door, half-open. A place. Somewhere—anywhere—to hide. She didn’t look at the sign. Didn’t stop to think. She shoved the door open, staggered inside, and gasped as the door clicked shut behind her.

The laughter stopped. Silence dropped over the room like a veil. All Nesta could hear was the rasping of her own breath, the blood rushing in her ears as her knees buckled and she collapsed, crumpling onto the floor like a broken marionette. Her palms hit the hardwood, and she tasted salt and copper and shame on her tongue. The scent of perfume was thicker inside—opulent, cloying. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t care. Her body shook, her mind splintered, and she pressed her forehead to the ground as if it might make her vanish.

Then, a hand touched her shoulder.

She flinched back so hard she nearly screamed, scrambling like a cornered animal. Her voice cracked as she choked out a single word, “Please,” over and over, like a prayer. Like she could summon mercy if she said it enough. Her throat burned with the force of it. “Please—please—please.” She couldn’t look up. Couldn’t form a sentence. Couldn’t breathe past the crushing weight in her chest. Her vision blurred, and she couldn’t make out the face of whoever touched her. She just kept her eyes locked on the floor, on the worn wood panels, as her body betrayed her—trembling, sobbing, shrinking inward like a child.

And then she heard it. The beat of wings overhead—louder now. Closer.

Terror slammed into her chest like a tidal wave. He was here. He would find her, he would see her like this, see what was left of her, and she couldn’t bear it. Not now. Not like this.

But then, a voice. Feminine. Cool. Commanding. Older. Not afraid of Cassian. Not even fazed. “Get her to the back room. Now.”

Nesta didn’t look up. She felt arms—two pairs—wrap around her, gently but firmly, lifting her to her feet. She didn’t fight. She couldn’t. Her legs dangled uselessly beneath her, her head hanging low as they pulled her along. She stared at the floor, unblinking, too numb to register where they were taking her. Her body shook so violently she thought her bones might splinter from it. She couldn’t see their faces, couldn’t register if they were fae or something in between.

The sound of the door slamming shut behind them cracked in the stillness, and Nesta flinched again, her head jerking toward the noise though her eyes were still glazed with panic. The two figures who had pulled her in—faceless, shapeless to her trembling mind—moved with swift, practiced efficiency. One reached for a tall brass bottle on a side table and began spraying a fine mist into the air, thick with roses and musk and spice, while the other was pulling down rich velvet curtains, snatching up trailing silks and shawls from nearby chairs. Before Nesta could even think to speak, to ask what are you doing,she felt hands on her again—rubbing down her arms and back with oil, dabbing scent onto her pulse points, dragging cloth across her body like they were draping her in costume.

Her panic twisted into something else—confusion, alarm. Her breath hitched as one of the women, her voice surprisingly gentle, leaned in and murmured, “I know it’s uncomfortable. Please bear with it. Your scent is… strong. He’ll track it in seconds if we don’t mask it.”

Nesta blinked at her, still barely standing, still unable to find solid footing in this world that kept tilting under her feet. But the words broke through. Her scent. That was what they were doing. That was why the silks were being rubbed against her skin, why their bodies pressed lightly into hers, transferring perfume and sweat and whatever glamour they wore like armor. The other woman’s hands were in her hair now, tousling it, adding a spray of something sharper—biting and citrusy—to drown out the smell of salt and fear. Everything reeked of heat and desperation and survival.

She wanted to protest, wanted to say stop, but she couldn’t even get the word past her lips. She just stood there, half-draped in strangers, as they worked with military focus to scrub her scent off the wind. And all the while, in the back of her mind, she could still feel the echo of wings in the sky. Cassian. Rhysand. The Night Court.

They were looking for her.

And she was here, hidden behind curtains of smoke and silk and strangers’ sweat, while someone else fought to erase her like a stain from the air.

The scent was suffocating now—jasmine and rosewater and something musky beneath it, clinging to her skin like a second, foreign body. Nesta tried to breathe through her mouth, to keep from choking on the haze that curled through the room like a veil. But then—voices. Just beyond the walls. Muffled by the velvet curtains and the perfume-clouded air, but clear enough to pierce through the static in her mind.

Cassian.

His voice hit her like a slap, even before she could make out the words. That low, rough edge—the one that always carried heat and steel and loyalty. He was close. Too close. Her blood turned to ice in her veins as she realized he was just on the other side of the wall. Her legs nearly gave out again, and she gripped the edge of the table beside her as if it could anchor her in place.

“I’m looking for a woman,” Cassian’s voice said, his tone hard, clipped—his commander’s voice, the one he used on the battlefield. “She ran through here not long ago. Young. Pale. Brown-gold hair. She would’ve looked—” He paused. “—she would’ve looked like she was falling apart.”

Nesta bit down on a sob that tried to claw its way up her throat. Gods, she was falling apart. And he was still trying to find her. Even after everything. Even after what she’d done. She pressed her fist to her mouth to keep from making a sound, her whole body trembling with the effort.

In the parlor beyond the curtain, the music started up again—lute strings plucked softly, a lazy melody that curled around the conversation like smoke. The laughter followed soon after, high and light and utterly false. It was the kind of laughter meant to distract, to deflect. And then, she heard her—the older woman from before. Her voice was bone-dry, coated in centuries of disdain and apathy, and it slid into the air like a knife hidden in velvet.

“What woman?” the madam asked, her tone bored, amused even, as if Cassian had just asked after a ghost. “We see many girls, Commander. You’ll need to be more specific.”

There was a pause. A long, charged silence. Nesta could picture it—Cassian standing just beyond the door, wings half-flared, jaw tight, gaze scanning every corner of the brothel like he could will her out of hiding. He had always been relentless. Always searched until he bled for it. But now, now she didn’t want to be found. She didn’t deserve to be.

“Are you certain?” he asked, low now. Dangerous. “She would’ve looked scared.”

Another pause, then a tinkling laugh—not Nesta’s, but someone else’s, a courtesan perhaps. “Oh, Commander,” the woman said, flippant, honey-sweet. “All the girls here look scared their first time.”

The air left Nesta’s lungs in a ragged gasp. Her knees buckled, and she sank back to the floor, curling into herself behind the curtain. She wasn’t sure what broke more—her pride, or the echo of hope that had dared to flicker when she first heard his voice.

The music swelled again, a lazy lull of strings and rhythm meant to drown out truths, to glaze over danger with a veil of sensual indifference—but even that could not muffle his voice. Not now. Not when it rang so clearly, just beyond the veil of perfume and velvet, as if the walls themselves bent to let him in. Nesta didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. She clung to silence like it was armor, but her ears betrayed her—desperate to drink in every word.

“I’m not asking again,” Cassian said. His voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be. It was low, slow, full of barely leashed fury that cracked along the edges like lightning in a summer storm. “If you saw her—if you so much as heard her—now’s the time to speak. Because whether you like it or not, she’ll have to answer to the High Lord of the Night Court. And if she’s hiding here, if anyone is hiding her…” He paused then, and the silence was thunderous. “It would be in their best interest to come forward.”

