#we write stories to say something we think needs saying

[arkofangels]

Hang in there, BABY?

Pairing: Hank(s) x reader

Summary: When your friend unexpectedly drops off a baby for the night, you and your five hanger boyfriends—The Hank(s)—are thrown into a whirlwind of diapers, pacifiers, and existential panic. 

A/N: sorry its been take me so long to write, my computer is literally on its last legs and I can't afford to get a new one :(

(its a 8 year old Mac book and i swear i can hear it cough after every update 💔)

You don’t ask questions when your friend drops a baby off at your door.

You try, of course. You get out “Wait, why—” before she slaps a diaper bag into your arms, kisses your cheek, and says something like “It’s just overnight, you’re the only one I trust, I’ll explain everything later, BYE.”

And then she’s gone.

And you’re left holding a real, human baby. And also surrounded by five animate "hangers" in jumpsuits who have very strong and very different feelings about this.

“A baby?” Hank 2 squeaks, already Googling CPR on your cracked phone. Hank 1 crosses his arms. “We can handle a baby. We’ve done trick dives into volcanoes.” “Those were miniature volcanoes made out of papier-mâché and sadness,” mutters Hank 4. “Do we think the baby’s got a favorite already?” teases Hank 3, batting his lashes. He’s immediately silenced by a diaper to the face. “I love this baby,” Hank 5 whispers, gently cradling the child with sock-like reverence. “We should build it a tiny hammock and name it Bean.”

You make a list. You don’t know what babies eat (mashed peas? socks?), but you know what you have:

Five hanger boyfriends

A half-eaten sleeve of saltines

Eight Red Bowls

And now, apparently, a baby.

Operation: Don’t Let the Baby Die begins.

Hour 1: Hank 2 is already spiraling. He’s checking the baby’s pulse every six minutes. “What if we drop it? What if it senses our fear? What if Red Bowl finds out and tries to sponsor it?!”

Hour 2: Hank 1 builds a diaper-changing station out of your bookshelf. It is both sturdy and somehow... emotionally grounding. “Babies need confidence. Eye contact. Structure. And a little jazz.”

Hour 3: Hank 3 plays peekaboo. But it turns into an impromptu stand-up set. “You ever notice how pacifiers are just, like, emotional corks? Amirite?” The baby stares. Then drools. Hank 3 swoons.

Hour 4: Hank 4 is writing a detailed list of potential baby names (even though you told him it already has one). “What about Clasp? Or Hookifer. No? Too thematic?”

Hour 5: Hank 5 and the baby are both asleep in a pile of pillows and blankets on the living room floor, baby toys scattered like confetti around them. You gently drape a blanket over them and whisper, “This is my life now.”

You didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect to be jobless, babysitting someone else’s infant at 3 a.m., surrounded by five sentient hangers in jumpsuits who somehow care more about your well-being than most people ever have.

But when the baby starts to cry at 3 a.m.—a loud, wailing, existential sound that cuts into your sleep like a Red Bowl promo jingle—they all show up.

Hank 2 with a warm bottle. Hank 1 with calming noise (a Spotify playlist labeled “Jazz for Infants and Sad Adults”). Hank 3 with interpretive dance. Hank 4 with one (1) stolen baby sock he insists is sentimental. Hank 5 with a lullaby that is definitely just the Red Bowl theme song hummed gently.

And you.

Tired. Overwhelmed. Absolutely not ready to be responsible for anyone, let alone six people (five of whom used to live in your closet as inanimate hangers—until the glasses happened)

But you hold that baby. And the Hanks hold you. Figuratively. And then, literally.

And in that tangled pile of limbs, soft snoring, and the faint scent of baby powder and Red Bowl plastic, you realize: this is your family.

In the morning, when your friend returns and gasps, “Wait, why are there five hot men in jumpsuits in your living room?”—

You just shrug.

“Long story,” you say. “But we’re good with babies.”

[bitofanupsidedowner]

we're past the appropriate rejection window honestly. remember how steve is rejected by robin in the same season he develops feelings for her? or how dustin is symbolically rejected by max in the season he develops feelings for her? that's because it would have been a super weird choice to build it up for a really long time and then end it with a rejection.

there's a reason why in season three when joyce rejects hopper, we all immediately know it isn't a real rejection, even though they're fighting, she's grieving and planning to leave, and he's being unreasonable and unfair. there's reason after reason to think it's not going to happen, but because he's had feelings for her since season one we know it's going somewhere.

who waits on the edge of their seat to watch someone get turned down? who stays subscribed to netflix for that? that kind of thing would not be interesting, it would just be a confusing way to spend the increasingly limited time right before your show ends. penultimate season. every scene has to mean something bigger, all the way down to lucas talking about new coke or mike trying a new kind of pizza.

in writing you primarily only want to wait and build up to things if the result is going to be worth waiting for. rejection of the perpetually tortured gay kid is predictable and doesn't function to do much at all story wise. easy to write around, too, but they did the opposite. they built will's character around this.

they also have no need to dip back into the rejection pool narratively, doesn't add to the story. especially this late into the game. (sidenote, weird how people were not nearly as sure robin was going to be rejected despite her love interest being mirrored to mike, significantly less developed, and introduced so late, but i digress)

if they wanted mike to reject will, it should have been during the van scene. he should have given mike the painting and said something along the lines of, "i know you don't feel the same, but i really want you to know how el sees you, how we all see you. you're the heart. we'd fall apart without you." it would have still been sad but it would have been an ending.

because plotlines need to end! they need to end when it makes sense for them to, not before or after. dragging it along means they either realize they have something worth dragging, or have deliberately decided to prolong a plot point past its logical conclusion for the sole purpose of milking every last second of misery they can out of will, which would be needlessly cruel and so, so gratuitous.

it's not like the van scene NEEDED to happen exactly how it happened. any scene that is solely character driven with no impact on the plot can be rewritten over and over and changed into whatever it has to be. it was written as the most romantic mike moment in any season, and it was filmed and lit and directed extremely specifically. zero accidents.

robin and vickie was unnecessary without a plan. mike and will was unnecessary unless they have a plan.

so they must have a plan. if mike was going to reject will, it had to be in season four. but mike didn't reject will. not at all. he was actually very, very moved by what will had to say, he just didn't entirely realize what it was he was saying.

in fact, they made sure that this plotline was not just unsolved, but that it was obligated to come back, by having it go against the character's most consistent moral line of friends don't lie. and gave it to the character who, in his introductory scene, refuses to lie. dishonesty has genuine ramifications in this show, and will's is attached to a physical (treasured) object that has to come back into play. they can't sweep it under the rug and mike can't reject will without it coming off as... just... far too late.

[princesevsnape]

Second Chances

Pairings: Mattheo Riddle x Reader, Theo Nott x Reader (slight flirting), Draco Malfoy x Reader (platonic)

Summary: You see your ex boyfriend with his new girlfriend at a party.

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: I loved writing this so much. I wasn’t sure how I wanted this story to go and I kind of was thinking of potentially making this at least 2 parts but I decided to just do it all in 1 part. I think to do a multiple part fic I need a lot more details to it. Also this was an idea of my own. And I wasn’t expecting this to go the way it did but as I was writing this is just the direction it took. Please continue to send in requests

Mattheo Riddle. The one boy you promised yourself that you would never cry over. The boy who broke your heart, and who you had cried over countless times. He had the audacity to stand there smirking at you from across the room, his arm slung around his new girlfriends shoulders, as she whispered in his ear so he could hear her over the loud music.

That pig you thought to yourself. It had only been two weeks since Mattheo broke up with you, and he already had a new girlfriend. It’s clear to you, that you never meant anything to him.

“Y/N!” Your best friend Hermione shouted trying to grab your attention.

You tore your gaze away from Mattheo and looked at Hermione.

“You were staring at Mattheo.” She said.

“He was staring first,” you muttered just loud enough for her to hear.

“Well you need to get over him. He’s clearly already gotten over you.” She said giving you a small smile.

“I need a drink.” You said making your way to grab some Firewhiskey.

“Hey Y/N.” You heard a familiar voice say.

You turned around drink in hand, and saw your ex’s best friend.

“Hey Theo.” You said giving him a small smile, before taking a big sip of your drink.

“How are you doing?” He asked.

“Just great. My ex is here with his new girlfriend. Two weeks after he broke up with me. It’s as if I meant nothing to him. We were together for three years. I didn’t even want to come to this stupid party only came because Hermione convinced me to. Now I have to see him with some slut.” You said before downing the rest of your drink.

You went to grab another but Theo quickly stopped you.

“Slow down Y/N. You’ll get drunk way too fast. And you’ll feel like crap.” He said.

“That’s the plan.” You said ignoring him and grabbing another drink.

“Now Theo you can either drink with me, or leave me alone.” You said taking a sip of your second drink.

“I’m not leaving you alone. Not when you’re going to be in a state.” He said.

“Good, then drink with me.” You said grabbing a drink for Theo, and then pulling him to the sofa in the middle of the Slytherin common room.

You pushed him down on the sofa, and sat down on his lap.

“Y/N, I don’t think this is a good idea.” He said.

“Well there isn’t many other places I can sit so it’s your lap or on the floor. And I would much rather sit on your lap Theo.” You said smiling at him,

You looked over at Mattheo who was still watching you. He had been watching your every move. He now had a scowl on his face. It was your turn to smirk at him.

His new girlfriend was trying to get his attention but he couldn’t stop watching as you sat on his best friends lap. Laughing and flirting with Theo. You kept glancing at Mattheo to see his reaction.

When his girlfriend couldn’t get Mattheo’s attention she looked over to see where he was glaring. She immediately started to get angry with Mattheo. Shouting at him. Telling him to pay attention to her. But Mattheo’s gaze never shifted from you and Theo.

“You know Theo you’re really handsome, maybe I should have dated you instead of Mattheo.” You said running your fingers through his hair.

“Y/N stop before you do or say something you’ll regret.” Theo warned.

“And who says I will regret it.” You smirked before crashing your lips against Theo’ s.

Theo was reluctant to kiss you back. It’s not that he didn’t want to, he had always liked you, but you had been with his best friend. Before Theo could decide whether or not to kiss you back, you felt yourself being pulled off his lap.

You turned to see Mattheo stood there absolutely livid.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asked.

“That is none of your business anymore Mattheo. You broke up with me.” You snapped.

“You can’t just go kissing my best friend.” He snapped getting in your face. He was breathing heavily, absolutely seething.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. I can kiss whoever the fuck I want. And if I want to fuck someone I can do that too. You don’t have the right to lecture me, not when you started dating that slut only two weeks after we broke up. Clearly the last three years meant nothing to you. I meant nothing to you.”

“What the fuck did you call me?” Mattheo’s girlfriend said inserting herself into the conversation.

Pushing Mattheo out of the way you glared at his girlfriend.

“I called you a slut, everyone knows you spread your legs for any guy that looks at you.”

“How dare you? You’re the one who cheated on Mattheo.” She said.

“Excuse me.” You said, utterly confused.

“What bullshit have you been telling her Mattheo?” You said glaring at him.

“Actually you know what. Fuck you. And fuck your disgusting slut of a girlfriend.” You said and slapped Mattheo across the face.

You pushed past his girlfriend, and ran out of the Slytherin common room. You didn’t know where you were going you just knew that you had to get as far away from Mattheo and his new girlfriend as possible.

“What the hell have you done Riddle?” Draco asked having seen the commotion.

“I did nothing.” Mattheo said.

“I swear if you’ve hurt her I’ll kill you.” Draco spat.

“Why do you care about her?” Mattheo asked.

“Have you forgotten the fact that me and her were best friends up until she became friends with Granger. We grew up together. We might not be as close as we used to be but I still care about her. Now I’m going to go and find her. And if I find out you’ve done something else to hurt her I will kill you Riddle.” Draco said before leaving the common room to look for you.

He knew exactly where to look for you. He found you sat by the Black Lake sobbing. Draco sat down by you and took his jacket off placing it over your shoulders.

“It’s cold out here, you should have stayed in the castle.” He said.

“Draco what are you doing here?” You asked looking at him.

“I had to come check you were ok. No one else seemed to want to come and check up on you. Not even your new best friend.” He said.

“Why did you have to come though? I mean we aren’t as close as we used to be.”

“I still care about you. My parents ask about you all the time you know. They always tell me they hope you’ll come over to the manor again one day. Like you used to. Stay the summer again. They miss you as much as I miss you.”

“Draco I. I’m sorry I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s ok. Look you know I don’t like Granger. You deserve better friends than her.”

“Draco don’t.” You said starting to get annoyed.

“I’m sorry but look if she truly was your best friend she would be here with you now. Not me.” He said.

“I guess you’re right.” You said not really wanting to admit he was right. But you couldn’t deny that he had a very valid point.

If Hermione really was your friend she would have followed straight after you. But why didn’t she?

“How come you slapped Mattheo?” Draco asked.

“He told his new girlfriend that I cheated on him, and that’s why he broke up with me.”

“What the fuck. Why would he say that?”

“Honestly. I have no idea. I’ve done nothing but love him for the last three years.”

“Right. Well I’m going to find out what the fuck is going on with that idiot. Either he’s made it up so he doesn’t seem like the bad guy. Or someone made shit up to him. Either way I’m going to find out. I will set things straight for you. I owe you that much for being such a terrible friend.” Draco said.

“Draco you have never been a terrible friend. We stopped being close because you and Hermione don’t see eye to eye.” You explained.

“I still need to make up for us not being as close as we used to. I deeply regret letting Granger come between our friendship.” He said wrapping his arm around you and pulling you in for a hug.

A few days later Draco came back to you, with some news. He found you in the library after classes.

“Y/N I have the answers you need.” He said sitting down opposite you.

“From the look on your face I’m guessing I am not going to like what you have to tell me.” You said noticing the angry expression on his face.

“No you aren’t.” Draco said.

“Ok. Let’s hear it.” You said.

“Well first of all Mattheo refused to say anything, no matter how many times I threatened him or tried to get him to talk. I tried his new girlfriend, but she also refused to speak to me. So my last resort was Theo. I know he’s Mattheo’s best friend but I knew he must have some insight into what happened. Best friends tell each other everything.” Draco said.

“Ok. And he had some information right?” You asked.

“Yes he did. First of all that girl, is not Mattheo’s new girlfriend. He only pretended to be with her to get back at you. The girl however honestly did think that they were together. He has now told her to leave him alone he wants nothing to do with her.” Draco explained.

“Ok, but did you find out why he told her that I cheated on him?” You asked.

“Of course I did. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have all the information. You know I don’t stop until I have everything I need.”

“I know sorry. Carry on.”

“It was Granger. She was the one who told Mattheo that you cheated on him.”

“What why the hell would she do that? I thought she was my friend.”

“I know and I’m sorry.” Draco said taking his hand in yours.

“Right let’s go and speak to her. She will be in the Gryffindor common room you can come with me.” You said.

“You know we aren’t normally allowed in other houses common rooms unless there’s a party.” Draco said.

“Well it’s ok because you’re with me, and I give you permission to be in there.” You said.

The two of you made your way to the Gryffindor common room. Giving the portrait of the Fat Lady the password you and Draco entered the Gryffindor common room.

Hermione was sat there with Ron and Harry and a few other Gryffindor students were around.

“Y/N there you are.” She said giving you a smile.

“What the hell is Malfoy doing here?” Ron asked.

“Yeah what is he doing here you know we aren’t allowed in other houses common rooms.” Hermione said looking pissed off.

“He is my friend and I gave him permission to be here. And Hermione I think me and you need a little talk.” You said.

“What about? And I’m not talking if he’s here.” Hermione said glaring at Draco.

“Well I’m not going anywhere you filthy little mudblood.” Draco spat.

“Hey watch it Malfoy.” Harry said standing up and pointing his wand at Draco ready to start a fight.

You stepped between Harry and Draco and pushed Harry.

“Don’t you dare Harry” you said.

“How can you defend him?” Harry asked.

“Because he is my best friend. Has been since we were young. But we haven’t been as close over the last few years. But we are getting back on track again.” You explained.

“I thought I was your best friend?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah I thought so too.” You said glaring at Hermione.

“What do you mean?” Hermione said now standing up.

You didn’t say anything. Hermione stumbled back once your hand connected with her face.

“Why would you do that?” Ron asked.

“Ask her. She knows what she did.” You said pointing to Hermione who now had tears in her eyes.

“I didn’t do anything,” she said.

“Yes you did Hermione. What was it huh? Were you jealous? Didn’t want me to be happy? What was it? What caused you to ruin my relationship?” You asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She denied.

“Seriously what is going on?” Harry asked.

“This filthy little mudblood told Mattheo that Y/N cheated on him.” Draco said.

“I told you to watch it Malfoy.” Harry said pointing his wand at Draco again.

“And I said don’t you dare Harry.” You said pushing him away from Draco again.

“How could you do this to me Hermione?” You asked now looking at her.

