#Twenty-Eight

[dlthedescent]

TWENTY-EIGHT: BIRDS OF A FEATHER

“Please help us!” the jumping survivor hollered.

A moment ago, he was at his lowest. And when his friend spotted smoke in the distance, streaming away, he thought he was pulling his leg.

No one used the tracks anymore, not since the city fell and the virus spread into the Border. 

But the noises of a train grew louder. And for a second, he almost couldn’t believe what he saw—a moving train. In all of this chaos.

Meaning survivors.

A chance!

So they both darted to the tracks. He frantically bounced up and down, praying for the driver to see them. Please, stop the train! 

At first, he thought they didn’t. That they would ignore them. Then out of the front cab bolted a brunette in a flashy red jacket. And after her, a hooded guy as the train behind them slowed to a crawl.

Thank goodness! There really were people!

And yet, the problem swarming after them. All because he yelled as loud as he could.

Flicking his gaze sideways, his eyes back to his friend fighting off a Biter.

Anyone would know: any loud noise would attract the Virals. One was already closing in, sprinting full tilt toward them, its ragged shrieks cutting through the air.

The other survivor still had his blade in the infected’s chest, shoving its corpse away.

He didn’t have enough time to react to the next walker.

“Atlas!” 

Whack!

Like a broken marionette, the Viral toppled down to the ground before it reached the two survivors.

Jack stepped in—a quick pivot, a firm stance—swung her weapon and cracked open its skull like a watermelon. She planted herself as the survivors’ shield for the next infected lunging from the left.

A blur shot at the charging Biter.

Crane sank his taloned into its skull. A sickening crunch into dirt, then he twisted its head with inhuman ease. He tossed the body aside and turned, already scanning for the next threat.

Broad daylight, and outside one of densest areas of the Border? The common stragglers came hounding after the humans.

And yet, something was off. Two, three Biters could turn into a horde—not even Jack would linger too long, forced to go high ground or somewhere safe before it got too overwhelming. She had expected more Biters to come stumbling from the bushes and the faraway alleys.

A few Virals in the back skidded to a stop, angry. Snarling. Before they slunk back into the shadows.

Strange behavior. Was something holding them back? 

Or was it because of Freakazoid with how intense his glare had been towards them?

It hadn’t been the first time those uncommon infected showed hostility toward one another, like animals guarding their territory against a bigger threat.

She’d count it a blessing as she hammered at another persistent Biter. One by one, each taken down by the survivor with his knife, Jack and Crane until the handful of Biters lay motionless at their feet.

“Everyone in one piece?” Jack turned to the two survivors, already shifting gears into taking control of the situation.

“Yeah,” the survivor with the knife said, catching his breath. 

His friend stumbled forward, the panic and hope still evident in his eyes. “Please. You have to help us!”

“Tell us what happened,” Jack said softly. Her presence as always, calm and ironclad.

“It’s Rais’ men.”

The answer was almost expected. In the middle of an outbreak, there would be one out of three main problems: the walkers, bandits or on a rare day, GRE. So to Jack, it was another day for the unfortunate. Like at the Outskirts, and in Scanderoon.

Nothing new but nothing good either.

Jack glanced at her partner. Just as he had a disdain at the banner from earlier, he gave that same expression when hearing the name like a curse he couldn't shake off.

“They’ve taken our safe zone. Doing whatever they want and taking supplies.”

“The usual,” Freakazoid spat. 

The survivor nodded, recognizing the hardened certainty in the hooded man’s tone—he had crossed paths with those bandits before. “Ever since their leader bit the dust, they’ve gotten worse than before. Like animals.”

“Survival of the fittest,” Jack pointed, the old saying holding so true in times like this.

“How long ago?” Freakazoid then quickly asked, all prepared to jump into his heroics.

“Thirty minutes ago,” the survivor answered. “If it weren’t for Atlas here, we wouldn’t have been able to sneak out.”

“Saw your smoke from afar,” the other survivor, Atlas, explained. “Figured we could get help.”

“Where’s your safe zone?” Jack added the next question.

“The Night Market. Please, you have to bring backup and stop those bandits,” Atlas’ friend begged.

Jack smiled. “You already have it.”

“Wha-” He looked at her, baffled. Then at her partner. “You’re not planning to fight them off by yourselves?”

“Keep an eye out on our train, would you, hons?”

Jack wheeled on her heel, off to the direction of the Night Market—she remembered visiting it once long before the outbreak. Several blocks in, meaning they’d have to cut through the infected to make their way there.

Crane’s footsteps matched Jack’s as he followed her without hesitation. No questions, no second thoughts.

It was back onto the saddle, something he had fully prepared since returning back to Harran. He had already enough experience dealing with the likes of them in the Slums. Same with Alexander’s men in Scanderoon.

He wasn’t about to let any thug run rampant like always. 

The survivor stared, wide-eyed, at the two Runners. The very place they had escaped with their lives to find help, and they were going into danger without a second thought!

Those were bandits!

He wanted to call them back—they were going to get themselves killed!—but Atlas stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and a knowing look.

Those two Runners had a job to do, and they were going to see it through.

His friend swallowed hard, reluctantly watching their saviors shrink into the distance.

All they could do was hope. As he had been hoping since the start.

The Night Market had seen better days.

Ever since Harran fell into quarantine, life in the Border’s zones had teetered on the edge of chaos and collapse. Then the virus seeped out of the Slums’ cracks months ago.

Like every other ward and district, they became homes for the infected.

The market was a hush of its former self, and yet ironically still clung to life. Its streets and bricked paths used to have a lively buzz of voices and bartering, stalls brimmed with food and goods.

Now, only silence and tension filled the once-thriving marketplace.