Nesta’s stomach twisted. The words turned to rot inside her. Answer to the High Lord. Not her sister’s mate. Not Rhys. No—the High Lord. The mask was off now. There was no warmth, no family, no forgiveness in that name. Just power. Authority. Judgment. It reminded her—she hadn’t simply said something cruel. She’d committed a crime of a different kind. She had broken something sacred. Shattered it. And now she was a threat. A liability. Something that needed to be dealt with.

Footsteps echoed faintly across the floorboards. She could hear Cassian shifting, feel the weight of his gaze scanning the room again like a spotlight. Her hands dug into the floor, nails curling against the wood. She didn’t dare lift her eyes. Didn’t dare make a sound. She didn’t know if it was cowardice or shame or self-preservation anymore—maybe it was all of it, tangled up inside her like thorns.

Then, finally, a voice answered him.

It was the madam again. Bored still, but no longer amused. “You can tell your High Lord,” she said, her tone clipped like a blade being sheathed, “that we don’t take kindly to threats here. We obey the laws of this city, and no more.” The silence that followed was heavy and coiled tight, like the air before a killing blow. Nesta could feel him hesitate. Could imagine the twitch of his jaw, the flick of his wings as he weighed whether to push further or retreat. She could picture it all in vivid, horrible detail—the disbelief, the fury, the helplessness masked behind duty.

A long, ragged exhale.

Then his voice again, cold and clear and final: “If she’s here… you’ve done her no kindness by hiding her.”

A beat. Then footsteps retreating. The front door opened, and for a moment, the wind howled through the brothel like a wounded beast.

And then it slammed shut.

Nesta didn’t move. Didn’t cry. She just stared at the floor, her whole body shaking—not from fear, but from something deeper. The knowledge that this was only the beginning. That her sister’s mate—the High Lord—would not forget what she’d done. And neither would she.

As the echo of the door slamming shut faded, silence took hold again—but it didn’t last long. The tension in the air unraveled not with reverence or fear, but with breathy snickers. The two girls beside her—those who had bathed her in perfume and dressed her scent in disguise—exhaled in synchronized amusement, their laughter soft, intimate, like they were sharing a secret joke. One of them leaned against the velvet curtain, watching the now-closed door with a smirk curling her painted lips, her perfume still heavy in the air, mingling with Nesta’s breathless shame.

“He thinks he’s terrifying,” one of them murmured, low and conspiratorial, as she adjusted her bodice. “Walking in here like some god, all leather and wings and scowls. Honestly.” She gave a dramatic little shiver, grinning. “I’ve seen worse tempers from a drunk countess with a broken heel.”

The other girl snorted, draping a silk scarf over a nearby hook as though this were just another night in their endless parade of encounters. “And that line—‘she’ll answer to the High Lord of the Night Court.’” She dropped her voice to mimic his low, commanding growl, but twisted it with mocking exaggeration. “Oh no, not the High Lord,” she whispered, clutching her chest in pretend terror. “Whatever will we do?”

They laughed again, unbothered, unafraid—like the words spoken in the other room hadn’t been sharpened by fury and consequence. Like the man they mocked wasn’t capable of leveling mountains or ripping open the sky if he chose. To them, he was just another male throwing around a title, another fool with too much muscle and not enough tact. And perhaps they had seen too many like him—blustering males full of threat and pride and polished armor. Cassian, to them, was a role to be played, not a danger to be feared.

Nesta sat trembling on the floor, still unable to lift her head, still pressing her hands into the wooden slats as if they were the only things tethering her to this realm. Their laughter rattled inside her like bones, like something broken that wouldn’t stop clattering. She didn’t speak, didn’t react—she couldn’t. Because to her, Cassian wasn’t a joke. He was pain. He was love. He was the face she couldn’t bear to see when she was drowning in her own ruin. And these girls—these strangers who had shielded her out of habit or pity—were laughing at him like none of it mattered.

And maybe to them, it didn’t.

Because to them, nothing had happened at all. No life had been cracked open and spilled. No sister had been betrayed. No child had been sentenced by careless, bitter words. They didn’t know what she had done. Didn’t see the wreckage of Feyre’s face. Didn’t feel the weight of the world she had broken.

The door opened.

Light, warm and golden, filtered in through the hazy air like dawn piercing a storm. It spilled across the floorboards in a soft cascade, stretching toward her in slow, deliberate inches. And in its glow, the fog lifted. Nesta blinked hard—once, twice—her lashes wet, her breath still uneven, but her vision finally began to clear. The veil of perfume and panic receded, and the world sharpened into focus.

The first thing she saw were them—the two women who had brought her here. No longer just hands dragging her into hiding or voices dulled by her fear, they now stood bathed in light, fully revealed, as if the curtain of the world had been pulled back to show the gods who lived behind it.

They were devastatingly beautiful.

Twins. So alike it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. Tall and lithe, their bodies draped in silks that clung to them like water, every movement fluid, deliberate. Hair the color of jet ink poured down their backs in perfect waves, thick and gleaming under the shifting light. Their skin was like polished moonstone—cool and luminous, kissed with a hint of gold, as though the sun itself had once touched them and decided to linger. And their eyes—gods, their eyes—were nearly inhuman. One’s irises glinted like molten copper, the other’s like pale opals, shimmering faintly with every tilt of her head. They did not look mortal. They did not even look fully fae. They looked like something older, something shaped in smoke and ritual and divine indulgence.

One of them leaned against the frame of the door now, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, expression unreadable but not unkind. Her mouth curved slightly at the corners, a cat watching a mouse that had chosen to curl rather than run. The other had moved to the center of the room, gathering the discarded scarves and shawls with the grace of someone born to be watched. Nesta’s gaze drifted over the gentle slope of her collarbone, the way her fingers moved like dancers.

They didn’t speak. Not yet. They simply watched her, unhurried, as if giving her permission to breathe, to adjust, to come back to herself at whatever pace she could endure. The laughter was gone now. The mocking. All that remained was them, standing sentinel in that soft light—like statues in a temple made of perfume and silk, unbothered by the chaos they’d drawn her from.

Nesta’s gaze drifted from the twins, from their impossible symmetry and quiet grace, and found the third figure in the room—the one she hadn’t truly looked at before. The older woman stood in the doorway like a storm that had settled into stillness, arms crossed over her chest, one brow arched with restrained impatience. She was older, yes—her age written in the fine lines around her mouth, in the steel-gray streaks woven through her ink-black hair, in the weight of her presence that filled the room more completely than the perfume or the silk or the candlelight. And yet there was no mistaking it: she was beautiful. Terrifyingly so. But her beauty was not the soft, romantic sort that faded with time. Hers was sharp-edged, sculpted from stone and ash and years of survival. A beauty that did not beg to be admired—it demanded respect.

Her eyes were the color of old smoke, fathomless and unflinching, and they locked onto Nesta with a precision that left her breathless. There was nothing soft in that gaze. Nothing pitying. Only assessment. Judgment. Perhaps even recognition of the storm trembling beneath Nesta’s skin. The woman had the bearing of someone who had ruled something once—someone who had lost everything and clawed her way back to the top without asking for permission. There was no crown on her brow, but Nesta felt like she was kneeling before a queen.

