#maybe i'll write something more polished in the future

[rivereverie]

I’ve just been thinking about how important Astarion’s hands are to his identity. I feel like the brainrot is taking over that I’m trying to analyze this, but hear me out. It's more my rambling thoughts than analysis.

All of Astarion’s practical skills are intimately tied to his hands. Finesse. Dexterity. He tosses daggers, picks pockets, picks locks, disarms traps. Even when it comes to his hobby of sewing and embroidery, that’s all about hands and fingers too. He rolls coins along his knuckles to show off. Astarion takes pride in what his hands are capable of.

His hands are also used against others. A way to hold someone back. Hold someone down. To have them in his hands. Touch is a power of his, practiced for decades, to pleasure and manipulate others. Wrapping them around his finger. In the palm of his hand. Hands are what we use to push someone back. To grab the collar of a shirt. To hold a dagger. They are tools of control. 

We get two lines about him being loath to “break a nail”, and as I once spoke about in an analysis post on Astarion’s expression of vanity, this is clearly an example of his mask, distracting from vulnerability. It’s not a stretch to read into these lines about his nails as alluding to his time in the crypt. Clawing in desperation at a coffin lid for the better part of a year would do much more than break nails. That year wore away so much of his identity, as it did his hands. It was loss and helplessness.

Hands can also be a symbol of violation. A hand being forced. Grabbing. Prodding. Taking. Hurting. Claws scraping. Curled fists. A bruising grip. The stuff of his worst memories and nightmares. Even gentle, loving touch does not feel safe or enjoyable to Astarion for a long time. He's used to hands only ever taking. His own included.

Hands are so often used as imagery for autonomy, responsibility, and guilt. Blood is on our hands specifically because they are considered instruments of will. It's interesting that Astarion’s story is all about these themes, too. In the end, the hands that were forced to drag so many souls into Cazador's grasp were the same ones that drove a dagger through the vampire's heart.

Hands are also meant to reach out. To hold on. To carry a torch to light the way. To caress. To link fingers with the hand of another. To create and build. To express and feel. Hands (both his and those of others) have the same capacity for gentleness, giving, and connection as they do cruelty, and that's something Astarion finally believes, by the end.

And his hands will never be forced again.

- (The dialogue screenshot above is from 'A Dream Of Silence' by abigailmoment. I'm just using it illustratively)

[sunbeamlessreads]

Let Him See - Oscar Piastri x Reader One-Shot

❝ He kisses you like he’s waited for permission. And that’s what makes you break. ❞

[oscar piastri x reader]

~8.2k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, emotional neglect, infidelity, porn with plot, smut, possessive behavior, complicated breakup dynamics

lando stopped seeing you. oscar never missed a thing. now the whole paddock knows.

notes: i tried writing in present tense for this, which really isn't in my ballpark. not sure if i loved it, but maybe i'll do more of it later on. i’m sorry i made lando out to be such a dick. i promise ill make up for it!! enjoy! <3

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The McLaren party is elegant in that vaguely overstated way team events always are—polished chrome fixtures, dim gold lighting, and drinks served in glasses that clink too delicately for the kind of tension simmering beneath the surface.

You walk in on Lando’s arm. A black strapless dress hugging you like it was tailored in vengeance. The ruffled ruching along the bottom cascades like spilled ink with every step you take. You planned everything—the heels, the bold red lipstick, the subtle shimmer in the inner corners of your eyes. All for him.

He barely glances down at you.

Lando says something to a passing engineer, nods at a sponsor, then slips out of your grasp as naturally as water slipping through your fingers. No one notices the slight shift in your balance when he lets go. But you do.

You’re left standing beside a bar you didn’t want to be near, surrounded by people who smile too brightly and ask questions you don’t want to answer.

You’re his girlfriend—the public face of a dying relationship neither of you have the courage to end. He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. He’s across the room within minutes, grinning down at a woman in a red backless dress, hand resting low on her spine. It’s a familiar stance. You’ve seen it before. You’ve even been on the receiving end of it—back when he still bothered.

Your chest aches, but you don’t flinch. Not here. Not while people are watching.

Someone asks you if you want champagne. You decline with a polite smile, then excuse yourself—something about needing to take a call, voice breezy, unbothered.

You step out of the ballroom like you’re slipping out of a skin that doesn’t fit anymore.

The hallway is dim and mercifully empty. You exhale, back against the cool wall, and pull your phone out of your clutch—blank screen. No missed messages. No excuses to stay outside longer than you should.

You open WhatsApp. You type a few words. Delete them. Start again. Then stop. You let your head tip back until it rests against the cool wall, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

You wore this dress for him.

You practically starved yourself all day, got your makeup done by the same artist who preps you for photoshoots, shaved every inch of your body until your skin ached—and he didn’t even look at you.

A sharp sting pricks behind your eyes, but you blink it back. Your mascara is too good to waste on someone who hasn’t kissed you in public in weeks.

You shift your weight in your heels. They’re taller than you usually wear—he once said he liked when you looked just a little out of balance, like he had to catch you. He hasn’t caught you in a long time.

The hallway feels like limbo. You’re not sure if you want to scream or vanish. The silence settles over you like a second skin—until it breaks.

“Hey.”

You look up.

Oscar stands a few feet away. Hands in his pockets. Brows knit with something like concern—or maybe anger, but not at you.

You straighten up instinctively, “Hey.”

His gaze flicks toward the ballroom, then back to you, “He didn’t even notice you left.”

Your voice catches before it comes out, “He never does.”

Oscar doesn’t speak. He just stays there, watching you like you’re not crazy for feeling the way you do.

For a few seconds, that’s enough.

You look away first. Not because you’re embarrassed—but because his eyes are too steady, too full of something that burns beneath the surface. Like if you look too long, you’ll start crying or say something you can’t take back.

Your gaze falls to the floor, to the veins in the marble tile, to the perfectly manicured hand holding your clutch like it’s the only thing holding you together.

Then, softly—like the truth finally scraping its way up your throat—you speak.

“He does this a lot,” you murmur, “Leaves me at these things. Flirts with whatever blonde he hasn’t slept with yet. Sometimes it’s just talking. Usually it’s not.”

You swallow. The bitterness coats your tongue.

“And I’m supposed to smile through it. Pretend I don’t care. Because we’re McLaren’s golden couple, right? I look good enough on his arm, and he looks better in the photos. Win-win.”

Oscar doesn’t interrupt. He stays where he is, still but attentive, like if he moves too fast you might break.

You don’t stop. It’s pouring out now.

“I tell myself it’s fine. That I knew what I was signing up for. That it’s just how he is. But then I see the way he touches them—like they’re interesting. Like they matter.”

Your voice drops, quiet and sharp:

“He hasn’t looked at me like that in a long time.”

The silence after that is loud. Heavy.

You take a shaky breath and force out a dry laugh. “God. I sound pathetic.”

“No,” Oscar says immediately, “You sound hurt.”

You blink. His voice is too honest. Too kind.

It cracks something wide open.

“Of course I’m hurt,” you whisper, “I feel disposable. And maybe I am. Maybe that’s why I don’t leave. Maybe I’m scared if I do, no one else will want me.”

Oscar moves then.

Just a step. Slow. Controlled. Like he’s grounding himself.

“That’s not true,” he says, sincerity and care laced in his voice. 

You lift your eyes to his. His tone doesn't match how furious he looks. Not at you—never at you—but at everything you just said. At every bruise Lando left behind that didn’t show up on your skin.

“I’m tired of watching him hurt you,” he says, voice like steel wrapped in silk.

The breath catches in your throat. You didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect him to say it. Not so simply. Not so seriously.

You fold your arms across your chest, trying to find a shield in sarcasm. It’s the only armor you have left.

“What, you want to make him jealous or something?” A laugh, light and mocking. A shrug, “Go ahead.”

You don’t mean it. It’s a deflection, a defense. Something to push him back before he gets too close to the bleeding parts.

But Oscar doesn’t laugh.

He steps in.

Close.

Too close.

You feel his hand brush the side of your face, gentle fingers slipping behind your ear. He pauses—waits for you to stop him—and when you don’t, he tilts your chin just enough.

And then he kisses you.

Your body locks. Every muscle goes taut.

Your lips are frozen against his, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

But his mouth is soft. Steady. Patient.

He kisses you like he’s waited for permission.

And that’s what makes you break.

You melt.

Fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt, you kiss him back. Rough. Desperate. Furious with yourself for how good it feels. For how long you’ve wanted this, buried it, pushed it down under years of Lando’s carelessness.

Oscar groans when your hips tip into his.

The kiss deepens. His hands grip your waist—hard, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, grabbing fistfuls of cotton like you need to hold on or you’ll collapse.

You hit the wall with a soft thud. He doesn’t stop. You don’t want him to. One of his hands finds your bare thigh where your dress has shifted, the other cradling your jaw.

He kisses you like he needs to prove something. Like he’s making up for every second Lando didn’t touch you.

You moan into his mouth—too soft, too shocked at yourself.

He pulls back just enough to breathe against your lips.

You’re both breathing heavily; you more than him.

Your lipstick’s ruined. His pupils are blown. His chest is rising and falling like he’s just come off a cooldown lap.

Then—voice low, rough, shaking with restraint—he says,

“Room 321. If you mean it.”

And he steps back. Hands still curled like he wants to reach for you again.

But he doesn’t.

He leaves you standing there in a dim hotel hallway, breathless, shaking, lips tingling, with your heart slamming against your ribs and your mind screaming that something just changed forever.

Room 321.

You stare at the number plaque for a moment.

You knock once, and the door opens like he was already standing behind it—waiting.

Oscar stands in the soft glow of the hotel room, still in his suit pants, white shirt rumpled with the top two buttons undone. His jacket’s folded neatly over the back of a chair. His hair’s a little mussed like he’s been running his hands through it since he left you.

His eyes land on your lips first. Then your throat.

Your lipstick is smudged from the hallway kiss. You didn’t fix it. You didn’t want to.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there. Chest rising slowly. Eyes locked on yours. There’s something sharp in his silence—not anger, not regret. Restraint.

You step into the room slowly. The door closes behind you with a dull thud that feels heavier than it should.

He still doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

The tension crackles between you like a tripwire no one wants to step on first.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly, eyes dark.

Your chest lifts, lips parted slightly as you look at him across the room, “Then tell me to leave.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he takes a slow step forward.

You mirror him.

Another step. Closer. Breath catching.

Until there’s no more distance between you.

He reaches out—hesitantly—fingers brushing your chin, then trailing along the line of your smudged lipstick.

“You look like you’ve already been kissed,” he says. 

You breathe, “You did that.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I did.”

That’s when the tension snaps.

The second his mouth meets yours again, everything else dissolves.

It’s rougher this time. Starved. Less like a kiss and more like a confession torn from his chest. His hands cradle your jaw, fingers pressing just beneath your ears like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you. Your arms loop around his neck instantly, your body melting into his like it always belonged there.

His tongue slips past your lips, hot and slow, as your backs bump blindly into the desk behind you. A McLaren cap falls to the floor unnoticed. You gasp softly into the kiss, and he groans into your mouth like it’s killing him not to take more.

His hands slide down your arms, then to your waist, where he grips you tightly—not to push, not to rush. Just to hold. Just to feel.

You don’t pull away when he reaches behind you and finds the zipper of your dress. It comes down slowly, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet of the room. His knuckles brush your spine as he guides the fabric off your shoulders.

You’re still kissing when it falls to your ankles.

Still kissing when you push his shirt off, fingers slipping under the undone buttons, palms brushing warm skin. He shrugs it down his arms and lets it fall with a soft rustle to the carpet. His pants follow soon after, as you blindly undo his belt and unbutton them. 

His hands don’t leave your body. Not once.

You walk backward together, mouths fused, breath short, until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you.

Then he bends slightly and lifts you—carefully, like you might shatter in his arms—and lays you down on the sheets as if it’s an offering.

Your hair fans out against the pillows. Your chest rises and falls quickly. Oscar stands over you for a second, chest heaving, jaw tight, eyes moving across every inch of your skin.

Then he climbs onto the bed and kneels between your thighs.

You watch him watch you, lips parted, body burning.

He leans in and kisses your neck—softly at first.

Then lower.