“I didn’t.” She denied again.

“But you did. We know you did. So why would you sabotage my relationship? Do you like Mattheo or something?” You asked.

“I didn’t.”

“Yes you did. I can see it in your eyes Hermione. You can’t lie to me.”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you.” She snapped.

“Yes you do. You ruined my relationship of three fucking years. You owe me an explanation.” You yelled.

“Fine. It’s true I like Mattheo. And you don’t deserve him. You don’t deserve anyone. You’re a bitch.” She said.

You chuckled and then tackled Hermione to the floor. You punched her over and over again.

Harry and Ron tried to pull you off of Hermione. They did not succeed. Draco just watched in amusement laughing. The rest of the Gryffindor students just watched in horror and shock.

Finally you got off Hermione and looked at your handy work. You smiled as Ron and Harry checked if Hermione was ok.

“You can come stay in my dorm tonight. Don’t want you staying here.” Draco said.

“Yeah let’s go get my things.” You said leading Draco to your dorm room so you could get some change of clothes and everything else you would need for the night.

As you walked out of the common room your belongings in tow with Draco, you turned to Hermione and said “you deserved that mudblood.”

Draco laughed, while Harry and Ron glared at you. Hermione completely avoided looking at you as you and Draco left the Gryffindor common room.

When you arrived at the Slytherin common room you were annoyed to see Mattheo sat there with Theo.

Mattheo noticed you and asked “what is she doing here?”

“She’s staying with me tonight.” Draco said.

“Are you two dating now?” Mattheo asked.

“No of course not, she’s my best friend. And she just beat the crap out of Granger.”Draco explained.

Mattheo and Theo shared a look between them.

“Let’s go to my dorm.” Draco said.

“I actually need to sit down a minute.” You said sitting down in an empty chair.

“Ok I will take your stuff to my dorm and then I will be back in a few minutes.” Draco said leaving you there.

You sighed and rested your head on the back of the chair and staring up at the ceiling.

“Why did you beat up Granger?” Mattheo asked.

You didn’t answer him just chose to ignore him.

“Y/N I asked you a question.” Mattheo said annoyed that you weren’t responding.

“Just drop it Mattheo.” You said.

“No. I won’t. Why did you beat her up? That’s not like you at all.”

“Because she sabotaged our relationship. She lied about me cheating on you because she likes you. There are you happy now.” You snapped and made your way to Draco’s dorm.

You spent the night with Draco. He held you the entire night, soothing you, wiping away your tears.

“Good morning.” Draco said when you woke up, arms still around you.

“Morning Draco. I’m sorry about last night.” You said.

“You have nothing to apologise for. If you want to stay here for a bit longer with me until things calm down a bit you’re welcome to. You don’t have to go back to your common room until you’re ready to. We can go get you some more clothes after classes today.” Draco suggested.

“Thank you I appreciate that. And yeah I definitely think that’s a good idea. For a little while at least.”

You and Draco stayed in bed until it was time to go classes. You both decided it was best to avoid going to the Great Hall for breakfast. Knowing you would have to sit at the Gryffindor table whilst Draco was at the Slytherin table wasn’t appealing to you.

For all your classes you usually sat by Hermione but opted to sit by Draco all day. You were surprised that you didn’t get into any trouble about what you had done to Hermione. But maybe she knew better than to snitch on you. Harry and Ron didn’t seem happy with the fact that you were getting away with it.

At the end of the day you grabbed dinner from the Great Hall. You and Draco didn’t stick around knowing you would have to sit at separate tables so you grabbed some food and just headed back to the Slytherin common room. You had already grabbed everything you needed from your dorm for a few more days so you didn’t have to worry about going anywhere for the rest of the night.

You had not long finished eating when Mattheo and Theo entered the common room. He saw you cuddled up with Draco and his heart sank. He knows you and Draco are just friends but it still hurt to see you cuddled up with him.

“Y/N can we talk?” Mattheo asked.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Draco said speaking for you. It was like he knew exactly what you wanted to say.

“Please.” Mattheo begged.

Draco looked at you as if silently saying it’s your choice.

“Ok fine but make it quick.” You said.

“I’ll be in my dorm room if you need me.” Draco said and placed a kiss on top of your head.

Draco left you and Mattheo to talk. Theo also left the two of you alone. Luckily no other students were back from dinner yet so it was just you and Mattheo.

He sat down next to you and didn’t say anything for a few minutes.

“Go on then Mattheo. You said you wanted to talk but you aren’t saying anything.” You said.

“I know I’m sorry. I just I don’t want to mess things up further. I don’t want to say anything wrong.” He admitted.

“It’s ok. Just say what you have to say.” You said.

“Hermione asked me out.” Mattheo said.

“What the fuck. That filthy mudblood seriously has the audacity after everything she did and everything she said to me last night.” You said angrily.

“Hey don’t get angry.” Mattheo said and he took one of your hands in his.

You looked at your hands interlocked and felt your heart race. You tried to ignore it.

“What did she say to you anyway?” Mattheo asked.

“She called me a bitch. And she said that I didn’t deserve you. That I don’t deserve anyone.” You said.

You started crying. You could no longer hold back the tears.

Mattheo was quick to wrap his arms around you.

“Hey shhhhhh” he said trying to soothe you.

Neither of you said anything for about ten minutes. Mattheo just held you in his arms, as you sobbed into his chest.

He placed a kiss on top of your head.

“When Hermione asked me out I embarrassed her in front of the entire Great Hall. Told her she should be ashamed asking me out after ruining our relationship. Told her she always seems to want something she can’t have because she’s jealous of someone else. Told her that even if she was the last person in the world I wouldn’t go near her. Said she’s a bitch for pretending to be your friend this whole time, just waiting for the right opportunity to sabotage our relationship. She cried and ran away of course.” Mattheo said.

“Oh and before she ran away I told her that I am still in love with the most beautiful girl I have ever known, inside and out. That I should have never believed her lies. And that I regret ever doubting you for a second.” He added.

You lifted your head from Mattheo’s chest to look him in the eyes.

“You still love me?” You asked.

“Of course I do. We were together for three years. And I’m sorry I pretended to be with someone else just to make you jealous. Don’t worry I didn’t do anything with her. I didn’t even kiss her.” Mattheo said.

“I still love you too Mattheo. And I’m sorry I kissed Theo. I only did it because I was hurting so much. Especially since you seemed to move on from me so quickly. I mean moving on after two weeks is far too quick.” You said.

“As I said. I wasn’t actually with her, so technically I hadn’t moved on. And it’s ok. I get why you did it. You were upset.”

“Where do we go from here then?” You asked.

“Well if you are I’m willing to act like this was just a little bump in the road. If you’re willing to put this behind us we can carry on as normal. Only if you want to of course.” Mattheo said.

You smiled before leaning in to kiss him. The kiss was warm and gentle. You had missed this so much.

Pulling away you rested your forehead against Mattheo’s.

“I’m willing to do anything it takes to fix us.” You said.

“Me too.” Mattheo replied.

You both smiled and it suddenly felt like everything was going to be ok.

“If you hurt her again I will kill you.” Draco said as he re entered the room with Theo.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I plan on making this girl happy for the rest of our lives. Nothing and no one will come between us again. I will make sure of it.” Mattheo said before kissing you again.

And you knew that he meant it.

[ishestillapunk]

Everybody Wants A Piece Of Pedro Pascal

tags: grief, death.

a/n: it was so hard to write all this and not kick my sheets because of the whole photoshoot. he's beautiful.

I don't usually do this, well, I never done this, but today and after waking up to such a brilliant, raw and profound interview I see myself in the need of disecting piece by piece of this interview and the parts that touched a deep fiber in me.

You, of course, don't have to read this. I mean, not if you don't want to. I would say this is more mine than other thing, like, a precious stone I want to keep memory of how I felt when this article came out.

Don't you ever get that feeling that something is yours? like, not in a delulu and possesive way, but in a sort of thank you-way.

This interview—article, post. Damn, I don't know how to call it, forgive my scarce vocabulary in English—appeared like water in the desert for me. I had a long night of insomnia, very long, used to deal with it, and also with it came the lovely question that every 20 yo makes themselves at one point.

What the fuck am I doing with my damn life.

My phone buzzes when I finally decide to let go of it so I grab it again, and there it is. Our beloved pascalispunk. Oh, he looks hella good. I say looking at the pictures. Oh, it's Vanity Fair. I say and then, I think: Of course there is an interview. So I look up for it.

I read and then the first thing that moves my chest is:

Over lunch in London, Pascal is a grand raconteur who tells stories with his hands and uses funny voices and loves to swear and drink cocktails and murder a cheese plate. He doesn’t take himself too seriously. At the same time, he’ll press right up against the sad and raw and confusing parts of being alive. His insides are on his outsides. He cries easily. He laughs loudly.

Maybe it's the writing, maybe it's me that lately I've been overly sensitive. It must've been the wind. I joke in my head when I feel like I want to cry. Something I love deeply about this man that is Pedro, is that he never stops being human. You get me, right? Like, with some celebrities I get the kinda... fake feeling. Don't wanna sound rude towards others at all, but, he just gives me that genuine and true feeling. That's what I mean by human.

Personally, I never been a fan of an actor before. A celebrity, in general. It just used to ick me, like, why would I do that? I had nothing against it, it just wasn't part of my persona. But then, I remember the first time coming across a video of him. I guess, yeah. Maybe we all want a piece of Pedro.

Pascal tells me about his “give up” years, when he was a struggling actor in New York decimated by the sudden death of his beloved mother, Verónica.

I felt connected truly with Pedro when I learnt about his life. The struggle and loss. That feeling that nothing is going anywhere, you know? Like. Damn, what is it all this for? I kinda feel like humans (or some of us, dk, mind you) have to search comparisions to other people to feel okay on where they are at the moment and its something that lately has been happening to me. My search is literally:

'Directors that got succesful at an old age'

'How to publish my first book while being fucking poor'

'How do I live'

Is this non-stopping loop where everything mixes with everything and I feel too exhausted to leave my bed. Ends won't meet. Food lacks in the fridge. Mama is sad. But he has been in the same spot, and he's here to tell it.

Life hurts a bit less.

“In my 30s I was supposed to have a career,” he says. “Past 29 without a career meant that it was over, definitely.” Feeling hopeless, Pascal started researching other professions. But whenever he came close to bailing on his dream, friends and family would step in. “When Pedro would say, ‘I’m going to nursing school’ or ‘I’m going to be a theater teacher,’ it was just like ‘No, no, no, no! You’re too good!’” says his older sister, Javiera Balmaceda, now a producer at Amazon Studios. “He’s wanted to be an actor since he was four years old. The one thing we’d never allow Pedro to do was give up.”

And here it is. The first tears I shed.

I dropped out of college after a month in a course of studies that I thought it was perfect for me. Turns out, I felt like I was dying because there was no art in it and I was fucking dying. It was driving me apart of my soul, I would cry on my way to class, I would have no very very happy thoughts about life. Then, a crisis. Me hugging my mom's knees and telling her "Mama, I need art" and she sees me, the girl who only went to arts school for her whole teen years and grew up attached to her desk computer, pirated movies in the night and writing down stories that keep her awake.

And she told me. "It's okay. We'll figure it out"

I was embarrased to tell my friends what I did after that crisis. God, you went through a freaking exam, burnt your lashes studying, passed it and now you're saying you want to do cinema?

Well. Nobody said that.

What I mostly received was.

"That's awesome. You were about to waste your potential"

And something that sticks with me that a friend said.

"The world deserves to see something created by you".

If you're reading this, I want you and oblige you to take it as a signal.

 A New Yorker cartoon featured a therapist reassuring his client, “It’s not strange at all—lately, a lot of people are reporting that their faith in humanity is riding entirely on whether or not Pedro Pascal is as nice as he seems.” “Well, then,” Ramsey tells me, “I’m relieved for humanity.”

Bella. I love you, Bella.

On days when she (Veronica) didn’t have a babysitter, she’d drop him off at the movie theater. He remembers being seven and in heaven, able to squeeze in two and a half showings of Poltergeist before his mom returned for him. At home he’d reenact scenes of being sucked into the closet or slide across the kitchen floor. Balmaceda tells me, “When our parents got cable, the HBO song would come on and Pedro would run around the house yelling, ‘A movie is coming! A movie is coming!’” [...]He sat at a distance from his family as usual, preferring to be close to the screen. But then he started crying so loudly when Whoopi Goldberg’s Celie was being separated from her sister that his mother had to collect him and help him catch his breath outside. 

When he talks about his childhood memories, I become honey. It gives me the assertive feeling that he is the kind of person that talks and talks and talks, and tells and tells stories and never run off them, and never gets boring, and they are always sweet (or bittersweet but sweet in the end)

He makes me think about my childhood with another lens to look through. Less remorse. More a kind of let-go-of-it.

Drugs were everywhere. Pascal remembers being 16 and taking acid and calling his mother to check in and let her know he was going to spend the night out. “And she sighs and goes, ‘Oh.’ And that was not normal. And I was like ‘Wh-why?’ and she said, ‘Oh, no, I was just hoping that we would all go to a movie.’ I was just so drawn to that kind of maternal attention, so I said, ‘I’m coming!’” He rushed home and sat mute and paralyzed, tripping in the back seat as they drove to see John Sayles’s City of Hope.

yes, more tears over here.

“I was having a really hard time when I was 18, 19, 20,” Pascal tells me. “I was struggling really badly with insomnia. I was reading James Baldwin and watching movies like Once Were Warriors and Muriel’s Wedding. I just was like an open wound to the reality of life.” He pauses to smack the table with his hand, groaning and laughing at himself. “It sounds so fucking pretentious, but I felt at this crossroads of coming into an understanding of what an unjust world we live in. This world, and its lack of equanimity, is just too painful to bear. How do you live in it?”

This is the moment where I had to stop reading. I was literally a cascade at this point. I felt like that song Killing me softly with his song by The Fugees and the part that goes:

I felt he found my letters

Then read each one out loud

I prayed that he would finish

But he just kept right on

I felt like he just grabbed all my diaries, my letters, my notes on my laptop. Everything. And just read them out loud.

And I felt less lonely for a moment, less detached from reality. More grounded to this moment that is, maybe, a wake up call.

That there is still time.

His grief had no place in Los Angeles, with its isolating highways and traffic and sprawl. So he went home to New York City, where he’d made some headway as an actor after college, only to find that his early luck had run out. He lived in a seventh-floor apartment of an East Village walk-up. Every night he’d have a cigarette on his fire escape and watch the moon rise between the Twin Towers.

Suicide grief is something I've never had the opportunity—well, more like favour of spilling my guts out for once—to talk with anyone. I went through it alone, mostly. I always think that there is no place as lonely as oneselves head (is oneselve's a word? am I dealing already with the precious side effects of twenty years of insomnia?). Reading Pedro talking about grief is ligthening.

I use to make myself a question, every now and then:

'When does it stop?'

Maybe never. And it's okay.

"Listen, I want to protect the people I love. But it goes beyond that. Bullies make me fucking sick.”

Just wanted to highlight this. Everyone should have this kind of values.

In the car, Pascal gasps and points out the window. “Look at that cemetery, isn’t it gorgeous?” he says. He doesn’t want to be buried—just throw him in the ocean. “Fish food, fish food, fish food,” he says. “And yet, I find sometimes cemeteries are so beautiful.” So, yes, now we’re back to talking about death.

In the car to Downey’s house, Pascal points at the word “FAITH,” which someone has spray-painted on a wall. He scrunches up his face in mock disgust. He’s agnostic, practically an atheist—and yet. “I still feel like I’m being mothered sometimes. I feel her witness all around me. I don’t feel like any of this right now would be happening if it weren’t for her.” There was something magical about María Verónica Pascal Ureta. Her firstborn son misses everything about her. Her beauty. Her smell. How funny she was, and how funny she found farts. “She couldn’t get past a fart of any kind without it absolutely destabilizing her into hysterics,” says Pascal. “She thought they were the most brilliant, hilarious, wonderful thing in the world.” She was also “very deep-feeling, very complex, very, very out of reach in a way,” he adds.

I tell you that I did nothing more than laugh and cry with all this part. Is that kind of make peace with death vibe that he sometimes gives me and I just take as a life advice.

I can't get mad at something that is long gone.

That I don't know the answers to.

That is as invisible as the air, and painful as a healed fracture.

And that I have to live, for those who aren't here anymore.

So... I will finish with this:

Of all the performances in Pascal’s now formidable career, Balmaceda singles out the monologue she saw him deliver as a sophomore in high school. It was a piece Pascal had written about a bike path near their house in Corona del Mar, a neighborhood he couldn’t wait to escape. Onstage, he described how, at first, he’d cross this narrow path that went over a bridge on foot, then progressed to riding over it gingerly on his bike, then with just one hand on his handlebars, and then, finally, being able to cross over with his hands in the air.