“You’d better have a very good reason,” the woman said, her voice low, calm, but humming with danger, “for making me lie to the commander of the Night Court.”

[pannman]

What's on your mind

Alastor x telepathic reader

Tw: dark thoughts, mentions of violence, depressed thoughts, angst, overstimulation

You knew it was a bit risky to show up to a new place hoping for salvation. But in Hell you were given a secret gift... it was more like a curse. You heard people's thoughts. Whether you wanted to or not. And being surrounded by all the worst kinds of people and hearing the horrible and nasty things that plagued their minds had turned you antisocial. You rarely exited your apartment.

The plants were your only friends. But one eviction notice from your pervy landlord and you were out on the streets again. He had tripled your rent almost overnight after you rejected him. You trailed through the busy street hearing all the the unholy thoughts of others and you began to get overstimulated. The voices of a thousand sinners filled your head with their dark thoughts and you covered your ears in instinct even though you knew it would do no good

*I want to kill that bastard with his own car*

*I'll slip something skimpy on and while he's cock drunk I'll steal his wallet and then slice his throat*

*I hate myself. I cannot keep doing this. I'm a monster. I deserve to be here. I need to find some drugs. I can't deal with this sober. Fuck my life! I wish death was really the end*

*Steal. Steal. Steal. I want that. I need that! I'll just wait until that guy leaves his store and I'll break the window and take it. I'll stab anyone who gets in my way. I must have it! Steal! STEAL!*

Suddenly you were brought out of your emotional spiral by the tv in the window next to you. "And there you have it. The new and improved Hazbin Hotel is now officially open for business! The princess of hell is now again accepting patrons for her little pet project she calls redemption. I don't know about any of you. But I think she's wasting her fucking time. But she did save hell and her precious daddy gave us a lot of money so here you go. Check out the Hazbin Hotel and check in to start your journey to the gates of Heaven today! Is that good enough? What do you mean the cameras are still on?"

Even though you weren't 100% sure you believed it was possible, the idea of getting out of hell was far too tempting. And you needed somewhere to stay anyway. You rang the doorbell expecting the princess of hell to answer only to see the door opened by a tall well dressed but creepy looking gentleman. You recognized him quickly. He was an overlord named Alastor or also known as the Radio Demon. You didn't know he was going to be there but you tried to pretend like you weren't in shock

"Hello, my name is y/n. I'm here to-" suddenly Alastor swept you away and guided you inside with a hand on your lower back. "Of course my dear! I'm Alastor. Pleasure to be meeting you quite a pleasure! Do come in" His thoughts peirced into your brain with a sharp pain and a sound of static

*yet another fool seeking redemption. Or perhaps a sinner with some ulterior motive. I'm sure they won't last long. But it'll be such fun playing with them*

You were unsettled by his thoughts and proceeded to grow more uncomfortable with his touch. You were beginning to change your mind when the hostess of the hotel, the princess herself finally showed. "Oh my gosh! Are you here to join the hotel?" She looked so excited that she looked as if she'd explode any minute

*I hope Alastor doesn't scare this one away as well. He can be so intimidating. I just wanna help them but they never stick around.*

Realizing the princess had genuine intentions unlike anyone you've encountered here, you felt more inclined to stay. The tension in your shoulders began to relax. "Yeah, I'd like to give it a try at least" You answered. "That's great! I'm Charlie! Of course you've met Alastor..."

Once again you were mentally attacked by Alastors thoughts for some reason. You've never felt actual pain from your telepathy before

*Another sucker here to try and fail like the others. This will be fun to watch*

Charlie seemed to notice your distress. "Are you ok?" She asked. You rubbed your temples and tried to drown out the pain. "Yeah, I... I just get headaches sometimes. It's nothing to worry about" you lied.

Charlie introduced you to the rest of the hotel who seemed much less enthusiastic about your arrival. It was very clear they weren't too confident in you sticking around. Their thoughts gave away their true situation. People must have been coming and going ever since they reopened. But still, it was a place to stay. For free. And at least one nice person was there. You liked Charlie. It was a breath of fresh air to hear thoughts that 1. Weren't horrible and 2. Matched the energy and vibe of the person. She was kind and real. That made you believe it couldn't be all bad

But then Alastor of all people offered to show you to your room. You glanced a look of worry at Charlie who was completely distracted and oblivious while talking away to her girlfriend about how excited she was about a new sinner entering the hotel

He chatted away with you the entire way. "So tell me, what makes you so interested in this place? I am rather curious"

*What are their true motivations?*

You responded. "I lost my apartment and I was at a low place. I saw an advertisement on TV and figured what else have I got to loose" you weren't exactly lying. Just leaving out the fact that you can read minds or more that they read themselves to you without your consent. "Oh trust me you still have plenty. You've got your soul and your life. Those things have at least SOME value. Either way, there is no place quite as beautiful and desperate as rock bottom. Yes?"

*I wonder if they can get any lower?*

You were beginning to become better at hiding the migraines Alastor's thoughts were giving you but you were growing exhausted from fighting it. It was like being around him drained you. You grew more tired by the minute. "Yeah I guess so..."

"You must've had a long day. I imagine it's been overwhelming for you. But do not worry. Our beds are quite comfy" he reassured you.

*Comfier than a coffin of course*

You laughed...

"What is so funny?" He asked tilting his head in curiosity as the two of you stopped at your room door. "Uhh. Nothing I just remembered something funny" you lied. "Oh do tell!" He replied. Shit...

"it was really dumb you wouldn't like it" you tried to lie your way out of this. "Oh and you think you know me so well already?" He responded

*I don't know what's up with this sinner but they are definitely hiding something*

Oh no... quick think of something funny. "So I saw this... guy and he... fell out of a window... into... a coffin! And... he fell asleep in it... I don't know why, I just thought it was funny" You felt your heart racing in you chest. Alastor stared at you with scrutiny before smiling wide. "You're right that is quite dumb. But I suppose everyone's humor is different. Anyway, here is your room. Please let me know if there's any way I could make your stay more comfortable." He bought it?

"Yeah... I'll keep that in mind. Thank you" you began to close the door. "One more thing..." He said as you stopped. "Yes?" His thoughts peirced your mind louder than ever before as if he was speaking to you on purpose. The static now making his voice sound straight up demonic. You clutched your head barely being able to withstand the pain

*How long have you been able to read my mind?*

[nereidof40k]

Sunniva nodded at the Astartes, with a slightly wistful smile. “That is understandable. I was concerned I would have to give the Commander some percussive maintenance myself.” She gestured at the boathook resting against the wall. “Doctor Rose’s rant about her horrible day stopped him in his tracks. He looked like he was about to fight my husband. All I did was remind him of how it doesn’t reflect well on his Chapter to read two pages of the yellow pamphlet and start shouting.”

She still looked tense, but she had lost the stone faced look. When Sevatarion commented that “Better he fight me than the good Doctor.” Sunniva swatted his arm. “Remember what Altani said about being self sacrificing? Sometimes I think the nine year old is the most mature person in this house.” To which Rushal smirked. Seemed like an old argument between them.

