#I really am quite pleased with how it turned out

[always-just-red]

Hi!

Can I request a fic where the reader starts realizing they have feelings for Sylus and gets so nervous around him that they can’t resonate anymore?

And Sylus thinks that the reader is scared/disgusted by him again so the reader is forced to confess their feelings to not create a bigger misunderstanding

Thanks!

- 🌻

The moment I got this request I was like HELLO— sunflower anon, you just get me 😌 Anyway! Am back from my break and I hope everyone’s ready for some Vulnerable Sylus™️, because I have got him hot to go!!!

A Gentle Touch

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: You really can’t let Sylus into your head this time— he’s living there rent-free already.

Genre: Angst + Fluff (& some Luke and Kieran shenanigans because they were not feeling the angst)

Warnings/Additional Tags: f!reader, injury detail, mentions of possible trauma, humour, some intimacy at the end 😘, Luke and Kieran are having the time of their lives

| Word count: 3.2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

If you asked, Sylus would tell you.

You catch glimpses: dark, sharp flickers of something monstrous, maybe even infernal. Blood, everywhere— thick in your mouth and your nose. All over your hands. You feel it, too: a yearning, so intense, and you couldn’t say whom it belongs to. Then there’s death. Searing white. Bottomless black. In the middle of all of it— crimson eyes like dying stars.

Every time you resonate, it envelops you, is laid out bare before you: a nightmare you’re caught in the centre of but forced to watch from outside. An other, a spectator. It’s a show, just for you, but it isn’t quite ready yet; someone’s still rehearsing their lines.

If you asked, Sylus would let you see it. It’s a power you have over him, a constant, self-sacrificial: you want it? It’s yours. So you don’t ask. You never ask. Like words mumbled in a haze of wine or sleep, you let him hold onto it. His hands are open, yes, but you don’t have to take.  

Besides, you have your own, world-changing little secret, and he’s going to see it too.

He’s slumped in front of you, blood sheeting down from two bullet wounds just below his shoulder. He catches his breath— one, two— before he peeks over this desk you’ve overturned for cover. You should be peeking over as well: should be counting your enemies, scouting your next move.

Instead, you’re looking at him and holding back. One minute ago you had no idea where he was, how he was, and it’d been eating away at you from the moment you got separated. Now he’s with you— he found you— and the relief is desperate, gushing; it has to escape somehow. It drips: forbidden daydreams, one after the other, like…

How you want to hold his face and urge him to speak so you can just hear his voice.

How you want to press a hand to his heart and feel the beat of it beneath your palm.

How you want to kiss him, want to taste the blood on his split lip, because this is your story, isn’t it? Messy. Violent. Defiant.

He looks at you, that same blood carving a thin line through the pale of his chin. It drops down onto his silk shirt. “What are you thinking about, kitten?” he grins. His best guess: “This is a fine mess we’ve gotten ourselves into, hmm?”

It’s a fine mess he got you into. “Yeah.” You make yourself look away from him, glancing over the desk to assess how much worse the situation is getting. The answer? Significantly. 

Sylus chuckles, drawing your eyes back as he reloads his gun. “Don’t say I never treat you to anything, sweetie.” He fires a few rounds towards the encroaching danger.

Voices go up across the room. Gunshots ring out, louder. Sylus slinks back down, wincing, holding his shoulder, and his fingers turn red. He deftly undoes the first few buttons on his shirt, peeling it back so he can examine his wounds. His jaw clenches; the punctures aren’t closing over fast enough. It’s too much blood, too quick, and he’ll—

He catches you staring. There’s a sheepish sincerity in the way he smiles, as honest and vulnerable as the holes in his shoulder. He holds out his hand. “Time for an energy storm, don’t you think?”

“No,” you snap. “Save your energy. We might need it later.”

“Oh?” An eyebrow perks up in interest, and it’s just like him to spot a double entendre in the midst of all this chaos.

But you’re staring at his chest through his open shirt and you’re such a hypocrite. “Things might get worse,” you explain.

“Worse?” he repeats as bullets fly over your heads, striking the wall across from you and scattering plaster over the floor. He watches it crumble. “Paint me a picture, kitten— what would worse look like?”

Even Rafayel might struggle with that particular creative prompt.

“Come on,” Sylus insists, using the excuse of your silence to push his hand closer to you. “Now’s not the time to play coy.”

“Sylus, I really don’t—”

He grasps your hand, his fingers locking with yours and squeezing tight. Your heart jumps at the touch. It strangles the protests in your throat and stays there, strung up by anticipation and dread.

You’re feeling so much that it takes you too long to realise nothing is happening.

Sylus’s eyes are fixed on your connected palms. He’s squinting, concentrating, and when that doesn’t work— when your hand is paling in the vice of his— he loosens his grip, his thumb feathering over yours as he mumbles a quick: “forgive me.”

He doesn’t let you go. You can still feel him, all of him, imploring to just let him in.

You don’t, and his eyes meet yours, for a moment— like another bullet has bitten through his flesh. Your mouth drops in fake surprise; you’re always so innocent when you pull a trigger on him.

This time, there’s no wound you can push your hands against in a guilty effort to staunch the bleeding. You have to apologise. Have to stitch it up with every word you’ve been guarding, saving, and it isn’t supposed to be like this. “Sylus, it’s not what you think. I—”

Something metal clatters across the floor behind you, bounces like a failing, stuttering heartbeat, then explodes.

…

“Good news, boss! We figured it out!”

Sylus groans, looking up from a report he’s not really been reading as two figures crash into his room. Not good, he thinks, as Kieran flings himself into the nearest armchair. Whatever this is, it’s not good. Luke settles on its arm.

With a sigh, Sylus removes his reading glasses. They stay, hooked on a finger, as he pushes his hair back like he can feel a headache coming on. His eyes flutter closed, and when they open, the twins are both leaning forward, bristling with excitement.

“Ask us,” Luke whispers in a way that makes Sylus think he might not realise he’s speaking out loud.

Another sigh. “What did you figure out?”

Kieran whips out a tired-looking notepad from behind his back. He clears his throat— “ahem!”— then starts to read: “Reasons why Miss Hunter was not able to resonate with you. Number one...”

“How did you find out about—”

“Sshhhh,” Kieran interrupts, putting a finger to where his lips should be. Sylus’s eyes widen in indignation, and Luke comes to his twin’s rescue, silently indicating Mephisto with a few tips of his head. The crow shrinks down on his perch.

“Number one,” Kieran repeats, matter-of-factly. “Your height.”

“My… height?”

Luke nods solemnly as Kieran continues: “humanityandconquer.com/power-dynamics describes tallness as a ‘natural advantage when trying to dominate a smaller individual.’ You are very tall. Try crouching when you speak to Miss Hunter.” He glances over the top of his notepad. “If you approach her at her level, she’ll know you mean no—”

“Nope. Next,” Sylus dismisses, waving his hand in a fast-forward motion. That headache is coming on.

“Reason two,” Kieran acquiesces, gaze falling, “your eyes.”

“Oh, for gods’ sake—”

“They’re red,” the twin pushes on, “and red means danger. In fiction, red eyes are symony—” he stops, spells it out— “synonymous with the supernatural. Vampires especially. Plus, lots of bad stuff is red.” He’s going off-script. “Blood. Fire. Sunburns.”

“Sunburns are pink,” Luke muses.

“No, like, bad sunburns, y’know?”

“Oh right, yeah.” There’s a shrug of agreement.

Sylus’s will to live is hanging by a thread, and they really don’t have a care in the world, do they? It must be nice. “Thank you,” he murmurs, “for your little investigation. If that’s all, I would—”

“Reason three!” Luke chirps, wiggling the same number of fingers, and Sylus’s head lolls back against the sofa.

“Miss Hunter is struggling to separate this version of you from your first impression,” Kieran says.

Sylus looks up. “What?”

Luke is rubbing his hands together eagerly, like they’ve finally gotten to the good stuff. “Well, you remember how you and Miss Hunter met,” his twin explains.

Words won’t do it justice, apparently, because the man begins to act it out. He reaches to grip Luke by the throat and Luke pretends to choke, fingers clawing at the grasp. Then Kieran stands up— throws Luke down into the chair and pins him there with his foot before snatching up his hand.

“See what I mean?” Kieran asks over his shoulder. “I mean, it must have been pretty traumatic. You kinda tore her away from everything she knew. Forced her to use her power, et cetera, et cetera.”

Sylus has gone quiet. He’s vaguely aware that the twins are moving, saying more, but he can’t hear it. He feels sick. Then he feels something different: someone poking at his arm. A hand is waved in front of his face, but he doesn’t react.

“Oh, we so got it,” Luke whispers conspiratorially behind him.