I can't wait to escape this place. A home that keeps me warm but silences me. Hugs that don't feel comfortable or familiar anymore. A room that is too little for the dreams that move this soul. A roof that isn't strong enough to hold me from touching what it's-maybe-waiting for me.

Somewhere.

Kudos to Karen Valby for such a great article.

if someone read this whole thing, uhm, thank you!

keep loving Peps. 💜

[444eggnog]

Light-Up Shoes to Wedding Shoes

✍︎: i’ve always imagined Oscar as a very hands on girl dad, gentle, soft-spoken, the kind who tears up at school plays and keeps crayon drawings in his desk. and i’ve always wanted to write an AU using this song… what better way to capture its quiet beauty than through the story of Oscar and his daughter? 

This one’s for the tender moments:

The wedding. The flashbacks. The tears he swears he’s not crying.

this will probably be my last AU for a while (okay, maybe just a few weeks lol) because uni is absolutely beating me up right now. nonetheless, i hope you enjoy this one; it’s extra special to me. ♡

content: fluff, Oscar as a girl dad, wedding, flashbacks, soft crying, full heart 

wc: 6,175 (I'm so sorry, I got carried away...)

The First Time I Held You…

Oscar held tightly onto his wife’s hand, whispering encouragements as she pushed through the pain of labor. It had been a difficult pregnancy, filled with worry, sleepless nights, and quiet fear he never let her see. He was terrified. But the moment their daughter’s first cries pierced the air, all that fear melted away.

Tears welled in his eyes as the doctor gently placed the baby on his wife’s chest. He couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. She was beautiful, soft features, a tiny button nose, a mix of them both. Somehow brand new, yet already the most important person in his life.

Later, in the quiet of their hospital room, Oscar hesitated when the nurse offered to let him hold her. She looked so small, too fragile, like the world might break her if he wasn’t careful. But his wife gave him an encouraging nod and smiled. You can hold her, Osc.

So he did.

He cradled his daughter with trembling arms, heart pounding in awe. A smile tugged at his lips as he leaned in and whispered the softest “Hi,” like she was a secret only he got to keep.

In that moment, something shifted inside him.

He’d thought he knew what love was. But now he understood something deeper. He would do anything to protect her. No one would ever hurt her, not if he had anything to say about it. He’d never let her cry, never let her feel alone.

And if someone did hurt her? Well, he wouldn’t end them, but he’d think about it.

The Very First Walk

It happened one lazy afternoon.

Oscar was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, toy blocks scattered around him, watching his daughter as she clung to the edge of the couch like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her legs were still wobbly, soft knees locked with determination, curls bouncing every time she shifted her balance.

She’d been practicing for days. Holding onto furniture. Testing her limits, then sitting down with a soft thud like she needed a break from trying so hard.

But today felt different.

Oscar held out his hands, close but not quite touching.

“Alright, bub,” he murmured gently. “You ready?”

She looked up at him with wide eyes, uncertain but curious. Then slowly, cautiously, she stepped away from the couch. Her little hand reached for his finger, gripping tight like she trusted it, like she always would.

One step.

Then another.

Oscar walked slowly, backward, matching her rhythm. Guiding. Not rushing. Just being there.

“Good job,” he whispered. “Look at you.”

Her grip loosened.

She kept going.

And Oscar, heart lodged somewhere between awe and ache, let her hand slip from his.

She kept walking.

Tiny steps. Wobbly legs. Arms out like wings.

He didn’t catch her this time. Didn’t rush forward or steady her.

He just stayed close, watching.

Letting go, but never far.

When she finally plopped onto the floor with a surprised laugh, he dropped beside her, scooping her up in a hug that felt too big for such a small moment, but it wasn’t. Not to him.

“You did it,” he whispered into her curls. “You walked.”

His wife peeked from the hallway. “Is she walking already?”

“Just now,” Oscar said, still grinning. “We walked together.”

His daughter giggled in his arms, cheeks flushed, tiny fists tugging at his hoodie string like it was her prize for getting across the room.

First Birthday

Oscar had no idea why she was so obsessed with Bluey.

Maybe it was the voices. Maybe it was the colors. Maybe it was the way she’d go perfectly still completely entranced whenever the opening theme played. Whatever the reason, he hadn’t even thought twice before choosing it as the theme for her first birthday.

He just wanted to make her happy.

Now, standing in the middle of a sea of blue streamers and balloon dogs, Oscar was panicking. His heart raced, his palms were sweaty, and he’d forgotten where the gift table was, again.

Why had he invited everyone?

Why did he think he could pull this off?

She didn’t even know what a birthday was. She didn’t care if the cake had fondant or if the streamers matched the cups. She just wanted Bluey. And maybe some mashed bananas. 

So he found her, sitting in the middle of a blanket someone had laid out on the grass, hands sticky with frosting, curls a little wild from crawling around too much.

And just like always, the moment he saw her, everything slowed down.

She was clapping off-beat to the music from the speaker, squealing at the screen as Bluey danced with Bingo. Her laugh was loud and messy and perfect, cutting through all the noise in his head. Nothing else mattered.

He crouched beside her, smoothing her hair back from her face. “Happy birthday, bub,” he whispered.

She turned to him with cake smeared across her cheek and a proud little sound that sort of sounded like “dada...”

Oscar’s chest tightened.

She wouldn’t remember this day. Not the balloons, not the presents, not the chaos he’d wrapped himself in trying to make it perfect. But maybe, she’d remember how safe it felt to be in his arms. How he was always there. Always watching. Always loving her more than he ever thought was humanly possible.

He picked her up, ignoring the frosting on her fingers now clinging to his shirt. “I hope you stay weirdly obsessed with this dog show forever,” he said, kissing her cheek. “But even when you’re not, I’ll still be here.”

She giggled and reached for his nose like it was her favorite toy.

And in that moment, Oscar realized he didn’t need to throw the perfect party. He already had the perfect girl.

It's Just 90 Minutes

It was only ninety minutes.

One and a half hours. That’s all.

Oscar had repeated it to himself at least twelve times that morning, pacing the kitchen in mismatched socks while his daughter munched on a banana in her high chair, completely unbothered by the milestone looming over them.

Today was her first day at daycare. Just a trial. Ninety minutes.

Still, it felt like someone had yanked the ground out from under his feet.

She looked so small in her tiny sneakers and oversized backpack. The straps kept sliding off her shoulders, and her curls were tied up in a little puff that wobbled every time she walked. She was fine. Giggling. Pointing at the fish stickers on the daycare windows like it was the most exciting place in the world.

Oscar smiled and waved, crouched next to her as the teacher led her inside.

Then the door shut.

And so did something in his chest.

He made it back to the car. Barely. And sat there in silence, hands frozen on the steering wheel, heart thudding in the kind of rhythm that made his eyes sting.

His wife reached across the center console and gently touched his arm. “Oscar.”

He shook his head quickly. “I’m fine.”

But his voice cracked. And that was it.

His shoulders dropped as the tears spilled over, quiet and frustrated and way more emotional than he wanted to admit. “She’s just a baby,” he whispered. “She’s so little. I’m supposed to be with her, always.”

She squeezed his hand. “You are. She’s just in a different room.”

He gave a watery laugh, wiping at his face like it would erase the truth. “She didn’t even cry. Didn’t even look back.”

“That’s because she’s brave,” his wife said softly. “Like her dad.”

Oscar looked out the window, blinking hard. “It’s just an hour and a half.”

“Yep,” she nodded. “And then you’ll get to tell her how proud you are and give her the biggest cuddle in the world.”

He didn’t answer. Just rested his forehead against the steering wheel, cheeks damp, heart too full.

Because maybe it was just daycare. Maybe it was only ninety minutes. But it was also the first time he’d felt the space where she wasn’t.

And he didn’t like it.

Light-Up Shoes and Rainbow Wishes

By the third day of daycare, Oscar thought he’d gotten the hang of it.

He no longer cried in the car (small victories), and drop-off had gotten smoother, no clinging, no wobbly lip, just a cheerful wave and a distracted “Bye, Daddy” as she toddled inside.

But that afternoon, when he came to pick her up, something was off.

She wasn’t running to him like she usually did. She was sitting cross-legged on the mat, poking at the velcro on her shoes, quiet.

Oscar crouched in front of her, brushing her curls back gently. “Hey, bub. You okay?”

She looked up at him with eyes far too thoughtful for a toddler. “I want fluffy socks.”

His brows lifted. “Fluffy socks?”

“And shoes that light up when I walk.” Her voice got even softer. “And a water bottle bag. Pink. With rainbows. Gemma has one.”

Oscar’s heart cracked a little.

He didn’t care about the socks. Or the shoes. Or the price tag. What got him was that look, that tiny frown she didn’t quite know how to hide yet.

He bundled her into the car, promising they’d stop by the store “just for a look.” What followed was a two-hour quest through three different shops and one online order. He didn’t know where people even found pink water bottle bags with rainbows, but somehow he did.

That night, she tried on her new fluffy socks with pride, stomping around the house to test the lights on her shoes. Her laughter echoed down the hallway like it was made of gold.

Oscar leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her spin in circles. A soft chuckle slipped out.

“Thirteen bucks for sneakers and she’s acting like she won the lottery.”

He smiled to himself, a little dazed by how much joy something so small could bring.

But then again, so was he.

Almost There

Oscar was cleaning up in the kitchen, humming under his breath, when he heard a soft grunt from the hallway.

He peeked around the corner.

There she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, tongue sticking out in pure concentration, tiny hands wrestling with her favorite pair of shoes.

The light-up ones.

The ones with the glittery pink straps and soles that blinked when she stomped. The ones she’d begged for after daycare because “everyone else had them,” and she wanted hers to be pink with rainbows “not just pink, Daddy, pink with lights.”

She was trying to put them on by herself.

Left foot first. A small pause. Then she adjusted it just so, like she was checking her own work. She beamed, proud.

Then the right foot. A little sideways at first. She frowned. Tried again. Wiggled her toes in.

The lights blinked once, soft, faint, a flicker of magic.

She didn’t know how to fasten the Velcro properly yet, not tightly, not evenly but that didn’t stop her. She mashed the straps down with all the strength in her tiny arms, completely convinced she’d done it perfectly.

Oscar didn’t say a word.

He just stood there, heart climbing up into his throat, watching her figure it out. His little girl. The same one who used to cry when her sock bunched up weird. Now sitting on the floor, shoes slightly off-center, still glowing with each proud little kick of her heels.

She looked up when she noticed him.

“I did it!” she grinned, cheeks pink with effort.

Oscar nodded slowly, voice soft. “Yeah, you did.”

She stood up, the lights in her shoes flashing unevenly, Velcro flapping a little with each step. She held out her hand toward him.

“Help me fix?”

He knelt beside her, fingers gently peeling the straps back, smoothing them down with a care that came straight from his chest. Slower than usual. Deliberate. Letting the moment stretch just a little longer.

“Almost there,” he murmured.

And maybe he meant the shoes.

Or maybe he was just trying to come to terms with the fact that she was growing right in front of him and faster than he was ever going to be ready for.

Her Favorite Superhero

Oscar had pulled up to the school gate like always, sunglasses on, window down, already scanning the sea of backpacks and untied sneakers for the one pair he cared about most.

Usually, she came out running, arms flailing, curls bouncing, talking a mile a minute about story time and snack swaps and who got a time-out today.

But not today.

Today, she walked out slowly. Shoulders low. Her hands were curled around something, crumpling it tighter with every step.

Oscar stepped out of the car the second he saw her face.

Her bottom lip was trembling, eyes pink and glassy like she was trying really hard not to let the tears fall. When she reached him, she didn’t say a word, just wrapped her arms around his legs and pressed her face into his hoodie.

“Hey, bub,” he said, kneeling down beside her. “What’s wrong?”

She sniffled. Then carefully, she uncurled her fingers and held out a wrinkled sheet of paper.

It was a drawing. Stick figures and squiggly stars. Her usual style, lopsided but full of love. He could tell instantly who it was meant to be: him, in his racing suit, a cape drawn behind him in bold, wobbly orange. In the corner, a tiny her, holding up a gold medal.

But all across the center, thick, angry black spots were scribbled over the drawing. Like someone had tried to cross it out.

Oscar’s stomach twisted.

“Who did that?” he asked, voice still soft but tighter around the edges.

“Riley,” she mumbled. “The teacher told us to draw our favorite superhero. I drew you.” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “But he said dads can’t be superheroes. And he ruined it.”

Oscar blinked. Hard.

He looked at the page again, imagining her sitting at one of those tiny tables, tongue between her teeth, coloring each little detail just right because she wanted it to be perfect for him.

He pulled her gently into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Hey. You listen to me, yeah?”

She nodded, sniffling.

“That’s the best superhero drawing I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Even better than the rocket ship one. And I’m still putting it on my wall.”

“But it’s all messy now…”

He looked at it again, folding it carefully. “No. It’s not ruined. It’s got battle scars. Makes it cooler. Like the real superheroes.”

She gave a small, watery giggle and curled closer into his chest.

Later, when he buckled her into her seat, she reached between the chairs to hold his hand, her little fingers sticky with crayon smudges. He drove slow on the way home, like the whole world needed to take a breath.

That night, he taped the drawing up right above his desk, scribbles and all.

And underneath it, in her tiny handwriting with a backwards 'S', it said:

For Daddy! My Favorite Superhero!!!

And every time he looked up at it, he smiled. Because no one, not even some kid with a black crayon could take that away from him.

Who’s Got A Crush?

Their little café booth had become tradition. Same place, same order: pancakes with too much syrup for her, black coffee for him. A "father-daughter date," she'd called it once, and the name stuck. He blocked out time every month for it. No calls, no training, no team meetings. Just them.

She was older now, legs swinging off the bench seat, baby teeth gone, ponytail messy in that way that said she didn’t care about neat anymore.

Oscar was mid-sip of his coffee when she said it. Casual. Like it was nothing.

“I think I have a crush on someone.”

He choked. Audibly.

She blinked at him, confused. “Are you okay?”

He coughed into his sleeve, heart stuttering. “Yeah. Yep. Totally fine.”

Crush? She has a crush? On who? Why? Who gave her permission to grow up?

She took another bite of her pancake like she hadn’t just dropped a bombshell. “He’s in my class. He has a dog. And his lunchbox is shaped like a dinosaur, which is really cool.”

Oscar stared at her like she’d announced she was moving out. “That’s... very specific.”

She nodded, matter-of-fact. “I think I’m gonna marry him. Or maybe be a vet. I’m still deciding.”

Oscar gave a weak laugh, setting down his coffee. “Right. Of course.”

She tilted her head. “Why do you look weird?”

“I don’t look weird,” he lied.

Because what was he supposed to say? That his heart just folded in on itself? That hearing those words “I have a crush” felt like someone had turned the page on a chapter he wasn’t ready to end?

He cleared his throat. “Well… whoever he is, he’s very lucky.”

She grinned. “I know.”

He smiled back, trying to hide the ache behind it. Then reached across the table, ruffling her hair the way he always did.

“Just remember,” he said lightly, “you can have crushes and dinosaur lunchboxes and all that. But you’ll always be my girl first.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile softened.

Later, when she ran ahead to look at the pastry shelf, Oscar sat back and watched her, laughing, confident, growing into herself.

And in that moment, he realized he didn’t need to stop time. He just needed to be there as it moved.

Medals, Caps, and Gowns

Oscar didn’t think he’d cry.

It was just primary school. A short ceremony, small chairs in a sunlit auditorium, kids in too-big uniforms fidgeting in their seats. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

But then they called her name.

She walked up, chin up, ponytail bouncing, the sleeves of her button-down still a bit too long and Oscar felt his throat close.

First medal: Athletics. She’d broken the school’s sprint record. Still said it was “just for fun.” Second medal: Academic Excellence. Oscar’s heart nearly gave out.

Then the third one.

“Most Encouraging Teammate,” the principal announced with a smile. “For her kindness, her endless support, and for cheering louder than anyone else, no matter who was winning.”

Oscar laughed under his breath, wiping at his eyes as his wife handed him a tissue.

Of course.

She stood there, medals glinting, grinning like the stage was the best place on earth. When she caught Oscar’s eyes in the crowd, she gave a tiny wave, subtle, just for him and he swore his heart would never be the same.

After the ceremony, she ran straight into his arms, all laughter and tangled ribbons.

“Three medals,” she said proudly.

“I saw,” Oscar whispered, his voice thick. “You crushed it, bub.”

“I almost tripped on the steps,” she added with a giggle. “But I didn’t.”

He hugged her tighter.

He remembered the first day he dropped her off at daycare. The fluffy socks. The pink light-up shoes. How small she looked walking away.

Now she was tall enough to hang her own medals on the hook by the door.

Growing up, he thought, was just a series of letting go, one handshake, one applause, one medal at a time.But holding her now, still breathless and warm in his arms, he knew: He’d never stop being proud. And he’d never stop being hers.