Sunniva inclined her head politely to the Rune Priest. “It might be a good idea. None of us had considered it, Alastor wasn’t here yet when I had my bond with Jago checked. It was only later that he brought Alastor home after finding him in a ditch. Someone had hit him with a car. Repeatedly. So we weren’t thinking about bonds.”

Sevatar nodded, patting the Raven Guard’s shoulder. “Alastor and I go way back. Probably inevitable my most trusted brother joined in the bond.” Rushal beamed at that.

This close it was possible to notice two things about Sunniva. One, she was a psyker herself, like Sevatar. That wasn’t a known fact about the First Captain. Both were fairly strong, but it was likewise obvious they were not using their strength actively.

Secondly, the pendant she was wearing had slipped out of her shirt as she moved. Pretty unusual. A mistletoe branch surrounded by the World Serpent, Jormungandr. Almost seemed like Loki himself should be walking around the corner.

But instead, an entire murder of crows had landed on the orchard fence, including the strange “Beware of Clowns” sign.

None of them tried speaking for Rose, leaving it to her to explain.

As Cato was getting dressed, there was a horse wandering by in the fields. It looked like it had eight legs, but that couldn’t be right?!

Silly thought with Rose and Cato. Instead of encountering nekkid shouty Astartes at her house imagine the Shenanigans if she'd been traveling for work or niece rescue. Oh no the car broke down near your oc/si's farm. There doth the proud nudist Cato Sicarious appear. Oh no he must rescue the poor baseline/s (Rose and maybe Kara) from the approaching Night Lord in the tacky salicious shirt. And this unlucky fucer runs into the woods.

That’s a great idea. I’m laughing so hard. And then he runs into Konrad. 😂

[hanespiritu]

I HOPE HE'S NOT PREGNANT

(Neoptolemus x Telemachus)

written by: Han Espiritu

Disclaimer: I got the story idea from an art by @callisto-artsy NYEHEHEHEHEHEHHE

---

The morning sun peeked through the linen curtains of the Ithacan guest room, golden rays falling directly across the tangled mess of limbs on the bed. One of those limbs—specifically a muscular, slightly hairy one—twitched, and then Neoptolemus cracked open one bleary eye.

His first thought was, My head feels like it was used as a war drum by Apollo himself.

His second thought, upon seeing the bruised, marked, completely shirtless man next to him, was, Oh. Right.

Telemachus groaned beside him, half-awake and already regretting life. “My back hurts. Why does my back hurt?” he muttered into the pillow.

“You kept arching it like that,” Neo said sleepily, voice raspy from both sleep and the night before. “I think I was holding your hips too hard.”

Telemachus rolled over—and promptly winced. “You think?”

Neoptolemus’ eyes trailed lazily down the red, blue, and distinctly tooth-shaped trails he’d left along Telemachus’ chest and collarbones. His gaze then stopped, horrified, somewhere near Telemachus’ lower stomach.

Telemachus noticed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Neo’s brow furrowed. “Is your stomach… swollen?”

“What?”

“I mean,” Neo said, voice high-pitched and uncertain, “I think it’s slightly rounder than last night?”

“I had four helpings of lamb stew, you absolute pelican,” Telemachus groaned. “Don’t make me regret sleeping with you more than I already do.”

But Neoptolemus was now spiraling. “Wait. Wait. Telemachus. Telemachus.”

“What?”

“Do you feel… different?”

“I feel like I got tackled by a minotaur.”

Neo’s eyes widened. “Oh no.”

Telemachus sat up, scowling. “Why are you making that face.”

“I hope you’re not pregnant.”

There was a pause. A thick, stunned, drop-a-pin-on-the-marble-floor kind of pause.

“…Excuse me?” Telemachus asked slowly.

“I’m just saying!” Neoptolemus threw up his hands defensively, blankets falling off his shoulders. “I’ve never done that with a man before. What if it… you know, triggered something?”

“Triggered something?! What do you think this is, divine conception?!”

“I don’t know!” Neo gestured wildly at Telemachus’ torso. “You’re glowing!”

“I’m sweaty!”

“You have that... glow!”

“That’s grease from the stew!”

“I don’t know anatomy, Telemachus, I was raised in a war camp!” Neo cried.

“Oh my gods—”

“Do you know anatomy?”

Telemachus blinked. “I—what? Yes?! Yes, I—what kind of question—?”

“Because my father never taught me how babies work!”

“That’s not what we’re even—OH GODS, NEO.”

Neo buried his head in his hands. “Do we need to consult a healer? Should I go to the temple? What’s the procedure for post-coital male pregnancy?”

“There is no procedure because that’s not a thing!” Telemachus shrieked.

Then came a knock.

Both froze.

“…Telemachus?” called a voice from outside the door—calm, feminine, very, very familiar.

“NO GODS NO,” Telemachus whispered. “My mother.”

Neo went pale. “Should I jump out the window?”

“You’re naked!”

“I’ll take the blanket!”

“No, stay still!” Telemachus hissed, yanking the covers over himself like that would erase the evidence.

The door cracked open and there stood Penelope, dignified as ever, one brow slowly rising.

She looked at her son.

She looked at Neoptolemus.

She looked at the scattered armor, the knocked-over vase, and the distinct constellation of hickeys and love bites trailing down Telemachus’ body like a sailor’s map.

Her expression didn’t change, but the air dropped to Hades-level cold.

“…Is now a bad time?” she asked, voice smooth and even more terrifying because of it.

“Yes,” Telemachus said instantly. “Horrible.”

She nodded once. “I’ll wait for you in the courtyard. Bring both of yourselves. Fully clothed. In twenty minutes.” She turned and left.

Telemachus waited until the door clicked shut.

Then: “I’m going to walk into the sea.”

Neo sat very still. “I think we’re cursed.”

“No. We’re idiots. There’s a difference.”

Neo touched Telemachus’ shoulder with an uncertain hand. “If… if you are pregnant—”

“I’M NOT!”

“—then I will raise the child with you.”

“NEO.”

“I mean it!” Neo insisted. “I’ll learn to knit! I’ll build a crib! I’ll—I’ll name them after Patroclus—”

“Neo, I’m going to smother you with a pillow.”

Neo pouted. “You’re being very aggressive for someone who might be carrying my heir.”

“Stop TALKING.”

They sat in silence.

A beat passed.

Then Neo frowned again. “Okay but hypothetically, if a man could get pregnant—”

“I swear on Poseidon’s left nipple if you finish that sentence—”

“—would the baby come out of his mouth?”

Telemachus screamed into the pillow.

---

In the courtyard, Penelope sipped from her tea like a queen preparing for blood.

Neoptolemus whispered, “Do I bow to her? Or do I kneel?”

“She’s not a goddess, she’s my mother!”

“She has that aura, okay?! I feel like my soul’s being judged.”

Penelope looked up at them. “So. Rough night?”

Telemachus opened his mouth.

Neo said, “We think he might be pregnant.”

Penelope stared.