“Hell yeah we did!” Kieran whispers back.

There’s the sound of them high-fiving, and it spurs Sylus into action. He’s up out of his seat, out of their shadows, and then the door as well— long before they can stop him. He needs to breathe. He needs the cold night air and the quiet, and his strides drive him towards it, but not fast enough.

He’s about to use his Evol. To let himself evaporate so he can be whole again somewhere else, somewhere easier, but then he stops. He’s by an open door, glancing in at a decadent living room, where you’re sprawled over a black leather couch. This isn’t easier. This hurts, and it hurts more as he forces himself to close the distance between you.

You’re still asleep. You’ve been unconscious ever since that grenade went off, and it’s for the best, really; getting out of that place was… messy. Sylus’s shoulder still aches, the blood on his shirt now crusty and dark. Some of it’s his. Some of it’s yours.

He’s not sure why he’s still wearing it.

The twins did a pretty good job of patching you up, but— looking over you— he would have done better. It was his role, after all. His duty to you, or maybe just a reason to get close to you. He couldn’t do it today. Couldn’t touch you, no matter how noble the intention. And a little part of him was glad for the excuse; his hands always shake.

A blanket is half on your legs, half on the floor, and Sylus stoops to collect the edge of it. He draws it over your shoulder, adjusting it around your arms— at rest by your face. He’s close, now, and he…

He can’t help himself. When has he ever been able to help himself? He lifts his hand slowly; he wants to kiss you. Even though your blood is still drying on his shirt and it’s all his fault.

…

Someone’s hand is on your face.

The touch draws you back into consciousness, tender, careful, then suddenly sharp. “Ah,” you hiss. “Sylus?” Always first on your mind and your lips.

“Not even close,” quips the shadow above you.

“Kieran?”

“Bingo.”  

You use your hand to block some of the room’s light as you open your eyes— a birdlike silhouette taking shape through the gaps in your fingers. “Where’s Sylus?” you ask, teeth clenching as the twin applies a thin strip of surgical tape to a cut on your cheek. “Is he ok?”

“Sheesh, relax. He’s fine,” Kieran tuts, then seems to reconsider, “well…”

“He’s brooding,” chimes a voice from behind you. “Out on the balcony.” Luke.

You rub at your eyes, still drowsy with sleep. “Why’s he brooding? What did you do?”

“Told him he traumatised you,” they speak in unison.

“What?! Why would you say something like that?”

“Because it’s true,” Kieran shrugs. “That’s why you and boss couldn’t, you know…” He twinkles his fingers.

Resonate? Ugh. You slide your feet onto the floor, sitting up straight for a solid second before you bury your face in your hands, omitting a few, pained whines. This is such a mess, and it only got worse while you were asleep. First that stupid grenade, now the twins.

A hand pats at your back. “There, there,” Luke soothes.

You turn to glare at him. His hand retreats.

Forget it; you have to find Sylus.

…

You step out onto the balcony, head full of apologies you’ve had all of a minute to prepare, and it isn’t enough. It felt fitting, in the middle of a shootout— everything was allowed to be frantic and from the heart. Here it’s calm, and if you ruin something— break anything— it’s going to be obvious. There’s no other violence to blame.

Sylus must hear you join him, but he doesn’t turn. He’s leant forwards against the rail, one arm folded upon it, the other outstretched: sporting a glass of liquor that hangs from the tips of his fingers and that he swirls gently, his gaze far away.

The twins really weren’t kidding.

“Hey,” you greet, and it’s sort of pathetic, but you don’t know what else to say.

“Hey,” Sylus returns, “are you—” he looks back at you over his shoulder— “are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you smile warmly. “I mean, the twins are giving me a headache, but that’s, like, standard.”  

He smiles back: a courtesy. You’ve seen him grin through almost every type of pain imaginable, but this one is new. Think about what Luke and Kieran said. What he must be thinking. “Sylus, I—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he stops you, turning his body towards you. “Honestly, I’d… rather you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he chuckles, masking a deeper hurt as he lifts his glass to his lips. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

You are; you hold his gaze as he takes a deliberately slow sip of his drink. He smirks, surrenders at once and admits: “I’m really not that strong, sweetie. That’s why.”

“What if I want to explain?”

The smirk falters, and his eyes make their own, sad, silent confession. If you want to explain? He’ll let you. He’ll stand here, listening patiently while you call him a thing of nightmares. While you break him, bit by tortuous bit, by reminding him just how frightening he is.

He turns back to the view, shrugs, but none of the tension leaves his shoulders. “Go on, then.”

“Sylus?”

“Mmm?”

“You don’t scare me, you know.”

His hand tightens around his glass. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Pity me,” he grimaces. “I don’t need it. I know what I am. I’d just… forgotten what I was to you.”

Your captor. Your monster. Except that was a lifetime ago and he’s been so many more things to you since then. Tell him. “Sylus…”

“I felt it,” he snaps, because your voice is still so reluctant, and he’s going to save you the trouble. “When we tried to resonate, I felt it— your fear— just as deep as it used to be. I heard that same voice in your head, the one saying you wouldn’t let me in, couldn’t let me in, so don’t tell me I don’t scare you, sweetie.” The term of endearment tastes sour, you can tell. “I know how you feel. I know—”

“I like you, Sylus.”

“…What?”

You couldn’t take it anymore. “I like you,” you say again, and your heart is beating too quickly for eloquence, so you just have simplicity. “You don’t scare me at all, Sy. I care about you. A lot.”

Sylus stares at you, his eyes wide. There’s no confidence. No smile or drawn-out breath of relief. He sets his glass aside on the railing, gaze leaving yours for a moment, and you get the feeling he needs that moment as much as he needed the drink itself.

Then he looks at you again. Asks in a way that makes you ache: “do you mean it?”

Look at him. Your throat stings. “Of course I mean it.”

“Say it again.”

“I mean it, Sylus. I care about—”

His lips are on yours and the rest of your words are lost in his mouth. You, you say with the way you kiss him back, soft and slow, like you’re relishing something that might slip away. You, you insist— your hand finding his face, his hair, as he kisses you deeper, and you, you, you, when he doesn’t stop.

“Is this alright?” he murmurs, his fingers around your chin and his thumb tugging at your bottom lip.

“Mmm,” you confirm, equally breathless.

He laughs as he withdraws a little, still caressing your face like you’re something of a dream. “You’re not making this easy, kitten.”

“Worried you might traumatise me again?”    

It's a low blow. He scoffs. “Luke and Kieran said—”

“Luke and Kieran once bought arts-and-crafts feathers for Mephisto because they thought the colours would make him, and I quote: more aerodynamic.” You pinch his ear playfully. “I can’t believe you let them get to you.”

“I know,” he groans, lifting your hand so he can press chaste kisses along the line of your knuckles. “Not my finest moment.” He guides your palm to his cheek— leans into it as he leans into an idea. “They said you hated my eyes,” he pouts.

You can’t help giggling. He frowns. “I mean— aww, no,” you scramble, but you’re still laughing. You can’t stop. “Your eyes are… yeah. So pretty.”

“You had to think about it?”

“There were just too many adjectives, y’know? I was struggling to—”

He kisses you again, saving you: crushing your laughter with his own, lightheaded smile. His hand finds yours as his lips move against you, your fingers interlocking as you resonate— chasing an instinct, a need to be impossibly closer— and you let him see everything. Feel everything.

It’s a mad tangle of opposites. Heaven. Hell. Life. Death. You don’t know what any of it means, but it’s yours and it’s his and it doesn’t scare you half as much as it should. Sylus breaks your kiss. He pushes his forehead against your own with a sigh of contentment, and it doesn’t scare him, either.  

Savour each second. Think of some better adjectives, while you still have the time.

He’s going to earn every single one.

…

✨Epilogue✨

Inside, staring out through the floor-to-ceiling windows that separate the room from the balcony, Luke and Kieran stand, looking awfully smug.   

“Mission accomplished,” Kieran nods, flipping closed his notepad, aptly titled: 101 Ways To Get Boss Laid! (There are only, currently, fifty-two.)

Luke’s arms are folded. “We’re like, the best wingmen ever.”

Kieran is silent. He repeats carefully: “Wingmen. Wingmen.”

The beaks of the crow masks gradually turn to face one-another. There’s a mutual epiphany, and both twins almost fall over laughing.

[andcars]

# 𝗢𝗣𝟴𝟭 ─── I WANNA HEAR YOU MASTERLIST⠀REQUEST ME⠀TAGLIST⠀PATREON GUIDE⠀AO3

RACE WINNERS HAVE PRIVILEGES. those privileges don't always apply to their partners though. sometimes they have to earn things to get what they want. sometimes they're too fucking bratty to get anything ────── original prompt req.