18th Birthday and a New Face

Oscar stood when they asked him to say a few words.

He didn’t grab a mic. Didn’t tap his glass with a fork. Just stayed where he was, hands loosely tucked into his pockets, shoulders a little hunched, eyes steady on her.

The room quieted.

She was glowing in her dress, surrounded by friends and family and a cake that probably took four hours to decorate. But Oscar only saw her, his girl, the same one who once cried because her sock felt weird, now standing tall at eighteen.

He gave her a small smile. The soft kind. The only-for-her kind.

“Eighteen,” he said. “Feels fast.”

There was a short pause. The kind that always followed when Oscar searched for the words that lived somewhere in his chest but not always in his mouth.

“You’re smart. You’re kind. And you’ve always been... good. You’ve always had this way of making people feel seen. I don’t even think you realise it most of the time.”

Another pause. He shifted a little, the room silent, listening.

“You’ve got a strong head, a stubborn heart, and a laugh that’s way too loud. But it’s you. And I love it.”

He cleared his throat. Not because he was emotional, of course, just… clearing it.

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “Always have been. That’s all.”

Then he sat back down like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just quietly shattered the room.

And she was already blinking fast to hold back tears, smiling at him like he’d given the greatest speech in the world.

Because to her, he had.

A little later, after the candles were blown out and the room had settled back into music and chatter, she found him standing near the corner, sipping from a paper cup.

“Dad,” she said, tugging gently on his sleeve.

“Yeah?”

She glanced over her shoulder and then back at him. “There’s someone I want to introduce you to.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

She bit her lip. “You remember that guy I told you about at our cafe? With the Dino lunchbox?”

Oh. That guy.

Oscar blinked, holding her gaze.

She looked so hopeful. Nervous, too, but sure. And somehow still his little girl, even in heels and lip gloss.

He took a slow breath, then gave her a faint nod. “Alright. Go on, then.”

And she smiled, wide and excited and turned to wave someone over.

Oscar kept his expression neutral.

But inside? Inside, he was already silently evaluating every single thing about this Dino lunchbox boy.

Because even if she was grown now... He still remembered the baby in light-up shoes who once reached for his nose and giggled like it was magic.

And he wasn’t about to hand her heart over to just anyone.

The Drive

The car was quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet they usually shared on long drives. Not the sleepy hum of the engine with music low and snacks in the middle seat. This one felt heavy.

Oscar glanced sideways.

She was curled up against the window, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, eyes fixed on the blur of the road. Her suitcase was in the back. Her university acceptance letter still folded neatly in the glove compartment. The city they'd be leaving in the rearview. And a name they hadn’t said since they left the house.

Dino Lunchbox Boy.

He hadn’t brought it up. Wasn’t sure he was supposed to. But it was all over her face, every sigh, every blink too long, every time she picked at the edge of her thumbnail like she used to when she was a kid trying not to cry.

“You okay?” he asked gently, eyes still on the road.

She was quiet for a second. Then gave a tiny nod.

He waited.

Then: “We broke up,” she whispered. “Before I started packing.”

Oscar nodded once, slow and steady. “Because of uni?”

“Yeah. His offer was overseas. Mine’s here.” She cleared her throat. “We tried to figure something out. But it just… didn’t make sense anymore.”

He could hear it in her voice, that quiet kind of heartbreak. The kind that doesn’t shatter, just bruises deep and slow.

She was always so careful with her heart. But she gave it anyway.

“He was a good kid,” Oscar said after a while.

She nodded, wiping the corner of her eye. “Yeah. He was.”

They pulled up to campus not long after, cars unloading, students hugging their parents, dragging duffels and dreams into dorm rooms. He parked in a quiet corner, far enough that it still felt like they had a moment left to themselves.

Oscar helped unload her things. Carried them up the stairs. Let her lead.

When it was all set, bed made, desk neatly stacked, a mug she didn’t really need sitting on the shelf, he paused at the doorway, hands in his pockets.

“You’ll be alright,” he said.

“I know.”

“And if you’re not, that’s okay too.”

She looked at him then. Eyes red, lips trembling, not from Dino Lunchbox anymore, but from this. From goodbye.

Oscar stepped forward and wrapped her in the kind of hug he used to give when she was five and scraped her knee on the pavement. She was taller now. But somehow, she still fit.

“You still call me when you need help opening jars,” he muttered into her hair.

She laughed. “They’re really tight jars.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss the side of her head. “Call me if anything hurts. Doesn’t have to be a jar.”

She smiled. “You’ll come visit?”

“Course I will.”

“And text?”

He raised a brow. “You won’t answer, but yeah.”

She laughed. He memorized it.

Then he walked out of her room. And for the first time since she was born, he left without her.

The One

She graduated on a hot, cloudless day.

The kind of heat that clung to the back of your neck and made dress shoes feel like punishment. But Oscar didn’t care. He stood in the crowd, sunglasses on, camera in hand, smiling like he was watching the sunrise.

She wore her cap slightly crooked. Medas  tucked into the collar of her gown. That same proud, unshakable grin she’d worn her whole life like she knew exactly who she was and wasn’t about to shrink for anyone.

He swore she looked taller up on that stage. Braver, too.

After the ceremony, she came bounding through the crowd, arms wide, tossing her cap somewhere behind her as she crashed into his chest.

Oscar caught her with a laugh and held on tight. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered into her hair.

“Even in this heat?” she teased, voice muffled by his shirt.

“Even if I melt into the pavement.”

Later that night, their house was filled, family packed into every corner, laughter echoing off the kitchen tiles, cupcakes half-eaten and champagne corks missing. She looked radiant, floating between people like she belonged in every room.

Then she walked in with someone at her side.

He was tall. Pressed shirt. Neatly combed hair. Shoes that looked too clean for this house. He stood close, but not too close. Hands carefully folded in front of him, like he was afraid to touch anything without permission.

Oscar straightened instinctively.

“This is Jack,” she said, her voice light. Then, with a smirk, “I think he’s the one.”

Oscar blinked.

The one? She’d never said that before.

“I like the name,” she added, nudging Jack with her elbow.

Jack smiled nervously and offered his hand. “Sir. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to call me that.”

Jack chuckled, glancing down. “Right. Sorry, Sir.”

He didn’t make eye contact for more than two seconds at a time. But he said thank you when offered a drink. Helped her mom without being asked. Laughed, albeit awkwardly, at her cousin’s awful puns. And when Oscar’s dad started talking about old cars, Jack listened like it was the most important history lesson he’d ever heard.

When she wasn’t looking, Oscar caught him gently tugging her chair in so she could sit. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t loud.

Just thoughtful.

Later, Oscar stepped outside to get some air. The backyard was quiet now, soft light spilling from the kitchen window, music playing low inside.

Jack found him there, shifting on his feet like he didn’t quite know if he should interrupt.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” he said “I just wanted to say thank you. For welcoming me. I know… meeting the family isn’t easy, especially on a day like this.”

Oscar studied him.

The stiff posture. The polished shoes, now dusty from the yard. The way he stood up straight but looked down when he spoke. Professional. Polite. Nervous. Trying.

“And I also wanted to clear my intentions,” Jack added, voice more certain now. “I care about her. A lot. And I’m not here to waste her time.”

There was a pause. Oscar looked at him, really looked. The shoes scuffed from the yard. The shirt a little wrinkled now. Still standing up straight, still choosing his words with care. Nervous, but honest.

He didn’t say anything.

Just looked through the window again, at his daughter, cheeks flushed from laughing too hard, joy tucked into every corner of her.

Then he nodded.

“Good,” Oscar said. “That’s all I need.”

Jack let out a breath, relieved and a little stunned. “Thank you, sir. I mean Mr. Piastri. Sorry.”

Oscar cracked the smallest smile. “You’ll figure it out.”

He watched as Jack headed back inside, slipping beside her naturally, their hands brushing, still not holding, but getting closer.

Oscar stayed out a minute longer, watching through the glass.

She looked happy. Safe. Like someone who’d finally found her way home.

Maybe she had.

The Blessing

It had been a few years since Jack first sat in this kitchen: sweaty palms, dress shirt too stiff, calling him sir like he couldn’t help it.

Not much had changed.

Jack was still Jack. Still a little too polite, still a little too nervous around Oscar. But he had settled into himself more now. His hair wasn’t gelled to perfection, and he didn’t panic when the dog jumped on him. He laughed easier. Fit into the family noise like he belonged there.

But today he was quiet again.

He sat at the table with both hands folded in front of him, back straight, eyes flicking between Oscar and his wife like he was preparing for a formal boardroom pitch. The air was soft, late afternoon light spilling through the windows, mugs half-full on the table. Their daughter was out.

Jack had asked to come by. Said he had something important to talk about.

Oscar had a feeling he knew what.

Jack cleared his throat. “Thank you for having me. I, uh…” He paused. “I just wanted to say thank you. For welcoming me into your home. For trusting me with her.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. His wife smiled faintly.

“I care about her a lot. You know that.” Jack looked between them, more serious now. “And I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t absolutely sure.”

Oscar waited.

“I’m here to ask for your blessing,” Jack said. “Before I propose.”

There was a silence, small, still, and full.

Oscar leaned back slightly in his chair. Studied him. “Big question.”

Jack nodded once, hands a little too tightly clasped now. “I know, Mr. Piastri.”

Oscar glanced at his wife. She gave a tiny, knowing nod.

“She’s a lot like her mum,” Oscar said slowly. “Strong. Stubborn. Smarter than most people in the room.”

Jack smiled. “She is.”

“And she’s not someone you ever take lightly.”

Jack’s voice was quiet. “I don’t.”

Oscar watched him a moment longer, then finally gave the slightest nod.

“Alright, Jack,” he said. “You’ve got our blessing.”

Jack let out a breath, blinking a little like he hadn’t been sure he’d get that far. “Thank you, sir. I—I really appreciate it.”

Oscar’s wife reached across the table and gave Jack’s hand a gentle squeeze. “We’re proud of her. And we’re glad she has someone who sees how special she is.”

Jack’s voice cracked just a little. “I do. I really do.”

As Jack stood to leave, jacket folded over one arm, Oscar walked him to the door.

“Jack,” he said quietly, just before the boy opened it.

Jack turned.

“You can drop the sir, you know.”

Jack gave a sheepish smile. “I’ll try, Mr. Piastri.”

Oscar just shook his head, lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “Close enough.”

And with that, Jack left, heart thudding, a ring in his pocket, and a quiet kind of peace blooming in his chest.

Oscar stood at the door a moment longer, hand resting on the frame.

His little girl was really getting married.

And somehow, he was okay with it.

Wedding Shoes

Oscar’s phone buzzed once.

Then it rang, shrill and familiar.

He didn’t even look at the screen before answering. “Hey, bub.”

Her voice came through, a little breathless. “How do you feel about closed-toe heels?”

Oscar blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“For the wedding,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Do I go with something classic? Or like, a block heel? Or maybe flats, since the ceremony’s outside…”

He leaned back in his chair, the warmth of the afternoon sun spilling through the kitchen window, one arm resting on the table.

It hit him quietly, without fanfare, without warning.

Once, when she was three, she cried because her light-up sneakers didn’t match the color of her hair clips. He’d spent forty-five minutes convincing her that Bluey would totally wear mismatched shoes.

Those sneakers had cost thirteen pounds and lit up every time she stomped on the ground like a dinosaur. He remembered the sound, the way her tiny feet would race across the floor, squeaky, chaotic, full of life.

And now she was asking him about wedding shoes.

There was a lump in his throat he didn’t quite expect.

“You there?” she asked, soft again.

He cleared his throat gently. “Yeah. Still here.”

“So? Closed-toe or open?”

He smiled, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Whichever one lets you dance properly. You’ve got terrible balance in heels, remember?”

She laughed. “Rude.”

“True.”

There was a pause. Then her voice softened. “Thanks, Dad.”

“For what?”

“For still picking up on the first ring.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Because the truth was, he always would. No matter what. No matter how far, how grown, how busy life got. If she called, he’d answer.

Always on the first ring.

And she knew that. Somehow, she still knew that.

“You’ll look beautiful,” he said finally. “Doesn’t matter what’s on your feet.”

She smiled through the phone. He could hear it.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, bub.”

The call ended, but Oscar didn’t move. Not right away.

He just sat there, thinking about sneakers and wedding shoes, mashed bananas and wedding cakes, night lights and aisle lights.

She wasn’t little anymore.

But she still needed him.

And somehow, that was enough.

The Most Important Walk

The music had started. Soft, distant, barely there beneath the rustle of satin and the flutter of nerves.

Oscar stood beside her, just out of sight from the waiting aisle. His hand rested gently on hers, not leading, not pulling, just there. Like it always had been.

She adjusted her bouquet, breath coming out in small, uneven huffs. She looked radiant, hair pinned just the way her mum used to do it, dress flowing like water, eyes wide and shining.

But beneath the shimmer of highlighter and lace, she was still his little girl.

Oscar leaned in slightly.

“You okay?”

She gave a shaky smile. “Nervous.”

He nodded, soft. “That’s alright.”

Then he waited a beat.

And in the quiet before the doors opened, he gently asked, “Is this what you want?”

She looked up at him. Like she had so many times before. Like when she scraped her knee and didn’t want anyone else to clean it. Like when she forgot her lines in the Year 6 play and scanned the crowd just to find him. Like when she called wedding shoes and asked if he thought she was doing the right thing.

And now, here.

She nodded. Steady, certain. “Yeah. It is.”

Oscar’s throat tightened. He offered his arm. “Then let’s go.”

The doors opened slowly, light spilling in like the world was holding its breath.

Everyone turned.

And she stepped forward, not alone. Never alone.

Oscar walked beside her, not just down the aisle, but through every memory stitched into her stride. He could still hear the echo of her tiny feet running through the house. Still see the frosting smudged across her cheek on her first birthday. Still feel her fingers tugging his sleeve that one morning when she cried because a classmate ruined her superhero drawing.

Now her steps were steady.

And he only let her hand slip from his when it was time.

He kissed her forehead, whispered something only she would hear, something like I love you, something like you’ve got this, something like I’ll still pick up on the first ring.

Then he stepped back, hands in his pockets, sunglasses hiding everything he couldn’t say.

She turned to face the rest of her life.

And Oscar… He smiled.

Because she was exactly where she was meant to be.

[marauder-misprint]

Hey sweetie, it's me again - Cora

I know it's mostly patchers + Regulus, but since I read Good Aim, I couldn't get it out of my head.

So, I was here… and I guess I need a Barty Crouch Jr. x Fem!Reader story. Also, the reader can be a Slytherin.

I know we don’t have that much information about Barty’s school years, but honestly, I feel like he’s another version of Sirius—just darker. Which probably means… we can dive into some toxic love, right?

I don’t know. I just really love your imagination. If you’re writing this, I’ll be truly grateful. 🖤

Cora ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ So sorry that this took so long. I had this idea for friends of benefits that crashed and burned but then I couldn't get the friends with benefits idea out of my head. But it has come to together! ❤︎

Hope you enjoy ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

Convenient

Barty Crouch Jr. x Slytherin!reader

2k words

cw: angst, slight fluff, friends to lovers (i guess), NSFW ideas mentioned

You had no right to be jealous. That’s what you told yourself as you leaned against the cool stone wall of the Slytherin Common Room, swirling your drink around in your cup. You and Barty weren’t anything. Not really. So he was completely allowed to have a girl, who wasn’t you, straddling him on the couch with their tongues down each other’s throat. 

And you pretended that it didn’t light an angry fire somewhere deep in your gut.

You believe it’s your fault that you caught feelings for Barty, one of your closest friends. You shouldn’t have kissed him during that game of seven minutes in heaven in the fall. You shouldn’t have let him kiss you a week later in his dorm when you were supposed to be studying. And you shouldn’t have let it go farther. But you did. There were sexual favors in broom closets between classes. Your clothes got scattered across his dorm’s floor whenever one of you felt like it. 

But you weren’t dating. You were just friends. Well, friends with benefits. So you couldn’t be angry that Barty had someone else in his lap swapping saliva. You didn’t have that claim to him. You weren’t his and he wasn’t yours. 

You had thought that when Barty kissed you back that forest time that maybe he did feel the same ways you did. You weren’t sure yourself until you kissed him and liked it way more than you should have. But he had really kissed you back. And then he was the one who kissed you next. You thought that meant something, but you never talked about it. You never discussed if that meant that there was an “us.” So there wasn’t. There were no dates. You were just friends who kissed and shagged from time to time. 

So that left you trying to look away from Barty and scanning the room for a distraction. The drink in your cup wasn’t doing enough. The dance floor didn’t look inviting. There was no one you wanted to hook up with other than Barty. 

You sighed heavily. You handed your drink to some younger student standing near you. You mumbled something about going to bed to your friend Adelaide and then crossed the common room to disappear into your dorm. 