A bird in the tree dropped dead.

Telemachus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mother, please ignore him, he’s stupid.”

“I—” Neo started, only to be met with the most disappointed glance Penelope had ever given a man since Odysseus told her he was "just going to pick up milk" twenty years ago and didn’t come back for a decade.

She looked at Telemachus. “We’ll talk about the marks later.”

Then she turned to Neo.

“And you. We’ll talk about anatomy now.”

---

Ten minutes later, Neoptolemus sat stiffly in the garden, knees together, posture perfect. Penelope had drawn diagrams in the dirt. There were sticks, stones, and several very pointed questions.

“So,” she asked, “where do you think babies come from?”

“I thought... maybe the stomach.”

“And how do they exit the body?”

“…The mouth?”

Penelope breathed deeply. “Telemachus, go fetch the physician. We’re starting from the beginning.”

Telemachus snickered as he walked away.

Neo called after him, “Hey! I’m trying! This is for our child!”

“WE DON’T HAVE A CHILD!”

“You don’t know that!”

Telemachus threw up his hands to the sky.

The gods, very likely, were laughing.

---

⚠️ Plagiarism Warning:

This work is original and written by HAN ESPIRITU. Do not copy, repost, or translate without permission. Plagiarizing or claiming this story as your own is strictly prohibited and will be reported.

[knight--error]

Look. I know I'm saying this on the Amy Dallon website. But to me, the top three tragedies of Worm are, in order:

1. Taylor -> Khepri

2. Noelle + Krouse

3. Riley/Bonesaw

I'm pretty sure Noelle and Krouse are gonna be the most controversial here because folks don't like Krouse much, I think, but like. Dang. Don't know what I would have done in his place. You're a teenaged boy trying to love your girlfriend through trauma and mental health difficulties. You are suddenly thrust into a world that is completely terrifying and alien, and you make a choice. You consider the variables and all the intelligence you have available, and you think it's the best choice. You're doing your best to help everyone. And that choice does something so awful to your girlfriend, who you love, that years of your life are spent trying to help her and mitigate the damage. You will do anything for her. It's never enough. Slowly, she and all your friends place every piece of blame and anger they have on you. They hate you, and you probably deserve it. But you're just doing your best. And, in the end, you can't even help her—so you just have to stand beside her, because it's the only thing left that you can do. I'm going insane I'm going insane I'm going insane aaaaaugh

And Riley is just. You are a very small child. Something unimaginably horrific happens to you. You are reshaped into a monster and the only love you receive is from other monsters. You are given no choice, and by the time you are old enough to meaningfully choose a different path, you have already done things so horrible, everyone you meet flees from you in terror or tries to kill you. You want to be good but your morality is so warped by trauma that you don't even have a clue what that means. You are still that child, desperately scrambling through your home, trying to stitch your parents back together, and failing. Ahhhhh.

And of course, Taylor. Poor Taylor. "Somewhere along the way, it became no." My girl, my poor girl.

[darkjediqueen]

#7 for rockly? Thank you!! You’re awesome :)

Here you go anon! (sorry it was late, I mean to post yesterday. Work kicked my ass)

Title: Always Worth It Fandom(s): S.W.A.T. Relationships: Donovan Rocker/Molly Hicks Tags: Fluff Warnings: No Warnings Apply Summary: Well, this went horribly wrong... Word Count: 563 Author Notes: Prompt picked from this list. I was given prompt #7 "Well, this went horribly wrong...". Gift For: Tumblr Anon

Molly knew a lot about Val. The friendship that she had built with Donny had come with a lot of them talking about things that were going wrong in their lives. For Molly, it was her dates going horribly wrong because most only wanted her for sex, or once they found out her father was a cop, they bailed. For Donny, it was his divorce from Val, the shock of her telling him that she wanted out but then dragging out the divorce. The one thing that Molly had sworn to herself was that she was never going to compare herself to Val because Val wasn't worth anything. After the way she had treated Donny through the whole divorce, she was nothing.

But today, Molly did compare herself to Val because she thought that Donny was so cute and he was soooo sweet. Looking at him, covered in cake from where he had tried to save it. It was all over his face, and she wasn't sure that he had ever looked more adorable than he did right now as he sat on the ground and looked around, trying to make sure that no one had seen him, but everyone had. 

No one said anything, and Molly just held her hand to her mouth and smiled at him. He caught their son, and he was still trying to pull the rest of the tablecloth off the table. He was two, and much like Donny, he was big, and he was strong, at least for his age. They had taken their eyes off him for three seconds, and he had run off to do what he wanted, which was to pull the tablecloth off.

"Well, this went horribly wrong," Dad said as he came over and picked up Thomas, who was trying to pull more things down. 

"SWAT did not get me ready to deal with a toddler," Donny said as he stood up, the cake falling to the ground from where it had been in his lap.

Hondo was the first to get over to him and help Donny since Molly wasn't able to bend over and help him at all.

"Da, up!" Thomas demanded as he saw his Dad. 

Molly got her phone out, and she took a video of Donny taking Thomas from her Dad's arms and holding him tightly. 

"Cake?" Thomas asked as he reached out and touched where there was still icing on Donny's face. 

Molly hoped that someone had recorded a video of it from the start because it would be something to show Thomas years from now so he could see how he was as a child with a lot of energy. She rubbed her belly, and Donny turned his head to look at her. He was smiling brightly, his eyes shining with unshed tears of happiness. This was the family that Donny had been looking for for a long time, and she was glad she was the one who was able to do that for him. Their son and their soon-to-be-born daughter were going to be the lights of his life, and she knew it. 

"I love our life," Molly said as Donny and Thomas got close to her. She leaned in for a kiss and didn't care if the cake got on her because this was worth it. This was always worth it.

The End

[thethreefaes]

From Astrid’s view point she could catch sight of a red blur of fur. Rose was in hot pursuit of something. And there, a few strides ahead was the black shape of the púca.

It looked like the creature was heading out of Berk. Going in the direction of Kia’s circle. But that meant Kiara and Ash were on the other side of the village. Astrid and Rose were the only ones with eyes on it.

—————

Stars this was horrible. The relief lasted only so long before the pain returned. She smiled up at her brother though.

“Thank you. For the healing and food. It helps a lot.” While she had the magical reprieve from the pain she happily ate. Humming at the flavor.

“I’m so glad you can cook. Kia can do simple things. And Rose’s isn’t allowed to try again. That was a disaster.” She giggled. Lyra was the only one that truly cooked their meals.

Even with her light jests and comments, she could feel how this loomed over them. The healer knew all too well how heavy the feeling of death was on her magic. What Hiccup was sensing radiating off her. She tried to sit up more as she ate, pain flaring but she waved off Hiccup’s hand. Taking deep breaths through clenched teeth.

“M-maybe this is a good thing.” After the pain passed she leaned back against the wall. “Not the dying part. But this. Feeling the pain.” She knew it must sound crazy.

“I mean. I never knew about these injuries. I never felt them after the initial breaks or abuse. I always assumed my magic healed them then and there.” There was a spark in her eyes. While the rest of her was weakening her mind was still playing with possibilities.