The iron-wrought fence barricading the Night Market had been the residents’ main barricade since the early days of the outbreak. Then reinforced it with more defenses to call it their Safe Zone. Their home.

Who would have expected it would end up trapping them the moment the bandits forced their way in?

“Quit wasting my time.”

One old resident could do nothing but compel—head down, held by the collar, as he was shoved into the same huddle in the far back as the others. A hit to the eye, because he helped those two young men escape.

“What are we going to do about those escapees?” 

“Those freaks will eat them anyway.”

There was a time when the focus was on the infected. Then a time when bandits, scavengers and power-hungry deserters became a second problem. Then that problem escalated in the form of yellow and black. 

These bandits were everywhere now.

“There’s still that smoke we saw.”

“Who cares. C’mon. Take everything you can carry.”

“There’s nothing else, Kasper,” one of the bandits snapped back. “This place is as bare bone as the rest of the district.”

Kasper, the one taking lead on this ragtag band, grimaced. No, they couldn’t be that short of supplies.

Things hadn’t been the same since the Slums. Several groups had been out raiding, then they returned to the Headquarters to find most of everyone dead. One thing led to another—they made their way into the Border in the recent weeks since.

They had to keep going. Adapting. Surviving.

That had been the change in their philosophy. It was like starting all over again in the early days of the pandemic.

And the days of easy pickings were long gone. Every place they hit was either already picked clean or too dangerous to bother with. Same with this recent raid.

What everyone had gathered so far wouldn’t last them for two weeks.

“Where the hell is Grim at?” he then asked.

“We don’t know. Guy’s already a lost cause, isn’t he?” one of the rookies scoffed.

It didn’t help that their number was shrinking, despite their cautious vigilance. Every other day or so, they’d lose one to a Viral or Volatile. And even if they could survive an encounter, a bite would doom them. There hadn’t been Antizin for months.

They were all too scattered for any form of structure.

Rais’ gang had been crumbling down. 

“Maybe we should call it quits.”

“Are you serious?” one snapped, baffled to hear such a daring suggestion.

“You heard me. Rais is dead. We haven’t heard anything from Kaan either!”

Those words hung in the air, like an unspoken truth. They had no leader. No clear purpose. No reason to keep fighting for scraps. The fire they had a month ago had dwindled down to embers.

They all knew it.

“He was insane to believe there was something in the Countryside.”

Yes, he was. Kasper agreed quietly. 

But still, they were banking on him succeeding…whatever it was.

Then radio silence since. Meaning he was dead too. 

“Face it. It doesn’t matter if any of us get infected.. We’re all good as dead.”

Story continues on at these links: FFN and AO3.

[theficpusher]

Human Zoo by jaerie | E | 1209 Harry is a hybrid that was captured for display in an isolated country far from home. Someone from his past could be a savior, but he has other plans.

Twenty-Eight by beardyboyzx | M | 1499 "Can't believe you finally caught him," Niall says, clapping him on the back. He's been there with him on his very first mission, when Twenty-Eight was just the first criminal Harry encountered in his spy career to them. or: Agent Harry Styles has finally caught his nemesis, but there's a knot in the plot he's not ready to detangle.

routine surveillance by disgruntledkittenface | E | 2680 Harry’s training period for the Bureau consists of routine surveillance. One night, it becomes a little less routine.

The Night Market by Anonymous | E | 3000 It’s to earn a bit of extra spending money and have a bit of fun while doing it, that’s all. Harry examines his reflection in the mirror as Niall does up the back of his outfit. The clothes he wore on the train here are already safely tucked away in a locker, along with the key to the thick, heavy collar around his neck. The little green light shines from the centre of it, indicating that he’s available.

excuses for adultery by Anonymous | E | 3588 Louis asks for a break from sex, Harry finds a way to get his needs met. Louis finds his way to get revenge.

Knot's Farms by Anonymous | E | 4774 Hybrid travel visas are much stricter than laws for human travel. About twenty more hoops to jump through, and five times the cost. Louis’ proud, so proud of Harry going off on his first big tour, but he’s realistic, too. They would see barely a dime of that money if they had to spend on a hybrid EU visa. So, he’s spending ten days at Knot’s Farms, one of the higher rated hybrid kennel agencies.

the trolley problem by ThereAreOnlySecrets | E | 7350 In front of him are three men of different ages, but with similar distressed looks on their faces. Beaten and bloody, each one tied to a chair. Panicked, Louis backs away from the sight - and straight into a solid, muscled chest. “What - what is this?” “Oh, this is a little problem I thought you could help me with,” Harry murmurs into his ear lightly. “You see, these three men betrayed me, baby. And I want your help in deciding which one to make an example out of. Now, it’s a very simple game. I will put on a ten-minute timer and by the end of the countdown, you will tell me which one of these very distraught and scared men deserves to die. If you don’t choose anyone…Well, then I will kill all three of them.” This is not how Louis thought his day would go. Please let this be a sick, twisted joke...

The Revelation by creamcoffeelou | E | 8373 Harry feels his edges start to unravel. He can’t find where he ends and where Louis begins.

Lick the Knife by larry_hiatus | E | 13303 Three things about Harry: 1. He wants all of his exes dead. 2. He has a blood kink. 3. He’s Louis’ roommate. Three things about Louis: 1. He’s a serial killer. 2. He hates Harry. 3. He also kind of loves him.

[20thcenturyfox2010]

Today Twenty-eight daily news country sonic the hedgehog fanart furry (Number 28 NB Vers.)

14 x 2 = 28

7 x 4 = 28

28 x 1 = 28

4 x 7 = 28

2 x 14 = 28

1 x 28 = 28

[ss-prose-poetry]

Twenty-Eight

You open the door;

I know not why.

I stand in the pile

To don for closing shift:

Naked, I blink,

Nearly knocked aside by the handle.