In the morning, you got up earler than you usually do. You grabbed a quick breakfast before holing up in the library. You didn’t have a ton of homework, but you could drag it out. Maybe you’ll fall asleep in a sunbeam like a cat. Maybe you’ll doodle a garden of flowers on your parchment until the whole thing is full. Who knows?

The next day, you were up just as early. With no homework, you wandered. You walked around the bell tower, you walked the staircases, you go from the old detention hall to the Astronomy Tower. By the end of it, your feet ached. 

The whole time, you were thinking. This “friends with benefits” thing you had with Barty wasn’t enough for you. And if he liked you in the same way that you like him, you’d be dating by now. So, logic says you should get over him, rather than hanging on and torturing yourself with the little bits of affection that you can pretend mean more than they do. 

You decided that you need to end the benefits with Barty.

Monday morning, Barty sat next to you at breakfast, slinging an arm around your shoulder. It’s nothing new. You tried not to react.

“Didn’t see you ‘round all weekend. Where’d you been hiding?”

“Out and about.”

“And no invite for me?” he asked with a faux pout. 

“Alas, no.”

Barty gave your shoulder a squeeze. “If you’re upset with me, doll, I can make it up to you before class.” His tongue darted out of his mouth to wet his lips.

Your stomach clenched. You almost agreed out of habit, but you caught yourself before you said anything. Instead, you shrugged his arm off of you.

“Too bad I have to meet with Sprout before class,” you said uninterestedly. 

“Between classes then,” he offered.

“Can we not talk about your acitivites at breakfast?” Dorcas asked snippily from a few seats away. “I’d like to keep this down.”

“Sorry,” you said, sending her an apologetic smile. Then you stood up and left the Great Hall.

Barty looked at Regulus. “We do have Herbology first, yeah?”

Regulus nodded. 

You didn’t really need to talk to Sprout, but you had nowhere else to be so you stood around outside the greenhouses until your classmates started arriving for class. 

Throughout your lessons, you tried to react less to Barty’s antics. You held in laughter at inside jokes and his ridiculousness. You couldn’t help the upward twitch of your lips, but that would come with time. You also refused to walk next to him in the corridor. You knew that if you did, you’d end up in a broom closet with him. And that wasn’t your goal for once. 

He pulled you off to the side as your friends walked to dinner. The rest continued on, not batting an eyelash at the two of you stopping. 

“You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said, crossing your arms. 

He narrowed his eyes, not quite believing you.

“Is it your time of the month? You know that doesn’t bother me.”

You scoffed. “It’s not, but thanks for the concern.”

You turned to continue towards the Great Hall, but Barty grabbed your arm. You pulled it out of his grasp.

“Leave it, Barty.”

He was usually one to argue, to tease, to make things worse. But he let it. He figured you were just having an off day, following a possibly stressful weekend. He wasn’t sure what was up with you, but he was fairly certain that you’d be back to normal by tomorrow. 

Except you weren’t. Any miscellaneous advances he made were turned down, and you didn’t make any yourself. That continued all week. It was more than that though: you were spending more time with Adelaide and Lucinda and what felt like literally anyone besides him. 

After a second week of you avoiding him, Barty had started running possible excuses through his head. He liked knowing everything. And the reason his favorite hookup suddenly put up a wall was something he didn’t know. 

He casually walked over to your station in Potions. Leaning his hip against the table, he picked up one of your knives and ran his finger over the blade. You didn’t even look up from your finely chopping of some dittany root.

“Have you gotten yourself a secret boyfriend?”

Your chopping slowed. 

“No? Why would you ask that?”

He put a finger on the tip of the blade in his hands, spinning it with just enough pressure to prick his skin. 

“You haven’t touched me in over-”

“Don’t fucking bleed on my knotgrass!” you snapped, your eyes flicking up to his hands.

You snatched the knife out his hand and covered the prick with your thumb, applying pressure to stop the bleeding – which wasn’t even dribbling yet. You glared at Barty. 

“I’m touching you now. Happy?” you hissed.

“No.” 

“Shame, because this is all you’re getting. 

“But what? We were fine and now we’re whatever the fuck this is.”

“I’d say we’re still fine. I’m just not the convenient girl you turn to whenever you need to get your rocks off in a hurry. Find someone else for that.”

Barty’s brain short-circuited. “Convenient? You think you’re-”

“Mr. Crouch, please return to your cauldron before your potion burns,” Professor Slughorn demanded, standing next to Barty’s bubbling cauldron. It looked especially grim next to Regulus’ extraordinary looking one.

A few more days passed. You were studying with Adelaide in the common room, testing each other on Transfiguration terms and wand movements. You hadn’t seen Barty since dinner. That didn’t bother you. But then Regulus was leaning against the couch you were sitting on.

“You need to go to my dorm.”

You and Adelaide both look at Regulus with odd expressions.

“Excuse me?” you asked. 

“Junior wants to talk to you. And he’s not coming out here.”

“And he needs to talk-” You glanced at Adelaide and rolled your eyes. “-now?” 

“Yeah.” 

You groaned loudly before standing up. “I’ll be back.” You slammed the boys’ dorm door open and glared at Barty, who was rocking his desk chair on its back legs. “Junior, I was studying for McGonagall’s exam.” 

“The hell? You don’t call me that.”

A beat. “What?” 

“Junior,” he said with disgust. “You’ve never called me that.”

“Okay and?” You crossed your arms.

“I need you to tell me what changed. All this-” He gestured to your whole body. “-thinking you’re just convenient? Calling me Junior? Not laughing at my ‘sí, muy lumioso’? What the fuck is up with you?”

You clicked your tongue. “Right. Is that all?” 

“No. Don’t even think about leaving.” 

He stood up and walked over to you. He closed the door and then placed his hands on your hips. 

“Did you hit your head or something?” 

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull out of his touch. Barty saw that as a win. He had missed having you close. You had a certain warmth to you that no one else had and he realized he had been craving it.

“My head is fine, thank you very much.”

“I mean, I’d say your head is fantastic.” He grinned at you.

“Course you would.”

You tried to pull back slightly, but Barty tightened his grip on your hips. 

“Love, there’s something up and you’re telling me. I’m not asking.” 

You sighed but relented. “I’m protecting myself.”

Barty’s semi-concerned expression turned worrisome. “Protecting yourself? From what? Who’s dumb enough to try to hurt you?”

“You,” you said quietly, looking anywhere but at Barty’s face. 

“Me?” He took a half-step toward you so that your bodies were almost touching. “How have I hurt you?”

“It’s not completely you. I just… I can’t do this anymore.”

“This? What is this? Being friends?”

“Being friends with benefits,” you said. “I, erm, I like you too much for that. It’s better for me to have none of you than to tease myself.”

“Friends… with benefits…” Barty repeated, as if he had never considered that that was what you were. “And you like me too much? Like I’m too good of a fuck?”

You laughed, but it sounded partially strangled. You knew that if you didn’t get out of this room soon, you’d start crying. Barty didn’t like how your laugh sounded. Usually he loved your laugh, but this one hurt him. He didn’t like that.

“Not that your ego needs it, but you are a good shag. You’re great at everything. You’re a great friend. But I don’t want to share all of you with everyone. I want you to myself. But, come on, I’m not daft. I know that’s not happening so it’s better, for me at least, to stop.”

Barty let go of your waist with one hand and grabbed your chin to make you look at him. 

“What if I said you’re daft for not asking me?” he asked.

“What?”

“You never asked me if I’d want to be only yours.” 

“Because I know you.”

“Do you?” 

“Yes.”

“Not as well as you think, doll.” He let go of your face. “I’m all yours, only yours, if you say the word.”

You stared at him wordlessly for what felt like a minute.

“Are you… not going to say the word? After all that?” he asked, deflating slightly and his grip on your hip loosening. 

“I, uh, you, what?” you sputtered out. “You would?”

“That’s what I said.”

“How come you never said before?”

“You never said either.” 

“You never asked me on a date?” 

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.”

“But you’d drop everyone else? For me? And we could… be more?”

“I would. We could.” 

“Okay, yeah. I’d like that, Barty.”

He grinned widely. “Fantastic. Now, I believe I have some making it up to you to do.”

tags: @navs-bhat, @faceache111

[this-acuteneurosis]

I just found Don't look back (and first of all I love it, you are brilliant, I am barely finished the first fic but I am invested) and I spent some time digging through your tumbler for mentions of obi-wan/leia....because from these beginning interactions I have sense something and I am now invested and kinda confused????

Was this intentional...? Is this going somewhere...? There are no tags for their relationship but by other asks I see on your blog I'm not alone in this thinking.....

I hope she finds happiness. In the beginning I was hoping for some warped way for Han to join her because I love them together so much, but I also do love obi-wan and I am pleasantly hooked on their relationship now

I've answered asks similar to this before, but I keep getting them and we're far enough into the story that I think I can say some things more certainly without spoiling anything, or the plot magically changing on me. So here we go.

So. Like Fire in Our Bones. Leia and Obi-Wan meet for the first time, and I was happy with the scene, and then I posted the chapter and a whole mess of people popped out of the ground were like, "Romance?!?!?!" Keep in mind that this was before the Kenobi show was released as well, so we had no canon where Leia knew Obi-Wan as a child. DLB runs under that assumption.

So I was all, "Oh, surprise," but I'm a very ship and let ship sort of person, and once people pointed it out, I was like, yeah. Sure. They can have this vibe. They would, honestly. I've got a pretty strong head canon that Obi-Wan has been flirting to survive for decades at this point, and Leia is socially savvy enough to roll with that kind of behavior as long as it's not distasteful. She also saves him, and they bond, and I don't have a problem with people reading into that. I think it's reasonable. It's pretty textual at this point.

HOWEVER.

Once upon a time I also thought this story would be 200k words, max. I thought Leia would end the series having reconciled that Anakin wasn't Vader, but wouldn't be close to him. I though Satine would never make an appearance and Cody would be the first clone to like Leia instead of the last, and yeah. A lot of things started changing once I was actually writing the story.

At the beginning of the story, I knew I didn't want to write Leia a romance. A) because I wasn't sure who it should be with and, B) that was way past the where I expected her to be healing wise in her grief. But the story kept getting longer and she and Obi-Wan kept having moments, and I was like, I mean...maybe? Maybe something happens? I can't say no for sure anymore.

BUT!

We're far enough into the story now and I have a much better sense of how this last arc is going to handle the remaining grief Leia is dealing with, and also how much time she'll spend with Obi-Wan. I have no intention of doing a romance for her in this arc. Look how long it took me to get Anakin and Padmé together. We do not have time for that. So I've left Leia with no romantic pairing tags. Officially, the story will not be about her having a committed, happy, healing romantic relationship at this point. It will be about what it always was: cooperation and unity beating back the darkness, and how you have to fight for those things so you don't lose them when you need them most.

But if it makes your heart happy to imagine that all the remaining scenes with her and Obi-Wan are a prelude to something that happens later, feel free to enjoy them that way. Write as much of your own fic or draw as much of your own art as you want. Feel free to share it with me too. I've enjoyed reading the other divergent fics people have done of this story.

Just everyone, please be nice to each other. :)

[sanders1665]

"You’re Not Crazy — You’re Creating"

They always call you crazy first.

They said that about Van Gogh —

chopped off his own ear, couldn’t sell a painting to save his life.

Now the world sells tickets just to stare at his brushstrokes.

They said it about Nina Simone —

too raw, too political, too angry, too much.

She didn’t blink. She made thunder out of piano keys

and poured truth into the bones of jazz.

They said it about Tesla —

slept three hours a night, talked to pigeons,

imagined invisible energy webbing the planet long before we had Wi-Fi.

They buried him poor and mocked.

Then we named cars after his ghost.

They say it about the poets, the punks, the painters.

The ones who felt too much,

saw too far,

refused to play the role.

And maybe they’ve said it about you.

Too emotional. Too impulsive. Too sensitive.

You change your mind. You talk to yourself. You daydream.

You burn hot for something one week, then disappear the next.

But here’s the truth no one says out loud:

That “crazy” part of you?

That’s the part that’s awake.

That’s the part trying to build something real

while everyone else is just scrolling and nodding and blending in.

The system wants sameness.

Wants polite mouths and small talk and office chairs and

a neat little box where no one asks too many questions.

But you’ve got sparks coming out of your skull.

You’ve got dreams so loud they wake you up in the middle of the night.

You hear a strange song and suddenly feel like yourself again.

You see a streetlight flicker and think of a whole damn story.

That’s not dysfunction.

That’s design.

The ideas that don’t let you go?

The ones that seem too weird, too bold, too unmarketable —

listen to them.

They are messages from the part of you

that’s never been domesticated.

Write the thing that doesn’t make sense yet.

Paint with your fingers if the brush feels wrong.

Say what’s in your chest even if your voice cracks.

Because if Bowie had waited for approval,

he’d have died a mime in Soho.

If Maya Angelou had played nice,

we’d never know why the caged bird sings.

If Basquiat stayed in school,

we’d have no proof that chaos and beauty can dance together in spray paint.

None of them asked for permission.

They followed the weird glow.

They didn’t edit themselves into normalcy.

They expressed.

Loud. Messy. Real.

And yeah, maybe they scared people.

Maybe they scared themselves.

But they left a trail.

And now it’s your turn.

So don’t shut up.

Don’t sit still.

Don’t flatten yourself out for their comfort.

Be as odd and electric and wrong as you need to be

to get to your truth.

Because every time you honor that gut-deep signal,

you create more space for the rest of us

to feel a little less insane for wanting more.

You’re not broken.

You’re a frequency the world hasn't fully tuned into yet.

Tune into yourself and turn the volume up.

[caffeineaddictedturtle]

Deus ex Machina II.

idol!Minho× afab!Reader genre: angst, slice of life, fluff, established relationship warning(s): honestly mino is a W in this one; still sad, but minho makes it better; no beta we die like man an: i explain it here (btw I wrote this when i was struggling to write:) )

You woke up with an empty space behind you, which made you sad: last night made you forget that he is staying home for a couple of days. You stayed in bed, stretching, not feeling like getting up; your eyelids feel heavy and puffy from last night. Still feeling that heaviness in your chest, and the gray weather didn’t help with that. While you were deep in thoughts, you didn’t hear the door opening. “Y/N, are you awake?” you looked in the direction of the voice, it was your boyfriend carrying a tray in his hands. “Good morning love, I am sorry about last night” You felt like you wanted to disappear from everything, and everyone. Lino put the tray down to your bedside table, and crawled under the blanket to cuddle you, patting your back to make you calm down and forget your dark thoughts.

The two of you just stay like that, intertwined and silent, until he moves to take the tray out he brought in: breakfast he made for you with grilled cheese, and cut up some veggies next to it, for dessert he made you a fruit salad with your favourite fruits. “We need to share it though, I can’t eat all of this” you looked with your knowing all look: that he was hoping to fatten you up, although it is all futile, because both of you know that you hate eating all alone. He sighed, and started eating with you; he didn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to: the two of your relationship constructs of mostly silence, and glances. None of you complained about it, quite on the contrary, both of you enjoyed it… oh, to have a place to call home and just be, not needing unnecessary little talks, or trying to talk awkwardly to fill the silence. With Minho, you learned to love the quiet, the wordless nights, to not be afraid of your own thoughts so much that you couldn’t shut the hell up. So many of your relationships consisted of just useless talks, desperately trying to grasp to sound. This didn’t mean that if one of you started rambling, the other didn’t devote their full attention to it. He loved to listen to your stories about your day or your thoughts, theories about your current shows or books. Just how you loved when he talked about the guys, new music, fan interaction, or some random stray cat he has seen and tried to stop himself from bringing it home.

God, you love this man is what you were thinking about while nibbling on your grilled cheese, not noticing how you haven’t been thinking about lowly of yourself. Instead, the positive things about your relationship or your boyfriend, which is what Lee Know exactly wanted: not single negative thoughts, at least for a while. He knows you don’t necessarily ponder in your own personal hell, only when you overwork yourself and start to burn out. He also knows what is the best way of solving it: feeding you, cuddling in silence then watching a show or movie you both like, and after he texted the boys that he will be busy today, he plans to do exactly that.

masterlist ║request something ║part 1

[cercess]

Beneath New Skies - Chapter III

Death's Door

𖤓 Tags: Depictions of violence, mentions of death, depictions of injury, depictions of blood, angst 𖤓 Rating: Explicit 𖤓 Word Count: 3.3k 𖤓 Notes: hey all! Sorry or the time it took to get this out, I really struggled writing some parts. I want to add a trigger warning for this chapter: it depicts scenes of the city being attacked, as well as descriptions of a wound on a character's arm. If these make you uncomfortable in any way, please skip this chapter. When I upload chapter four, I will include a summary so you don't miss any critical information moving forward. I'm hoping to get chapter four out either tonight or tomorrow, because I know this one took me a long time. This chapter isn't my favourite writing-wise, but it was important for events that will come later. Please excuse any clunky parts, as this is not the type of story I typically tell; I'm much more of a slice of life/romance author. Thank you all for your continued support, and I hope you enjoy the chapter! 𖤓 Previous Chapter / Next Chapter 𖤓 Read on AO3

The day started like any other, with you working the counter at the apothecary. Kyros, the restaurant owner, was browsing the wall of dried herbs, while your father helped Akmonides with some ailment in the back room. 