And lower.

Down the column of your throat, over the swell of your chest. He shifts the fabric of your bra aside, reaching beneath you and removing it gently, with trembling fingers, and kisses the curve of your breast, then bites gently.

You gasp, fingers grasping at the sheets.

He sucks gently—and when he pulls back, there’s a blooming red mark just beneath your collarbone.

Then another. Between your breasts.

Then one lower, over the swell of your ribcage.

He takes his time. His mouth moves down, and you lose count of how many places he claims with his lips and teeth.

You squirm as he shifts, adjusting on his knees to reach lower, pushing the edge of your panties aside so he can press another kiss just above your hipbone—then right at the inner curve of your thigh.

He sucks there, too. A long, slow draw that makes your fingers fist the sheets.

“Oscar—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice husky, “Let me leave them.”

Another bite. Another mark, just shy of the place where you’re already aching for him.

“I want him to see every single one of these.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

You’ve never been kissed like this—not for show, not for ownership, but for the sheer need to leave a piece of himself behind on your skin.

By the time his mouth trails back up your thighs, your panties are damp with heat and your breathing’s gone shaky.

Oscar leans up, one hand bracing beside your waist. His other hand finds the waistband of your panties and begins to ease them down—slowly. Carefully. Like unwrapping something delicate.

He watches your face the entire time.

They slide down your legs with ease, and he tosses them aside.

You’re bare for him now—fully, completely—and you’ve never felt so seen.

He kisses your knee. Then the inside of your thigh again. Then finally, finally, his mouth hovers over where you need him most.

You’re already soaked. He groans when he sees it.

“Fuck. Look at you. I’ve thought about this,” he says softly, eyes fixed on where you’re already wet for him. “So many times.”

You can’t answer. You can barely think.

His hands spread you open gently—reverently—and then his mouth is on you.

Warm. Wet. Soft.

The first stroke of his tongue is unhurried, a slow drag from bottom to top that makes your spine arch off the mattress. You gasp, hips twitching, but his grip is firm on your thighs.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against you.

He licks again—long and deliberate—then presses soft kisses to your clit, switching between his tongue and his lips like he’s tasting something he wants to savor.

You moan—high and broken—and he groans back like he feels it.

His hands hold your thighs open, thumbs stroking slow circles into your skin. You’re writhing now, overwhelmed, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly with every passing second.

Your fingers claw at the sheets. You feel it coming, your body locking up—

Until he pulls back.

Your hips lift off the bed, chasing the loss, but his hands still you.

He leans in, kisses the inside of your thigh again—slow and deep—a soft, open-mouthed press that lingers just long enough to leave another blooming bruise.

Then he hovers over you, mouth wet, eyes locked on yours.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, “I can feel it. You’re shaking.”

You nod, lips parted, breath stuttering.

His hands slide up your thighs, grounding you—but instead of returning to where you’re desperate for him, he pulls back more.

“Don’t come yet.”

Your brows draw together, lips twitching in protest, “What—why—?”

Oscar leans in again, hand wrapping around your thigh to hold you open as he presses a kiss just above your aching heat. 

His voice is low, but firm, “Because I want to be inside you when you fall apart.”

The authority in his tone makes you clench around nothing. You whimper as he sits back on his heels, rubbing his palms over your thighs in soothing strokes.

“Please…” you whisper.

His mouth tilts into the faintest smirk—not smug. Hungry.

Then he crawls back up your body, leaving another trail of slow kisses across the bruises he’s left down your chest.

“You don’t come without me tonight,” he says quietly against your skin. “You understand?”

You nod, barely breathing.

“Say it,” his tone is demanding, but not impatient.

“I—I won’t come until you’re inside me,” you surrender. 

He moves back up to kiss you—soft at first, then deeper, longer—as he reaches over to the nightstand. You hear the foil tear, the familiar sound grounding the moment in something real. His body shifts against yours as he sits back briefly to roll the condom on, his breath catching as his hand moves.

Then he’s back above you—one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand sliding down to guide himself to your entrance. His cock brushes against you, hot and thick and so ready.

But still, he pauses.

“Are you sure? You won’t regret this later?” he asks, voice quieter now. Not demanding. Not coaxing. Just open.

You reach up, cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek.

“Yes. I’m sure. I want this. I want you.”

Oscar exhales—one soft, shuddering breath—and presses his forehead to yours for a moment, like he’s soaking those words in.

He sinks into you slowly—not teasing, just careful, controlled, like he’s doing something sacred. His hips press forward inch by inch, stretching you open, filling you fully until your thighs tremble against his sides.

You gasp, clutching his biceps, head tipping back into the pillows, “Oscar…”

“I know,” he breathes. “Fuck, I know. You feel—”

He cuts himself off with a groan, jaw tightening as he bottoms out, “So fucking tight. Like you were made for me.”

He stills inside you for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking with the effort of not losing it too soon. He brushes your hair away from your face with the gentlest touch, his palm cupping your cheek like he’s afraid you might break if he lets go.

“You okay?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, “Move. Please.”

So he does.

The first thrust is slow and deep, rolling through your whole body. His hips pull back and push forward in a smooth rhythm that feels like worship. Each time he fills you, you feel more of yourself unravel, like he’s stripping you bare with every stroke.

He kisses you through it—long, lingering kisses against your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, your throat.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs, “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

You breathe it against his lips, broken and honest:

“I’m yours.”

He groans, burying himself deeper.

His pace stays steady, grounding—not brutal, not rushed, but deliberate. Like he wants to make this last. Like he needs you to feel it for hours after.

His hand slides down your side to grip your thigh, pulling your leg up around his waist to angle you just right—and when he thrusts again, you choke on a moan.

“Right there?” he pants.

You nod frantically, eyes wide and wet.

“Yeah, baby. That’s it,” He stumbles through his words, deep within his own pleasure, “You take me so well.”

You cling to him like he’s the only real thing in the world, his name slipping from your lips between soft gasps, your body clenching around him, slick and pulsing and completely his.

When your orgasm hits, it’s not sharp—it’s deep. A wave that rolls through you, full-body and consuming. You cry out, and he swallows the sound in a kiss, fucking you through it with soft praise and steady hands.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let go. I’ve got you.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he kisses the corner of your eye.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, “You’re safe.”

He comes only seconds later, thrusts stuttering, mouth falling open against your neck. You feel him groan into your skin as he grips your thigh and spills into the condom, his whole body shaking with the effort.

And when it’s over, he doesn’t pull away.

He just collapses into you—gently—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapping around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his hold.

You lie there tangled in each other, your fingers brushing through the damp hair at the nape of his neck, your thighs still parted around his hips.

Neither of you speaks.

You don’t have to.

You’re both suspended in that quiet stillness—the kind that only comes after something real, something that changes the shape of you.

After a long moment, he shifts slightly, careful not to crush you. His hand strokes your thigh where it’s still curled around his waist. He places a soft kiss on your cheek, then another on your jaw. Then he pulls out gently, drawing a small whimper from your throat.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, brushing his hand down your hip, “You okay?”

You nod. Your voice is still trapped somewhere in your chest, so you let your hand answer for you, fingers curling around his bicep. He disposes of the condom quickly, then returns to the bed without hesitation, lying beside you and immediately pulling you into his arms.

He doesn’t ask if it was good.

He doesn’t need to.

Instead, he cradles you, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other brushing soft fingers through your hair.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “Just… a lot.”

You feel his smile against your forehead. His hand slides up and down your back, slow and steady, grounding.

“Hey,” he says gently after a pause. “You don’t… regret this, do you?”

You shift slightly to look at him. His eyes are wide, open, vulnerable—stripped of all the heat and control from earlier. He’s just Oscar now. Soft-spoken and careful with your heart.

You shake your head slowly, “No. I don’t.”

His shoulders relax.

“Okay,” he says, “Good. I just—I need you to know…”

He hesitates, thumb brushing your side, “This doesn’t have to mean anything. If it was just about him—if it was just something you needed to do — that’s okay.”

You blink. His voice is steady, but there’s a hint of sadness tucked into it. Like he means what he’s saying, but part of him hopes it isn’t just that.

You slide your hand up his chest, over the steady beat of his heart, “It wasn’t just about him.”

His brows lift slightly. You lean in and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t mean anything.”

Oscar exhales—slow and shaky—and you see the tension leave his body like someone just untied a knot that’s been there for months.

He pulls you in tighter. You tuck your head beneath his chin, leg slipping between his, arms around his torso, his scent already warm on your skin.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “Stay?”

You nod against his chest, “I want to.”

You fall asleep like that—in his arms, his fingers tangled in your hair, your body marked with proof of what happened.

Not revenge.

Not just sex.

Something.

The first thing you feel is warmth.

Oscar’s chest beneath your cheek. His arm still slung around your waist. The faint hum of city life beyond the hotel windows. You blink slowly into the early light, your lashes brushing the skin of his collarbone.

He’s already awake.

You can feel it in the way his fingers trace lazy, absentminded shapes along your back. He’s not in a rush. Not trying to move you. Just… there, soaking the moment in.

You shift slightly, stretch, and wince a little—your thighs ache, in the best way. Oscar immediately pauses.

“Sore?” he says, voice still rough with sleep.

“A little,’ you respond quietly.

He kisses your forehead, “Good sore or… need-an-ice-pack sore?”

You snort, hiding your smile in his chest, “Good sore.”

He hums, content. His hand returns to your back. You both stay still for a few more seconds—not talking, not overthinking—just breathing together.

Then, softly, “You don’t have to sneak out,” he says, “You can walk out like you belong here.”

You glance up at him, “I kind of do belong now… don’t I?”

His lips lift into a tired smile, “Yeah. You do.”

You press a soft kiss to his jaw before finally sitting up, the sheets slipping down your body, baring the constellation of love bites he left down your chest. His eyes flick to them, and his smile shifts—pride, possession, a little satisfaction.

“He’s gonna see those,” he says.

“Good,” you echo, voice quiet but sharp.

You find your underwear, pull on your clothes from the night before — everything still wrinkled from the floor. You go to the mirror, fix your hair just enough, and borrow his hoodie. He watches you do it all in silence.

Before you leave, he stands, cups your face in both hands, and kisses you slow. Sweet.

“See you down there?”

You nod, “Yeah. I’ll be around.”

You open the door.

Step out.

And you’re not five steps down the hall before you hear the elevator ding.

You hear the sound of footsteps before you register anything else—then the shift in atmosphere. Heavy. Cold. Unwelcoming/

You turn.

Lando steps into the hallway off of the elevator, coffee in hand, hoodie tied low around his hips, damp curls falling over his forehead like he just stepped out of the shower.

He doesn’t speak right away.

He just stops—eyes locked on you—and stares.

At the heels.

At the wrinkled black dress from last night.

At the hoodie hanging off your shoulders—Oscar’s '81' hoodie.

Then his gaze lands on your neck.

The bruises.

The silence stretches, thick and venomous.

“Wow,” he mutters, taking a slow sip of his coffee, “Didn’t think you’d stoop that low.”

You raise an eyebrow, heartbeat steady, “Funny. I was thinking the same about you for the last six months.”

His eyes flicker—a flash of guilt, gone in an instant.

“So what, then?” he snaps. “You fuck my teammate to even the score?”

You shrug one shoulder, “I didn’t realize we were still keeping score.”

“You really let him leave those on you?” His voice cuts sharper now, bitter, “Is that what you’re doing now? Walking around marked up like a fucking trophy?”

“He didn’t do it to prove a point,’ You step closer, just enough, “He did it because he wanted to touch me. Because he actually looked at me.”

Lando’s jaw clenches,

"You’re still mine.”

That’s when you laugh—not cruel, but quiet. Final.

“No, Lando. I was never yours,” you say with a confidence you didn’t know you possessed, “I just played the part.”

His lips part like he wants to fire back, but no words come.

You walk past him without another glance, heels echoing softly against the hotel carpet. His coffee hand twitches like he wants to stop you—to say something that could undo what he just saw.

But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

The bruises on your neck do all the talking.

The tension hits before you even step onto the concrete.

You’d heard whispers all morning—something about a joint media pen meltdown, Lando snapping mid-question, storming off, Oscar handling it with trademark calm. Nobody quite knows why. No one’s saying anything aloud. But everyone feels the shift.