You look at me.

Silence.

Blink again.

You toss down the drain cleaner

And slam the door

So that I shake.

I know not what I did wrong.

So I look at the mirror

For something hideous:

I don’t find it.

I look down to my clothes for a monster:

They are empty.

I look to the panels and walls for a sign:

If the writing is there,

It is for me.

Brazened, I call out,

“Do I get an apology for that?”

You, twenty-eight, say

“Sure!” and turn your voice to mockery,

Mimicking voices of teasing, tantrum-filled children.

So you’re not sorry.

You never are.

- Shae Saltgrave

[samualcheese]

some slop from since the short came out

havent drawn anything too major yet sorry...

[numburgers]

[apprentice-s]

how could you ask that of me?

[l3-800]

D:BH - 28 Stab Wounds Explained

It's 28th so it's the best day to share Bryan's explanation of the famous "Twenty-Eight stab wounds!" scene.

Bryan confirms there is 'a lot of little moments like this in the scenes' but personally I know only about very few of them. "Got it!" / Slamming the table / Pushing away by arm / Angrily gesticulating frustration from boss / More humane movements and expressions Did you guys noticed some other subtle things Connor repeats from Hank? Let's find them :D

[demaparbat-hp]

Besties being besties

[transemmrichvolkarin]

i would like to discuss the coffee situation in the lighthouse.

this is the apparent coffee station in the kitchen. little coffee maker, a couple of unlabeled bottles of additives (i assume), and a bunch of cups including these cute little decorated ones that scream ren faire souvenir

oh and also: two giant open baskets of coffee beans underneath the table. (and a sack of Unidentifiable Brown, but let's ignore that for now because i couldn't get any good pictures of it. it's not the same texture, anyway, so i can't confidently say it is More Coffee.)

that's a lot of coffee beans. that is A Lot Of Coffee Beans for eight people, even if they make 3-4 pots a day. at least one of those pots is for lucanis insomnia purposes, a few cups are for neve to boil into a cognitohazard, and the rest of the team might have a cup or two in the morning, but i don't know enough of their coffee habits to say for certain. 3-4 pots is a generous estimate. so what do they have over 20 pounds of coffee beans for? are they using all of those before they go stale in an open basket? lucanis is a coffee snob, i refuse to believe he's buying all of that if he doesn't think they'll use it while it's still fresh.

But okay. benefit of the doubt here. maybe they've got some stay-fresh ziploc magic on it, and that's a month's supply for a greater amount of coffee per day than my estimates.

but wait. in the pantry. what's that?

oh my god it's an even bigger basket of coffee beans. what are you doing with 50 pounds of coffee beans. you are NOT using all that, this is more coffee than a party of 8 could even try to consume before it went stale in, again, an OPEN CONTAINER. i don't even want to consider whether those sacks next to it might have more, there's no way they could possibly have...

two more. giant baskets. of coffee beans.

there are more baskets of coffee beans in the lighthouse than vegetables. the lighthouse is constantly out of onions because the guy in charge of the shopping spends half the grocery budget on coffee beans. lucanis drinks 6 pots a day and his blood-to-caffeine ratio is 50-50. no wonder spite can smell colors.

[zephyrchama]

Make barbatos fanfics pls

The memory of your recent mishap kept playing in your mind. It was a complete mistake - you hadn't intended to drench Barbatos in tea. Despite him being more than capable of protecting himself, you foolishly attempted to shield him from whatever toxic concoction Solomon was cooking up. One thing led to another, a massive pot fell over, there was an ear-deafening clang, and Barbatos was on the ground. Sopping wet.

He wasted no time in excusing himself to clean off, leaving you to bear the weight of your sins. Anyone could have easily cleaned the mess with magic, but Barbatos instead opted for a shower for some peace and quiet to calm down. Solomon was left to scrub the floor by hand since he started this issue in the first place.

As all of the castle's linens had been conveniently gathered in the laundry room to be inventoried, you took it upon yourself to grab a clean towel and deliver it to Barbatos.

You could hear the water running from down the hall. It was so loud, you weren't sure Barbatos could hear you. Wisps of steam escaped from the cracks around the bathroom door. You knocked. There was no answer.

"Barbatos?" you called, knocking again. There was no answer. Only the running of water. He was probably already in the shower. You could take this opportunity to grab his soiled uniform and clean it before the stains permanently set in.

With that plan of action, you opened the door. Barbatos was not in the shower, despite the running faucet. In fact, Barbatos was stark naked in the middle of the room. A washcloth in his hand indicated he had already obtained his own towels. He had his back to the door, as if he was just about to enter the tub. He made eye contact with you over his shoulder, eyes wide.

That one second felt like an hour.

His posture was superb. A mix of tea and condensation from the muggy bathroom air trailed down the curve of his spine, fine enough to be in a medical textbook. Your eyes followed, down to the base of his tail and the derriere behind it. Two fabulous, firm full moons. A sight rarer than anything else in all the three realms.

"Did you need something?"

Barbatos' usual polite tone was punctuated with umbrage. He placed a hand on his chest, as though shielding his visage.

"I'm sorry!" were the first words you spat out, on reflex. Coherent thinking failed you in the face of such art. Sentences started falling out of your mouth and you hoped they made sense. "I thought you might need a towel, so I got one from the laundry and came to give it to you. I knocked! I did, I knocked, but you didn't answer so I came in to leave this."

You held the towel forward with both hands as an offering. "And I was gonna collect your clothes so I could wash them. As an apology for, ah, that other thing I did. Sorry."

You stared at the ground. Even Barbatos' ankles were pristine. A little bony, tapering down at the sides that led to his slender feet. You watched his weight shift as his tail curled closer to his body.