“You can’t fix something if you don’t know it’s wrong. All the time. My magic was sustaining patchworks of injuries that I didn’t feel to know to fix. But now? Now I can feel what’s wrong!” Her voice raised in excitement, which lead to her chest heaving and she turned away to cough. The healing Hiccup gave her kept the pain away still. A blessing.

“I-if w-we switch b-back I kn-know what to do.” Lyra panted as she tried to catch her breath. It was hard to though. Why was it hard to breath? That burst of energy and excitement fizzling down to embers. She forced her body to lean into Hiccup, finding comfort that her brother was there.

“I can make medicine.” She mumbled tiredly. “It… it’ll have to be magic based. Might… might have… have to ask the courts for… help finding ingredients.” Her speech was slurring as dark spots covered her sight. Lyra’s hand gripping her brother’s.

“It’ll be okay.” She didn’t know if she was telling Hiccup or herself.

@dragonmasterhiccup

Púca mischief and magic switch (closed starter)

The house was coming along great. Ash balanced on the roof as he laid the boards. His brothers were around him helping with the building’s exterior. Ash had chosen a piece of land more towards the outside of the Viking village but an easy walk to the chief’s hut. And a much easy walk for the people to get to Lyra than Gothi’s hut. Ash’s chest warmed at the thought. Lyra would be the main village healer one day. A high honor.

“Hey! Stop day dreaming lover boy.” His eldest brother, Talon, nudged him. With an eye roll he got back to work. His other two brothers, Finn and Rhys, had returned through his circle carrying carpets and more wood for the roof. Soon they’d be able to work on the inside.

“Hey! Dad needs all of us back for a meeting! That means you too, Ashy! We’ll come back after.” That… was annoying. But fae councils were serious if all the court was needed. The two hopped off the roof with help from their magic.

Little did they know that a púca had snuck its way through the open circle. Taking the form of a wolf at first it snuck into the forest. Watching the faes work. The creature waited for the perfect time to cause trouble. As the brothers left through the circle they closed it. The púca changed shape again. A black cat with gold eyes stalked into the village. The feline making its way towards the next grouping of magic.

Lyra and Hiccup came into view. Looks like the two had been heading towards the new home. The púca could feel the power surrounding her. With a purr the cat rubbed up against her leg, causing her to stop.

“Aw, look at you! You’re so pretty.” Lyra picked the cat up and cradled it in her arms.

“Do you know who he belongs to, Hiccup? I don’t think I’ve seen this one around before.” She turned so her brother could pet the cat too. But as soon as Hiccup’s hand made contact with the sleek fur both he and Lyra were struck with pain like being struck by lightning. Lyra fell to her knees as the waves of electric shock went through her limbs. The cat jumping away and shifting into a more goblin like form. It cackled at the two in pain before running off.

As the agony faded away, Lyra found herself shaking. Her body felt heavy and tired and… sore? She blinked in confusion. The earth was oddly silent too. She… she couldn’t sense the magic around her anymore! Wait.. Hiccup! Hiccup was hurt too!

“Hiccup? Are you okay?” She’d worry about herself after. That… thing had zapped her brother.

[mrspiastri]

stop pretending!

wc: 1.9k words

an: i was so overcome with excitement i had to write this blurb sorry :D based on this req!

“Don’t even think about it.” Y/N almost growled at her boyfriend as he moved to sit next to her on the couch.

“What? Why?” Oscar questioned, still frozen in a sitting position in midair.

He got no response, just Y/N huffing and looking back at the TV screen.

“Darling, are you still mad at me?”

Still no response, just another exaggerated huff as she turned away from him.

Oscar almost wanted to laugh, but he knew she would positively kick him if he did. It was just really difficult for him to take his girlfriend seriously when she looked like a disgruntled puppy.

Y/N had been in a pretty bad mood ever since she woke up; her clients at work were being nuisances, her friend had cancelled on their lunch plans, and the couple’s cat Sylvia decided to throw up on the very expensive rug they had in the living room.

Not to mention, Oscar had been out the whole day, promising to come home for lunch. She decided to make up for the day’s negativity by enjoying some time with him, which she hardly ever got, only to get a text at 3:30 pm, saying he would only be home in time for dinner.

That one text was Y/N’s final straw. She decided she would do nothing about it and simply decided to ignore him.

Oscar sat down anyway, carefully, like the couch might explode under the pressure of her silence. He placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward just enough to peer at her face.

“Alright. That’s fair. But just for the record, I was going to come home for lunch. I had every intention of doing that. I even imagined the whole thing. You, me, some pizza. Maybe a nap after. Sylvia purring between us. The dream.”

She blinked slowly. Unmoved.

Oscar frowned and scooted an inch closer. “But then someone needed to run the meeting late. Someone else wanted us to check our seat fittings again. And then my phone died, which is completely your fault, because someone keeps stealing my charger.”

Still no response.

Oscar tried to look into her eyes, but she angled her face away just enough to keep him out. He could see her mouth set in a tight line. The same mouth he usually kissed good morning, goodnight, and roughly seventy-nine times in between.

She stood up. No warning, no words, just got up and walked toward the kitchen.

Oscar sprang to his feet and followed her like a puppy. “Oh. Oh we’re going to the kitchen, good thing I’m hungry.”

Y/N reached the fridge, opened it, then stared inside with what Oscar could only describe as aggressive purpose. He leaned against the counter beside her and waited.

She closed the fridge and walked to the dining table. Sat. Crossed her arms again.

Oscar followed, pulled out the chair beside her and sat sideways in it so he could face her. “You know, I read this article once that said couples who laugh together live longer. So technically, by ignoring me, you’re putting us in danger. Are you okay with that?”

Nothing. Not even a blink.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

She stood up again. Oscar groaned dramatically and stood too. “You know, most boyfriends would’ve stopped following you by now. But not me. I am persistent.”

She made her way to the bedroom. Oscar kept talking behind her like some sort of lovesick narrator. “Do you remember when you said I was the most patient person you’d ever met? I feel like this is a test. Is this a test? Am I being punk’d?”

Y/N walked into the bedroom and sat on the bed, pulling the blanket over her lap like it was a barrier between them.

Oscar leaned against the doorway, then slowly walked over and knelt in front of her. He just quietly knelt, eyes searching hers even though she was refusing to look at him.

“I know you’re upset. And you have every right to be. You had a crap day. Work was horrible. Your friend cancelled. Sylvia turned our rug into modern art. And then I went and messed it up more. I said I’d be here, and I wasn’t. And I’m sorry.”

She shifted but didn’t look at him.

He rested his chin on her lap, arms folded on top of her thighs like a sleepy golden retriever. “I missed you all day. I kept thinking about how nice it’d be to just come home and lie next to you for a bit. I didn’t want to ruin the day for you. I wanted to fix it.”

No reply.

He pouted slightly. “You’re being very stubborn, you know. Cute. But stubborn.”

Still silent.

Y/N’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. She picked it up, glanced at the screen, and answered it without a word to Oscar, who was still half-sprawled across her lap.