“What do you think they’re talking about in there?” Kyros asked as he smelled a vial of crushed ginger.

“Is gossiping about the gossip-monger really a good idea? He’ll find out eventually.”

Kyros laughed, as he added the ginger to his basket, “not unless you say anything.”

“That depends on how much coin he offers.” 

It was just a cough. You knew because your father had grabbed eucalyptus on his way back. In your business, the answers to people’s suspicions were often much more boring than what they’d imagined. One day, you planned on taking over your father’s position and treating patients yourself. But, seeing as the man was still as spry as ever, there was still time before that happened. Sometimes he’d test you pool by simply stating the ailment. It was then your job to figure out what ingredients needed to be used. After doing it your whole life, mixing the proper tonics and ointments came as naturally as breathing. Peppermint for colds, feverfew for fevers, valerian for insomnia, ginger for mild pain, and poppies for severe pain. Those were the common afflictions you saw, but every once in a while, there would be a curveball, and you’d have to consult your journal. 

“These are pretty,” Kyros held up a blue flower, “maybe I could use those as a garnish.

“Those are flaxseed flowers, and we use them as laxatives. Probably not something you want your customers eating.” You grin as you fiddle with the necklace Phainon had given you.

He would have found that funny. 

It had been a few days since he’d left for the ruins of Janusopolis, and you’d spent most of your time yearning for his return. It was almost sickening how much you longed for him; like a lovesick teenager who had to be glued to their partner’s side at all times. 

The door behind you opened, and out walked Akmonides and your father. The former held a vial of what you assumed to be a tonic for his cold. The other telltale sign of his affliction was his nose, which had been rubbed raw from wiping mucus away.

“Could you run to Demetria’s?” Your father asked, placing a hand on your shoulder as he slipped behind the counter. “We need oranges.” 

You nodded and hopped off your stool, taking the opportunity to emphatically stretch your arms and legs. He sometimes sent you on errands throughout the day, knowing that you appreciated a break from the mundanity. 

As overwhelming as Marmoreal Market could be, you could never shake your love for it. You had lived your whole life with the bustling stalls right at your doorstep. The sound of customers haggling echoed in the back of nearly all your childhood memories. 

The walk to Demetria’s was short, and when you arrived, the grocer was quick to welcome you with a hug. 

“Have you grown since I last saw you?” She asked. 

“Maybe,” you say brightly, knowing full well you stopped growing years ago. 

When you placed the oranges in your basket, she took a long pause, before adding a bundle of grapes. “That doesn’t quite seem heavy enough, here. A treat from me.” 

“Thank you,” arguing with the old woman was futile. She was too kind for her own good. 

Before returning to the apothecary, you made a detour to find an old friend. She was usually easy to find, as she spent her days running along the streets. 

“Serena,” you called down a row of plant-adorned homes. It wasn’t long before she poked her head out from behind a pot. You waved, beckoning her closer. 

She scanned the street before running over to you with a smile on her face.

Gaining the girl’s trust had taken considerable effort. The first time you met her, she robbed you blind. After returning home from The Grove, you were unfamiliar with certain changes, namely the orphaned children that used the market as their hunting ground. When you told your father, he merely laughed; apparently everyone had fallen prey to her antics. At the time, you were angry, and spent two days searching for the thief. After clamouring over the rooftops, you eventually found her hideout on a balcony overlooking the market. Your anger immediately subsided when you saw her huddled in the corner, surrounded by empty boxes and various stolen mementos. A sudden appreciation for your stable childhood had blossomed since then, especially as more desperate children arrived from Castrum Kremnos.

Serena was from Icatus, and had no means of supporting herself. She insisted her parents would return, but the disillusionment of maturity told you otherwise. Since then, you made an effort to leave her food whenever you could. When you and your father had leftovers, you’d set them outside the shop for her, and in the morning there would be a flower on your windowsill. 

“Were you looking for me?” She asked, trying to get a better look at the gift you held behind your back. 

You laughed, and showed her the bundle of fresh grapes. “I thought you could use a treat on a hot day like this.” 

The little girl’s eyes widened with excitement, and she snatched the fruit from your grasp. She looked at the gift like it was a rare gem, “this is all for me?”

“Of course, I-”

An earth-shattering scream cut through the gentle moment like a knife. Instinctively, you pulled Serena behind you, her hand tightly grasping yours. “What was that?”

“Stay close, and don’t run ahead,” you instructed in a harsh whisper. 

Keeping your back against the wall, you carefully shuffled to the end of the building to peer down the main street. The lone scream had multiplied into an overwhelming rumble of panic. Ahead, people were fleeing a towering figure clad in blue and white. You’d learned of the Titankin through Phainon, but had never laid eyes on one. It’s marbled skin was exactly as he had described, and the golden dagger it brandished was far from an inviting image. 

“What’s happening?” Serena tugged at your arm. 

Primal fear overtook you when the Titankin turned its head in your direction, it’s stiff, inhuman movements only adding to your terror. Had it seen you? Was it coming your way?

“We need to run,” you pulled the girl further down the street, away from your possible assailant. 

“To where?” She asked shakily as she struggled to match your pace. 

You slowed down slightly, needing a moment to think. What you needed was to get to your father. For all you knew, he was alone in the shop. He was not a trained fighter; neither of you were. A feeling of hopelessness began to gnaw at your confidence as you realized the dire nature of the situation. 

“We need to get to my father,” your attempt to keep your voice steady failed. Getting to your father meant returning to one of the main roads on opposite ends of the street. The southern road was blocked by Titankin, and the other route would still be a gamble, especially with Serena in tow. Still, you refused to abandon the child. 

“We can get there from the roof!” Serena pointed to a set of stairs leading up to a nearby balcony. 

A low groan sounded from around the corner you had previously checked, and it became abundantly clear that you had to make a choice; risk finding more Titankin on the main road, or follow Serena’s plan. While you had about a hundred logistical questions about Serena’s route, you decided that a petty thief probably knew all the cutie’s secret passages better than you. 

“Up the stairs then, and don’t look back.” 

She nodded, and led you up the nearby building. From above, you could see the extent of the chaos. It turned out following Serena’s idea was for the best, as a particularly burly Titankin stood guard on the northern road. 

“What are those things?” The little girl was trembling, so you knelt down to meet her eye. 

“Those are Nikador’s Titankin. They are very dangerous, and want to hurt us. If one gets close, you run. Do you understand?” You hated how grave your voice sounded, knowing it would only make her more afraid. But fear no longer mattered; survival was your only priority. “Can you still get us to my father?”

To your surprise, she didn’t cry. Instead, Serena furrowed her brow and led you across a nearby canopy. You rushed after her, eager for your feet to once again stand on a solid building. 

“We can climb down here,” she gestured to the ledge below. 

You realized that she was pointing at the protrusion under your bedroom window. The route you had taken must have been how Serena left flowers for you. 

The girl scrambled down the side of the building, using the uneven stone as foot grips. Given you were larger than a child, the drop was a nonissue. You thanked yourself for leaving your window open, and slid inside your bedroom after Serena. 

“Let’s find my father,” you instructed as your anxiety became almost unbearable. You had no idea what you would find, and prayed that the worst case scenario had not yet occurred. 

The two of you crept down the stairs to the shop, the sound of your racing heartbeat thundering in your ears. Everything was painfully normal; the herbs neatly arranged, the phials on the alchemy bench perfectly in order. The only thing out of place was your father, who was nowhere to be found in the main area. 

Serena trailed you, her eyes widening as she took in the shop. If it were any other time, you might have felt a bit of pride at her reaction. Alas, posturing was hardly appropriate during an attack. 

“I need you to stay ducked behind the counter, I’m going to check the exam room.” 

She nodded and did as she was told, curling into a ball. You took a breath, and opened the door. Inside, your father sat at the desk, hunched over a book. 

“Father! What are you doing?” You asked, equal parts relieved and dumbfounded.

“I didn’t think it would take you so long to get back, I-“

“Do you not realize what’s happening? The city is under attack by Titankin.” 

He adjusted his glasses, “if this is some kind of joke, I do not find it funny.” 

Exasperation threatened to overtake you, but the urgency of the moment far outweighed your irritation. “No, it’s not a joke. We need to run now.” 

Your father rose from his chair, and followed you out into the shop where Serena remained under the counter. “You’ve found a child.” 

“Father, this is Serena. I was visiting her when the attack started. She got us here safely.” 

“Then I owe you my thanks.” He smiled warmly at the girl.

“Where do we go now?” 

Before your could respond, your father jumped in, “I suspect they've started evacuating the market. We need to get out while the guards still have a foothold. Otherwise, we’re trapped waiting for the Titankin to find us.” 

You were relieved to have the pressure of responsibility lifted from your shoulders. It was something your father always bore well, and you trusted his intelligence wholeheartedly. 

“Stay in between us,” he guided Serena to stand in the middle of himself and you. Then, your father addressed you, “did you notice where the Titan were gathering? 

“There's one on both the south and north road. We almost had a run in with the southern one.” You shuddered at the thought of that encounter going any other way. “It was farther up, though, so if we make a run for it then we may reach the guards quicker.”

“Good idea,” he nodded, “it’s also closer to the gates. Follow me.” 

The two of you trailed your father as he exited the shop. “Leave the door open. We don’t want to make any more noise than necessary.” 

He crept forward, checking around the corner as you had earlier. The angle of the building made it difficult to see the rest of the street, but you noticed him straining to see past the restaurant. 

“Now,” your father instructed, grabbing Serena’s hand. They took off down the street with you floating close behind.  

As you ran, you found yourself clutching your necklace, your grip so firm that it left star-shaped indents in your palm. If Phainon were here, you’d all be safe. If you can hear me, please come home. I need you. 

The sudden realization of your own mortality was frightening. You thought of everything you had left unsaid, to your father, and to Phainon. He’d never know just how proud of him you were; how lucky you felt to call him yours. All of the little things you were too afraid to say would die along with you.

Your thoughts were soon interrupted by your companions coming to a stop. By the time you slowed down, the cause for their interruption was clear. A Titankin, larger than the other two, blocked your way with its massive sword. 

Serena trembled behind your father, her shaky hand clenched around his pant leg. 

As for the man himself, he slowly raised a hand, “we mean you no harm! Just let us pass.” 

The Titankin’s growl seemed to encapsulate the area in cool air, freezing everyone in their place. At its feet were discarded weapons; a warning for any who wished to challenge its mighty authority. 

Your eye was drawn to a spear that laid a few feet away, its blade shining in the midday sun. It called to you like a weapon of legend, beckoning you to be the hero your father and Serena needed. 

If I die today, I will make him proud. 

You lunged for the spear, albeit not as gracefully as you would have hoped. Still, when you regained your footing, the spear sat in your hands, sharp blade pointed towards the looming Titankin. 

It shifted its attention to you, sword prepared to strike. 

“What are you-“

“Run!” You interrupted your father as the monster lifted its sword high in the air. 

You shut your eyes, bracing for the impact against your defensively positioned spear. The weight that bore down on you was unbearable. Upon impact, you were sent stumbling backwards, but your spear remained raised. 

The Titankin grunted, and shifted more of his weight to the sword. You could hear the wood of the spear splintering under the force, and you focused on moving out of the way of the opposing blade. 

Behind the beast, your father shouted your name. His desperate tone almost brought tears to your eyes. You wanted to tell him you loved him, but the Titankin had successfully broken through your spear, causing you to lose your balance. 

The weapon’s two halves stared up at you sadly, and you almost felt the need to apologize for reducing the beautifully crafted weapon into such a sorry-state. However, there was no time for that, as the Titankin had raised its sword once again. 

You scrambled backwards, holding your arms in front of your face. The pain that exploded through your left forearm as the blade cut through your skin was unbearable. A pained cry escaped you as your vision blurred. Had you been hit elsewhere? You dropped to the ground, cradling your injury close to your chest. 

“Don’t touch them!” Your father cried, before a loud thump echoed through the streets. You wanted to go to him, to see if he was alright, but your legs wouldn’t work. 

Instead, you squeezed your eyes shut and waited for the end to come. I love you father. I’m sorry I failed to protect you. I hope I made you proud Phainon. I’m sorry I never told you-

An awful sound, like nails on a chalkboard, overwhelmed your senses, but the impact never came. You blinked open your eyes to see a blade sticking out of the Titankin’s chest. It stumbled as that sound filled the air once again, and collapsed into a pile of dust. 

For a moment, the debris shrouded your saviour in mystery, but when they ran forward and took you in their arms, you knew your prayers had somehow been answered.

“What are you doing? Your arm, it’s…” Phainon’s voice trailed off as he observed the gash in your skin. You wanted to wrap your arms around his shoulders and never let go, but decided upon remembering your bleeding injury and his white coat. 

“Phainon?” His name fell pathetically from your lips as tears clouded your vision. Your whole body numbed, until the pain in your arm was nothing but a dull ache. 

“I’m here,” he cupped your face in his hands, “I should have gotten here sooner, I’m-“

“Ahem,” an unfamiliar voice chimed in, interrupting your tender moment. 

Behind Phainon stood a beautiful woman with golden eyes. She held some sort of stick in her hand, its shiny material covered in the same dust-like material the Titankin had been reduced to. Her short skirt and accessories were unlike anything you’d ever seen in Okhema.

“Are you going to introduce your friend?” She grinned down at you and Phainon, slugging her weapon over her shoulder. 

“Leave them alone, Stelle.” An equally exotically dressed man called as he helped your father to his feet. You noticed he had a small scar under his right eye, although it did nothing to detract from his handsome features.

“You’re no fun,” the woman huffed, nudging his shoulder.

You turned your attention back to Phainon, who was watching the duo with as much confusion as you. “Who are they?” 

Before Phainon can speak, the grey woman responded: “we’re visitors from beyond the sky, come to rescue you in your hour of need.” 

Once again, the man tried to real-in his companion. “You can’t tell everyone that,” he hissed, which was met with the woman—Stelle—rolling her eyes. 

“Is she being serious?” You asked Phainon, as he and your father hoisted you off the ground. 

“Yes… Kind of,” Phainon answered once your feet were securely on the ground. “They really are from beyond the sky. And they helped me get to you.” 

You and your father exchanged confused looks as he examined your arm. “It’s nothing major, but we need to get this stitched up.” His hand lingered on yours. 

“The path ahead is cleared, find the guards, and get yourselves to safety.” Phainon orders, having adopted his “hero” persona.

“What about you?” 

A mere touch momentarily shatters his mask. “I’ll come back to you, I promise. We need to clear out the rest of the city and get to Nikador.”

“Nikador is here?” Your father suddenly seemed uneasy. 

The man from beyond the sky ushered Serena to the exit, “leave the Titan to us, sir. Get your children to safety.” 

“You’re facing Nikador? Now?” Your voice wavered with emotion. 

“The Chrysos Heirs will defend the city from this threat,” Phainon’s words were rehearsed, his mask slipping back into place. 

“They’re right,” your father placed a calming hand on your back. “We need to get to safety. Let the Chrysos Heirs do the fighting.” 

Phainon patted your hand reassuringly, “we’ll be okay. I promise.” 

There was much more you wanted to say, but the pain in your arm had returned. Your head was starting to feel fuzzy, and from the trail you left behind while walking, it was clear you were losing too much blood. 

“Good luck,” you told Phainon as your father led you from the market. As you left, the city’s mortician passed, but said nothing. 

Death had come to Okhema, and all you could do was pray that Phainon remained on its good side. 

[shadamyheadcanons]

Total Recall

For the 2025 Shadamy week prompt: Forgotten. Kindly beta’d by the lovely @shadowsfascination.

Shadow wakes up in an unfamiliar bed with amnesia and finds that a vaguely familiar pink hedgehog took him in, promising to take care of him until he remembers everything. He keeps a journal while he’s there so he can at least remember some things over time. 5.8K words.

Cross-posted on AO3.

Day 1

I woke up this morning with a splitting headache, a bump on my head, and not a single memory of how it happened...or who I was. Who anyone was. I must’ve grunted in pain, because a pink hedgehog dashed into the room to check on me. She was fretting and worrying over me, but I couldn’t really focus.

She introduced herself as Amy and said we were friends, but I don’t know. She feels more important than that, somehow. She must mean something else to me. Whatever it is, it must be positive, because I instantly felt better once I saw her. Safer.

Amy promised she’d take care of me until I got my memories back, and she gave me this journal so I could write things down as I remembered them. When I asked her why she’s helping me, she said she’s always there when a friend needs her. She also mentioned she felt guilty, but she wouldn’t tell me why.