"How thoughtful. I'd appreciate if you could hang it on the towel bar. I will handle my clothes myself, later."

"Right, of course." You swiveled and diligently hung the towel up. The dirty clothes in question were on the ground, still soaking wet, neatly folded in a square. You looked from them back to Barbatos. He was rooted in place, not budging in the slightest. One wrong move, and who knew how much you'd see?

More than the current eyeful, that's for sure. More than the slope of his shoulders. More than the rise and fall of his upper body with each fresh breath. More than the sight of his wet hair clinging to the curve of his jawbone and the tenseness in his arm when his painted fingernails wrapped around the tiny washcloth.

"Do you need anything else?" he asked. An obvious cue for you to leave.

"I'm good," you said. It was hard not to ogle at the size of his waist fully unobscured by clothing, and its ratio to his hips. "Do you... need any help?"

"I am fine. I will be taking my shower now." His voice echoed around the bathroom as you finally left. It echoed around your head, too, when he said, "be good and wait for me."

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty-eight: that funny feeling

work count: 4.8k :(

warnings: this chapter contains detailed descriptions of loss and grief. reader discretion is advised.

twenty-seven | twenty-eight | twenty-nine

Lando didn’t remember standing. 

All he remembered was her—shaking, red-handed, barely breathing—as he gently pried her fingers from Margot’s blood-soaked sweater. She hadn’t even noticed the paramedics. She just kept whispering Margot’s name, like the sound alone might anchor her back to life.

When they took Margot away, Y/N made this sound—weak and raw—that didn’t belong to her. Lando didn’t speak. He just sat beside her in the hospital waiting room, their shoulders almost touching, both of them suspended in the kind of silence that presses hard on your ribs.

Her hands were stiff with dried blood. He tried to wipe them clean with a crumpled packet of tissues someone had left behind. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look at him. Just stared ahead, glassy-eyed and still, like her body had forgotten how to respond. He simply kept watching her.

It was messing with his head.

He’d seen bodies on the floor, heard threats hissed through teeth, stared into the eyes of people who’d kill for sport. But this—this felt different, off-kilter, wrong. His heartbeat was too fast. His hands wouldn’t stop twitching. He didn’t know what to do with himself because he couldn’t do a damn thing for her.

And then, slowly, her shoulder leaned into his—just slightly, like gravity had shifted—and in a moment, all the background noise faded to nothing, a vacuum of sound. A realization soundlessly dropped like a pit in his stomach, causing a wave of nausea to wash over him.

This wasn’t random.

It wasn’t just about Margot.

His mind raced. His heart pounded, his ears ringing. It felt like panic—but not the kind that came with gunfire or danger or losing control of a situation. It was something deeper, dirtier – more personal.

It was Y/N.

They went after Margot to get to her.

The realization landed heavy in his chest, winding him. His stomach churned, and the air thickened around him. If they knew to go after someone she loved... then that also meant they knew what she was to him.

Someone was trying to get to him.

And they knew exactly how.

He froze, staring at her like he was seeing her clearly for the first time. 

He hadn’t seen it. He’d been too close, too soft, too distracted by her smile and by the way she had slowly become part of his days without him noticing. And now—this. Someone used her to make him bleed.

He wanted to be angry, wanted to let the fire rise and burn everything in its path. But when she shifted beside him, curling closer like her body knew who he was even if her mind didn’t, it all just caved in on itself.

His stomach turned. He knew it now with sickening clarity – somewhere along the way, somewhere between the first time he laid eyes on her and the present moment, he had royally fucked up.

Somewhere along the way she had stopped being his acquaintance or his barista or even his friend. Instead, she had become something else entirely. She’d become his someone, his emergency contact, his person. At some point in time he had fucked up and allowed her to be something more.

He had allowed her to become his fucking weakness.

And whoever orchestrated this? They’d figured that out before he had.

She shifted again, leaning into him just a little more—like some part of her still recognized him as safe, even if the rest of her was lost. And still, he didn’t move.

He looked down at her, at those warm brown eyes dulled by shock and fluorescent lighting, and something twisted inside him. Nothing about her looked like the girl who used to send him pictures of ugly latte art and drag him into debates about her stupid law readings. But if he looked at her, from just the right angle, he could almost see that Y/N, the one he’d recognize.

He hated it. Hated how she had become something that hurt him too. How her pain, her danger, affected him in ways he didn’t know how to handle.

If someone was targeting her to get to him, then maybe that meant he wasn’t as far gone as he’d tried to convince himself he was. And maybe, just maybe, it meant he had more to lose than he ever thought possible. He wanted to pull away, to shove it all down, to pretend he didn’t feel like this.

But the truth was that it was too late. It wasn’t about protection. It wasn’t about responsibility or guilt or keeping her out of harm’s way because it made tactical sense.

He cared.

He wanted to shield her from all of it—every gunshot, every sharp edge, every painful memory. He wanted to keep her close and hold her through all of it and never let go. Even if it was selfish. Even if she didn’t feel the same. Even if she never could.

She wasn’t his, not really — she never could be. But that didn’t stop the way he felt. It didn’t stop the part of him that kept whispering mine, mine, mine like a prayer. It certainly didn’t stop the way the thought of losing her made something in him go cold.

So he sat there beside her—silent, steady, trying to remember how to breathe—his hand hovering near hers but never quite making contact. He’d spent years convincing himself he didn’t need anyone. But sitting there, watching her fade away in silence, he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

She had him, whether she knew it or not. Whether he liked it or not.

And all he could do was promise, quietly, that he’d never let anyone touch her like that again. Even if it meant staying in the shadows. Even if it meant becoming the version of himself he hated most.

Because she was already his heart, and even he knew that losing her would ruin him. 

So though he didn’t say a word, the promise was there, burning just beneath the surface:

If anyone even dared to think that they could touch her, they’d have to go through him first.