Especially in the McLaren garage.

The energy is tight. Controlled. Like an engine revving just a little too high.

You move through it like a blade through silk.

Sunglasses on, McLaren pass hanging low on your chest. Hair neatly pulled back, hoodie zipped halfway. You tried to cover the hickeys— light foundation along your collarbone, you hadn't expected to need color corrector on this trip—but Monaco’s heat is unforgiving. The bruises are starting to bleed through the coverage, soft and red and obvious.

You don’t adjust your zipper.

Let them wonder.

As you step through the divider into the team area, a few heads turn. You're familiar enough to them. People don’t stare—not directly—but eyes flick. Conversations pause. It’s subtle, but you’re used to it by now.

Oscar’s standing just to the side of the media tent, debrief notes in one hand. He looks up the second you appear—and though his expression doesn’t change much, you catch the tiny lift at the corner of his mouth. Just for you.

He doesn’t come to you.

You don’t go to him.

Not yet.

You pass close enough that your arm brushes his, and the heat between you sizzles like something private. He doesn’t look, doesn’t touch.

But he says, quiet enough for only you to hear, “He cracked.”

You smile faintly, “I heard.”

“They asked about quali, he said something about ‘teammates knowing their place.’”

You raise a brow, amused, “Classy.”

“Zak pulled him out. Press has no idea what the fuck he meant,” Oscar says, with a hint of boyish triumph laced in his voice. 

“But you do.”

He doesn’t answer that—just smiles again, a little wider this time.

You walk past him and take your place in the viewing area beside one of the engineers. From across the garage, you feel Lando’s eyes land on you. Just a flicker.

Just long enough.

He sees the bruise peeking above the collar of your hoodie. The faint outline of teeth just beneath your jaw.

He looks away.

You don’t need to say a word.

Oscar already said it for you—with his mouth on your skin, with his name on your lips, with every mark he left behind.

Qualifying starts, and Monaco doesn’t give anyone room to hide — not on track, and definitely not off it.

From the team pit wall, you watch it unfold through tinted lenses, headset perched loosely around your neck.

Oscar’s smooth. Fast. Calm through Sector 1, surgical through the hairpin. Lando’s twitchier. Overcorrecting. Radio sharp. He goes wide into Turn 12 and mutters something that gets bleeped on the live feed.

The garage knows.

Everyone knows.

Even the engineers are glancing at each other between data runs. The tension hasn’t lifted—it’s just gone quieter. Deeper.

Zak walks past you once, then again, and doesn’t say anything.

You don’t move.

Oscar finishes P3. Lando P7.

When Oscar’s lap time flashes on the board, there’s a flicker of something like satisfaction in the way he lifts his visor. He doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t gloat. Just pulls back into the garage like he’s done his job—and knows you were watching.

You head toward the back hallway after the session ends. Quiet space behind hospitality, where the drivers come through before facing the press.

You’re leaning against a wall when you hear the voices before you see them.

Lando’s.

“Why don’t you tell them what you were really thinking on that last lap?”

Oscar’s.

“Excuse me?”

Lando’s.

“You wanted to beat me. You needed to. Don’t act like this was just another quali for you.”

Oscar’s voice is quieter, cooler, “Every quali, I want to beat the guy next to me. That’s the point.”

Lando laughs, sharp and joyless, “You think you’ve won something, don’t you? Some prize of a woman?”

You step into view.

They both go quiet.

Oscar’s eyes flick to you first—not surprised, not smug. Just aware. Present.

Lando sees the faint hickey blooming again, the one the foundation couldn’t fully hide, and his jaw ticks. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to.

You tilt your head, “Everything alright?”

Oscar looks at Lando for half a second longer, then turns to you.

“Yeah,” he says, calm and even. “We were just clearing the air.”

This earns him a glare from Lando. 

You smile at Oscar, brush your hand lightly along his arm as you pass.

Lando stays frozen.

It’s dark when you find Oscar again—rooftop level, away from the noise. He’s leaning on the railing in his McLaren hoodie, watching the city lights flicker over the water.

You slip in beside him.

He doesn’t look away from the skyline.

“He’s pissed,” Oscar says.

“He’ll stay pissed,” you admit quietly.

“He’s not just mad about it being me,” a beat, “He’s mad because he never thought you would leave him.”

You nod, fingers grazing the edge of the railing, “He never thought I’d let anyone else touch me.”

Oscar turns to you then. The tension’s gone now, burned out somewhere between the lap and the hallway. He notices you shivering and removes his hoodie, handing it to you without a word.

“Do you regret it?”

“No,” you respond, more assurance in your voice than the last time he asked. You turn fully toward him, “Do you?”

He just looks at you—steady, thoughtful, something softer than anything he’s shown all day.

Then he shrugs one shoulder and smiles faintly, “Not even a little.”

You lean in.

Kiss him.

The kiss is soft—nothing like the one in the hallway, or the ones from last night, hot and breathless with desperation. This one is calm. Confident.

Yours.

Oscar’s hands rest lightly on your waist, the cool night breeze lifting strands of your hair between you. Monaco glitters below, impossibly golden. You kiss him once. Then again. Slow. Unrushed. Like no one’s watching.

Except someone is.

You don’t notice it at first—the small mechanical click behind you. Subtle. A shutter. A camera lens adjusting to the low light.

By the time you pull back, it’s already done.

Oscar’s head lifts just slightly, eyes narrowing toward a corner of the rooftop—barely visible through a line of glass. Not press-official. Paparazzi freelance. The ones who sell exclusives when the media team’s off-duty.

“Shit,” Oscar mutters under his breath.

You turn, eyes locking on the shadowed figure just as they duck behind cover.

Too late.

“Think they got it?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Oscar nods slowly, expression unreadable, “Yeah. They got it.”

You exhale—not panicked. Just… bracing.

Because the image will drop. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow morning. You in his arms, mouth on his, Oscar’s hoodie on your shoulders, his fingers curled around your waist like he’s holding something that matters.

It’s not a rumor anymore.

It’s not a whisper in the paddock hallway or a locker room assumption or something Lando only suspects.

It’s proof.

The photo drops sometime after 2 a.m.

It’s soft. Intimate. The Monaco skyline blurred behind you, Oscar’s hands gentle on your hips, your lips brushing his in a kiss too tender to be casual. You’re wearing his hoodie, your body leaning into his like you belong there. The headline spins fast, and the image spins faster.

“Piastri and mystery girl— late-night kiss confirms more than paddock rumors.” #MonacoGP #OP81 #McLaren #F1WeekendRomance

By the time the sun rises over the harbor, the image has circled the globe. Instagram reels. Reddit threads. Private group chats with McLaren team tags. 

Some know who you are. Others ask. Everyone guesses.

No one’s surprised.

Not even Lando.

He sees it around 6 a.m. His phone buzzes with the notification, a WhatsApp ping from someone in media: “Bro…?”

He clicks it, thumb slow, still groggy from a half-slept night.

The image fills his screen in just about a second flat.

And for a second, he doesn’t feel anything at all.

Then it hits—slow and thick, like cold water spreading under his ribs. He stares at the photo, eyes scanning over the curve of your smile, the way your fingers curl into the back of Oscar’s shirt, the undeniable ease in your body.

You look happy.

He hasn't seen that look on you in months.

The worst part is how quiet the fury is—how it doesn’t come out loud, how it just sits there in his chest.

He doesn’t throw the phone.

He just stares, jaw tight, thumb hovering above the screen like he could rewind the moment and undo it.

But it’s already out.

And nothing will unsee it.

The paddock is different that morning. The kind of quiet that’s not actually quiet—just loaded.

Oscar walks in calm. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t shrink. He gives one quick nod to Zak, another to the comms lead. Then walks into the garage like he hasn’t just become the most searched man in F1.

Lando’s already in the back, zipped into his fireproofs, eyes locked on the telemetry like it might give him something to hit. When Oscar appears beside him in the media pen, the tension is immediate—even before the interviews start.

“Oscar,” one reporter says, half-laughing, “you’ve been trending all morning. Surprised by the attention?”

Oscar’s lips tug into a polite half-smile, “Not particularly.”

“Balancing a fast lap and a fast… personal life?” someone else jokes.

He doesn’t miss a beat, “One lap at a time.”

Lando laughs then—too sharp, too loud, “He’s got more than enough time to focus on everything else, clearly.”

The PR handler stiffens. The reporters go quiet. One camera clicks. Someone tries to move the topic on, but the moment lands.

Oscar doesn’t react. Just folds his arms across his chest, gives a small smile, and looks straight ahead.

You hear about it an hour later.

And when you enter the garage, it’s like parting smoke. The space tenses. Heads turn. No one quite meets your eyes, except for Lando —a glance, sharp and quick, from across the space.

He looks away.

Oscar doesn’t.

You find him standing near the screens, headset tucked around his neck, one hand in his pocket. He sees you and offers the smallest, softest smile.

You pass close. Don’t touch. Don’t stop.

But your fingers graze his as you go.

He breathes like it’s the first time all day he’s been allowed to.

Later, after the final briefings wrap, you find him alone behind the paddock—tucked into a quiet service alley, the marina glittering beyond the concrete walls.

He doesn’t hear you approach. Just stands with his back to you, hands braced on the railing, still in his gear. His shoulders rise and fall in slow rhythm.

You stop beside him.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then, “So,” you murmur, “that’s one way to go public.”

He huffs a laugh. “Guess we don’t get to control the timing.”

You glance sideways at him. “Regret it yet?”

He finally looks at you — eyes soft, voice quieter than it was all day, “Not even a little.”

You nod slowly, “Me either.”

He exhales, like that’s what he was waiting for.

“It’s going to be loud,” He warns

“I know.”

“He’s not going to take it quietly,” Oscar adds. 

“He’s not my responsibility anymore.”

Oscar studies your face — the calm in your expression, the steadiness in your voice — then lifts a hand to your jaw, thumb brushing gently beneath your cheekbone.

“If it gets messy—” Oscar starts. 

“We’ll deal with it,” you reassure him with a confidence foreign to you. 

He nods once.

"Good luck out there."

The Monaco sun glints harshly off the harbor, but the air inside the McLaren garage is colder than it should be. Everyone’s already seen the photo. The photographers couldn’t have asked for a cleaner shot.

No one says a word about it — not to your face. But there’s something in the silence. The way engineers glance between Lando and Oscar before looking away. The way a strategist clears his throat before relaying sector data like he’s afraid it might ignite something.

You stay quiet. Poised. Present in the garage like you’ve always been. Just another figure with a headset and a McLaren pass. Except now, yesterday's bruises aren’t just hickeys—they’re headlines.

Oscar’s composed during formation laps, fully in the zone. Lando, on the other hand, can’t seem to keep still. His fingers twitch on the wheel. His visor drops early. And when he lines up behind Oscar on the grid, his car nose to the back of the #81, the message is clear:

He’s not racing for position.

He’s racing him.

The lights go out at the start, and the tension snaps taut.

Oscar gets off the line clean. Fast. Aggressive, but composed—the kind of driver who cuts through chaos like he’s above it. He settles into P3 behind Leclerc and Max, calm radio calls rolling through your headset.

“Tyres feel stable. Brakes coming up nicely.” His tone is smooth. Professional. Locked in.

“Copy that, Oscar. You’re looking good. Just manage the gap.”

Lando, meanwhile, is chewing through the field from P7, but he’s not driving—he’s fighting. And it shows. He’s too heavy into the Nouvelle Chicane. Nearly clips the barrier at Mirabeau. Gets squeezed by Hamilton going into the tunnel and screams down the radio like it’s personal.

“Is anyone actually gonna call shit today, or should I just punt him off the fucking track?”

“Lando, stay focused.”

“Oh, now you want focus. Should’ve told golden boy to stay out of my way in quali.”

Twenty laps in, Oscar’s holding steady in third with tire wear perfectly balanced. Lando’s muscling his way up to P5, then P4 after a gutsy dive into Sainte Devote. It’s impressive. Chaotic. Pure Lando.

“Tell him if he’s going to block me, he better commit to it. This half-ass defending doesn’t help anyone.”

The pit wall tries to smooth it over.

“Copy, Lando. Maintain focus. Oscar’s running clean.”