PROMPTED DIALOGUE . . . # “You want me to beg? I don't think a winner should beg" PROMPTED TAGS . . . # gender neutral reader, submissive oscar piastri, praise kink, cum play ADD. TAGS . . . # light bondage, tied up, edging, mean reader for a bit, open ending WORD COUNT. . . # 1.1k

────── AO3 VERSION

Every Formula 1 win is special. You know that; the fact has settled in quite nicely when you’re dating such a great F1 driver. When Oscar wins for the first time, you know you need to make it special for him. Even if his team doesn’t think so.

Oscar is sat on the bed, hands bound tight with a red rope. The same rope follows from his hands to the rest of his limbs—forming a nice shape around his chest, wrapped around his hips and to his thighs. The rest is for pure aesthetics, and it's been done beautifully.

He's breathless as he's looking at you, cock red, and eyes glaring in need.

"Don't tease me," he grunts, more sounding like a whimper as he throws his head back.

Your hands act innocent as it's wrapped around the tearful cock—it leaks pre-cum with need. He lets out a silent moan as you play with him. Uncaring of how much pleasure you’re really relieving, you tease him as you believe he deserves.

“Fu-u-ucking~...” Oscar’s thighs shake in it's bounds. “Mmph... You're so annoying—"

"Am I?" you ask, smiling down at him. He tries so hard to fight it off but his hips are moving to your hand. Everytime he thrusts his hips, you loosen your grip. "Am I annoying, Oscar?"

"Yes," he hisses, "So annoying. I just want you- fuck."

"Then beg for it—" your hands tighten on his cock, a silent moan got his jaw to drop—"Beg for it, Oscar. I wanna hear you."

Weeks of edging him (and it's been weeks, you refuse to touch him if he doesn't score you a win again after Hungary) has his body moving feverishly. He can't stop shaking. His skin blushes red and dripping with sweat. Your boyfriend tries to keep himself still but you know all he wants is to fuck your hand.

Shaking his head, he says: "No. I w-won a race. Mmph... I don't need to beg."

Fine. "Have it your way."

You immediately pull away from him. His head flickers up to you, watching you as you stand from the bed. He's calling out to you but you're undressing yourself as you take something from the bedside drawer.

"Since my sweet boy doesn't want to co-operate, I guess I'll just have to make use of myself, hm?"

With your underwear thrown to the floor, you pull out some lube and a vibrator. You saw the moment his eyes cloud with lust; he gulped, stopping himself from drooling; his gaze fell to your sex as you position yourself on top of his face; his arms jerk in its restraints as it begged to touch you.

He calls out your name again. You ignore him. Instead, you pour lube on the toy and turn it on—the whirring of it silences Oscar. He watches as you press it against you, he watches as you moan softly at a toy pleasing you instead.

"I wanted to make you feel good tonight, baby," you say, grinding a little on the wand, "but you just don't wanna play with me."

"I do," he says, his bottom lip pouted. "Just... Don't wanna be teased anymore."

"I asked you to beg- fuck." You press it to you a little harder. He opens his mouth as he sees you drip a little. "You won't listen to me. So I guess I'll have to postpone my gift, hm? Make myself feel good instead."

Desire is etched into his expression. With his mouth agape, cheeks pink, and tongue eagerly awaiting for a single drop of your arousal, he's lost needing you.

But you keep your hands to yourself. He's forced to watch you relieve yourself. You know him. He's itching with the need to touch you. A safe word could be on the tip of his tongue but you know that this is the point where he wants to be good for you.

"Please," his voice is small and almost unheard through the loud vibrations. "I want... I want you again please."

You shake your head. "No, Oscar. You're gonna fucking watch me come all over your face before you get even anything."

He whines. "Please..! Just—If you let me go I'll be so good for you. Please..."

Though you want to hold him, use him, make him feel so special for his race win, you hold your promise. Lowering down to his face, he breathes you in and mouths just below your sex. He needs to put his mouth on you, you watch as it gets him so manic. It's getting a bit pathetic honestly.

"You look so good, baby," you say, finally giving your lost boy some attention. "I know that you can be good for me. Wait for me, okay?"

He whines. You tsk and shake your head. "None of that, baby. Be good for me and stick your tongue out—" he does immediately—"good boy. Good boy, Oscar. See? All you needed was... all you needed was to be shut up for a bit."

"I'm sorry, please, I want you so bad—"

"And you'll get me," you tell him. "Stay like that. I'm so fucking close. Stick your tongue out like a good boy and take me."

It's not long until you feel yourself approaching your end. Oscar lays so pliant beneath you. He keeps begging under his breath, just quiet enough to hope you're not listening. He knows when you're near. He's getting more twitchy—panting as if he's the one about to cum.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he moans at your words, "I'm gonna cum, baby. You wanna taste me? You wanna fucking taste it?"

He nods. He's getting dizzy as he tries to push his head up to get more of you—yet you keep pulling away. "Cum on me please," he begs, tongue out and anticipating the taste of you.

The sight drives you fucking mad. With a few strokes of the toy on you, you cum all over his awaiting mouth.

Oscar laps up your release eagerly. Your fingers go down to push some splattered cum from his cheeks and drag it down his lips. He thanks you silently as he licks your fingers. Eyes half open, he treasures your taste.

Your dirty fingers trail down his lips and to his chin. Your release makes a trail down and he's only showing you more of his skin. A laugh leaves you as he practically begs to be painted in your fluids.

"Such a good boy for me," you coo. "You wanna get your treat now?"

He's agreeing so quickly that it makes you wanna frame this moment. The moment when race winner Oscar Piastri is begging for you. You smile. "Okay, it's gonna be a long night, baby."

It's not like he would ask for anything more

🗒 𝗣𝗔𝗣𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗜𝗟 . . . short oscar piastri fic cuz i was out my entire bday LMAO. anyways, hope anon saw this cuz i </3 am sorry for all these late requests. my next fic is literally a request of a daniel fic during the singapore gp BEFORE it was announced he was leaving... so uh... yeah. mb. anyways, hope ya'll had fun w this cuz i literally edged ya'll too lmao ˎˊ˗ ᝰ. ──── 📨 @Delululeclerc @hiireadstuff @rtorresblog @Jamie2305

you support me best on tumblr with reblogs and comments ! ── by andcars ⟡

[molotoph]

I feel sick. This is fucking horrible and incredibly tone deaf… I really have sam the benefit of the doubt despite knowing he’s a nepo baby whose father worked for Bill Clinton. Afaik the two times dropout spoke out as a company were in regards to George Floyd’s murder and the rampant escalation of AAPI hate crimes following&during Covid. It’s “unsustainable” now?! He wants to “play a civilian” but he’s not just a civilian like us. He’s a CEO. D20 especially is explicitly anti fascist and dropout built a lot of its platform off providing a space where a diverse community of all those who would fight for a better world feel like we can have silly guy watch tv time and relax while still being seen in our media. People like stories and we’re people and we need stories.

I’m so… does he like not understand how much worse he made it sound. How much he didn’t bail the mods out of this by defending these actions? Your father was in the White House during the Clinton administration but the concept of the Balfour Accord and the history of a tightening noose that came after it is “too complicated” for you?! I’m an actual college dropout. I’ve been unemployed for years with philosophy skills nobody wants without running me through the higher education pay to play endurance gauntlet of college and grad school. It sure as shit ain’t too complicated for me to understand what fascism is, what it does, how to recognize it, and how to fight what mandatory participation in it our government rips from us. How we can’t just not pay taxes or stop working because we are not CEOs, we are civilians. How the term “civilian” is a fragile and flimsy agreement between the working class and the ruling class that could turn to devour us gleefully and brutally any moment it pleases, rendering us martyrs (dead) and terrorists (alive.)

Concern for Israelis? Concern for people in a colonial fascist empire waking up and realizing they have to fight knowing what ghouls do to their enemies and knowing it will NEVER be as barbaric for them as it is for Palestinians. I feel concern for my American comrades in a country that for the record to his father’s statements on voting, was already fascist, Robert, there is no freedom on the line to choose, there was just the caste stratified levels of protection from the full reality of being considered outside of whiteness completely, and even white people who choose to leave and who ally nearly without flaw KNOW they will never truly see the same hell. I do not feel more concerned for labeling someone pro-genocide and it making them think or confront themselves. I am not here to dispense moral purity certificates for other white and/or Jewish people in other imperial cores like me. I do not care. There is no time and that is not how we cultivate moving into direct action and in loving each other and caring about each other as human beings waking up.