Once the sounds of gunshots and sirens and hospital equipment had finally faded away, after the shaking and the sobbing and the way she clung to Margot like letting go would make it real had all gone quiet—Lando brought her home in silence.

She hadn’t said much in the car, hadn’t cried or screamed. She just… sat there, her face pale and blotchy, Margot’s blood drying in the creases of her fingers, staring at nothing. Her breath came shallow, her expression unreadable. He didn't ask if she was okay. The question felt meaningless.

When they got back to her apartment, she didn’t move to get out. He’d had to coax her gently, quietly, just enough to get her into the bathroom inside. 

In the bathroom, she stood frozen in front of the sink, eyes locked on the basin. He waited for her to do something—anything. But she just stood there, silent. She stared at the sink like she didn’t know what it was for, like she couldn’t process the next step. 

So he did it.

He rolled up his sleeves, wet a cloth under warm water, and knelt in front of her like a man trying to find reverence in something he didn’t understand. He washed the blood from her hands as gently as he could, wringing out the cloth over and over again, watching the red swirl down the drain like it meant something. She didn’t say a word. She barely even blinked.

He was gentle—more gentle than he thought himself capable of. He wiped her hands, slowly, methodically, pressing the cloth into her palms like it might undo the memory. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just watched him with empty eyes.

That night, he’d stayed until her body gave in to sleep—if you could call it that. It wasn’t restful. It wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of sleep that only came from shutting down—like her body had turned off all the lights and locked every door. It was a light going dim in a house too big and too quiet.

In the days that came after, he’d been giving her space. But not distance.

He didn’t flood her phone with messages. He didn’t show up unannounced. He just kept close, quietly. A text here and there—

liam! : Want to grab something to eat?  Seen 7:12 PM

liam! : Work dragged today. I hope you’re alright. Seen 12:46 AM

liam! : I can come by with a movie or something. We could go on a drive too. Either works. Or whatever you want, really. Seen 4:33 AM

Sometimes she responded. More often, she didn’t.

Her replies were never cold. Just… hollow. The words were hers, but the warmth was gone. No emojis. No exclamation points. Just small, clipped sentences that did the bare minimum of indicating she was likely still alive, but not much else.

He stopped by the café now and then, mostly just to check. Kika was the one holding it down, keeping things afloat. Susie would pick up the extra shifts that she couldn’t.

They looked tired. Everyone did.

Once, he caught sight of her walking down the street with a half-full grocery bag tucked under one arm. She looked thinner. Her hair was pulled back in a loose tie, like she'd forgone checking the mirror. Her eyes were dull. Not fragile, but dimmed — like something inside her had gone quiet.

A few days later, he ran into her outside the shop. She saw him first.

“Hey,” she said, offering a small, forced smile.

“Hey,” he echoed.

She didn’t stop walking—just slowed, enough to be polite. Enough to acknowledge him. But not enough to invite conversation. He didn’t chase her either – just stood there and let her pass, watching her disappear down the street like smoke.

She was still her. Still kind. Still present. But she seemed so out of reach nowadays that the distance between them felt like miles. And the version of her he’d known—the one who used to text him pictures of dogs on skateboards and send voice memos when she was too lazy to type—that version hadn’t shown up in weeks.

He wanted to say something. Something stupid, something selfish, something completely insane like I miss you. Come back. 

But he didn’t, because this wasn’t about him, and she wasn’t his to fix.

Margot had been her anchor. Her second mother. Her heart. That kind of grief doesn’t soften on anyone else’s timeline.

So he let her walk away.

But he stayed – close, quiet, orbiting. Still steady, always hers.

Even if she didn’t know how to be his.

It was on Saturday that Logan approached him, crossing his fingers in the hope that there wasn’t a sniper on a faraway rooftop that had its scope trained on his head since he’d dared to walk into the boss’s office uninvited.

I’m too young to die. Here goes nothing.

“She’s not eating,” he said one evening, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe of Lando’s office. “I’ve been checking in, doing sweeps when I can – she barely leaves the house though. Half the time, there’s nothing in the fridge but expired oat milk and that weird herbal tea she pretends to like.”

Lando didn’t look up from the file in his hands, but his jaw flexed. Just once. “She’s not a child.”

“No,” Logan agreed, “but grief makes people forget basic shit. Like food. Or sleep. Or how to tie their own shoelaces.”

Lando didn’t respond. Just flicked the page a little too hard. 

Logan knew he wasn’t really reading it anyway.

He sighed. “I’m just saying—if someone doesn’t look after her, she’s going to disappear.”

Later that night, Lando ordered from that Lebanese place she used to rave about. The one with the fresh hummus and grilled halloumi she swore was better than what she’d had in Beirut. He sent some Italian too, enough for two meals—just in case she wanted options.

He didn’t include a note. He couldn’t bring himself to. Too intimate. Too soft. 

He just made sure it would get to her door warm, before resuming his world like he’d never been disturbed in the first place.

But there was no one around to notice how he breathed a little bit easier this time around.

A little before dusk, a knock sounded at her apartment door. When she opened it, there was a gangly, wide-eyed teenager in a too-big hoodie and scuffed-up trainers standing there, his skateboard leaning against her wall, holding a brown paper bag that smelled like warmth and garlic and real food. Keegan –one of the local runners Lando had taken under his wing a while back– stood there, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, looking somewhat uncertain what to do with himself. No ties to anything too dangerous—just a kid with good instincts and quick feet.

“Uh, He said to give you this,” Keegan said, holding the bag out, and hesitated before adding, “...Miss.” 

She blinked at him. 

He looks a bit young for a delivery driver.

He blinked back.

“And, uh… also not to argue? So you should probably jus’ take it. Please.”