There’s a beat of static. Then Lando again.

“If he wants to play team leader, he better drive like it.”

In Oscar’s car, there’s only quiet. Steady updates. Clean cornering. No rise. No reaction.

Just sector after sector of control.

But it’s Oscar who makes it look effortless.

Final laps tick down. Lando’s close—closer than he’s been all weekend—but not enough.

You watch the checkered flag fall from the garage viewing area, headset still clutched in one hand, heart thudding in your chest. Oscar crosses the line second—a solid, beautiful finish. No mistakes. No drama.

Lando follows in fourth.

The crowd roars. The team celebrates.

But inside the garage, the energy is split.

Half the crew glances toward the monitors. The other half glances toward you.

No one says anything.

But the silence speaks volumes.

The garage claps for Oscar’s podium. It’s not dramatic. No confetti. But the applause is sincere. You stay tucked to the side as he peels off his gloves and helmet, curls damp and jaw clenched with adrenaline.

He doesn’t look for you.

He knows you’re there.

The podium happens in a flash champagne, interviews, cameras. Oscar is graceful. Deflecting the kiss photo with a shrug:

”I try to keep focus on track. Everything else…” He shrugs. “That’s not what wins points. I let the track speak louder than the tabloids.”

Clean. Cool. Unbothered.

Lando’s post-race media scrum doesn’t go as smoothly.

His smile is too tight. His answers too short.

“Happy with your pace today?”

“No.”

“Anything you’d like to say about team dynamics?”

“I think a few people need to remember who they were before the cameras showed up.”

You’re not sure if it’s coincidence or fate. Lando's leaning against the wall near the back of the hospitality area, arms crossed over his chest, fire suit still half-zipped, sweat drying on his neck. The air between you tightens instantly.

He sees you before you speak.

“So that’s it?” he says, voice low, mocking, “You get your moment? Photo hits the press and suddenly you’re Piastri’s girl now?”

You keep your voice even. “It’s not about the photo.”

“No?” His eyebrows lift, “Looked like it. Looked like perfect timing, actually. Right before race day. You really going for the full storybook arc, huh?”

You cross your arms, matching his stance, “You think I planned that? You think I wanted to be caught?”

He snorts. “Certainly didn't stop.”

You step closer.

“You didn’t stop sleeping around. You didn’t stop ignoring me. You didn’t stop until I was already gone.”

His mouth twitches—not a smile. Something bitter.

“And you think Oscar’s different?”

“I know he is.”

He studies you then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to find the part of you that still belongs to him. The part he can poke and prod and control like he used to.

But it’s not there.

His breath stutters. He looks away—jaw tight, hands clenched.

There’s movement behind you.

Lando glances past your shoulder—posture tensing.

Oscar stands just beyond the corner. Silent. Watching.

But he doesn’t step in.

He meets your eyes—not Lando’s—and with one subtle nod, he turns to go.

Because he trusts you to handle this.

Because you needed to take this one yourself.

You find Oscar later by the hospitality coffee station, half-dressed down from his suit, fingers curled around a water bottle, his race boots unlaced. The crowds have thinned. The crew’s winding down. But he’s still here—waiting.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“You saw?”

“I heard,” he says. “Then I saw.”

He studies you.

“You handled him.”

You nod, then smile faintly. “So did you.”

Oscar lifts his water bottle and takes a sip.

You step closer. Not rushed. Just enough.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For what?”

“Not stepping in.”

“Didn’t need to,” he replies, “I knew you could handle him.”

You lean into his side, your hand resting on his chest. His arm slips around your back like it’s instinct.

There are still cameras around.

Still whispers.

Still fallout coming.

But for now, it’s just the two of you.

Still standing.

FROM PADDOCK DARLING TO PIASTRI’S MYSTERY GIRL: MONACO GP’S MOST TALKED-ABOUT WOMAN

Well, well, well. Things are heating up in more ways than one at McLaren—and this time, it’s not just on track.

In case you missed it (though how could you?), Oscar Piastri made headlines this weekend for more than just his flawless P2 finish in Monaco. The 23-year-old Aussie was spotted sharing a kiss with a woman who—until recently—had been very publicly linked to his teammate, Lando Norris.

Yes. You read that right.

The viral photo, snapped late Saturday night on a rooftop terrace above the Monaco paddock, shows Piastri in what can only be described as a very cozy moment with a mystery girl who fans quickly identified as Lando’s longtime (but reportedly estranged) girlfriend.

Wearing his hoodie. With his hands around her waist. And what appear to be love bites peeking out from beneath her collar.

(We zoomed in. Don’t act like you didn’t.)

The woman once seen at every race on Lando Norris’ arm is no longer just a grid-side accessory—she’s made it very clear whose garage she’s in now. And it’s not Norris’.

Neither Oscar nor the woman in question have made an official statement, but the body language has said plenty. The pair has been spotted multiple times, hand-in-hand, unabashed.

While reps for McLaren offered no official comment on the photo, the tension in the garage during Saturday qualifying spoke volumes. Sources inside the paddock describe Norris as “visibly short-tempered,” with one engineer claiming he was “racing like he had something to prove.” As for Piastri? Calm, composed—and, if we may, focused.

He brought home P2.

Norris? P4—and reportedly less than thrilled.

Let’s not forget: this isn’t the first time Lando’s off-track antics have made waves—rumors of infidelity have followed the Brit through the past few seasons, though they were often brushed aside by his ever-loyal girlfriend. Until now.

While nothing has been confirmed (yet), it would certainly appear that she’s Oscar’s now.

Whether this unexpected romance will fuel drama or just give Oscar a boost on track remains to be seen, but one thing’s for sure: we’ll be watching.

Very closely.

Stay tuned. The summer break’s never felt so far away.

© Copyright, 2025.

[milfsloverblog]

Helloooo!! I was wondering if you could write something like Larissa x VampireReader.

I'd like some tension that makes me freak out, and maybe some smut idk 🫦 or something like hate sex? I don't know, I'll leave it up to you, I hope you can do it 🫶

I'm using translator so an apology if there are mistakes or something

Beneath Her Fangs (nsfw)

Larissa Weems x vampire!fem!reader

A/N: Me when I get the opportunity to write some scrumptious angst—😏 I hope you’ll enjoy what I did with your request and the plot I created!

The conference smells like pride and polyester.

A thousand voices blur into one endless academic murmur—principals, instructors, scholars of outcast institutions from across the globe, gathering under one roof to exchange theories no one listens to. You don’t belong here. You never did. But tradition demands attendance, and you’ve followed worse calls.

You’re halfway through a glass of something red—not blood, disappointingly—when you feel her.

It’s not scent that hits you first, though it follows fast. No, what you feel is pressure. The cold density of moonlight forged into a woman’s shape. Years haven’t softened her. If anything, she’s grown sharper, more polished. A weapon sheathed in silk.

You turn, and there she is.

Larissa Weems.

Hair still carved from ice. Lips too perfect for kindness. Her body tall and statuesque and dressed in pearl-toned cruelty. She moves like she owns this place. She probably does. You can smell the fear clinging to the others when she walks past.

Her eyes land on you like a blade. You let them. You let her look.

The last time she saw you, she didn’t beg you to stay. That’s how you remember it. She watched you go, unflinching. Made it easy.

And yet now, here she is—hovering across the conference room like the ghost of everything unsaid.

You're seated beside her at the afternoon panel, of course.

Shaping the Future of Outcast Education: Balancing Heritage and Modernity. A pompous title, and a poorly veiled excuse for posturing. The selkie moderator offers everyone two-minute introductions. Larissa speaks with practiced elegance, gesturing with a hand so poised it could slice glass.

You go last. And you smile with your teeth when you speak.

“Ashthorne Academy has always encouraged… flexibility. Adaptability, even. Some of us, after all, aren’t bound to the past.”

Larissa doesn’t look at you. “And some of us aren’t running from it.” She mutters.

The moderator makes a noise like a drowning fish.

You don’t look away. You smile. “I wouldn’t expect Nevermore to understand evolution. Fossils rarely do.”

Her lip twitches. It’s not a smile. Not quite.

But it’s close.

You don’t plan to corner her in the elevator. And she doesn’t plan to follow you into it. But somehow, the steel doors shut behind you, sealing you both inside.

The air goes still.

You watch the mirrored wall rather than her reflection, which says enough. Her scent clouds the elevator—white musk, lavender, something cold beneath it. It tightens your hunger like a fist.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence like porcelain. “Still playing headmistress?”

You scoff. “Still pretending you never cared?”

“Please.” Her voice is cut-glass. “You were never that special.”

“You were. Once.”

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “And you’re still running.”

“You think I left to spite you?”

“I think you left because you couldn’t stand the things you felt.”

Your laugh comes low, bitter, ancient. “I’ve felt things older than your bloodline, Larissa.”

Silence.

Then, just as the doors open on your floor: “You left me.”

You step out, slow. Deliberate.

Then turn back, voice low. “You never asked me to stay.”

She knocks on your door thirty minutes later. Not hard. Just once.

You open it without a word.

The moment she crosses the threshold, it’s war.

Her mouth finds yours like punishment. Her nails rake down your shirt, buttons scattering like pearls. You shove her back, hard enough to make her gasp.

“Is this how you mourn?” you mutter against her mouth. “Years of silence and now you want to fuck it out?”

“I don’t mourn you.”

“Liar.”

You push her against the wall. Your hand closes around her throat—not to choke, just to hold. You feel her pulse jump under your fingers, fast and sharp.

“You want to be ruined,” you breathe.

She bares her throat in answer. Your mouth is on it before you can think. Her pulse drumming against your tongue.

“I could kill you,” you whisper into her skin. “You know that, don’t you?”

She arches beneath you. “So do it.”

You bite instead.

Not deep. Not enough to break skin. Just a threat. A promise. Your teeth rest just above the artery. She moans like it’s worship.

The bed catches her knees when you push her. She sprawls like she’s meant to be devoured—pale and furious and breathing hard. Her blouse is already open, bra skewed. Her skirt rides high on her hips, revealing expensive lace, white and obscene.

You step between her legs. Drag your fingers up the inside of her thigh, slow as a sin.

“You’ve imagined this, haven’t you?” you ask. “Years, and you’ve touched yourself thinking about me.”

“Not once.”

You laugh—low, dark. “Liar.”

You tear the lace. Not enough to ruin it. Just enough to make her gasp again.

Your fingers slip inside her—hot, wet, furious.

She groans. Bites her lip. Tries not to give you the satisfaction.

So you press deeper. Curl slow. Watch her shudder.

“Do you hate me?” you murmur.

Her hips buck.

“Yes,” she hisses.

“You’re wet for someone you hate.”

She meets your eyes, glassy with lust. “You’re wet for someone you abandoned.”

Your mouth crashes into hers.

You take your time.

You drag her shirt off completely. Kiss her collarbones. Her throat. Her breasts. Suck her nipple until she arches and claws your shoulders.

You murmur things into her skin. Taunts. Confessions. Half-truths and full regrets.

“You could’ve had this every night. All of me.”

“You didn’t offer.”

“I did. You just pretended not to hear.”

You make her come with your fingers buried deep and your palm grinding against her clit. She bites her own hand to muffle the noise.

You don’t stop.

You slide down her body and hold her thighs open with unforgiving strength.

“Look at me.”

She does.

You don’t kiss like you’re being kind. You kiss like you’re making a point.

Your tongue drags over her—slow and precise. You keep eye contact as she whimpers. When she tries to squirm away, you pin her harder.

She comes again. Louder. Broken.

Still, you don’t stop.

You want to see her unravel. Entirely. Want her too sore to walk. Want her to remember.

When you finally rise, her hair is wild, her lipstick gone, her eyes glassy with overstimulation.

“You don’t get to pretend anymore,” you whisper.

“I wasn’t pretending.”

You arch a brow. “You just liked pretending I was the villain.”

“Maybe I did.”

“And now?”

She lays beside you. Silent. Breathing shallow.

You watch her from the shadow of the headboard.

“Tell me you didn’t want this,” you say.

She doesn’t reply.

“I would’ve stayed,” you add softly. “If you’d asked me.”

She turns her head then. Meet your eyes in the dark.

“I couldn’t,” she says. “Not when I didn’t even know what it was.”