Bugles is owned by General Mills, which as a corporation that handles the production of among other things chocolate, has been under investigation for child labor and slavery abuses against mankind, and has recently been sued by workers for its practices: “Cereal giant General Mills is facing a federal lawsuit filed by several of its Black employees who claim that one of the company’s plants in Georgia has “embraced a racially hostile work environment” controlled by “white supremacists.”

Race IS Bugles’ fucking business because they made it their business to be racist. Liberal corporate rainbow washing or black washing or green washing like Bo talks about is what consumers generally understand about these things, so it can look irrelevant and pandering when corporations try to virtue signal about issues they have no intention of addressing and the harm of which they directly contribute to, but from the business side it looks quite different. Sam’s on the business side.

Politics is everything when fascists make our lives and our existences and freedom explicitly forbidden by their praxes. When their praxes kill us on purpose and en masse. And nobody targeted by these forms of dehumanization wanted their life as a finite reality to be made someone else’s politics. They didn’t DO anything to cause fascists’ ire— other than establish their own humanity and the boundaries and rights of being human. There is no acceptable amount of humanity to destroy in order to make members of a death cult feel comfortable because they’re uncomfortable being human and nothing we do can ever make them feel comfortable while death spiral ideologies rule them.

Does Sam KNOW there are nazizio who watch dropout that would pull their funding? Why would he want their money? Does he think we or his staff or actors wouldn’t understand scaling back and grassroots fundraising for taking one of THE MOST BASIC STANDS POSSIBLE IN HUMAN HISTORY, AGAINST THE MOST DOCUMENTED GENOCIDE IN HUMAN HISTORY?

This is who my stupid tucchus gave the benefit of the doubt to?

Sam you work with people who are a lot smarter and a lot less liberalpilled than you are. Take the fucking hint that you don’t need to walk on eggshells about not wanting to be associated with genociders, and that delicate footing is more ominous of who you have let be in the crowd with us than anything else. We gathered here because of trust for our safety, because anarchist etc. storytelling spaces are sorely needed and hard to find and difficult to protect.

This isn’t like. A game. We aren’t kidding.

Free Palestine, Free Lebanon, Free Yemen, Free Congo, Free Sudan.

What the fuck.

@dropoutdottv ‘s newest episode of Dirty Laundry platforms Noah Grossman, a liberal Zionist who has shown public love of and endorsement of the isrotten terrorist and American imperial projects.

Proof and sources https://x.com/HorrorHijabi/status/1790749434822672600

[ladykailitha]

Around the World Part 7

I know I said that Nanny would be out this week, but I just finished this and am really wanting to get it out as soon as possible and that includes the epilogue.

But if I time it right, this series and Hellfire will end the same week and I'll be able to return to some kind of normal schedule instead of pumping these out on a fucking grinder.

That said, I probably won't do a Christmas story with the way things are right now. But we'll see the closer we get to the holiday.

In this we get the proper Jack the Ripper tour and the author has opinions, okay! Steve draws attention to himself at the Paris Opera house. Murray is a bit too knowing. And of course as @val-from-lawrence guessed, visited the Catacombs!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

~

They had done the Tower of London and St. Paul’s Cathedral during the day and got ready for the Bauman Experience as Murray called it. They all had a flashlight and went to go meet him where they had the night before.

They caught him dealing with some obnoxious tourists.

“Oh thank god!” the Karen cried. “An American. Could you please explain to this woman that we only have dollars to pay with. She has to take it!”

Murray blinked at her for a moment. “Well that is quite the cock up, you absolute muppet. Are you dead from the neck up? British pound sterling is the brass here, you silly cow!”

The woman’s head reared back in shock, clutching her chest. “I beg your pardon!”

“To make it perfectly clear,” Murray said leaning forward into her space. “You fucked up, you moron. Are you really that stupid? Dollars aren’t the currency here, the British pound is. Just like you can’t use the pound anywhere but here, you can’t use the dollar anywhere but America so why don’t you go to an ATM or bank and get it exchanged. Or and here’s the really neat part about living in the age of technology, use or credit or debit card and your bank does the conversion for you.”

When she started sputtering angrily, Murray waved her off. “Now, shoo! I’ve got actual paying customers waiting for me.”

Murray turned to the four of them with a smiled. “Well, hello! Welcome. Now that things are dark and therefore sufficiently spooky, let’s take you on a proper tour of Jack’s slaying grounds.”

He went through the different murders until he got to the double murders of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes.

“Now,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “Miss Stride is usually considered his third victim and that he was interrupted, moving on to Miss Eddowes. But I think Stride was a copycat. The person only knew the bodies were mutilated, but not how. So for me, I don’t count her in the confirmed kills.”

Robin nodded sagely. “I don’t either. There was far too little evidence to prove he had been frightened off, because otherwise Eddowes would have been more brutal than it was. He would have been angry he couldn’t finish with Stride. You would have expected her to look like what Mary Kelly’s body looked like, not cool and calm.”

Murray smiled up at her. He turned to Eddie. “I really like her. She’s clever.”

Robin blushed and ducked her head.

A short time later, just as they were wrapping up the Kelly murder, Murray stopped. He looked at a pair of older teenagers and then back at the group.

Chrissy picked up on it first. “You thinking what, I’m thinking, Mur?”

Murray turned to her and cocked his head to the side, considering. He nodded and Chrissy pursed her lips.

Steve caught on just as quick. “Eds, baby. I think those boys may have guessed who you are, love.”

Robin and Eddie shared a concerned glance.

“Fuck,” Eddie huffed. “I liked this jacket.”

Robin grabbed it from him and gave him her jacket. “Mine doesn’t look as fancy,” she explained pulling his jacket on. “Just like Boston, peeps!”

Murray tilted his head to the side and did a quick Google search. “Or... if you’d like, my car is literally around the corner.”

The four of them stopped swapping clothes and looked up at him.

“That’s easier,” Steve said. “Who’s all for easier?”

The other three raised their hands and they followed Murray to his car. Robin sat up front while Steve and Chrissy covered Eddie between them.

“Drop me off at the hotel,” Steve said, tapping on Murray’s shoulder. “I’ll check us out and then meet you at Shakespeare’s Head.”

Murray looked behind him and grinned. “Smart thinking.”

~

Eddie had changed into a trucker hat and a puffy hunting vest over sturdy blue jeans and thick work boots.

“Kids and their cameras these day,” Murray huffed, sliding a pint of beer over at Steve as he sat down between Robin and Chrissy. “So what’s the story with loverboy here?” he asked Eddie, cocking his head to indicate Steve.

“He’s not out,” Eddie said dryly. “His parents are complete assholes who could and would make things very difficult for him if he was.”

“Nothing says asshole parents,” Murray said with a nod, “quite like those that have the money to make you miserable.”

Steve snorted. “You’ve got that right. But I’m more than equipped to make it work.” He half shrugged. “I’ve been doing it for almost a year.”

Murray’s went wide and he gave an opened mouthed smile. “Have you really? I would have never guessed. Good job! ”

“How did you spot the kids, by the way?” Robin asked around her fruity cocktail.

“Oh,” Murray said, ducking his head a bit. “You’re walking around a small group of people at night in a bad area of London. Whitechapel isn’t as bad as it was in Jackie’s time, but it’s still not a good neighborhood. You have to keep an eye out for people, but especially older teens wishing to knock you over for a bit of loose change.”

Steve cleared his throat and ducked his head. “I am about to ask the most bougie question imaginable. And you can tell me to go to hell if I’m out of line here.”

Murray’s eyebrows went up and he leaned back in his chair. “Wha’cha got, kid?”

Steve licked his lower lip as he tried to word this in a way that wasn’t instantly offensive. “How entrenched are you in this job?”

“Not very,” he replied with a shrug. “I’m just moving through the world enjoying myself and taking jobs that would be fun. I’ve got more than enough money. Why?”

“We were talking in our group chat,” Chrissy explained taking over from a very embarrassed Steve, “and we thought we’d offer you a job as main look out and part time driver for when we’re in Europe. You really saved Eddie today and we could really use someone like you with us.”

Murray glared at her. “You sure I wouldn’t cramp your little foursome you’ve got going on here’s style?” He made a little circling motion with his hand to indicate all of them.

Robin shook her head. “It’ll make it harder for people to recognize a quartet if it suddenly became a quintet. Plus, we’d pay for your room and board. None of us are skint, believe you me.”

“We’ll be staying in haunted hotels, motels, and bed and breakfasts,” Eddie added. “But we won’t force you to join us. We can put you up in a nice place nearby and we join back up whenever we go out.”

Murray eyed them suspiciously until Steve slid over an envelope. He picked it up and pulled out a check. His eyes went wide. “That’s quite the pretty penny.”

“That’s half,” Robin huffed, crossing her arms and throwing herself against the back of the chair. “You’ll get the other half once we leave Europe for Asia.”