She blinked at him, caught off guard.

Keegan scratched the back of his head. “I think there’s pasta. And the really soft bread. The kind with, like, the crusty outside? Anyway, hope you’re okay, Miss.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, already backing away before she could even say thank you.

She stood there for a long moment after the door closed, holding the warm bag like it was something fragile. It smelled like comfort. Like someone still cared.

After the funeral, she’d become… smaller, somehow.

The grief settled on her like a heavy, unshakable fog. She felt the weight of it in every moment of her waking hours, suffocating and endless, clinging to her as if she were drowning. The days blurred together, one indistinguishable from the next, and everything felt muted—like she was walking through a dream where the colors were too dim, and everything was too far out of reach.

Her apartment became her world.

Classes came and went—sometimes she made it, sometimes she didn’t. No one called her out on it, not really. A few professors sent the occasional check-in email. A classmate texted her once: Hey, we missed you today. Hope you’re okay.

She left it on read.

The textbooks piled up beside her bed, unread and forgotten. The assignments? Unfinished. She couldn’t find the strength to make herself do anything, let alone the things that would keep her tethered to reality.

The fridge stayed mostly empty. She picked at instant meals when her stomach ached too hard to ignore. Some nights, she eats cereal dry out of the box. Others, she doesn’t eat at all.

But the worst of it, the fact stayed like an ever-present nausea was that she hadn’t stepped foot near the café since that day.

She couldn’t.

How could she?

The memories hung there like a thick veil, pressing against her skin every time she thought of walking back through the door. She couldn’t even imagine stepping into the backroom where she’d once stood, laughing with Margot, feeling her steady warmth beside her. Instead, she locked herself in her apartment, doing everything she could to remain invisible to the world, to avoid confronting what had been taken from her.

Every time she even walked past that block, her lungs would seize up. Her feet froze in place, cementing her where she stood. The moment she’d lay eyes on that familiar building, on the same storefront and familiar emblem she’d once considered signs of home, it’d all begin to flash before her eyes—Margot’s glasses scattered on the tile. The stillness of her body. The blood.

The sound she made. The sounds she’d made. The way her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

After that first time, she’d made it a point to take some other route back to her apartment, any route but that one. It likely also helped that she’d pretty much stopped leaving the apartment altogether. 

She didn’t go back there. She didn’t need to. 

There was nothing there for her now.

Nothing but the ghost of someone she loved more than she ever had the chance to say aloud.

It was Kika who finally began to show up at her door.

The Portuguese girl came by once with bags of food, and didn’t say a word when she noticed the empty fridge – just set the bags down quietly and lingered for a moment, as if waiting to see if her friend would break the silence. But Y/N couldn’t bring herself to do it. She couldn’t bring herself to eat, to leave, to live outside this space that felt so hauntingly... empty without Margot in it.

Each time Kika came by, Y/N waited for the inevitable push, the expectations, the disappointment in the way she chose to dwell in the cave that her apartment had become. 

But it never came.

Kika didn’t push her, didn’t force her into the light before she was ready. She simply gave her space, patiently accepting the silence, the isolation. There were no judgmental glances, no angry words. Kika knew better than most that grief didn’t come with a timeline, and sometimes the best thing you could offer was quiet companionship.

She didn’t bring casseroles or pity or long speeches. She didn’t barge into the apartment or force conversations.

She texted. She dropped off soup. She’d knock twice and leave things at the door—a clean hoodie, a candle with a note that says: No pressure. I just wanted you to have something that smells like cinnamon.

Sometimes, she sat with her in the silence. The first time Kika did, Y/N looked visibly shocked – like she didn’t even know that was an option, that it was something they could do.

Kika started to come by a little more often after that.

One evening, after they’d sat together for hours in the same quiet space, Kika gently placed a hand on her shoulder. It was warm. It was a lifeline.

“Y/N,” Kika began, her voice quiet but firm, “I know it hurts. For you… probably more than I think I can understand. But, you can’t keep hiding from this. You can’t keep avoiding it. Not if you want to heal. You know how much Margot would’ve wanted you to keep living, to keep going. She was your biggest believer, Y/N.”

The words felt uncomfortable, a prickling sensation spreading across her skin. Instinctively, what Y/n wanted to say, what she’d been wanting to say was that know one could sit here and definitively tell her what Margot would have wanted. Only Margot could really know that, but Margot

When Y/N dared to peer at her friend over the bundle of blanket underneath which she was curled up, she was surprised to find that Kika was smiling, warm and gentle. There was none of the pity she was drowned in at the funeral, the shallow sympathies that existed in abundance evr since Margot’s casket was lowered into the ground.

But Kika looked… like perhaps she could understand. Like maybe she could actually see what Y/N had lost. Like maybe she could feel it too – same, but different.

“She wouldn’t want you to run away from the people who loved her. From the life you have here. That place... it’s part of her too, you know.”

Y/N flinched at the mention of the shop. Of the place that felt so much like the last piece of Margot she had left, and yet so much like a cemetery of memories.

But Kika wasn’t done.

“I know it hurts. I know it feels impossible right now. But hiding from the place she loved, that you both loved… that’s not mourning her. That’s trying to pretend she never existed.” Kika’s voice softens, like the words cost something to say. “You don’t have to go in and act like everything’s fine. You just have to go. Even if you only stay for five minutes.”

“Maybe you just sit in the back for a while. Maybe you don’t say a word. But you need to face it. You need to stop pretending it didn’t happen, because it did. And the longer you stay away from this place, the longer you stay away from Margot’s world, the harder it’ll be for you to mourn her. You won’t find peace in hiding from her memory. You can’t.”

“It’s okay to fall apart there,” she adds after a beat. “She’d understand.”