You nod.

Understand.

But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.

You were centuries old. Still, heartbreak never stopped tasting new.

————————————————————————

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[asterafroditis]

hey so how do you think Riddle and Azul would deal with a crush who’s a helpful hard worker, if they in project together, crush works well with them and they get good grades, but they have no long term goals and ambitions and zones out a lot. Azul and Riddle, the most ambitious ones ever, are just like “She has no ambitious aura at all?! Wtf?!” And crush is just like

𐔌 . ⋮ no ambitions?! .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆ Riddle & Azul x gn! reader (separate)

𓏵 722 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons, no pronouns used, fluff

Had lots of fun writing this out! can definitely relate to reader on some levels _(:3 」∠)_ feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

Riddle had initially been thrilled to be paired with you for the history project.

You were competent, diligent, and respected deadlines — a rare combination at NRC. Working alongside you was... pleasant, even calming, a sharp contrast to the usual chaos of Heartslabyul.

You would share notes, summarize chapters neatly, and double-check the requirements without him even needing to prompt you. Riddle found himself looking forward to study sessions, mind buzzing not just with textbooks, but the warm thought of how well you worked together.

“They’re so dependable. Such good habits... maybe—maybe I should invite them for tea next time.”

But it wasn’t long before he noticed something... odd.

During a break, while sipping tea he had insisted on brewing properly (“Sloppily made tea reflects a sloppy mind,” he said sternly), he asked in casual conversation, "So. What field do you intend to specialize in after graduation?"

You blinked at him, head tilting in that innocent, peaceful way you did.

"Hm? I dunno. Haven't really thought about it," you said, chewing on a cookie thoughtfully. "I'll figure it out later, maybe."

Riddle stared at you like you had sprouted horns.

"Y-you haven't thought about it?!"

You smiled serenely, resting your chin on your palm.

"Nope. As long as I'm doing okay right now, it's fine."

Riddle nearly dropped his teacup.

“No long-term plan? No ambitions? No charted career path?!”

He tried to cover his shock with a polite cough.

"Ahem. W-well, it is critical to set objectives and milestones to ensure steady personal growth," he said, words tumbling over each other. "I would be happy to assist you in making a detailed five-year plan—"

You just gave him that sweet, blissfully vacant smile. "Maybe someday! Thanks though, Riddle!"

Riddle sat stiffly in his chair, clutching his teacup as a vein throbbed in his temple.

“They're so efficient now, but they're... they're drifting like an unmoored boat! A brilliant, hardworking boat with no rudder! How is this happening?!”

He spent the rest of the project trying very, very hard not to think about how he found your aimless serenity oddly... endearing. Infuriating. But endearing.

─────────────────────────

Azul knew right away he was lucky when you were assigned as his partner for the class project.

You were attentive, methodical, and didn’t slack off — the dream partner. He thought to himself, “If only more students had such discipline, Mostro Lounge’s financial reports wouldn’t give me migraines...”

You even handled the trickier parts of the research without complaint. Azul was impressed.

“Efficient. Cooperative. Excellent work ethic. Perfect for building an empire together... Wait. No. Focus, Azul.”

He started to entertain the notion that you might be someone he could genuinely trust—a terrifying but strangely exciting thought.

So during a quieter moment at the Lounge after polishing up your project proposal, he asked, casual but calculating:

"And... what are your future plans? You strike me as someone who could achieve quite a lot if you applied yourself."

You twirled a straw idly in your drink, legs swinging lightly under the table.

"Future plans? Hm... Nah. I’m just kinda going along. I’ll figure something out when I have to."

Azul's smile froze for a fraction of a second.

"You... don't have a strategy? Or even a preliminary outline of your goals?"

You smiled brightly.

"Nope!"

Inside, Azul shrieked.

On the outside, he adjusted his glasses, masking the horror behind a tight, businesslike smile.

"I... see. How... refreshingly spontaneous."

But in his mind, it was chaos.

“No ambition?! No hustle?! No grand designs for success and power?! How can someone so competent lack the drive to leverage it?!”

Every fiber of his being itched to offer you a job at Mostro Lounge, start you on a 12-year plan, sign you up for five internships, and drag you bodily toward greatness.

But you just smiled and went back to doodling something random on the margins of your paper like you hadn’t just shattered his worldview.

Still... as much as it made his head spin, Azul couldn't deny it was... weirdly comforting to be around you.

Maybe it was nice, once in a while, to sit across from someone who didn’t constantly scheme and scramble. Someone content with now.

It drove him insane.

But he kept finding excuses to study with you anyway.

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

Omg omg make "If she grew her hair long, act girlier, and stop looking so grumpy I think she would be more popular........ I'll kill you" a set of one shot scenarios for those bllk guys you mentioned😭😭😭✨

boyish - c. hyoma

fem!reader

“you know, chigiri, i feel like a lot of girls like you. like, a lot.”

chigiri stared up at the boy in front of him, one who had suddenly just sat down in front of him during lunch, who chigiri was also too apathetic to learn the name of. the crowded classroom was hot and far too packed for chigiri to go out of the room without bumping into at least ten people, so chigiri decided that he was simply too lazy to leave and just allowed the boy to sit in front of him and yap.

“uh huh.” chigiri mumbled, shoving a mouthful of rice through his lips. he wasn't interested in the least; he already had a girlfriend, and you were the best possible lover he could ever ask for. “i don't really care.”

sure, you were both off to a rough start with your cropped short hair and rather boyish traits as opposed to his long silky hair and more feminine traits, but all that mattered was that you both loved each other right now and will still love each other in the future. the boy laughed. “you got that apathetic rizz, huh? well, girls love it. i should try someday.” the boy hummed as his eyes darted to chigiri. “although i heard you've got a girlfriend.”

chigiri stiffened before his eyebrows knit together. he had a bad feeling about this; any mention of other girls and then suddenly his girl never meant something good. chigiri began cracking his knuckles underneath his desk, ready for a fight. he shoved his box of bento back into his lunchbox before glaring up at the boy who was talking.

“you know, she's alright, i guess, but wouldn't she look way better with longer hair and more makeup? maybe wear some nail polish too. i mean, her hair barely goes below her ear, and she doesn't really wear makeup, and her nails are always dir--”

“i'm going to kill you.” chigiri muttered, before kicking his leg directly into the shin of the boy. chigiri heard a crack before deciding to abandon his laziness and walk out of the room. the boy held his aching shin up to his chest, practcially screaming as tears flew to his eyes. “don't talk about her like that ever again. in fact, don't talk about her ever again.”

everyone surrounded the boy profusely, many hurrying out to call the nurse. meanwhile, chigiri walked down the hallway with long, slow strides. you had been in the teacher's lounge for a while to help the teacher with something, but you had ran down the hallway to see chigiri the moment you heard someone whispering about it when they entered the teacher's lounge. “hyoma? what happened? why-”

chigiri just shrugged, taking your hand to walk back to the classroom. “it's nothing. just gave him what he deserved.” your head cocked to the side, but chigiri remained silent. you could make your appearance anything, and as long as you were happy, chigiri wouldn't mind.

a/n: this is my first time ever officially writing for chigiri, so i hope this is accurate!

[accirax]

DRDTtober Day...... uhhhhhh......

Given that we are (*checks calendar*) now half a year out from when DRDTtober 2024 was meant to begin, I think it's finally time to admit... yeah, I don't think I'm ever going to go back and make art for those prompts 😔✌️

I did, however, draw this back in September, in accordance with my original plans for the event! For those curious, below the cut is a (hopefully) brief explanation of what these designs were intended to be for, and why the comics ultimately never came to fruition.

As you may or may not recall, librariansrose kindly shared 2024's DRDTtober prompts to Tumblr well in advance of October's beginning, on August 22nd. Because I had so much fun making all of the comics for 2023, I definitely wanted to participate again. However, making the comics for 2023 took a lot of time, so I resolved that, if I was going to commit to these comics as a fairly big time investment, I might as well go all-in and make something nice that I could ideally use as a portfolio piece in the future. One polished, paneled page per day, in a 31-day overarching story. That idea also aligned with my personal desire to do something different than I had done last year, just for spice.

"This will be so easy!" I thought. "I have the end of August and the entirety of September to make my designs, write out my script, and get well ahead of drawing the comic itself so that I'll have plenty of buffer for the beginning of October!"

A few days after the prompts were shared, it was announced that DRDT Chapter 2 would resume on September 6th.

Suddenly, all of the time that I had mentally blocked to work on my DRDTtober comics was absorbed into watching the series itself and writing up my episode-by-episode dissections, as well as reading and responding to other various theories. It was awesome, obviously, but by the end of September I had done basically nothing other than make some very loose notes and draw up these first passes at character designs. At the beginning of October, I played with the idea of doing 7-page bursts at the end of each week, but when the first week ended, that turned into starting it mid-month and finishing in November, to starting in November, until it devolved into where we are now.

The biggest reason why I never wound up making this comic is because, to this day, I still don't have a clear idea of what its ending would be. With the comics being one connected story instead of 31 largely separate jokes, I needed to know what the ending would look like in order to properly set up the beginning. And, as I quickly found out, trying to make up a satisfying story that has to feature 30 random prompts in a specific order and feature 17 different characters when you only came in with the desire to make a comic instead of to share a story, is really, really hard 😅

What I can say about the story is that it would have had David as the protagonist, with Xander and Teruko starring as fellow main characters. They would go on a quest throughout the kingdom and into the wilderness, encountering the rest of the cast (themed to various prompts) at various points along the way. For instance, you might be able to recognize Hu, Eden, and Min as representing the "magical girls" prompt, while Whit and Charles exemplified the "coffee shop" prompt. There was also a lot of lore, the details of which were also never fully fleshed out. If people are interested in hearing more about the story, maybe I can share the beginning of the script that I wrote out, and the layout sketches I made of what the first few pages would look like.

But yeah, unless I wind up reviving this story in some other form in the future, I don't think I'll ever wind up circling back to 2024's prompts. I'd be much more likely to either just wait until 2025's prompts come out, or continue making my own events, like the Secret Santa and Valentine's Day series I've done. I guess I could maybe try to combine 2024's prompts with 2025's prompts to do two prompts per day? That sounds kinda interesting. But also really hard. No promises!

I have no idea if anyone was still anticipating these from me at all, but in my mind I did promise that I'd do the prompts eventually, and leaving that dangling thread was bothering me. Plus, I did like these designs, and hopefully you do, too! Probably so, if you're still reading this. Thank you for reading this! It's not a month's worth of comics or illustrations, but hopefully it was interesting regardless :)

[shifterdera]

What's in my revolution dr bag

Hey, yeah, I decided to do this one too, for my revolution dr. This is how my bag is in the very beginning of the "story".

I'm just a poor 23-year-old mechanic there. I don't have much stuff and I'm moving between cities every now and then, running away from the government.

1. The bag

This is the bag. Yeah. What else should I say? It's a good massager bag with much space.

2. Food

Food is a very important part of my life, especially the sweets (Yeah, I got a sweet tooth). That's the reason why there are many foods in my bag.

★Water. I think I don't have to explain that. Water is always needed,. especially with my type of work (I'm a mechanic there).

★Gum. I am in love with gum, you just go around, chewing on it and if it's a good gum, then it even holds its taste for a long time. This one in my bag is especially good, it has a long lasting flavour, I ADORE that.

★Tic-tac. Even two packs. They are really good, the mint ones the best.

★Chupa chups. Yes.

3. Hobbies

★My notebook. I love writing stories, even tho I don't do it much. But the notebook still lays around in my bag (It will have a big role in the future, when I will be bonding with a character. He is a damn book worm and will (literally) kill you for a good book. I love Kawinski, he is a silly guy)

★The pen. It just comes with the notebook, I have to write with something, right?

★My MP3-player. I live music, I can't live without. One day without Lady Gaga, And One or ABBA - and I'm dead.

4. Money

★Self explaining. All my money comes with me.

5. Medical

★Plasters. Yeah, with beeing a mechanic this shit is needed almost on a daily basis (jk, not that often, but still needed.)

★Bandaids. The same as the plasters.

★Scissors. For the bandaids and nails.