“All that for a month’s worth of driving you four around and making sure fans and paparazzi don’t find Eddie here?” Murray asked. “Have you gone crazy?”

Eddie shook his head. “We just want a romantic tour of the spooky places of Europe. I hate the thought Steve getting caught up in something just because I’m recognized everywhere I go and he isn’t.”

Murray licked his lips slowly as his eyes narrowed. “That’s not how that’s usually said.”

Steve frowned and tilted his head to the side. “What do you mean? How is what said?”

Robin put her hand on his elbow as he bristled slightly at his tone.

“Usually people will say ‘famous and they’re not’,” Murray said thoughtfully, “he said ‘recognized’. Meaning Stevie here is famous too, but not in a way people would recognize him on the street. What is a famous painter or some shit?”

She cocked her to the side and said dryly, “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”

Murray laughed. Just full on cackled. “Have I mentioned how much I like her? Because I really like her.”

Eddie leaned forward to put his elbows on the table. “So what do you say, Murray?” he asked tilting his head to the side. “You want to work for me again?”

Murray slipped the check into his coat pocket and stuck out his hand. “I think you’ve got yourself a deal.”

~

Their first stop on the Continent was Paris and the catacombs. Eddie was still trying to figure out how Robin did that one. It had been closed to the public for years.

Robin just smirked and said, “Well we aren’t the public.”

Steve was also sure they didn’t open it up to anyone who opened their wallet, either, but wisely stayed silent. Plus he was having fun watching Chrissy and Robin run circles around Murray in terms of sheer knowledge.

“Um...Stevie?” Eddie murmured so the trio couldn’t hear him. “Can I hold your hand? It’s getting a little creepy in here.”

Steve held out his hand, the one that had the little guitar on the inner wrist. Eddie looked down at the offered hand with a fond smile. He took the offered hand and their tattoos matched up. Eddie felt braver with every step knowing that Steve would always be there to hold his hand through the darkness.

Chrissy looked back at them and grinned at their clasped hands. She sped up her walk just a little, forcing Murray and Robin to speed up to match her pace, leaving the two love birds the privacy they so richly deserved.

Once they were out in the sunlight and among the city once again, Eddie refused to let go of Steve’s hand.

Steve looked at their joined hands and then back at Eddie. Eddie gave him his brightest smile and Steve was smitten. Even more so than before. He just loved him so much.

They toured the Paris Opera house and Eddie pulled out a cape and mask.

“Sing for me my angel of music!” he said to Chrissy.

She burst out laughing. “My name may be Christine, but I really don’t think they’d want me shattering the glass.”

Eddie turned to Robin who waved her arms in front of her. “No way! I sing like a frog in heat!”

“No.” Was all Murray said.

Steve raised an eyebrow and Eddie grinned.

“Sing!” Eddie crowed.

Steve took a deep breath and belted out that high note, held it perfectly and then took a bow.

Murray blinked and slow smile spread over his features. “You’re in one of those bands with the masks aren’t you? Like Sleep Token or The Fallen, huh? That’s Eddie here said recognized and not famous. Good on you.”

They all shared looks of concern.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Murray huffed, holding up his hands in surrender. “And I’m certainly not even going to try and guess which band it is.” He pulled out his phone and messed around on it for a while.

During which they all watched with ever increasing dread. The silence seemed to stretch out on and on.

Then Chrissy’s phone pinged. Everyone jumped as she scrambled for her phone. She opened it up and blinked a moment.

“You signed a blanket statement NDA?” she asked handing her phone to Robin. “Why?”

Murray licked his lips and crossed his arms over his chest. “Did it suck when Corroded Coffin pulled out of my management causing a shit ton of other people pulling out, too? Sure. But that’s the nature of the business. One that I had been in for over twenty years. I took it as a sign from the universe to retire and enjoy my life. Unlike the CC boys pulling out on Nancy Wheeler because she about to do some pretty shady shit. And I say that having been part of a business that used to be built on shady ass shit.”

Chrissy coughed and looked away to hide her smile.

“I’m guessing Steve’s band is why Corroded Coffin went nuclear on her in the first place?”

Steve looked over at Eddie and then nodded. “She was an ex-girlfriend and she tried to hold that over my head to get me to work with her.”

Murray let out a long and low whistle. “Shady doesn’t even begin to cover that shit. The void would be fucking closer. Shit.”

Robin handed back Chrissy her phone. “How did you get an NDA that fast anyway?”

“Oh that?” Murray asked with a huff of laughter. “I have a bunch of basic contracts and shit in my Google docs. Things can move fast in this business and it’s a good idea to keep a few on hand. Back in the old days we kept them in our briefcases that we carted around. This is sooo much easier.”

“Smart.”

Murray grinned back at her. He turned to Steve. “Come on, show us what that classical vocal training can really do.”

Steve blushed and began warming up his vocals as Robin grinned.

“You may think you’ve heard Steve sing,” she crowed, “but you’ve ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Then Steve really opened up and began to sing. There was a deepness to his voice that didn’t have anything to do with his range. He was clearly a tenor, but the rich quality to his voice just elevated it somehow.

“Rigoletto,” Murray said nodding appreciatively. “Well done.” He clapped slowly, but it wasn’t mocking. “Your parents must have been livid when you didn’t go into opera.”

Steve snorted. “About as angry as when they found out I was bisexual. They know what I am but if I go public with it...”

“They’ll make your life a nightmare?” he asked. Steve nodded. “I feel for you, kid.”

He looked around and grimaced. “I thick it’s time we make like Opera Ghost and scram. That performance of Steve’s here, is getting more attention than I thought it would.”

They looked around and sure enough there were people pointing at Steve.

“I’m not sure what the Venn diagram of opera and metal fans,” Chrissy said, “but I’m betting it’s not two separate circles.”

“Yeaahhh,” Eddie said with a wince.

He grabbed Steve’s hand and they ran for the doors. Murray and the girls hot on their heels.

~

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence

3- @goodolefashionedloverboi @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @irregular-child @blondie1006

4- @yikes-a-bee @bookworm0690 @anne-bennett-cosplayer @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten

5- @genderless-spoon @y4r3luv @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt

6- @disrespectedgoatman @dawners @thespaceantwhowrites @tinyplanet95 @garden-of-gay

7- @iamthehybrid @croatoan-like-its-hot @papergrenade @cryptid-system @counting-dollars-counting-stars

8- @ravenfrog @w1ll0wtr33 @child-of-cthulhu @kultiras @dreamercec

9- @machete-inventory-manager @useless-nb-bisexual @stripey82 @dotdot-wierdlife @kal-ology

10- @sadisticaltarts @urkadop @chameleonhair @clockworkballerina

[joelsdagger]

i’ve made and deleted this post quite a few times over the last couple of days. and at first, i wasn’t going to say anything because this doesn’t even cover what i wanted to say by even a little, but ultimately, seeing a few others make similar posts encouraged me, and i really just need to get this off my chest, and if it resonates with one person, then i’m happy. this is not coherent at all, but like many, my brain is mush, so forgive me, and here we go...

as a (closeted) queer palestinian american woman, a daughter to immigrant parents, living in a fairly conservative state, i’m fucking terrified. i don’t have faith my rights are protected here. i don’t have faith that my parents and my sisters will be safe every time they step out of the house (in true typical arab fashion; i am white passing, they are not). my family has been targeted and met with violence numerous times since october of last year, and it's only going to get worse. which brings me to my next point.

i also don’t have faith that the genocide in gaza (that has now expanded to south lebanon and syria) is coming to an end, an end where palestinians can live and thrive in their native land anytime soon. and seeing people turn on us — so fast, spewing hate in saying “fuck palestine”, “fuck boycotting” and “you don’t care about my rights, so i don’t care about yours,” is incredibly saddening, disappointing, and infuriating. my grief, anger, and anxiety are at their peak and have been at their peak for well over a year now. and i don't have the brain capacity to say what i really want to say about the hatred and misplaced anger being directed towards arabs, but for now i will say this: 

now is not the time to turn on one another. now is not the time for infighting within marginalized groups. now is not the time to be selfish. to care about yourselves and not others, makes you no better than them. that is why this country is so divisive in the first place. that is how we got here. having that mentality — that ideology is dangerous and destructive. you are doing the work for white supremacists. you are perpetuating white supremacy. and it isn’t going to serve any of us because essentially our struggles as oppressed groups are deeply interconnected. we need to look out for one another. take care of one another. it will get worse before it gets better. and we’re only at the tip of the iceberg.