“Hey,” she said, voice softening just slightly for her friend on the other end.

Oscar perked up, trying to catch snippets of the conversation, tilting his head like a curious dog.

“What are you up to?” her friend asked, cheerful and unaware of the storm cloud hovering over Y/N’s head.

Y/N glanced at Oscar, who wiggled his eyebrows at her hopefully, trying to earn a smirk or a flicker of mercy. Nothing. She looked away and sighed dramatically into the phone.

“I was supposed to have lunch,” she said. “But I got bailed on.”

Oscar sat up straighter.

“Oh no,” her friend gasped. “Is Oscar not at home?”

Y/N looked him right in the eye. Cold. Unwavering. She spoke into the phone with deliberate calm. “No.”

Oscar’s mouth dropped open. “Alright, that’s it,” he said, voice all mock scandal and playful outrage.

Before she could react, he snatched the phone out of her hand. “Hi, yes, lovely to meet you. She’ll call you back later. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure of it.” He hung up with a cheeky grin and tossed the phone onto the bed.

“Hey!” Y/N reached for it, but he was already moving.

Oscar wrapped an arm around her waist and stood up, lifting her off the bed like she weighed nothing. She squeaked in protest, legs kicking gently in the air, but he just laughed and hauled her out of the room.

“Put me down!” She tried to sound angry, but her voice betrayed her with the tiniest laugh.

“No can do. You revoked my 'boyfriend's rights'. Now I’m reclaiming them by force.”

He marched them to the living room and dropped onto the couch with her in his arms, carefully manoeuvring her so she ended up sitting on his lap. She immediately tried to wriggle away, but he locked his arms around her thighs, holding her in place like a seatbelt made of affection.

“You’re trapped. Accept your fate.”

She gave him the flattest look she could manage, arms crossed again, face tilted away. But she didn’t move to actually get up. And her cheeks were just a little pink.

Oscar leaned forward and rested his chin on her shoulder, squeezing her legs gently. “I’m sorry, Y/N. Really. I know you were looking forward to lunch. I was too. I should’ve let you know sooner that I wouldn’t make it. I didn’t mean to ruin your day.”

She didn’t reply, but she wasn’t fuming anymore. Just quiet.

“And I know you don’t want to talk right now. But I’ll sit here as long as it takes. As I hold you hostage on my lap.“

She sighed, but it was just a whisper of breath.

He reached out slowly and poked her side. Just a little.

Nothing.

He poked again. “Come on. You know you want to smile. I’ll even let you yell at me after. You can scold me for being late. For working too much. For not bringing you the chocolate you like. For looking like a kicked puppy every time you glare at me.”

Y/N finally looked down at him. Not a smile. Not forgiveness. But the tiniest glint of soft amusement in her eyes.

“You’re stuck with me, you know. This is your life now. Me, following you around like a lovesick fool until you forgive me. Or until Sylvia kicks me out of the apartment. Whichever comes first.”

Y/N let out a long sigh. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Only because I love you,” he said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “And because you’re cute when you’re mad. Even cuter when you pretend not to forgive me but secretly want to kiss me anyway.”

“I do not,” she muttered.

Oscar gasped softly. “Lies. I can feel the affection radiating off of you. It’s like a hug with no arms.”

“You’re so dumb.”

“I thought that’s what you love most about me.”

She finally cracked a smile. Small. Barely there. But it was enough for him to light up like a kid at a candy store.

He pulled her closer, arms tightening just a little around her. “There she is. My favourite person.”

Y/N shook her head but leaned back into him just slightly, letting her head rest against his chest. “This isn’t over; I’m going to hold out on you longer next time.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll ever let there be a next time.” He glanced down at her hand, which was resting rigidly on her thigh like it had no interest in being touched or noticed. Slowly, as if she might swat him, he reached out and gently tried to lace his fingers through hers.

Her hand shifted ever so slightly away.

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be.”

She didn’t say a word, but a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

He scooted forward on the couch, wrapping one arm tighter around her waist and reaching again with exaggerated patience. This time, he grabbed her hand outright. She didn’t fight it, but she didn’t help either. Her fingers stayed stiff, pointing upwards like awkward little sticks while he tried to slot his fingers in.

Oscar frowned.

Y/N raised her eyebrows innocently, lips pursed, like she had no idea what he meant.

“Oh, we’re playing hardball,” he muttered and carefully started to push her fingers down.

One by one.

She bit her lip, trying not to laugh. He could feel her shoulders shaking slightly as she fought it off.

Oscar used both hands now, fully committed. “You’re really going to make me fold your hand into mine like I’m trying to wrestle a kitten into a sweater?”

Y/N lost it a little, a quiet giggle slipping out as she turned her face away from him, but he caught the crinkle in her eyes.

“There it is. I knew you were pretending.” He finished curling her fingers around his hand and held it triumphantly, giving it a dramatic shake. “Look at that. We’re holding hands. Like a couple in love. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Y/N tried to pull away, but he held on tighter, both of them laughing now in quiet bursts, trying not to lose the silly, playful silence they had built.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head but not letting go.

“You say that like it’s new information,” he whispered back, squeezing her hand once more, gently this time. “Now shut up and let me cuddle you. It's my turn to be clingy.”

[ckret2]

(I haven't watched sj so forgive me if I contradict something, just going off secondhand knowlege) you ever think jack, after being fooled twice, secretly suspected ashi of being aku; And was low key relieved when it turns out she was actually his daughter and not him

joke answer? that would be hilarious. "oh thank goodness you're his daughter." "what do you mean 'thank goodness'?! that's HORRIBLE!" "look. i've been through some stuff, okay"

serious answer? I doubt it, mainly because of stuff you wouldn't know about due to the secondhand knowledge thing:

the first time Jack met Aku in disguise (Ikra) he was fooled.

the "second time" that I've mentioned on my blog (Jill) is technically non-canon due to appearing in the comics, and not even the good comic line, it's the weird OOC comics that get the whole vibe of the setting wrong. so jill is good for fanfic, but not for serious media analysis of jack

the CANON second time Jack met Aku in disguise (the hermit) Jack saw through him immediately. so by then he'd gotten good at picking out aku

and there's a pattern to all Aku's disguises that Jack probably would've picked up on by the time he ran into Ashi:

he's stuck with the same color scheme: black and green, a bit of red and white. (if we decide to count jill, aku disguised himself further with makeup.)

and more applicable to Ashi's situation: whenever Aku disguises himself, it's to pretend to be a helper to Jack, acting sympathetic to his cause, usually to trick him into doing Aku's dirty work.

that does NOT apply to Ashi. When Jack met her, she was one of seven ninja assassins from an aku-worshiping cult wearing aku-ish masks. he killed one of them before realizing they were human. (woulda been physically impossible to kill aku.)

jack's previously fought aku "in human form" and aku could NOT resist the urge to cheat and use his superpowers—and that was when he'd agreed to restrain himself. if the cultists were aku—or one of them was aku—they wouldn't have restrained themselves to human powers while trying to kill jack, they would've pulled out the laser eyes from the get go.