★Antiseptic. For the cuts and wounds, so that I don't get an infection (I hate infection, I automatically start scratching on them and they never heal because of that)

6. Self care

★Lipstick for my dry ass lips. I always lick them and bite them and that's why they look... Well, bad.

★Nail polisher or how the fuck is this thing called. I can't even remember :")

★Deodorant. Yeah, a male one. Cause they 1. Cost less then the female one (I don't know why and wtf, but sadly that's true) and 2. They just smell better. I don't really love the floral smell. (That's a funny thing to say, cause I've never really experienced it? I mean, I can't tell apart different scents. O can tell when the "scent" of the air changes to something else, but I can't tell them apart. If they are too week - I don't feel them at all.) But yes, I innerly don't really like the floral scent :D

7. Things, that I hope Tumblr won't mark this post as "possibly mature content" for

★Cigarettes. REMEMBER, KIDS, DO NOT SMOKE, THIS WILL LEAD TO HEALTH PROBLEMS AND SERIOUS ADDICTIONS!!!!!!!!!!! But, yes I do smoke and I carry the pack around with me.

★A lighter. A really badass one. And very useful.

★A combat knife. For many reasons. It can be really useful in my everyday life. Moreover I need it for self-defence (Yeah, I am running away from the damn government, tho I don't really think it will help if they finally track me (spoiler: it won't))

8. Practical things

★Hair ties. Although I have really short hair, it is still long enough to bind it with a hair tie so that it doesn't fall into my face.

★A flashlight. Is just practical and I carry it around for the black days.

★An umbrella. Yeah, is practical. I don't want to get wet in the rain

Yeah, I think that's all! I don't really have much in my bag, like I said, I'm just a poor mechanic and I move through cities to not get tracked down by the government. Maybe I'll tell in another post more about this reality, but that's all for now!

Forever yours,

Dera

[fruchtfleisch-art]

12 and 19 for Kira? I also kinda want to ask 27 for him too. Because I wonder if he would feel GUILTY about anything, really. You're the Kira expert, so in your takes I trust 🙇‍♀️

Ah, thank you!! My secret recipe for writing Kira: 3/4 rereading the manga to fact check, 1/4 Real Cat Behaviors that Horrify Me. Let's not ever take this man to the Australian Outback.

12. Crack headcanon: death-grip syndrome COUGH

19. Vices/bad habits: bad habits Kira demonstrates in DiU canon:

Biting his nails until his fingers bleed when he gets stressed

Not getting enough aerobic exercise

Blaming other people for his problems/terrible personality

Terrorizing people who make him mad/aroused without considering the long-term consequences

In general, even though he has that meticulous, cautious, conservative personality, he's pretty bad at restraining himself when he really wants to do something. With that in mind, hypothetical bad habits Kira might have:

Feeling like he should have the "best" version of something (clothing, kitchenware, home decor) regardless of cost. He's not an impulse shopper, but he might budget for some stupidly expensive name brand goodies when generics would serve him just as well, or get stuck researching frivolous details about things he wants to buy in the future. --But also, things he definitely splurges on without thinking: jewelry, women's perfume, nail polish, hand lotion. Probably had favorite stores in his youth that he can't go to anymore because the employees started recognizing him and asking after his "girlfriend". 33-year-old Kira tries to go to many different department stores with no pattern... key word here is "tries"... I also love the idea that he's obscenely wasteful with jewelry and doesn't like "regifting" his presents, so he buys the same kinds of bracelets, rings, etc over and over.

Freezing out people in his workplace who aren't meeting his (often arbitrary) standards. Nothing suspicious, nothing even overtly aggressive, but if the new temp is irritating to Kira, they're probably going to have to find a different job eventually. He would be an extremely mundane and uncreative bully: dragging his feet on documents that need his approval, "forgetting" to follow through on requests, throwing away lunch/snacks left in the communal work fridge, acting standoffish during water cooler conversation. Kira would rationalize this as him blowing off steam so he doesn't do something really bad... but, uh, also, let's hope that temp isn't female. He might get creative...

I just love that he canonically has terrible stamina because he's too neurotic to go to the gym, it's so stupidly domestic 😭. Shinobu asks "Kosaku" to move a heavy piece of furniture and gets to watch all the blood leave his body in real time as he tries and fails to lift a dresser more than two inches off the ground. DIO would crush this guy in his hand like a ripe plum.

27. Their guilty pleasure: I feel like it's possible he has what he thinks are harmless guilty pleasures... he is, after all, just your average salaryman 😌. Does he actually feel guilt or shame when he's engaging in them? Ehh... I'd say no. Most of the time Kira gets himself in trouble because he can't put limits on his behaviors, and has no interest in learning how to do so. That's maybe his most catlike quality!

"Guilty pleasure", to Kira, would probably look something like "I used a bit more perfume for hand gf #33 than recommended, I'm sooo naughty >:3" [knows exactly how many more spritzes he can get out of the bottle] [has a spare waiting in the closet he bought months ago with a coupon]. Behaviors that bear a surface resemblance to harmless, silly indulgences, but are miles away from true "oh, I shouldn't do that... but I love it, even though I'll feel bad about it later" activities. Kira would never understand my fraught relationship with salt and vinegar chips.

One more note, I also like the idea that he does feel guilty at points while he's pretending to be Kosaku, but mostly over little things that distract him from the real source of his discomfort (living in a way that contradicts his core values). Sometimes those tiny moments of guilt coincide with interactions he has with Shinobu to make him look really thoughtful and caring! Nice!

Kira: [has been ruminating for eight hours about how bad his life is] I think........... I actually can leave work early tomorrow so we can.......... do some kind of activity......together.............. sorry................ Shinobu: :O Kira: ['93% progress to complete ego death' bar ticks down to 92%] [feels an insane rush of relief] [Ivan Pavlov is taking notes]

Not to once again plug my own fic (they say, plugging their fic), but an actual written example of this occurs towards the end of Easy, Tiger! Kira admits he didn't actually want to watch a movie with Shinobu, he just wanted to... spend time with her D:> There's no way he actually feels guilty about this little white lie, but it's like opening a pressure relief valve so he doesn't have to sit with his distress and process it. Also, it gets him external validation from a real woman! Nice! That's a guilty pleasure if you squint, right?

Ask meme

[sarrsqz]

And I'll be yours until the sun no longer shines

American Horror Story: Murder House

Post-Death Violet Harmon x Dead!Reader

Word count: 1.4k

Summary: When stuck thinking about a world you're no longer a part of, Violet's there to remind you of a world that was created just for you.

I gotta step up cause no one writes for her anymore 😔

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Afternoon sun spilled into the room and cascaded a long yellow gleam onto the floorboards. From years of sun damage -- caused by the open curtains that nobody ever fixed, and the angle of the sun at this exact time in the summer seasons -- the wooden floorboards had taken on a bleached look. Something that used to be a staple of the house's beauty now left to rot with the rest of it.

Your eyes followed the angled sun ray, watching it as it got narrower the further it went through the room. The peak of it hit the very bottom of the leather couch you laid on, which was covered in a thick plastic sheet. It was meant to protect the furniture in case of future buyers, but it's been over a decade since anyone (alive, that is) has lived here, so you doubt that it really matters now. It rustled under you whenever you shifted slightly. It reminded you of the paper sheet they use in doctor's offices, the ones that were left tattered after every patient sat on them.

Or maybe it was the squeaky sound it made that reminded you of something. Like how worn-down sneakers belonging to tired teenagers sounded when jogging through a school gym on a Monday morning.

But it didn't really matter. The only thing these comparisons really reminded you of was the fact that you thought too much about trivial things -- and reminisced about a life that you couldn't be a part of anymore.

The only thing that mattered now was the girl whose head was laying in your lap. The girl who had lightly slapped your hand when she realized you weren't paying attention to her speaking. "Are you even listening?" She asked, sitting up -- the plastic moving under you both -- and leaning on her elbow. Her pin straight hair fell over her left shoulder, framing her face that held a scowl at you for ignoring her.

You sat up on your elbows, eyes scanning over her face. She looked the same as she did when she was alive. Acted the same too. It was rare to meet a ghost who was at all similar to how they used to be. But that was Violet for you -- always the black sheep in every situation.

"Sorry." An apology came from your mouth, one of the many in this relationship. But what can you expect from fucked up dead teenagers?

"Jus' thinking about things." Your voice, again. It was difficult for your mind to catch up with your mouth sometimes, something you had grown accustomed to since dying. It never used to happen when you were alive though.

Violet's expression blanks, the scowl making its temporary exit. She glanced over at the sun beams, which were now shifted slightly due to the sun moving. "Your thoughts are more interesting than my cheesy story, huh?" She joked, the familiar sarcastic tone present in her voice. Her fingers began picking at loose strands on the sleeves of her cardigan, her nails chipped with old polish.

Right. Her story. Some cringy thing that happened when she still lived in Boston. She had been talking about it as if it was a fond memory, but you knew her. She just needed something to pass the time. It was futile though -- time doesn't stop for things like you.

You smiled anyway. "No, no. Sorry," another sorry, "keep talking." The words left your mouth, causing Violet to pause for a moment before continuing her story. Her storytelling was interesting enough. With her randomly thrown in curses and rants about people or things that annoyed her.

But what mainly caught your eye this time was the way the sun hit her face. That afternoon glow hitting the right side of her perfectly. Her brown eyes turned hazel, gold and green making appearances. Her hair looked more blond than ever. Memories of seeing her leave for school -- decades ago at this point -- back when she was still alive and had just moved here. Seeing her in the front lawn with her dad or with their old dog. Leaning on the doorframe of her bedroom, seeing her smile at you from across the room.

Making up new events as well. Seeing her at the beach, sand sticking to your skin and salt invading your nose. Walking through a music store, listening to her ramble about Morrissey and flipping through overpriced albums. Making fun of people buying mainstream music, blatantly ignoring the popularity of our own music tastes.

"Why do I even bother talking if you're not going to listen?" A frustrated voice broke through your thoughts. "Y'know, it hurts when you don't pay attention to me. I need you to be present." Her voice was softer when she said that. Vulnerable.

You shake your head slightly, looking away from her. "I was just... imagining shit." Your eyebrows raised slightly, a tight smile on your face as you looked back at her. Looking for forgiveness and for her to continue on with her stories of Boston.

But instead, you're met with concern. She seemed worried. Normally, she'd say something sarcastic, maybe cuss you out a bit, and then continue on like it's nothing. She doesn't have the energy to fight about something like this anyway. She's already not on speaking terms with some of the ghosts here, she doesn't need you pissed off too.

But no. She's worried. Your face dropped, hers narrowed. She sat up fully. Her legs were crossed, bare knees poking out from under her dark dress. "You can talk to me, you know."

You sat up. Your mind was still clouded with thoughts. Your head was a melting pot of memories and made-up fantasies. Your childhood, the high school you were never able to graduate from, the life you and the girl in front of you deserved to be able to live together.

She was back to picking at the strands on her cardigan. Tying random pieces into knots, pulling them apart, starting all over again. Her eyes shifted from her hands and back towards your face.

You opened your mouth, but this time nothing came out. You moved slightly, the plastic squeaked. Neither of you paid any mind to it. You crossed your arms, glancing down at the see-through material that exposed the old black leather of the couch.

"I just keep thinking about it." It. That's what we called the world outside of the house. The world that had forgotten us years ago. The one that wrote us off as tragic cases of teenagers in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Your voice was low. You looked up at her, seeing her face blank again. Unreadable. The sun is almost gone now. It had passed you both and was now situated in the furthest corner of the room.

"Don't be stupid." Her voice cut through the air. It was sharp but held a logical sense to it. She didn't want you to hurt yourself desiring something you can't have. "I wish I could tell you that it's going to happen, but we need to focus on what we have here." Is it obvious that we've had this conversation before?

But still, she was right. She seemed to always be right. Although it hurt knowing we'd be here forever, unable to grow up, unable to leave, we had to remain realistic. Hoping for something that was impossible would only make things worse.

"I mean, unless you found a magic spell that would bring us back to life or some shit." She laughed at her own comment. Even after everything that had happened to her, her humor never strayed.

You smiled, her laughter getting louder when she saw it. She moved closer to you, the sound of the plastic making both of you breakout in fits of laughter, unable to ignore the sound anymore.