the fight isn’t over; we’re just getting started. and i know you’re tired; i, for one, am at my breaking point. but we cannot let them win. so let yourself feel whatever it is you need to feel right now: grief, anger, sadness, hurt, whatever it is; it's all valid, and believe me, you are not alone. take the time to feel it. and then let it fuel you and your ambitions.

i also want to reiterate that this is a safe space for all. except anyone who believes trump is a good man and voted for that racist, fascist, rapist piece of shit. y’all can fuck right off. the rest of you: disabled people, chronically ill people, queer people, aro-ace people (i’m specifically pointing you out because i know how we're treated in queer spaces, and it is not fair nor is it right), trans people, women, people of color, sexual assault survivors — if you're reading this and you're unsure of your place, please stay. i need you. i care about you. this place and this world are better with you in it. you are welcome here. you are safe here.

i’ll be here for anyone who needs it, whether it’s to chat about silly little fandom things — it’s imperative we protect this space and continue to encourage the creation of art around here. it’s imperative we stop normalizing the censorship and policing of fandom spaces (because that's another reason how we got here). fandom spaces are communities, and very often they are the only spaces where people feel safe. for most (myself included), it’s all we have left — or whether you want to vent about how much you hate the state of the world — you'll always have a listening ear and a shoulder to lean on in this tiny little nook here. seriously. my inbox and dm's are always open. 

hold each other close. protect one another. the only way we’re going to get through this is if we stand together and continue putting in the work, because it’s times like this when the real work begins.

i’m sending you all so so much love. forever and always.

noelle xx

[galaxiasgreen]

⛅💗Nippy

Fluffy Ominis/F!Muggle-born!Reader [T-Rated, 1.5k]

He laughed, a rich sound, deep from his chest. You glanced sidelong at him then. The glow of the lamppost was cleaving shadows over his face, cutting at angles, accentuating what you'd never noticed about him before – his beauty. Sebastian was boyish good looks, round cheeks, a devilish smile. Ominis had none of that same charm, but there was something so divine about his features, his sloped nose and knife-sharp lips, hair combed back in golden-brown waves. And his eyes, despite not seeing, were... intense, unforgettable. Vivid.

It's cold on the way back from Hogsmeade, and you forgot your jumper.

A/N: This is a scene from Troublesome and Unladylike Chapter 2, but it’s edited to work standalone. Jumper-sharing trope, Oh No He's Hot, banter and fluff ahoy. Reader is Gibby, but no prior reading is required. Enjoy <3

[read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

It was during third year that something about Ominis changed for you.

It wasn't a particularly warm day that March weekend, so it was a mistake on your part to go to Hogsmeade with him and Sebastian, late that Sunday without a proper cardigan. The afternoon had deceived you, the sun whispering against your skin, and by the time you'd bought everything but your usual stash of sweets, a swathe of clouds had rolled in, a grey ribbon across the sky.

"What do you mean, the essay was twenty inches?" Sebastian crossed his arms. "You're pranking me."

"It was twenty, Sebastian," said Ominis, exasperated. "I told you it was twenty."

You nudged your head towards Honeydukes. "Okay! Just to replenish my midnight snacks—"

"You said it was ten!"

"I specifically remember saying add another ten."

Sebastian said a word you could not repeat. "It's due first thing in the morning. Blast it. I better go back. Can I take a look at yours?"

"So you can copy it? I don't think so."

"I wouldn't copy it. Just... take inspiration from it. Verbatim."

He made the approximation of a glare, and Sebastian, wincing, turned to you with a desperate gleam in his eye.

"Gibby? Please?"

"Sure!" you chirruped. "But only if you're okay with a mediocre-to-dreadful Potions score!"

Sebastian threw up his arms in exasperation. "You two, honestly. I'll ask Anne."

When he hurried off, back to the carriages, Ominis snorted. "You're very secure in your mediocrity."

"It's one of my best traits."

To that he laughed. "Very well then. Honeydukes?"

By the time you came back out, armed to the teeth in your weekly supply of cherry pops, Fizzing Whizzbees and rock, the sun had dipped below the horizon, and a sharp wind sliced through the village. It only exacerbated by the time you stepped out of Hogsmeade.

Where there were no carriages.

"Fiddlesticks," you muttered. "We must have missed the last one."

His lips buttoned in displeasure. "Makes sense. You took a profoundly longtime deciding between cauldron cakes and pumpkin pasties."

"It's a hard choice to make."

"Well, now we're going to have a hard walk."

About an hour, down the meandering path back to Hogwarts. Ominis gathered his belongings and headed off, wand drawn for navigation, and you scrambled to catch up.

As the chill deepened, the canopy snuffing the coming rays of the moon, you kept close to his side, aware of his warmth.

"Are you mad at me?"

"Why would I be mad at you?"

"For taking so long in Honeydukes."

He scoffed, not seeming particularly annoyed, albeit a little inconvenienced. "I know you well enough now to know you cannot be rushed in there. And I could've left you if I wanted. I just decided not to because I am a good person."

"My papa says if you have to tell people you're a good person, then you're not a good person." Teasing filled your voice. "I guess that makes you really quite terrible."

"Oh, yes, waiting for you. How rotten."

"Suppose I could give you the Good Person award. You just have to admit how amazing I am."

"Only a Good Person can bestow the Good Person Award, so I'm afraid you don't qualify."

"I take offence to that. I'm spectacular."

"Incredible how you manage to be simultaneously spectacular and mediocre."

"Hey!"

He laughed, a rich sound, deep from his chest. You glanced sidelong at him then. The glow of the lamppost was cleaving shadows over his face, cutting at angles, accentuating what you'd never noticed about him before – his beauty. Sebastian was boyish good looks, round cheeks, a devilish smile. Ominis had none of that same charm, but there was something so divine about his features, his sloped nose and knife-sharp lips, hair combed back in golden-brown waves. And his eyes, despite not seeing, were... intense, unforgettable. Vivid.

Your gaze unwittingly travelled down the column of his neck. He'd grown taller since you'd known him too, lean in the way a river meanders, lazy in its strength. Sturdy biceps were hidden within woollen sleeves – not muscular, but not flimsy, either, you knew from when Sebastian cast a Shrinking charm on his shirt once. The Gaunt family were all inbred, generations of parents and grandparents that were cousins, so Ominis was a product of centuries of incest – but aside from his eye condition, and his somewhat ropey gait, there were no physical indicators of poor health.

He was... arrestingly exquisite.

Oh. You blinked. Why am I thinking that?

"What's the matter?" he asked suddenly.

You flushed. "Hmm? What? What do you mean?"

"You're quiet. That's never good."

"I— can be quiet," you said, a little breathless. "I'm... thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself."

You swatted him, and he smiled lightly.

"Dare I ask what occupies your mind?"

How good-looking you are. "Sweets."

A tsk. "I don't know what else I expected."

You fell into companionable silence, but now something had shifted in your stomach – something that drew your eye back to his profile again, drinking in the details, the beauty marks, the even jaw, finely slashed, the quirk of his smile—

You stumbled suddenly, toe hitting a jutting rock. You flailed your arms, bags rattling, before you managed to right yourself – and noticed how he'd reached out, ready to catch you if you fell. Ever the gentleman.

"Careful," he warned.

"Yes, sorry, too busy staring at— the view."

The view being you. You forced yourself to watch your feet, frustrated. Stop staring. It was terribly perverse to take advantage of him when he couldn't see, not to mention impolite and very unbecoming of a lady.

"You're quiet again."

"Sorry, sorry," you said automatically. You hoisted your bags to wrap your arms around yourself. "Just— trying to stay warm."

"You're cold?"

"It's a little nippy."

"Nippy?"

"Sorry, Muggle thing— I mean chilly."

More than that now. The sun had dipped, leaving a paint stroke of indigo in its wake. Hogwarts was in view, but it seemed no closer, the path winding and long. You hadn't even passed the balcony yet, where all the older students hung around to do lewd things... like holding hands (that had been quite the shock when you first got here).

Ominis sighed. "You should've brought a jumper."

"I know. I'm silly."

"Tell me something I don't know."

You halted to put your bags down and pull your shirt sleeves over your hands. "I'll be okay. I'll jog it!"

A ruffle of fabric pulled your head back up. Ominis had pocketed his wand, sticking out of his trouser leg, and was shucking his jumper. The shirt beneath it caught, flashing his midriff when he pulled the wool off – you flushed an even deeper colour when he offered it to you.

"W-What are you doing?"

"It's cold," he said, like it was obvious. "You can borrow this."

"But— then you'll get cold."

"I'll be fine." He shook it again. "Take it before I change my mind."