Y/N’s heart was still heavy, and the idea of being back there—the place Margot had poured so much love into—felt like a betrayal. It felt too real, too raw. 

Maybe just not yet.

Another afternoon, after a week of more silence, Kika picked at the edge of her coffee mug and tried again.

“You know, I don’t think Margot would want the place to feel haunted.”

Y/N didn’t answer. Her eyes flicked to the window. She hadn't opened it in days.

“She made that café feel like home to a lot of people. To you most of all,” Kika continued, voice quiet, even. “And now it’s the only part of her you still have.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

Kika gave her a moment. “You can’t mourn someone properly if you avoid everything they touched.”

Y/N felt like she’d had a bucket of cold water dumped on her. Not in the refreshing, but more like everything around her went frozen and silent for a long, striking moment.

Eventually, a few minutes after she’d finally regained the ability to breathe, she looked to her friend and nodded — though it came with no words, just a slow, hollow motion of her head. 

Deep down, in somewhere she’d neglected to acknowledge until now, she knew Kika was right. Knew that grief didn’t shrink by ignoring it—it waited, patient and cruel.

“Maybe… Maybe tomorrow.”

It was quiet. Quieter than she remembered.

The kind of quiet that lived in old books and early mornings. The door creaked the same way it always did when she pushed it open, but now it sounded too loud, like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

The scent hit her first—fresh espresso and rose syrup. Warm milk. Something sweet baking in the back. Familiar. Overwhelming. A little like coming home, and a little like being sucker-punched.

Her lungs tightened, but she didn’t back out.

Her fingers were stiff around the strap of her bag. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing here, what she thought would happen. There was no fanfare. No one rushed to hug her or give her a special seat or offer her peeled clementine. The girl at the register—a newer hire, someone she didn’t know—glanced up, offered a soft smile, and went back to work.

It was all normal.

Too normal. Like Margot’s blood wasn’t on the floor just weeks ago.

She walked slowly past the counter, every step heavier than the last. The old espresso machine hissed in the corner. Someone coughed, two students laughed softly by the window. Everything was just… continuing.

That was the part that stung the most.

And then she saw it.

Tucked near the register—framed in a gold rim, slightly tilted from someone bumping the counter earlier that day.

Margot.

It’s a photo she’d seen a hundred times. Margot’s head tilted back mid-laugh, eyes closed, mouth open, joy spilling out of her like she didn’t know how to hold it all. Someone must’ve taken it on film. The light was warm, her scarf was crooked, and she looked alive.

She was still standing when someone placed a to-go cup in front of her.

“On the house,” the barista said quietly. “Kika mentioned you might come in. I wasn’t sure what you took, so I made what she said was your favorite.”

She looked down. It was her drink, perfectly made. The lid was slightly askew too, a coincidental but uncanny resemblance to how Margot used to leave it, so it wouldn’t get too hot for her to sip.

Her hand shook as she took it. The warmth bled into her skin, and for one terrifying second, she thought she was going to cry in front of everyone.

But she didn’t.

She sat in Margot’s old booth. The one near the back, under the crooked painting of wildflowers. The spot Margot used to pretend was “hers,” even though she’d let anyone sit there if they looked even the slightest bit lonely.

Makes for the best people watching, Margot used to say.

Y/N sipped her drink, the taste both achingly familiar and wrong. Everything tasted different now.

And then, finally, she did cry. Quietly into her sleeves, her eyes puffy and red, the drink cupped like something precious between her hands.

No one said anything. No one interrupted. Someone placed a napkin on her table when they passed by. She pressed it to her face and let herself feel it—really feel it—for the first time since the blood, and the sirens, and Liam’s arms around her.

Margot’s gone. She’s really, truly gone. And somehow… She was still here too.

It wasn’t closure. Not even close.

But it was… a beginning – a breath in, a promise to try again tomorrow.

Across town, Lando coped with things the best way he knew how – by attempting to bury himself in anything that hurt.

The gym was the only place where his brain stopped spinning, where the echo of that night didn’t come clawing back. His knuckles were already split open, the skin on his wrists raw from the wraps. But it wasn’t enough.

He boxed until his shoulders burned and his vision blurred. He picked fights that didn’t need picking. A supplier who’d delivered late. A rival who got too bold. A runner who looked at him the wrong way. Anyone. He welcomed the violence because it was simple. It was controlled. It was pain with purpose.

He went back to the gym. Back to the ring. Back to the sweat and the fists and the ache of muscle against bone. He’d been spending more time there lately—longer hours, harder rounds. Bruised knuckles, bloody tape. Sparring until the pain in his ribs could quiet the noise in his head.

But none of it worked. Not really.

Not when she haunted his thoughts. The blood on her hands. The way her voice cracked when she said Margot’s name. The ghosted version of her that had returned to the world, polite and smiling but nowhere near whole.

He told himself he was doing the right thing—giving her space. Not crowding her. Not pushing. But he checked his phone too often. He told Logan to keep an eye out. He pretended it didn’t sting when days passed without a single message.

Lando had grown up with blood on his hands. He knew how to carry loss. But watching her unravel quietly was different. He didn’t know how to fix it. 

He only knew that some ancient, forgotten part of him wanted to.

He didn’t even know if she missed him back. 

But now, more than ever, he was trapped—caught in a war he never asked for, playing the catchup game, unable to escape. Someone had brought the fight to him, gone after his people and made this fight personal.

And the worst part? It felt like this was just the beginning.

So he leaned into the version of himself that didn’t need people—because he was starting to hate the part of him that did. Lando drove his knuckles bloody at the boxing ring, over and over, punishing himself with each swing. He spent the late hours of the night sparring until his arms felt like lead and his lungs were on fire, until the aching in his body was louder than the silence her absence left behind.