She rested her head on your shoulder, your uneven laughs continuing to fill the semi-empty living room you both sat in. You leaned back, watching the sun finally leave the room. Violet leaned in closer, a smile on her pale face. A genuine one at that, no sarcasm in sight.

The lonely reality of being dead will always eat away at you. You'll always miss everything you once had, always resent the circumstances that took them away. You'll always fear forgetting about things that mean so much to you -- fear losing yourself to the insanity brought on by being stuck in a timeless loop of murder.

But you'll also have her by your side. The weirdest girl you've ever met that accepted her own death years before it even occurred. The girl who remained the same in death, and the girl who understands you better than anyone else in the shitty world you two share.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

this is kinda ass but it's okay for my first post lol

[fionaapplerocks]

Google Translation of the June 2000 interview for Crossbeat Japan. n.b. This may contain translation errors.

if your success is based on your honesty?

Thats right, because if I write songs or make an album for no good reason, obviously there's no sincerity there, right? If I feel something so intensely or I'm so overwhelmed by something that I just can't help but write songs and I start making an album, then that's when the path opens up. That's the truth.

And it's successful. …so that's why no-one understands.

If I have 10 songs in my head right now and I'm writing them out and polishing them…I don't care. I might want to put out an album tomorrow. But at the same time, I'm okay with five years from now. So I don't know (laughs)."

-Is it possible that you play the piano just for fun?

"Not at all. Sometimes I play for fun. But it's no fun if I don't need to. I only feel happy when it feels great or when I'm inspired to do something. If I started forcing myself to make music, I would destroy my method of making music. And… "

...You will also lose the way to confirm your progress. But you've used music as a way to overcome pain, and now you're more confident than ever. How do you plan to stay motivated to continue making music in the future? Do you think there will come a day when you no longer need music?

"No. The day when I no longer need music will never come.

But there's a chance that I won't need to expose myself to the outside world, but I'll definitely continue making music. I have no choice."

-Looking back on the five years since your debut, what are you most proud of?

"What I'm proud of… are the relationships I've made. I'm proud of meeting my bandmates and my tour manager Steve. I'm proud of our friendships. And I'm proud of being a real musician, not just a girl who likes to play piano. I had no idea if I had the talent or the skills. … I'm proud of the progress I've made to be able to play with Pando (Piano?). I'm proud of being able to share my love of music with other people, not just staying alone in my room. … I'm proud of the inner growth that music has fostered and the way it has heated up my life. … And I'm proud of my second album (laughs). I'm really proud."

-Compared to when you first started playing the piano at age 8, has the meaning of music changed for you over time? Do you find new roles and new values ​​in music?

"Yes, I have discovered that music can exist only from joy. I have learned that music does not always have to come from pain. And I have realized that even if music comes from pain, it can still be enjoyed (laughs)."

Ultimately, your musical endeavors seem to be driven by a desperate desire to be understood. To what extent have you been rewarded in this regard? Any progress? "No! No progress at all! (laughs). It's really no good, I'm going in the opposite direction. If I started to seek understanding through my musical expression, I feel like the exact opposite has happened. But on the other hand, maybe I don't need to be understood as much as I used to. It's been a learning experience, and things will be as they are. There's not much justification for doing music because you want to be understood. The reason I continue with music is… to give joy to other people. By doing that, joy comes back to me. And I just want to go forward as my instincts dictate. I should never have thought from the beginning that I was doing music to get recognition. In the end, it was because people didn't accept me that I learned that I don't need the approval of others to continue with music."

-You have a tendency to admit your defeat from the beginning. You seem to have the strength to accept that you will always be misunderstood and that you will always make mistakes, and to use defeat as a starting point to face life and pave your way. Where does this strength come from?

"Well, first of all, I have never given up. I don't think that Eimichi/Eido will continue to misunderstand me. Of course, there will always be people who misunderstand me in the future. But that's the real fun of touring. It's only by touring that I realize that there are people in the world who accept me, who understand me. It's just that they're not the ones who write the headlines in magazines. ••Um, I'm lost. What was the question?"

- I wanted you to tell me the source of your strength that allows you to fight even in such adversity….

"Well, it just comes from that place. I get it from the people I meet on tour. There's a whole world out there that I don't know, but I get strength from seeing with my own eyes that there are people who feel the same way as me. And I guess… no, I'm sure I'll feel that in Japan. That's what musical expression does. I mean, it's like a conversation topic. Something that people can agree on and get excited about together. So that's where the power comes from."

Finally, you're only 22 years old and you've already made two great albums. How do you want to develop yourself as an artist in the future?

"I don't know (laughs)."

- Sorry, I know that's an abstract question.

"No, don't worry about it! But I… I don't think I should have the answer to that question. I'll just have to wait and see.

When we were talking about the next album, I said I had no idea when I'd be able to write new songs. It's the same thing…. I just… I think that to develop myself as an artist, I'll have to become a harder worker and develop the drive to do so. I want to be able to work for the pleasure that comes from the work itself, not just to complain, cry, or get some kind of cathartic feeling, but to actually move my muscles. That must be the best feeling, I'm sure."

2000-May-08 Crossbeat June 2000 edition [Video]

[dare-to-dm]

Well, I finally beat Dragon Age Veilguard. And my spoiler free opinion is that it was really good, from beginning to end.

I honestly don't understand how this game has so many haters. I've seen a lot of bad takes. So many that I kept expecting something to happen that would change my opinion, or maybe that it would have a really bad ending. But the ending was exactly what I wanted it to be, and it made my heart sing.

I love all the Dragon Age games, and they're all good for different reasons. But this one is just really polished and high quality overall. I loved the writing, the visual design, the companions, the combat and the twists. I look forward to replaying it many times.

There's a lot to talk about, and I'll be happy to share my opinions in more depth in the future, both the positive and the critical. But I went through this as fast as I could, so I know there must still be plenty of fans out there who haven't had a chance to finish it yet, and it's definitely worth not being spoiled.

[raavenb2619]

Tysm for the Koisenu Futari thoughts! It’s so fun to see other ppl experience how awesome it is, and then get to rewatch it a bunch more timessss

Happy aro visibility week!

Thanks for suggesting it! I had a lot of fun giving my reactions after each episode, and I might consider doing something like this in the future for other media. (And, it gave me an aro thing to do for ASAW : ) )

I often want to approach media analysis with the goal of presenting something really polished and researched, where I've exhausted every angle I can think of, but that can lead to me delay working on things and releasing my thoughts, because I let perfect become the enemy of the good. I still want to do more polished essays, but I think there's also value in sharing some of my initial disparate thoughts and questions before I go deeper into a piece of media. (And besides, if I get engagement on my initial reactions, it'll give me motivation to polish my thoughts.)

So, maybe that's how I'll approach Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, Blade Runner, and Blade Runner 2049; write up initial thoughts for each, post them, then think on things more and maybe engage with what people think of my initial thoughts, and eventually polish them up into an essay. (In a way, that's very similar to my process for my Frozen essay, just with some of the process more visible.)

[forrestdabeevee]

I know you probably have a lot of pending requests rn, and I don't wanna bother you, but... I really wanna know what you can do with some Iron Valiant hcs (sfw and nsfw)? And yeah it's a genderless 'mon, but it's more fun if we say it's male anyway, right?

Ah that pokemon, I remember hearing and seeing photos about it when they started appearing in Paldea. Sadly I've never been to that region yet, it's definitely where I'll be going next time I get the funds for another exploration. I may not have much to talk about but I'll write down all I currently know.

SFW From what I've read, we're not really sure how far into the future they are. They are still adapting to our language so I'd say something over 40 years maybe? That's a rough guess with no real evidence but that's the minimum a lot of other researchers seem to agree on. I disagree and see this kind of technology only becoming possible to use in a hundred years or so without any illegal and wrongful study and experimentation of these kind of pokemon.

Their behavior seems to be a mix between the silent but loving Gardevoir and the stoic and protective Gallade. With them protecting and watching over their trainer with such finesse and skill.

From what I've read and heard they seem to be loving in their own odd way, they don't love their partners in the usual way Gardevoir's and Gallades do. It's hard to explain but they described it as distant but strong love.

They surprisingly aren't as cold to the touch, with them changing their temperature to keep their partner comfortable and happy to the touch.

Their metal body doesn't need polishing and cleaning like other pokemon like the Magnemite line or the Steelix line, their body seems to be made of a polymer metal that doesn't get as dirty or require as much cleaning as the metals of our time. That or they are able to clean themselves with such ease.

Do not underestimate their strength, despite their build they seem to be able to lift up far more than what most fighting types today can lift.

NSFW

Iron Valiant's are normally genderless pokemon but they can customize their sexual organ and lean more towards either gender. So we'll be talking about male leaning Valiant's today. Now then, their sexual organ seems to be easily customizable to their partner's preferences, with the first coitus being cautious and experimentive as they try to figure out everything that you enjoy and what you don't. It also can be the most draining as they will push you to the edge of exhaustion until they are sure you can't handle anymore or until they learn enough about you for future events.

After learning so much about what makes you tick and gives the best reaction I hope you're ready for them to unintentionally tease and fluster you at any point and time. You might need to try and talk to them about when and where they can use your weaknesses otherwise you might not be able to go outside and go shopping with them by your side.

They may not be psychic type but they can still mentally affect you and speak into your mind, they'll also try to fluster or arouse you if you're away from them for too long.

They will carry and manhandle you if it's something you're really into, whether that be at home whenever they're bored or feel you need it or outside while you're tired or they're bored.

[cantuscorvi]

[ He still hasn’t grown out of it? ]

Trying to drag my writing back from the depths in any way possible-- Honestly I didn't write anything I was happy with for the past three months, and most of that time I didn't write anything at all. So I was happy today to finally be able to get something written that I've been intending to for a while. So, I managed to get out a small (very rough) drabble! Just a little thing I imagined to happen when Raum was very young, maybe about 6-7 years old. Maybe I'll rewrite this in the future to make myself more satisfied, but this is how it is for now.

The storybook he's supposed to read hangs limply in his hands while Raum sits on the couch and watches Friedrich wax his shoes.

Two fingers wrapped tightly with the cloth. Tap against the water bottle. Click.

Friedrich glances up.

Raum's eyes dart back to the page. But they have already been on him for a while.

“Tonight I want you to join us for dinner.” He looks down again, and Raum can resume his careful observation. His fingers press the blackened fabric to the toecap, making quick swipes up and down. He speaks patiently.

“They have a girl. Amara… Amanda. Something like that. You two can play together when they arrive. But don't make a lot of noise. It disturbs her grandmother. You're going to have to be on your best behaviour. You can do that, can't you?”

Raum nods, frowning down at his book. “… Mm. Okay.”

“Not ‘okay’. Yes.”

“Yes.”

Friedrich finishes up with the shoe and places it aside to dry with its twin. He stands up, leaving the little black tin on the side table next to him.

“Good. Go and get ready, then. I'll call Marta to help you.”

Once Friedrich leaves the room, Raum looks at the shoes over the top of his book. They’re almost reflective — when he moves his hand, he can see it mirrored on the surface. He eyes the folded cloth. The polish set atop it. Then the door. He bites his lip.

Quickly, he tosses the book onto the seat and swipes the little tin of polish, shoving it into his pocket. He smiles at Marta when she enters.

It's close to dinner time.

Raum dresses with Marta. He patiently endures how she fusses over him, how his shirt is tucked, the colour of his socks. He lets her do his hair the way she’s been told to.

Then he tells her he needs to use the bathroom.

Once the door is closed he sits on the bathtub's edge and lets his feet dangle above the tiled floor. Secretively, he fishes the little black tin out of his pocket.

He looks at it for a minute, twisting it around so the embossed letters on the surface show up in the light.

It's difficult to open for small and unpractised fingers. He pries at it several times unsuccessfully, almost giving up until the lid suddenly pops off and clatters to the floor.

Raum freezes, expecting to be caught. Moments pass without reaction before he breathes a sigh of relief. Marta must have gone downstairs. . .

It's almost disappointing to look at. A black mass of thick waxy nothingness, almost like paint; the only detail on its surface is the small dip in the centre from earlier use.