The wool was coarse, a dark green with the Slytherin insignia emblazoned on the breast, but warm – warm from his body. Great Scott. You scrunched it before sliding it over yourself, and of course it was too big, drowning you, but it was the scent that disorientated you worse than a Confundus charm. Ominis never bothered to use cologne, preferring some scentless soap, but still it smelt of him. Sweat and wood and an oily lotion. When you finally pulled your arms through the sleeves and your head through the neck hole, glasses askew, you were dizzy with it.

Lord have mercy. Your gaze flickered to him – he'd picked up your bags of sweets with one arm. One well-defined arm.

"Let's go."

You could barely swallow. What on earth is wrong with me? But your heart was pounding, your ears ringing. He turned away to go, but he was also surrounding you, invading your thoughts with zero intention to leave.

If you were a Muggle, your mama would've thought to bring you to church with an agenda by now, introducing you to boys of similar age in hopes that later in life you'd find a match, marry, and start a family. When you were younger, the local baker's son Timothy liked to joke you could marry each other, an easy escape from the societal obligation to court. You'd agreed as all children do, appalled at the idea of parading around to search for a husband.

Magical folk didn't follow those same customs – strange as it was to adjust – but that didn't mean you didn't think about the future, about marriage. That, one day you might like to have a family. That it would be nice to marry someone of your choosing, someone both handsome and kind.

Someone like Ominis Gaunt.

Oh no, no, no, you thought. Please do not take a fancy to your best friend.

But by then, it was too late.

"Thank—" your voice came out as a croak, and you tried again. "Thank you for this."

He slowed about two strides away. "Bring a jumper next time."

"I will."

"Mean it."

"I do mean it!"

He smiled again, and your heart bounced. "We'll see."

Please reblog/ share if you enjoyed <3

[read Troublesome and Unladylike on AO3, Wattpad] [Divider credit]

[sky4cherry]

hi #1 bob sheldon defender

can you pretty please elaborate on what you think bob’s relationships with the other socs are ?

ok sooo sorry this took me so long but i am so incredibly ill and my brain is not doing its job 🙂‍↔️

putting this under ‘read more’ because this turned out long

bob and paul: they’re obviously really close!! i hc them both as being only children, which bob feels kinda different for since he’s grown up with chet and brill who both have 2 siblings each, and trip who has a brother. they definitely view each other as brothers, hence why paul was quite as fucked up as he was when bob died (also like to be fair he did watch it happen so there’s that too)

bob and cherry: guys they are so important to me,,, girlboss gf and girlfailure bf… obviously they are head over heels for each other, and cherry’s the only one bob is really vulnerable around, which makes it all that much harder when he’s been drinking. they both want to help each other get through the bad times, but they both know that it’s inevitable that bob’s going to get caught up in the social divide :( they are so important to me :( bob who doesn’t know how to comfort cherry about her parents arguing but really wants to try

bob and marcia: the idea of bob being very wary around marcia because he’s scared she’ll spread slander about him is so funny to me because she is only 3 apples tall!! you’re telling me you’re scared of her when she’s 3 apples tall and riddled with anxiety?? they’re close because they’re the two who are closest with cherry, so they spend a lot of time together, but bro is quaking in his boots because he’s so scared she’ll put the embarrassing shit she knows about him to use

bob and trip: dyslexic bob sheldon who claims he just ‘doesn’t get it’ when he struggles with homework, and trip who helps him out without making any jokes at bob’s expense. trip (in my head) presents as quite stoic on the outside even though he’s secretly silly, while bob is more outwardly silly, so they balance each other out. trip who knows the best out of all the guys that the fighting is worthless, but knows exactly why bob does it. and bob who knows trip doesn’t fully support the fighting, but encourages him to join in so trip can control something. they’re not the absolute closest of the bunch, but they are very important to me!!

bob and chet: bob sheldon who wreaks havoc on his parents to try and get them to parent him better, but he takes things far more seriously when chet is the one being ignored by his parents. bob who doesn’t let chet go a night sleeping at his own home unless it’s by choice, so he always fixes up the couch for him in case chet lets himself in while bob’s asleep. they’re close. they’re so similar in the way they’re treated by their families, and how they choose to cope with that treatment. i don’t think i can actually put into words how important they are to meee!!!

bob and bev: oh you thought he was scared of marcia? beverly jitney-bush is no man’s peace. they’re close in the way they argue a ton but it doesn’t change their dynamic at all! with bev constantly at brill’s, and brill living 2 doors down from bob, they spend a lot of time together! bob’s probably the most headstrong guy, while bev’s the most headstrong girl, so they’re both close and at constant odds with each other. i think they argue because they’re similar, but they know they understand each other well enough to know when they’re going too far.

bob and brill: childhood best friends type shit!! they’ve known each other since they were little kids, and brill’s always balanced bob out really well. when bob’s letting his emotions guide him, brill’s there to help him regulate himself. they’re pretty big opposites from each other, but it’s something that really comes in handy when one gets in a situation he’s not exactly equipped for, because the other will always come to his aid. all the more tragic considering bob and brill make direct eye contact when bob gets stabbed

[mooonage-daydreamer]

hey guys! this is my first ever micro-fic for the marauders! i hope it’s ok xx

marauders playing monopoly- 705 words - hope u enjoy!

It was already 11 p.m; how is it possible for a monopoly game to last this long? Remus thought to himself. Mary had fallen asleep on Lily’s shoulder, Remus was reading his book, and James looked as though he was on the verge of tears; it was just Sirius and Marlene shouting at each other. Remus was certain no one had any idea what they were arguing over at this point, but none of them really cared; they all wanted the game to just finish already. Finally, the arguing died down, but then Lily nudged him to draw his attention from his book and let him know it was his turn. Why did he agree to ever play in the first place?

“Remind me to never play monopoly with Sirius and Marlene again," he asked Lily. She looked just as fed up as he was and sighed in agreement. He took his turn, and unfortunately, he landed on Sirius’ property.

“HA!” Sirius exclaimed, “That will be 200 quid, thank you very much, my dear Moony!”

“I’ve ran out of money," replied Remus. He hadn’t really; he just didn’t have the energy to play anymore.

“WHAT!” replied Sirius angrily. “THEN HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GET PAYED?"

“Padfoot! Calm down!” James said.

“BUT HE NEEDS TO PAY ME! HE LANDED ON MY PROPERTY, SO HE MUST PAY ME! THATS HOW THE GAME WORKS!” argued Sirius.

“That wasn’t the rule five minutes ago when you landed on my property," Marlene retorted quietly.

“Look,” James replied, “why don’t we just call it quits for tonight? We’re all tired, and we want to go to bed.”

Everyone nodded their heads in agreement except Sirius and Marlene, of course.

“THATS NOT FAIR THOUGH!” they shouted in unison. They glanced at each other, then back at James.

“If you two are so desperate to win,” interrupted Remus, “why don’t you two just carry on?”

For the first time in that long evening, everyone agreed, even Sirius and Marlene.

“Fine.” Marlene said while glaring at Sirius.

They all knew it was a bad idea to leave the two most competitive people alone while playing a board game, but they were all too tired to care. Peter, James, Remus, Lily, and Mary all headed upstairs to go to bed, but only minutes later they heard more shouting.

"NO, YOU DONT DESERVE MY MONEY!” screamed Marlene.

"THAT IS NOT HOW THE GAME WORKS!” screeched Sirius.

"WELL, THE RULES ARE ABSOLUTE BULLSHIT! WHY SHOULD I GIVE MY HARD-EARNED MONEY TO A CRIMINAL?” Marlene shrieked.

“ITS NOT MY FAULT IM IN JAIL!” yelled Sirius.

“Ok, rock, paper, scissor, who goes down to sort this out as they clearly can’t sort it out themselves?" suggested Remus.

“Good idea,” Lily responded, “rock, paper, scissors shoot!”

“For fuck sake,” Remus complained, “it was my idea; why do I have to do it?"

“Remus, please,” Peter said, “we don’t give a shit what you do, just sort it.”

"Ugh, fine,” he replied. So Remus made his way down the stairs, but just as soon as he reached the bottom, Sirius bombarded him with questions.

“MOONY! "DON'T YOU AGREE WITH ME?" he asked. “RULES ARE RULES RIGHT?”

Remus just ignored him and slowly started walking over to the monopoly board. Once he reached the board, he looked them both in the eye and just flipped the board upside down. “There”, he thought, the game was finished.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Sirius and Marlene screamed at him.

Ignoring them, Remus began making his way back up the stairs to join the others. Peter looked at him with genuine fear in his face. “Moony, what have you done?" he asked.

“We all wanted the game to end, right?” he said. There were murmurs of agreement.

“So I just did the simplest thing and flipped the board over.”

"Oh, Moony, mate, you’re absolutely fucked.”

James told him.