so: ashi was an enemy, with human capabilities. jack only befriended her because he got lucky enough to knock her out and tied her up, and even then while tied up she spent a whole episode trying to kill him before he began to convince her that she'd been brainwashed since birth and actually aku was the bad guy. if she were aku, either 1) he would've pretended to be on jack's side from the start (rather than antagonizing him by singing aku's praises right after he'd killed all six of the other cultists), or 2) he would've just shapeshifted out of the chains and tried to kill jack.

and most importantly: at this point, jack had lost The One Sword Capable Of Killing Aku. the ONLY reason he hasn't seen aku in years is because aku thinks he still has it. aku's been exclusively sending assassins after jack—assassins that jack's been very good at stabbing—so he doesn't put himself within stabbing range. he wouldn't approach jack while he thinks he still has the sword... and even if he did, the moment he realized it was gone, he would've dropped the disguise and killed jack on the spot.

so ironically, ashi—all dressed up like aku, wearing her little aku cultist mask, hollering about how great aku is, trying to kill him in aku's name—was just about the LEAST likely person in the world to be aku in disguise.

[yakool-foolio]

I recently watched a snippet of one of Crystaahhl’s Hundred Line streams of her reactions to Eito’s betrayal, and some chat messages caught my eye as fast as they flew by on the screen. I noticed some people seemed to take Eito’s line of ‘climbing up the political ladder’ to mean ‘I’m going to become a politician and then kill everyone immediately,’ which I wouldn’t want to become misconstrued by the community since I think his plan of eradicating humanity was a lot less upfront and more realistic. Obviously these messages could just be first-time reactions that didn’t need to be given much thought in the heat of the moment, but hey, I love finding new things to ramble about Eito! If anything, this is all for my satisfaction at continuing to better my understanding of my evil gay scythe guy.

To start, it’s best to take into account the setting Eito and the other students grew up in. The Tokyo Residential Complex is a well-populated underground bunker the size of a city. And while that is considerably big, it pales in comparison to the entire globe full of over 8 billion humans that we’re a part of. The TRC is minuscule compared to our reality, so Eito becoming a politician of the TRC in order to exact his plans isn’t unfounded, as it’s a much smaller world and he certainly has the brains and false charisma to back him up when aiming for such a position. This ties directly into how he’d go about eliminating humanity, since the TRC would be far easier to monitor and control rather than being the leader of a country trying to start a ton of wars throughout the world. But even then, Eito would always be working from the shadows.

The only reason Eito took such a violent approach by his own hand when trying to stop the LDA students is because he was given immense supernatural power that allowed him to get away with outright killing people, but he still remained careful and restrained. He only ever killed two people (almost three) who were immediate threats to his plans. He accounted for backup if he were to go on a killing spree, so I highly doubt he’d do anything like that at the TRC with no hemoanima against an entire city. As the embodiment of cruel punishment in the role of a politician, he’d turn everyone on themselves before they even had the chance to point fingers at him (like what he did to Nozomi by turning everyone against her through gossip alone). He’d engage in fear-mongering, cut off supplies to certain districts, maintain a corrupted law enforcement, and let civil wars fester. And with a facade so pleasing to the eyes and ears, no one would want to think harshly of him. Any naysayers would be crushed under the weight of his supporters. The senseless slaughter would last without a single drop of blood on his hands. Humanity is doomed to never outlive its horrible actions on the earth and itself, so Eito is simply speeding up the process and watching it all burn. His job is to pick off whatever remains of the scraps too weak to fight anymore and clean up their mess before he fades into the background.

[overactive-sweat-glands]

“Oh, god no. Dad loves Legally Blonde. Because it solely relates to his career. He’s tried to get me watching it plenty of times, whenever he watches it for himself.” He answered quickly. “I don’t like it. Legally Blonde is so shit.” Okay, he hasn’t really seen it himself. He’s mainly seen people dislike it online and the brief mentions maybe at school in the locker room. He had a lot of time to himself, so he’s practically attached to the internet. His friends have definitely told him in the pass to ‘touch some grass’. Richie didn’t need his uncle to know that, though. “It’s just a movie about a woman going to law school. There’s nothing more to it. It’s not a big deal. They do it all the time.” He didn’t understand where Paul was going with all this. “I’m going to sit here and still think Legally Blonde is a shit movie, yeah. Because it is? And— And Diane Wynne Jones, or whatever her name is, made a shit movie. Sorry.”

He’s not really going to change his opinion anytime soon. He saw the same opinions online and people seemed to agree, so.. Other people had to be right, surely?

“All I’m hearing is you slacking off all the time.” He mumbled, but his tone is light and playful.

Richie’s face immediately twisted up at the sound of constant hikes. Was Jerry the devil, with that? “I wouldn’t last a day there.” He shook his head. The idea of a hike was torturous. He’d sweat all through his layers of shirts, then become a sweaty and sticky mess of a human. Practically any touch of his body would be coated in sweat. Maybe he’d overheat from said hike, if he was forced on it. He’s thankful to not have gone to the camp ever. His hands briefly ached at the things Paul described. Making things from dusk till dawn? He wakes up midday when he had nothing to do and it wasn’t school. The camp would be horrible for him! “Not allowed to talk to girls..?” He frowned. “That’s too far of him to do. Guys need to talk to girls.”

His frown deepened at the mention of the Witchwood. Richie immediately shook his head. “I’ve heard rumours about those woods. I don’t want to ever go near them, if I can help it!”

He opened his mouth, but is briefly interrupted by a yawn. Richie shook his head before smiling. “The show is spectacular, I hope it’d inspire you more than just chicken and rice. Maybe a tad of other recipes too?” He shrugged lightly. “You should let me put it on, sometime. You’d learn a lot. Even if it’s better kitchen skills and not actual cooking. Also the characters are so sweet, too.”

Shuffling up to the door, Richie adjusted a sleeve with a hand. His shoulder rolled, keeping a small duffle bag’s strap on. He’s brought a few items over, that’s what the bag was for. He’s greasy and sweaty, the typical for the young man. His hair’s sticking up more today, losing the battle to try and tame it.

A hand raised, going to knock at Paul’s front door. He then wiped the hand against a pant leg, to rid of the sweat.

— [ @overactive-sweat-glands ]

The door was quickly answered as Paul hurried to the door, not wanting to keep his nephew waiting. How long had it been since he last looked after him? Not babysat, Paul reminded himself. Richie was far too old for that now. But since his dad was going away on business for a few days, he didn't want Richie on his own for that long. While Paul was fairly sure that Richie was a smart kid who could take care of himself, he wouldn't want him to be forced into doing so. Paul wouldn't have wanted him alone for that long either way, and he was happy to have him stay. Especially considering what Ted told him about what his own little brother was dealing with at that school...

His thoughts aside, Paul quickly opened the door and smiled at the teen.

"Hi, Richie!" Paul smiled, doing his best cool relative voice, while also not sound pedantic. It was a delicate balancing act, and honestly didn't change too much from normal. But there weren't many people he put in such effort with. "Come in and set your stuff down. Ready to have some fun?"