The smell is pungent and chemical, mildly unpleasant. It reminds him of the few times he was allowed to smell the liquor from the cabinet in the pantry. This feels like a very. . . grown-up object. He nods to himself. Yes. It's something that men use all the time. He likes it. He'll use it in the future, so naturally, he should figure it out now.

Two of his fingers are pressed into the wax before he realises he doesn't have any cloth, or shoes, to use it on.

He pauses for a moment of indecision before shrugging off the thought. Never mind. It's just an experiment! Just to try. He can wash it off and then. . . ask to use it properly later.

Maybe Friedrich could teach him.

The thought buoys him, making him get up with a smile. He smears the wax between two of his fingers and heads to the mirror to take a look.

There's a black stripe down the centre of his palm. He grins and rubs it around a little. Before long both of his hands are black with it, and Raum raises them both in front of the mirror.

It's silly.

How could they use this without getting it everywhere?

Maybe he should wash it off.

He lowers his hands to the sink. His reflection looks back at him. Pristine and young. Pale and blond.

He looks like a kid.

Oh, how cute! He looks just like ████.

His lips twist out of the smile. He's not a kid.

He still hasn’t grown out of it? Not like you, hm?

He raises one hand, hesitantly at first. Then too quickly, like he wouldn't be able to stomach it otherwise, he runs one of his blackened hands through the front of his hair.

“They’ll be here soon.” Friedrich's voice sounds from downstairs.

“I was sure he was ready. I'll go and check on him.”

“Please do.” The impatient tap of a cigarette against its silver case.

Quick footfalls move up the carpeted stairs. The maid enters the boy's bedroom and finds it empty. Clothes are folded neatly on the bed. She looks around and her nose wrinkles briefly, opening a window along the way.

“Raum? Your father is waiting for you.”

Finally, she knocks and opens the door to the bathroom.

Raum turns, thoroughly smeared with black shoe polish. He beams, then falters on seeing Marta, her horrified expression.

“Ah! What have you done?!”

She rushes in, grabbing a washcloth and hurriedly soaking it in water. The inside of the sink is black too. Frantically she starts rubbing at his forehead, black water drips down Raum's face.

“You're covered— Oh, why did you—!”

“Ow…!” Face scrunching he turns his head away, resisting her. “Wait! Stop, I want to show…!”

Another knock at the ajar bathroom door. Friedrich's exasperated voice.

“Marta, they're already…” His head pokes in. When he clocks the scene before him, his jaw slackens, eyes wide. Raum has never seen such a look on his father's face before, caught utterly by surprise.

“I'm sorry, sir, I don't know how he got into the—”

Friedrich's expression hardens.

“Leave it.”

Marta quails. She starts rubbing Raum's face harder with the washcloth. Raum winces.

“Oh no really, I'm sure I can get it off with soap. If you go down first—”

Friedrich steps into the room.

“I said leave it, Marta, give him here.” He takes Raum by the wrist and leads him out of the bathroom door, leaving her behind.

His voice is hushed but the tone is biting as he drags Raum down the hallway towards the stairs.

“I don't know why you decided to pull something like this, now.” He's walking too fast, Raum almost trips to keep up with his longer stride. “It's unacceptable —”

“No, Dad, I wanted to—” Raum ineffectually yanks at his grip, trying to get him to slow down.

“Quiet. Making a mess like this. And tonight. It's unbelievable. I told you earlier. I told you—”

“No, it's not!” His voice rises in volume, misunderstood, panicked. He digs his heels into the carpet as they get to the top of the stairs. He grips the rail with one of his stained hands, smearing black along the polished wood. “No! I was just—”

Abruptly Friedrich stops. He turns and smacks Raum across the cheek. It's not a hard blow, but it shocks him silent.

Friedrich stoops to be at his eye level, severe. “You will not talk back to me.”

Raum looks away from him, at some spot on the wallpaper, breathing quickly, abashed.

“You will go downstairs and show everyone what you've done. You will explain yourself. And then you will apologize to them for ruining their evening. Do you understand?”

Raum doesn't respond.

Friedrich snatches Raum's chin, forcing him to face his direction. Stubbornly Raum's gaze remains distant.

“Look at me, Liev. Now.” For a moment, Raum's lower lip quivers. Friedrich tuts at him and Raum frowns deeply, sniffling, forcing it to stop. Slowly, his irises move back in Friedrich's direction. He doesn't blink.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Raum nods.

“Speak up. Yes...?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, who?”

“Yes, father.”

[subway-boss-jericho]

(Hammer anon) 

Bopping you on the head with a paper towel roll. Don’t stress about it if you’re not sure if you can make it!! Nothing is worth your health. 

If you really want to have something on the 21st, you can maybe post a snippet? Or a small drawing? But I think I speak for most people when I say that I would much prefer a chapter that 1: did not affect you negatively in making, and 2: is something you feel is polished and done. No one will mind if you post it past the anniversary! Cake is cake regardless of the occasion or lack thereof 

Take care of yourself <3 you just finished college, you are well within your rights to take it slow. 

You're right but what if I'm mad about it >:[ /lh A snippet or drawing is a good idea... I'm just tired that it's taken so long. I mean it's been 3 years it's not like a few more days, weeks, or months will matter in the grand scheme of things. But it's the Principle of it.

Alas, the chapter has already negatively affected me, although not as much in recent. It was more discouraging earlier on, when I couldn't keep my momentum from the first chapter. I'm broadly doing better now, but I don't like how long it's taking.

A lot of good has come of it. Chapter two would have been extremely different had I written it right after the first one came out, and I think the story will be better for it. One of the reasons I was struggling so hard to write the second chapter aside from the adhd was because I had almost no idea where the story would go in the future. I have a much better plan now, and I like the story I have "written" more than just the vague ideas from when I first started.

Alas. I already said that. uh. Forsooth! Mine writing shalt remain mine burden until it might at last become complete. Hahaha No but, a lot has a happened in the last three years. I know my writing style has changed significantly. I hope that the second chapter can live up to the first one, because I do think I dug my own grave a little in that regard. I'll keep doing my best though, and that's the best I can do.

Polish is definitely what I'm most concerned with. I need to go through and edit stuff to make sure it all flows well and makes sense with the previous chapter.

I'll see if I can post a drawing or snippet, maybe both, if I can't get more done by the 21st. I do want and need to rest, and I will take care of myself. I just also want to create so bad it makes me look stupid, so the burnout is just mean

Thank you for your support. It really does mean a lot to me! I've also been wanting to write responses to all the asks in my inbox but again, the burnout... This is my personal hell

o7 ✨ Take care of yourself as well. I will just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Thank you for the ask as always! 🌠

[shrinkthisviolet]

3, 5, 10, 12, 21, 27, 30, 37, 47, 50 and 63 for the fanfic ask game please!!

3: on a scale of 1-10 how much do you enjoy incorporating romance into the average story?

Oooh this is a hard one. In regards to fics that are not inherently romantic…maybe a 7? I’m not averse to romantic subplots, and I do like to incorporate them when they fit, but I don’t like to play into “pair the spares” (a trope I dislike), especially since my heart leans gen more often than romance in general. So for the romance subplots I have planned, I always want to make sure they have bones and some kind of role to play in the story, not just “oh wouldn’t they be cute?” I have prompt fills for that latter purpose 😅 and if I fall enough in love with a ship, they can get their own longer fic focusing on them and their adorbs. Quite a few of my faves have!

5: have you ever made a playlist about something you were writing as an elaborate means to procrastinate when you could have been actually writing and if yes drop a link, son

Ofc! Morgan AU, Lucy AU, CK AU :D

(Amelia also has one even though I'm not sure if I'll ever write her story in fic form. So does the Rey & Luke time travel AU that is currently a backburner WIP)

10: at what point in the process do you come up with titles, and how easy or hard is that for you?

In the beginning! The difficulty varies, but I need to have a title - there’s only been a couple fics where I’ve been able to start writing without one. Even if the title changes over the course of writing (which has happened and probably will happen in the future too), having a placeholder there is necessary for me 9 times out of 10.

12: Answered here!

21: pick a writer to co-write a book with and tell us what you’d write about

Oooh well ofc I exclusively write fanfic, and it’s not published, but if I have to pick a published author to write something with…maybe Matthew Stover or Claudia Gray! Their characterizations are compelling, and Stover’s writing is so evocative and moving. They both do character studies really well. Claudia Gray absolutely shines in how she writes Leia (of her books, I have only read Princess of Alderaan so far, but I've also heard good things about Bloodline), and her worldbuilding of Alderaan is so great. Meanwhile, Matthew Stover manages to imbue every character with more depth, which is super impressive...and I especially love how he writes the Obi-Wan & Anakin bond as so strong and loving! You don't see a lot of platonic relationships written in a manner equal to romantic relationships in terms of depth of love, it's so wonderful. His ROTS novelization is canon as far as I'm concerned (Disney may say it's Legends, but like...it's a book adaptation of a canon movie. It's canon too)

I’d love to write a character study with either of them :D

In regards to fanfic authors (because ofc we are also writers in our own right)...it depends! My irl bestie is someone I'd co-write a fic with any day if we ever wanted to (we have tossed an idea back and forth lol and maybe one day we will actually sit down and co-write it). And if any of my mutuals (you included) wanted to have a go at it, I'd be open to it! Though...I would probably make for a pretty challenging co-writer since I write so inconsistently 😅 the grind of real life never stops, unfortunately.

27: do you share rough drafts or do you wait until it’s all polished? And who do you share them with?

With my irl bestie who knows that I write fanfic (and also writes it herself), yes! Especially since she and I are super invested in each other’s AUs and fics (if you’ve been on enough of my fanfics…easy enough to tell who she is lol). Apart from her, the extent of my sharing is via snippets on Tumblr...or with mutuals if I find an avenue to bring it up 😅

30: most inspirational quote you’ve ever read or heard that’s still important to you

“It’s not about how many times you fall, but about how many times you get back up.” As someone who has fallen quite a number of times, I take comfort in this sentiment. One day, I will get to where I want to be, even if I stumble and fall a lot on the way there. And once I do, it'll make for a great story!

37: when creating characters, what comes first: appearance, backstory, motivation, personality, something else?

For the most part, appearance. An OC doesn’t feel real to me until I can put a face (and/or voice, the two usually go hand in hand) to them, mostly because being able to imagine them in my head helps with developing their backstory, motivation, personality, etc.

Generally the sequence is: basic premise (daughter of/sister of/what have you, basically the elevator pitch, the impetus for why I came up with this OC) -> name —> faceclaim -> backstory/motivation. And their personality makes itself known as I develop them.

Now ofc this is not always the case (see: Marina, whose faceclaim took a while, so she did get a bit of development in the meanwhile. Though I’m holding on to it cautiously for now until I see 2x10 and can figure out how that’ll influence/change things). But it’s usually how I go about creating OCs! I’ve grown into more of a visual person over the years, generally speaking.

47: what story are you most proud of?

Ooooh currently I think it’s maybe i could be (all you ever dreamed). I’ve always been bugged by how Barry in Flashpoint basically stalked Iris for months and then stole her wallet to have a reason to talk to her, so fixing that meet-cute to be an actual meet-cute was very cathartic :D and letting Iris make the first move too! Flashpoint was a great chance to switch the roles in that regard, and I’m kinda disappointed they didn’t.

(then again…wasted potential that could’ve been made better with even just a few tweaks here and there is s3’s running theme -.-)

Close second is i want you in it (every hour, every minute), which was also cathartic—Westallen deserved their big, fancy wedding (or at least a wedding to themselves smh), and I got to drop in a Wallinda tease :D

50: do you plan or do you write whatever comes to your mind?

A little of both! For shorter standalone fics (like oneshots), those just get written on the fly. For multichaps/long AUs, those get planned out…though ofc even within that, I allow myself the space to improvise and write what feels most natural to me. And if it doesn’t conflict with the outline or makes the narrative stronger, the change sticks!

Ex: Morgan befriending Iris early and eventually looping her in around 1x14, Morgan and Barry being as close as siblings. These are changes that were not originally planned, but imo enhance the story, so they stuck :D

63: what’s the best insult you’ve read in a fic?

I forget which fic this was in since it’s been so long, but I once read the insult “you walnut” in a fic, and I have never stopped thinking about it since 😂

fic writer ask game!