“I mean, someone had to do it,” Mary responded while yawning. “Does this mean we can go to bed now?”

“Yes,” Lily said almost immediately, “come on.”

It was almost 1 a.m. when the screaming finally died down. Remus assumed they had fallen asleep while arguing. ‘I’m chucking that board game out when I wake up tomorrow’, Remus thought to himself

[allisonreader]

💬

Okay, so a little bit of backstory leading into this. This is part of a piece I wrote for Lost in the Past; which was previously the AU I was calling Tales Of A Frozen Sailor: Jessica's Rescue. I was having trouble writing the main part of the story, so I went to get a different POV of what happened at a different time. I just recently reread it and realized how happy I was with it. It’s a bit long, but hopefully worth it.

🌸🌺🌹

She had to admit to herself that she was feeling old and like she wasn’t going to spring back from this loss well.

If only George were still around for her to lean on.

She found herself wandering over to her dresser vanity mirror. She had it covered with pictures of her family throughout the years. There were pictures of her, Emery and George sitting on the back steps of the house, Emery couldn’t be more than seven in it. A time when he still let others call him Emery instead of Erik, his middle name. She had a picture of Edward and Emery together at Emery's high school graduation. Edward looking so proud of his son.

There were older pictures too. Like the first time she and George got to hold their grandchildren. She had pictures of Edward growing up and baby pictures of him.

She even had a black and white picture of her wedding day to George. And right behind that wedding picture was an old envelope. One that had been given to her on said wedding day.

She had forgotten all about it when Emery had gone missing.

Tears filled her eyes as she took the envelope back to her bed. "Not To Be Opened Until After April 15 2011" It had always struck her as an odd thing that George's family friend had given them such a mysterious; what she assumed, was a letter. But neither she nor George had opened it. After George had passed, Emery decided that he would read it with her when the time had come. Which would have happened after he had gotten back from his trip on the ship.

How odd it was- that it was labeled to be read for the day they learned that Emery had gone missing, presumably by going overboard. She carefully opened the letter to read it. It went…

Dear Margaret,

Thank you for waiting for so long to read this letter. And if you’ve tried peeking, I’m afraid most of this letter won’t make much sense, not until after the read after date anyways.

Once that date has passed, this letter just might solve a mystery about what happened to your grandson.

An odd thing for a letter given to you on your wedding day to mention. As you do not even have a child yet. But you will, a son who will be middle aged if you’ve waited to read this.

Nanna, I am your grandson Emery Erik Piston. By the time you read this, I’ll have been gone for however many years. But let me start from the beginning.

It’s funny to think about how we had been talking about reading this letter together after I went to that wedding, while I’m the one who has written it.

Nanna, at the reception of that wedding, I went out onto the deck for fresh air and fell overboard somehow. The next thing I knew I was in cold water and trying not to breathe. After floundering to the surface, I found myself in a corridor of what I soon found out was the Titanic.

I was able to rescue Jessica Hudson from the room she was locked in.

If I didn’t fall overboard, she would have drowned in that room. Her letter would have been her final words.

I am so grateful that I no longer have it memorized.

Only the "Dear Ruth, I am about to die," remains. If that’s even accurate or not.

There’s so much I want to share with you Nanna, it wouldn’t all fit in a single letter. Not to mention that I would never remember everything that I would want to tell you.

Thankfully, I happened to gain a wonderful adoptive mom in this time and she suggested right at the beginning that I keep journals of everything that I want to tell you. Which I have done over the years so far. I don’t think mom or Alexa would appreciate or believe it.

There’s times yet I don’t quite believe it. And I’ve lived in a time not chronologically my own, longer than I did live chronologically.

My family will keep those journals for you as long as needed.

I hope that once you get those journals that they’ll give you and dad a bit of peace. I have lived a happy, successful and full life. Not as short as you may have thought.

I got married, had kids and have seen granddad fall in love with you. Which has lead to me getting the chance to see the two of you get married. I still get to be part of your life, even if you won’t be aware of it until reading this.

Love you Nanna

Love your Emery Erik

Emery Erik Piston-Winters

She was having trouble processing what the letter said. It didn’t seem real. But how could it be a hoax? She was given the letter in person. Handed directly to her, years before anyone could know what happened to her grandson.

Those journals would tell her the truth. She’d be able to tell if they were real upon reading them.

[james-spooky]

this is a test

[chiropteracupola]

or a different palette ask: cowboyce alan and davie in ‘lobotomy’?

I traveled through October, the mountains and the plains / Hoping that the losses won't outweigh the gains...

[paleangels13]

Helloo, I still exist did anyone even notice I was mostly gone lol

Anyone interested in ehhh...slightly unhinged work-related talk?

No?

Well. Too bad

Anyone that knows me irl please ignore the tags – I'm embarrassed ✨🥰

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

randomly thinking about when they discharged me from the ward back in October. why did they discharge someone who their own records said was at moderate risk of suicide? I could have died. I don't really know how I got through that time, in truth. with the level of risk they assessed me as, why would you discharge someone??

[fragglerockopinions]

The worst thing about suffering is that it still hurts when the danger is over but no one cares about it anymore because it shouldn't hurt. No one will ever say "I'm sorry that happened to you" especially when they barely say "I'm sorry that's happening."

[andallthatmishigas]

@whatsabriard Kris, this is for you, my friend.  I finally finished the thing I started after being legit traumatized by their house burning down in the first movie.  So we fixed it.  It’s fixed.  May this be a comforting warm blanket to you like it is for me.

[captainsweet]

This is just going to be me ranting about something that particularly annoys me, so don't take it too seriously, but it drives me up a metaphorical wall.

But, the thing is, I just finished reading some new parts of a Rise fic I really liked, it was funny, and a good story sure, until I saw the word 'twin' be thrown around about five times in one chapter.

I honestly thought I was exaggerating, so I continued, and the word 'twin' just kept on appearing. So I just decided to count how many times it comes up just to see if I was being crazy, y'know?

In the course of a couple of chapters, the word, 'twin' is thrown around 64 different times. Not accounting for any notes, tags, or the latest chapter they posted since it wasn't an official one.

To make this clearer, the word twin, referring to Rise Donnie and Leo specifically, was mentioned 64 different times. One chapter holding 13 mentions of them being twins alone.

Now, I don't know why in the world it needed to be mentioned 64 different times, but hey, it's none of my business. And I really wouldn't be bothered if being twins wasn't their one specific trait, especially around each other.

And it only gets worse in the new chapters. Everytime they mention each other it's like they are incapable of not calling the other their twin, and.. this thing annoys me to my goddamn core.

It doesn't matter, I know that, but it's so annoying to see people make Donnie and Leo being twins their one special thing even though they're not even twins in the dang show. Normally that wouldn't bother me, and it doesn't, but for you to reduce a character to a trait they canonically don't even have is just bizarre.

I'm not gonna mention the writer, and I hate criticizing writers or artists like this in general, but it's so unbelievably mind numbing to see Donnie and Leo get reduced to being twins over and over again as if it actually matters? All it is, is the day they were born. That's it! That's all, yet so many people are obsessed with making it an important factor?

They are so much more than just twins, and have so much more to them than a couple of traits in the show. Yet so many people just, ignore that? Especially in some fics?

Not to mention in the particular story, Raph and Mikey hardly ever appear unless it's for the same couple of jokes, and just leaves me longing for more development on them but nope! Gotta shove some more twin content in there!

I have absolutely no problem with people liking the Disaster Twins, and making stories centered around them, but they are so much more than just twins, and so much more than their relationship with each other. They have other family members too, acknowledge them.

This is not only with this particular author, this has happened multiple times and it's just plain annoying. If you like Leo and Donnie more, just say that. There's no reason you should add their brothers in, and then just discard them to the point they don't even seem like they are siblings anymore. They're just close friends at that point, and it's just angering for me.

I don't see it all that much anymore, but so many people still make Leo and Donnie being 'twins' in Rise this big thing when they aren't even twins, and probably wouldn't mention the fact they are if they weren't explaining their ages because it literally means nothing in the end. They're just brothers that happened to be born on the same day, that's it.

I'm not a twin myself, so I obviously can't speak for actual twins, but even the twins I've known personally hardly mentioned the fact they were twins other than to make a couple of jokes here and then. In no world should them being twins be so important to you that it's mentioned 64 different times. That's just insane.

It is different than simply having a sibling, I get that. Being twins is definitely different in a way, and comes with different experiences, but it should never be that important to the point they mention it 13 TIMES IN ONE CHAPTER.

Skipping past the slightly serious part, 64 different times?? Would they, like, forget if they didn't say it? Fr 13 times in one conversation? I don't think I've even done that with my proclaimed Twin before, because that's, that's just crazy.