Day 2

The stabbing pain in my head this morning was just as bad as yesterday, maybe worse. I couldn’t even leave bed, so she fed me soup and pet my head for a while. It felt...nice. I kind of want to fib and tell her I need to stay in bed more often, but the idea of lying to her makes me feel sick for some reason.

Day 3

I tried walking around the house today, but I was too dizzy to make it far. Luckily, Amy was there to help guide me to a seat in her kitchen, and she talked to me while we ate lunch, telling stories about all our friends. A couple of names sounded vaguely familiar, but the details escaped me. She didn’t seem to mind.

When I asked if looking after me was a nuisance, Amy instantly denied it, saying it’s nice to have someone else around for a change. Apparently, she used to live with her friend Cream, but then Cream moved back in with her mother, leaving Amy by herself.

It looked like she was trying really hard not to look sad. I wonder if she’s lonely. Maybe I’m lonely, too.

I told her I liked being with her here so far, and she looked really happy. I think I’ll mention that more often.

Day 5

I remembered something today. She was playing music while she made us breakfast. I recognized the chords, the words, the tone...I spoke some of the words, then sang a few lines as the lyrics came to me.

Amy was thrilled. She instantly perked up and started talking a mile a minute about the band—Hot Honey, she called them—and how she’d brought me to a concert with her, how much fun we’d had together, how much I liked it. She played song after song of theirs, excitedly chattering away.

But I didn’t understand. I told her that although I recognized the songs, I didn’t like them.

I wish I hadn’t done that. She went quiet and looked really sad.

I wanted to make her feel better, so I admitted that although I didn’t really like the songs, they felt meaningful. Important. She smiled a little.

She hasn’t played Hot Honey since then.

It was grating. It was sappy.

But I kind of miss it anyway.

Day 6

Not too much happened today. My head’s been feeling better and I can walk now, so Amy said we can go out tomorrow.

I noticed she had blankets and a pillow set up in another room, so I asked if she always slept there. She said it was just temporary, that she usually sleeps in the bed I’m using. She told me she was fine sleeping there and it wasn’t a problem, but I don’t know. It looks uncomfortable to me. I told her there was probably enough room for both of us in the bed if we slept close enough, but her face went bright red, and she got all flustered and said no.

Not sure what that’s about, but I kind of want to see her do it again.

Day 7

I’m apparently a fan of flowers, so she took me out to a public garden today. She must be right, because I remembered all of their names—lilacs, azaleas, rhododendrons, magnolias. It’s weird what my brain hangs onto; little facts are fine, but whenever I try to think of details about people or my past, it’s like there’s this weird bubble in the back of my head stopping me. If I try to push it, I get this sense of wrongness, like I’m snooping somewhere I shouldn’t be.

But flowers are easy. I even told her scraps I remembered about their supposed “symbolism,” whatever that means, and she looked happier and happier the more I shared. Memories came back in bits and pieces: times when I’d seen each flower for the first time, the books I’ve scoured to learn more, the feeling of soil passing through my fingers, and the joy of raising my own flowers and watching them bloom. Upon remembering I had a garden myself, I immediately stopped and asked Amy about it. Luckily, she’d asked a friend of hers, Silver, to look after it while I was under the weather. She really does think of everything.

Halfway through, she spotted some bright yellow daffodils and gasped. She brightened up and told me I gave her a bouquet of them once to cheer her up. I can’t remember doing that, but the smile on her face was warm and familiar. If she always looks that way when she gets flowers, I’ll have to get them for her more often.

At the end, she lamented that it was too early in the year for lavender, saying those were my favorites. But I don’t think they actually are. They aren’t right now, at least. I pointed to a patch of roses we’d already passed and said those were my favorites, especially the red ones. She looked confused, but then she smiled again and told me she loved them, too, and that “Rose” is her last name.

It suits her.

On a whim, I asked if I could call her that, and her eyes widened. She smiled shyly and agreed. Her cheeks were pink.

Rosy, even.

Day 9

Today, Rose introduced me to two of her friends, a fox with two tails and an...echidna? I think that’s what he’s called...named Tails and Knuckles.

Two people named after body parts. Not exactly creative, but it does make me wonder where my name came from. What am I a shadow of? I tried to think back, but all it gave me was an unsettling sensation in the back of my mind: a gentle voice, followed by a stabbing pain.

I decided the answer could wait.

I’m not sure why Knuckles was there. It seems like Rose doesn’t always have a reason for bringing people over, she just does it. He mostly lounged around and pestered me about what I did and didn’t remember and seemed disappointed with how little I knew. But when I called Rose by her last name, he lit up and started hounding me about her instead—how “close” we were, how much I liked her, how long I was staying with her—smirking obnoxiously the whole way through. Rose eventually got him to back off.

Tails asked about my headaches. How frequent they are, what triggers them, that kind of thing. He talked to me about amnesia, too, saying this kind usually only persists for a couple weeks in Mobians and my memories will probably be back soon. The others seemed relieved, but I’m not sure how to feel about it.

After checking on my health, Tails showed that he’d brought a two-wheeled vehicle with him, saying he’d been in the process of tuning it up when my...incident happened. He encouraged me to take a seat and start it up, explaining that I’d been built with what he calls “vehicular intuition,” so I’d know how to ride it even without my memories. He’s awfully smart for a kid. Smarter than Knuckles, at least.

At first, I didn’t recognize it. The striking jet black and sharp angles called out to me faintly, but it wasn’t until I sat down on the seat and started up the engine that it clicked.

Powerful sensations and images flashed behind my eyes—wind whipping through my quills, scenery blurring past, the growl of the bike beneath me, the simple joy and freedom of it all—and my heart pounded.

My bike. Mine.

I almost shed a tear. I’ve missed it that much. Luckily, I regained focus in time to blink it back. I think I’d be okay if Rose saw me cry, but the other two? Not a chance.

After they left, Rose begged me to take her on a ride with me, and I immediately said yes. She’s a difficult person to say no to.

The familiar thrill of racing returned to me, but the feeling of someone clinging to me was fresh. I don’t think I’ve ever given Rose a ride before. I’ve been missing out. The way she held me made my chest feel warm and light, and whenever I sped up or turned a tight corner, she’d let out a cute little squeak.

I kept driving her around until the sun set. Once I brought her home, she finally explained why she’s been feeling guilty about my amnesia. She said I was helping her build a new addition on her house and she accidentally knocked me on the head with a hammer. Said she felt awful, should have been more careful, all of that. I didn’t like seeing her so unhappy, so I hugged her and told her it was alright, and she calmed down.

To be honest, I bet there’s more to the story than that. Tails mentioned I’m supposed to be some kind of “Ultimate Life Form,” so I highly doubt a sweet, silly, petite girl could knock me out with a hammer, especially by accident. She’s probably being too hard on herself for something. She does that a lot.

But she does have a hammer she keeps by the door, this giant yellow and red thing. Just looking at it does make my head hurt.

Day 11

Rose invited over an obnoxious blue hedgehog this afternoon—Sonic, I think? He wouldn’t shut up and kept sprinting around making dumb jokes, saying he ‘would race me if I were feeling better.’

As if I’d need to be at full power to beat that buffoon in a race.

Rose seems...fond of him. She has terrible taste. I didn’t tell her that.

She asked me if I remembered anything about him, and I told her that she must have hit me pretty hard if I managed to forget someone that annoying. I thought she’d be upset, but she laughed instead and said that some things never change.

Day 14

Today

Day 15

Yesterday I

Day 16

Rose and I went to a city two days ago called Westport Westopolis to run a few errands. While we were there, we ran into a man in a military uniform with two differently colored eyes. He started to snap at me about my “extended vacation.” Rose got mad and stepped between us, maybe to defend me, but I couldn’t hear what she said to him because I caught sight of a weird logo on his chest that spelled out “G.U.N.”

It felt like my head was splitting in two.

Unsettling, terrifying noises ricocheted in my mind—panicked voices, pleading, screams—ending with a deafening bang.

I don’t know what that sound was, but it made my stomach turn.

After the bang, my vision went black, and my legs gave out. I don’t remember hitting the floor, though. Maybe Rose caught me. She did say she carried me home, and I’ve never caught her in a lie. She must be stronger than she looks. I couldn’t even leave bed until today, so I’m sure I was no help.

I think something bad happened to me, and I’m scared of finding out what it was. Is it possible to just bring back the good memories? Am I wrong to want that?

I hope I never run into G.U.N. again.

Day 17

Rose thought we could use a nice day off after what happened, so she brought me to the city park with some food and a blanket so we could eat outside on the grass. She said it’s called a “picnic.” The word wasn’t familiar, not even a little. Rose got really sad when I said so. She thinks I’d probably never been on one, even before I lost my memories. She immediately turned determined, scrounged up some food—bread, strawberry jam, peanut butter, chips–and brought me to the city park.

I don’t think this will help me regain any memories, but I don’t mind. She’s cute when she gets all determined like this. Are all female hedgehogs as pretty as she is? I asked her, but she told me to stop embarrassing her. She was as red as the strawberry jam.

I figured Rose would find us a table somewhere, but instead, she spread out the blanket right on the grass. We were halfway through our meal when Rose’s friend Cream hopped over to us with a small blue creature in tow who she calls “Cheese.” She let me hold him. He has an odd texture, warm and soft but jiggly. Not sure what to make of that, but it’s comforting somehow. A few other Chao stopped by, too. They’re clingy, but I like them.

The afternoon passed with no discussion of who I used to be; Rose, Cream, Cheese...all they cared about was who I am now. The temperature and breeze were relaxing, and it was nice to see them laughing and enjoying the comfortable weather. Their voices and the natural sounds of the park were gentle. I would’ve gladly spent all day there.

Rose once told me I’d promised her years ago that I’d keep everyone safe, that I’d made it my life’s mission to protect the Earth and everyone on it. I think I’m starting to understand why.

Day 20

We went grocery shopping in some square today—Station Square, I think it’s called. She had a pretty long list. She’s going to teach me how to make cupcakes. It’s another one of those things I know I’ve never done before. Is she still avoiding my past because of what happened with the commander, or is she just as reluctant to dredge up my memories as I am?

Taking a look at the list, I recognized enough items that I’m sure I could have dashed around the store and cut the time in half; I’ve experimented with my strength and speed here and there, and they’re both returning to me. Even as I thought of it, though, I lost all desire to rush. If I ran, I wouldn’t get to walk by her side. I’d miss the cute way her nose wrinkles when she’s comparing prices. I wouldn’t have gotten to reach the cake mix she was too short for and enjoy the smile it earned me.

Maybe you don’t need a reason to spend time with someone. Maybe the right person is worth it all on their own.

Day 25

Today, Rouge and Omega stopped by. I don’t remember everything about them, but their names are the only ones I’ve known right off the bat so far, and I felt better having them here.

Before they came in, Rose poked her head out the door and whispered something to them about not mentioning “assignments” around me right now, and every so often, she or Rouge would steer the topic away from something. Omega didn’t like that very much. They cut him off when he started mentioning something about target practice, and his internal motors made this disgruntled rumbling noise.

I get the feeling Rouge and Omega—and me, by extension—don’t visit Rose. Rouge didn’t know where the bathroom was, and Omega was analyzing the house’s structural integrity like he’s never been here. I can apparently teleport when I’m at full strength, so distance isn’t an issue, and she clearly needs the company, so why don’t we visit her?

Rouge apologized for not checking up on me sooner, saying they’d been really busy. Whichever “assignments” they’re being sent on must be stressful; Omega was grumpy, and there were bags under Rouge’s eyes. I told them to look out for themselves.

When Rose stepped out to bring in the cupcakes we’d made together, Rouge asked me about her—whether I felt comfortable here, if I wanted to stay somewhere else, all that. I told her I was happy here with her. When I called her “Rose,” though, Rouge stopped. She didn’t respond like Knuckles had. She and Omega exchanged a nervous glance. I asked what was wrong, but they both stalled out. Rouge just said that I was welcome to come back to live with them anytime, especially if I “needed some distance” after I got my memories back. Rose came back with the cupcakes before I could ask what she meant.

Distance from what? From Rose? Why? I like her. I like her smile. I like her cooking. I like how she laughs, even if I don’t always understand why. I like the warm feeling I get when she holds my hand to lead me places. I like hearing her hum when we’re doing chores around her house. I like how she says my name. She puts an extra...something into it that no one else does.

What miserable version of me would want to avoid her? What was I afraid of?

Day 31

It’s been a month now, and I think I need to talk to Rose.

The longer this goes on, the less and less I want to know about whatever darkness is lurking in my past. Every time I think back, all I feel is pain and dread, and I can’t help but wonder if I was ever as happy as I am now. I like the world I live in. I’m not sure I always did.

It feels like almost everyone wants to pull me backwards, but I’m tired of looking back. Why can’t I move forwards instead? Why can’t this be me?

Rose has put in so much time, so much effort into helping me regain my memories, but if anyone will accept my decision, it’ll be her.

I’ll tell her tomorrow.

Day 32

I did it. I told her...and she accepts me!

She said she’d noticed how nervous I was about it, and she understood why. She even told me she loved me—every version of me—memories or not, and that she’d be happy to let me stay here no matter what I choose to do about my amnesia!

But...something odd happened. I can’t explain it, but she said this one phrase that echoed in my mind, and my brain...lurched, as if something was settling into place. She said, “I don’t care what you choose, Shadow. I want to give you a chance to be happy!”

My head’s been spinning ever since. Hopefully I’ll feel better in the morning.

I don’t know how I’ll break the news to everyone else, but with Rose by my side, I’m sure I can do it.

This is who I am.

Shadow sat on the edge of his bed—Amy’s bed—feeling his muscles shake. His jaw clenched harder with each cheesy, embarrassing, lovestruck journal entry his ignorant self had written over the past month.

The immense weight of his agonizing past had lifted for scarcely a moment, allowing him just enough room to drop his guard...and let her in.

And by the time he’d awoken that morning, the entire world had crashed down on his head once more. Raw and honest and unforgiving, leaving him broken like a neglectful Atlas.

His fingers tightened, wrinkling the pages, and his chest clenched. All the years I spent keeping my distance, and she breaks it all down in an instant. And as if that weren’t enough...

Vivid images of the massacre flashed behind his eyes, the gruesome tragedy that had taken everything from him.

Shadow’s heart pounded in his chest, and his breathing grew rough and unstable. His eyes went wide and his expression strained as he stared at nothing, but no tears dared fall.

Energetic footsteps, heavier than expected for a silly, petite hedgehog, bounded around the corner. Amy poked her head in. “Shadow, do you want—”

Shadow choked and threw the journal aside, feeling his face shift into that of a cornered animal. “A-Amy—!”

At the mention of her first name, Amy gasped, and her brow wrinkled in concern. “Shadow? Are you...”

He tore his gaze away.

Shadow heard Amy’s footsteps grow closer, and the bed sank next to him. Her hand hovered for a moment, then rested on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Her light reached out to him. He panted and tried to pull away as he always had, only to fall even further.

The ARK.

Gerald.

MARIA.

Amy wrapped her arms around his shoulders, desperate yet reassuring. “Shadow, it’s okay! You’ll be alright! I’m here.”

Shadow clenched his jaw until it hurt, and he grasped the sheets on either side of him. He could see Amy’s expression pinch out of the corner of his eye, and she rubbed his back. “Is there anything I can do?”

He met her gaze. Try as he might, Shadow couldn’t lock out her warmth, not the way he could just a month ago. He stared for a long moment at the woman he loved—the one he could never have because she was so enamored with someone else—and he sighed. Shadow looked down and shut his eyes. “Take out your hammer.”

A baffled noise escaped Amy’s throat, but she summoned it. “Um...okay...?”

Shadow took the hammer from her hands and held it to his forehead. “Right here. Just...”

After a moment of silent confusion, Amy gasped and ripped the hammer from his hands, throwing it aside. “SHADOW! That’s not funny!” There was a pause, and then her vitriol faded. “Shadow...?”

He felt the tears hit his knees before he even knew he was crying. “Take it back,” he croaked, voice cracking. “Take it all back.”

“Oh, Shadow.” Pain was evident in Amy’s voice, too, and she wrapped her arms around him fully, gentler this time. “I know it’s hard. You’ll be okay.”

“I was h-happy...for once...” he managed through shuddering breaths.

“Shh...it’s alright.”

Shadow turned in Amy’s hold and clung to her, letting himself break down in the arms of the only person left who was allowed to see his tears. He wept for Maria. He wept for Gerald, flawed though he was. He wept for the Shadow of yesterday who’d never known pain or loss or inhibitions, and he wept for the innocence he’d lost yet again.

Brainwashing, amnesia, time travel, and now I almost forgot all over again...only to remember every time. How many times will I be forced to lose them?

Shadow wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, mourning pain both old and new. Amy didn’t falter, not even after his breathing slowed and his muscles stilled.

At last, he lifted his head, vision bleary and head aching. Amy was gazing up at him, eyes watery with tears she’d shed on his behalf. “I’m so sorry!”

Shadow pulled back, baffled, but he held onto one of her hands. “Why?”

“Because I’m the reason you got amnesia in the first place!” she insisted. “I feel awful.”

Shadow was shaking his head even before she finished. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Amy glanced back at the hammer she’d left on the ground, then shot him an incredulous look.

“...Not on purpose,” Shadow added.

Amy groaned and hid her face. “You told me to use a regular hammer, but I got impatient and used mine!”

“In your defense, it was faster.”

“But you told me to be careful!”

“I got in the way,” he fibbed.

Amy yanked at her quills and scrunched her eyes shut. “I should’ve just done the job myself! If only I’d—”

“Amy.”

She peeked her eyes open a crack. Shadow threaded his fingers with hers and pulled them away from her quills. “Stop trying to make me blame you. It’s not going to work.”

Amy stared up at him and sniffled, but she remained silent.

“You’ve been taking care of me. Feeding me. Housing me. Helping me. Making me happy. And it worked.”

As he said that, though, he felt his face fall. It worked...just not forever.

Amy squeezed his hand. “I don’t know everything you’ve been through, and I know it can’t be easy, but you have good memories, too,” she insisted. “Whenever I hear you talk about Maria, it never sounds like you regret meeting her.”

“Of course I don’t!”

Amy jumped, so he averted his gaze and quieted down. “I would never regret meeting her. I couldn’t. Not for a second.”

Amy nodded, encouraged. “And think of all the adventures you’ve been on! Think of your friends! What about Rouge and Omega?”

Shadow’s chest warmed, then instantly tightened. “They’ve been covering for me. All this time. That’s why they were so exhausted.”

“Huh?”

“They’ve been keeping Team Dark going without me this entire time. How much longer would they have kept doing that? A month? Two months? Forever?” All so I could keep playing house with you, happy and ignorant?

I nearly threw away everything we’ve been through together.

The thought repulsed him.

“Because you would have done the same for them,” Amy countered, learning forward to get a better look at his face. “You’re kind. You’re dedicated. And if this had happened to either one of them, you wouldn’t have hesitated for a second.”

There was silence for a moment. Shadow just stared, sensing she had more to say.

Amy’s lower lip trembled. She held on for a few moments before blurting out, “You shouldn’t have been here in the first place!”

“What?!”

“No, no!” Amy spluttered, holding her hands up defensively. “I mean you shouldn’t have been there the day I...” She glanced back at her hammer and cringed.

Shadow rolled his eyes. “You were putting another wing on your house, and no one else would help. Of course I showed up.”

Amy scratched the back of her head and looked down at her feet. “Ah...not quite.”

Shadow’s ears perked up.

Amy bit her lip. “See, I actually...didn’t ask anyone else,” she murmured. “I had it handled. I could have called Tails if I needed help with construction, and I could have asked Knuckles if I needed more strength...but I didn’t. I can do all that by myself.”

With anyone else, Shadow would have snapped in irritation. He kept his tone gentle. “Why did you ask me?”

Amy looked up at him, fidgeting with her fingers. “Promise you won’t get mad at me, okay?”

Shadow nodded. I don’t think I could if I tried.

She paused, then let her head drop, resigned. “Because I wanted to get to know you better.”

Shadow’s heart pounded. “Really?”

Amy nodded, peeking up at him shyly out of the corner of her eye. “I’ve wanted to get to know you since we talked on the ARK, but you’ve always kept your distance. I could never get close.”

Shadow’s heart ached. I never meant to hurt you. He opened his mouth, but the words died in his throat.

Amy twiddled her thumbs in her lap. “But I knew one thing that would work. No matter how busy you are, you’ve always found time to help me. Every single time I’ve asked you for help, you’ve been there.”

Memories of Amy’s voice drifted into his head.

“Thank you so much for coming with me to this concert, Shadow. I never could have gone alone. It’s so much better with you here!”

“Ah, Shadow, I’m so glad you’re here! Cream went into this weird-looking castle, and she hasn’t come back out! Will you go in there with me to look for her?”

“Shadow, please help us! Give them a chance to be happy!”

She’s right. I really will do anything for her.

“Shadow!”

He didn’t know he was grasping at his chest until Amy threaded her fingers with his. Her voice pulled him out of his stupor. “I’m sorry! I know it was wrong. It’s just...you’re so sweet, and brave, and kind...and you don’t hear that often enough. I wanted to know more. I—”

Shadow stalled out as she rambled, at a loss for words. His heart fluttered.

Does she...?

Every word died in his throat. Instead, he grasped her hand with both of his and held it to his chest, letting her feel his racing heartbeat. Her ranting immediately stopped, and one solitary tear faltered, nearly falling from her eye. A voice from fifty years ago, quieter than Amy’s but clear, floated in from the back of Shadow’s mind.

“You have a big heart! It may be difficult for you to express it, but I know that deep down you really do care. About me. About everyone! What you do is what defines you. I know you’re having a hard time finding answers, but I’m certain you will one day. Then, you’ll find even more people you can trust.”

Shadow found his voice at last. “I really wish you could have met her.”

Amy’s confusion lasted for only a moment before melting away, but she remained silent.

He brushed away the tear she’d almost shed, breathed in deeply, and let it out. “She would have loved you almost as much as I do.”

Amy’s eyes bugged out. Shadow slid his hand onto her cheek, making his intentions clear. He waited for a few terrifying seconds that felt like years, praying he hadn’t misinterpreted.

Finally, Amy glanced at his lips...and leaned in to meet him.

Her lips were warm and soft, and Shadow’s eyes fell shut at the pleasant sensation. His motions were tentative from nerves and inexperience, just as hers were, and he lingered for only a few seconds before pulling back. Amy leaned in to follow him, apparently just as reluctant to end the contact, and he pressed their foreheads together to stay close. Her breath tickled his lips, and a shy smile spread across her face. He couldn’t hold back a small grin of his own.

“So does this mean you’ll forgive me?” Amy asked, hesitant but hopeful.

Shadow scoffed and rolled his eyes playfully. “The girl I’ve had a soft spot for since the beginning resorted to subterfuge to spend more time with me, then pampered me for a month? I’ll live.”

Any last trace of hesitation vanished from Amy’s face, leaving behind cheeks dusted pink. Shadow tilted her head down and pressed a kiss to her forehead before aiming a smile her way. “Thank you, Amy.”

“Ah—”

She snapped her mouth shut. He raised a brow. “Hm?”

Amy pursed her lips, deliberating, and then her expression turned sheepish. “You know...you can keep calling me ��Rose,’ if you want...” Her eyes shot open. “I mean—you don’t have to, but...”

Shadow perked up. “I can?”

Her smile was small and secretive. “It’s...nice. No one else calls me that, so...it feels special when you do.”

Shadow smirked roguishly. “No problem. ‘Rose’ it is.”

A happy little noise escaped Amy’s throat, and he knew even before looking that her tail was wagging. As he kept looking around her room, though, Shadow’s stomach churned with nerves once more. “So...I know I’ve recovered by now, but...is your offer from last night still valid?”

She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

Shadow tugged absently at the blanket underneath him. “I know you’re lonely, and I’ve found a lot of happiness here. More than anywhere else.” He squeezed his eyes shut, ignored the way his stomach flipped, and met her eyes. “I don’t want to leave.”

Amy’s face barely had time to light up before he was pulled into an enthusiastic embrace. “Of course I want you to stay!”

Shadow choked from her strong hug, then laughed and quieted down when she loosened up. He listened patiently, happy just to hear her rant excitedly about all the new ideas she had for the house.

At last, she retreated, showing the exhilarated, post-rant expression he knew most were never patient enough to see.

Their loss.

Shadow ruffled her quills. “In that case, you’d better have supplies ready when I get back.”

Amy frowned. “What do you mean?”

Shadow stood up and adjusted his gloves. “I really do need to talk to Rouge and Omega, but if I’m moving in, then you’ll need that extra wing on your house more than ever.” He smirked down at Amy. “And it’s been established that you can’t handle that yourself, right?”

Amy leapt to her feet and gave a grumpy pout, cheeks puffing out in irritation. “That wasn’t—! Oh, you—!” He chuckled, and she crossed her arms. A few seconds later, though, she stood up straight and snickered. “Are you sure about that? You’re not just going to ask me to sleep in the same bed with you again~?”

Amy giggled, clearly expecting him to get flustered just as she had. Shadow raised a brow.

There’s nothing you can say that’s more embarrassing than that journal.

Shadow snaked an arm around her waist and cradled the back of her head, showing his own smirk when her eyes shot open. He pulled her close, closer than before, and pressed their lips together. He lingered longer this time, deepening the kiss and feeding more passion into it. He tilted his head and lightly scratched her scalp. Inexperience be damned, he kept going even as her fingers dug into his biceps, only pulling back when she whined quietly against his lips.

Shadow broke contact, unable to hold back a smug smile at her wide eyes and flushed cheeks. He leaned up to whisper in her ear.

“Not yet.”

Amy squeaked quietly. He released her and stepped back, unable to hold back a lighthearted laugh. She briefly stumbled, face even redder than before, and he felt his smile turn more genuine.

“I’ll see you later, Rose.”

She held a hand to try and hide her face, but her bashful smile showed through. “O-okay.”

He took a moment to enjoy the sight before teleporting away.

I never want to forget this day.

[sparrows4bats]

Damian only shows his art to those he trusts for years.

His art is so deeply personal that he can't bear for it to be perceived, much less gifted to others.

Dick gets his first painting during his time as Damians Batman.

Steph gets hers after the bounce house.

Alfred commissions him so he has new art for the house. His favourite is a family portrait he keeps in his bedroom.

Duke gets gifted sketches of Signal and Gotham in the sunrise

Cass gets given beautiful moments of ballet dancers.

Bruce is given portraits of his parents.

Damian paints Tim's photographs.

Jason gets artfully designed bookmarks.

Barbara has lovely landscapes and shots of the city she protects from behind her desk.

Other get given bits and piece Damians thinks they might enjoy.

But Jon Kent has an almost constant supply and access to Damians doodles.

He is Damians' creativity buddy and sounding board. Damian draws manga and comics while Jon write stories for them.

There's only one sketchbook he doesn't get to see, the one Damian keeps locked in his desk.

Jon has asked before, but Damian always shuts him down, saying it's private, and Jon respects that even if he is curious. If the magical girl ocs were fine, what is in that particular book?

Until one day Damian is kidnapped, and he has to go through his room for clues to who took him, and even if he feels weird about it, he opens the forbidden sketchbook.

He is expecting secrets, trauma, and the parts of himself that Damian hates.

What he finds is hundreds of sketches of Jon himself.

Each one is so full of detail and so lovingly drawn that feels like he is being burned.

Every freckle is correct, Damian drew close ups of his dimples, and his scars.

Seeing himself through Damians eyes is so intimate it feels like holding his very heart.

So Jon puts the book back where he found it without the other bats noticing.

When they find and rescue Damian, Jon knows he has to tell him but how?

Jon thinks of the sketches he wasn't supposed to see, and something in him melts even while he drowns in guilt.

So one night he confronts Damian when he best friend asks him about colour palettes.

"I saw your secret sketchbook, and I am so sorry!" Jon shouts and braces himself for Damians' anger. It doesn't come.

"What?" Damian sounds scared, and that is so much worse.

"When you were missing your Dad and brothers made me go through your room! Day I'm so sorry!"

"Did they see it too?" Damian shrinks in on himself, and Jon wants to hug him so badly.

"No! I put it back straight after I realised what it was, I swear!"

Damian huffs and looks away.

"So you know?"

Jon gulps, "know what?"

"That I'm in love you." Damian looks for Jons reaction and seeing his face starts to get up to leave. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable Jonathan. I shall depart."

Jon grabs his arm. "No! Day don't leave! I'm sorry! I just need a second. Please."

Damian stops but doesn't turn around. "I do not want your pity."

"It's not pity! Damian, I love you! I have for years and I'm just sorry I saw before you were ready to show me!" Jon is getting desperate now. He can't lose Damian. He doesn't think he will survive it.

"Really? You're not just saying that to spare me?"

Jon is horrified and spins Damian to be able to see his face. "Damian, what the hell! Why would I lie about this?!"

Damian has tears in his eyes when he finally meets Jon gaze. "I don't know, it just feels impossible for you to love someone like me."

"It's impossible not to love you! Believe me, I tried! I was terrified it would destroy our friendship, and I wanted to have some of you even if it wasn't in the way I wanted."

Damian sighs and slowly kisses him. When he pulls back, he laughs a little.

"We are both idiots."

Jon grins and wipes the tear that manages to escape. "Yeah, we are, but at least we figured it out eventually. I love you, Damian. Truly and completely."

"I love you too." Then Damian kisses him again.

Jon has the sketch Damian draws of Jon asleep beside him the next morning framed.

[littlelostmoon]

can i say something inappropriate? [fem reader btw]

thinking about obi-wan who doesn't use curse words. probably learned as a youngling to be respectful and dignified. could probably split his knee on a rock out in the middle of utapau and only whisper something under his breath like, "force be with me," or, "shoot!"

but during sex? freaky time? [eye emoji] why do i feel like this man would speak without an ounce of shame— it never registered to him that this language is frowned upon because your body is a beautiful thing to celebrate and he'll use whatever passionate words he wants in the moment. when he's asking to eat you out, it's not a "vagina." that's too proper, too medical. suddenly he's cooing about how your clit is sensitive and how he's been waiting to have your pussy all day. grunting about how hard he is, whispering about getting you to cum. pinning one of your hands against the mattress, squeezing the softness of your hip with the other. and you're blushing. so taken aback because this proper, established man is so vulgar and he doesn't even know it.

meanwhile one day if you ask him to fuck you he'll probably say some nerdy bullshit like, "you want me to make love to you, darling?"

on everybody's life, we need that

sorry guys, i never write short form smut things and try to focus on story building, but i'm ovulating lmao ... plus i got this idea thinking abt how much i love nice and respectful guys, like getting that sweetheart treatment and still getting the refined, proper walls to come down prob feels so rewarding. all i gotta say is, yum

[corseque]

This is stupid but I think you might??? Enjoy the Kpop Demon Hunters movie that just came out. I won't pretend the writing is groundbreaking but it's a fun popcorn flick with a "monster boyfriend" in it mixed with Magical Girl Musical Anime Style so it scratched something in my brain. I would love your comments even if they're really brief or critical. Okay BYYEE

I really enjoyed it, I already watched it.

I really like musicals and anything where characters are singing their feelings, it gives me this truly lovely frisson that I don't find anywhere else. So I enjoyed most of the parts where they were singing quite a lot.

spoilers for the end of Kpop demon hunters

I disliked the last 2 minutes of the movie, where the theme sort of fell apart. I felt like I was following along well with it and was excited to see where it would lead. The main character accepts herself with all her "dark parts" and her cowardice and lies and mistakes, and finds a new life. But a character who is more guilty but has accepted his dark parts... uh... dies. And then the world, instead of embracing its dark parts (the world's demonic underbelly, its castoffs and sufferers), is instead... forever cut off from its natural darkness we've been hinting at humanizing the whole time? They just chop the demons in half and all the demons die and go to prison and the world is cut off from its darkness forever? It's so strange that in the previous scene, she was like "why can't you accept me?" to the auntie, and the auntie was like "we just need to repress you more and everything will be ok" and then she says "no that's not right" but then the last image in the movie is her repressing the darkness of the whole world? Idk the images and the ideas did not come together in the last moment to me. I would have for certain humanized the demons and had humanity come to terms with accepting their dark side/the demons as a part of them, as the only true Final Peace that could work. And maybe the people who had "disappeared" had simply become demons, and because the world accepts their darkness and the demons, the missing people who had become demons could return to Korea. Unfortunately, I think the Magical Barrier Honmoon thing was just truly too beautiful of an image to not use as the final image, so everything was beautiful but it didn't make sense. Like it's really beautiful but I was scratching my head at the end. Truly think it would have made a better like one-season TV series so they could have explored the ideas more honestly and developed the other characters, and maybe made the Big Bad her father and delved into her mother's back story or something juicy and a little more complex like that.

[whimsicalsesquipedalian]

We’ve reached a point in media consumption where 9 times out of 10 instead of seeing people approach a piece of fiction asking “what story is this trying to tell me and how effectively is it telling it?” we see them approach it asking “what story do I want this to be telling me and how many ways has it failed my preconceived standard?”

And I just think that’s a real fucking shame.

[cosmicredcadet]

enough stories about how someone learns to truely be happy through love. i want a story where someone is desperately seeking out love thinking it's the only way to be happy only for them to learn by the end that happiness is what they make of it and they don't need love at all to make it.