The boys around him noticed. He’d gotten meaner, shorter. The fuse he once kept so carefully coiled now lit itself at the smallest spark. He threatened more than commanded, and his eyes held less warmth, more calculation. He was slipping back into a version of himself he thought he’d outgrown. But the worst part? He didn’t care. Because feeling empty was easier to carry than heartbreak.

And still, he couldn’t get her out of his head.

The last time he’d seen her, she wasn’t even really there—polite, quiet, careful. Like she was speaking through glass. And he hated how helpless it made him feel. He was used to controlling situations. But there was no controlling this. Not her grief. Not the way she’d disappeared behind it. Not the aching emptiness she left in his life.

So he threw himself into the fire. Again and again. Hoping maybe if he burned hot enough, he could cauterize whatever part of him she still owned.

But he’d still started keeping his phone face up on the table.

Just in case.

a/n: i don't know how i feel about this one. sorry if it's bad.

[shybasementkid]

did some tiktok ninjago fans just not watch the show

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓: Dry Humping w/ Spencer Reid

a/n: HEY HEY HEY!! so i am fully aware that spencer was a child during college, so this is an alternative universe where he's of the college age 💀 this is basically season one spencer cause i wanna eat him!!

masterlist | kinktober masterlist | AO3

You didn't like how the other girls in the circle were looking at him. Their lustful eyes eating up a very nervous Spencer, the man playing with his fingers anxiously.

It was obvious that he wasn't used to being in places like this; where everyone was drunk, high or both, couples and randoms making out and practically fucking in every dark corner of the room. You never thought that you'd see The Spencer Reid, your college campus' genius, sitting in a spin the bottle circle in a random frat house.

You had no idea who convinced the poor boy that doing this was a good idea, but you would be damned if any other one of these girls were to get their hands on him. You liked him first — not just liked him — you claimed him. Everyone in your group knew that you liked him, so the fact that they had the fucking gall to look at him that way knowing you were there pissed you off.

"Alright, everybody!" A random bro shouted from on top of one of the dining room tables. "We were going to play Spin The Bottle, but I figured it'd be better if we play Seven Minutes in Heaven, seeing as though we have a special guest here with us tonight."

You knew exactly who he was talking about, and as your eyes lifted to look at Spencer, his gaze was already settled on you, but once he saw you were looking at him, he looked away bashfully. His face flushed a pretty red and so did his ears, and you could practically see the blood threatening to spill from his cuticles as he picked at them.

Your eyes narrowed at the jock angrily, every part of your body yelling at you to tend to Spencer.

But you swallowed it down.

A large group of people gathered around, and then the first spin of the night began. People were gleefully coming and going from the closet, a few of the couples manipulating the bottle so that it landed on them.

"Oh, shit!" One of the frat bros called out loudly. You looked curiously to see all eyes locked on you and Spencer, the tip pointing at you and the end pointing at him.

You must admit, you were a bit… known… around school. You wouldn't say you were popular, now that was a bit childish, but you definitely had connections in a couple different places.

The poor man looked almost frantic, looking at you then looking back down, almost as if saying you didn't have to. Oh, but you did.

"Seven minutes, pretty boy. C'mon." You said as you got up. His eyes were as big as saucers, his mouth gaping akin to like a fish would. You straightened your tight dress, reaching out a well manicured hand.

"If you want this to be over sooner then get up." You whispered sternly. He scrambled to interlock your fingers, and you lead him to the closet that was already significantly hot from the amount of bodies that had been in there already.

"We don't have to do anything you don't want to." You reassured. "No, no… I-I want to, it's just…" He babbled, wringing his hands. "It's just what?" You pushed, stepping closer to him. He gulped, backing up slightly and knocking into the shelves behind him.

"I just don't know how." He didn't know how to make you feel good, how to pleasure you. He was embarrassed to admit to the girl that he liked, who was also totally out of his league, that he was a virgin.

"Why did you come here, then?" You questioned with a slight smirk. "Because… because you were here and I wanted to uh- maybe- I don't know-" You cupped his face, stroking his cheeks.

"Kiss me then, Spence."

"Wh- what?!" He stuttered.

"I said," You spoke, your lips brushing against his, "Kiss me." He gulped, looking down at your lips back up to your eyes, then back down to your lips again.

"Okay." He breathed.

He leaned forward, albeit hesitantly, and pressed your lips together. It started out slow, but with a lot of coaxing from you, he got comfortable. Your lips moved in tandem as the room heated up. You had no idea what had come over you when you placed both of his hands on your ass.

"Touch me." You breathed heavily. Your breasts pressed tauntingly into his chest, his cock hardening embarrassingly fast. "Are you sure?" You nodded. "Please."

He tested the waters with a light squeeze before shoving your hips together. His body stuttered as a loud whine fell from his mouth. You could feel his bulge against your plush body and Spencer wanted nothing more than for the ground to swallow him whole.

"Sorry, sorry." His apologies were frantic, but your nerves burned with need. "I'm fine with you grinding on me, baby." You reassured. "In fact, I like it." Normally, you wouldn't say you carried a dominating energy with you, but it was like you wanted to swallow the poor boy whole.

"Oh, God." He whimpered, but nonetheless joined your lips back together. You slipped your plush thigh through his legs, pressing it on his cock.

His hips jutted out, and you swallowed his cry. His grips on your ass turned deathly as he humped your leg like a bitch in heat.

"That feel good?" You cooed, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

He nodded fastly, his lips pressed together and his eyes closed. He was lost in the feeling of the friction, perspiration beading on his hairline. You practially eat the sight of his deep red face up.

"You're mine. Alright, pretty boy?" You asked ferociously. You wrentched his head back, sinking your teeth into the sensitive skin of his neck. He nodded. "Say it." He yelped when you nipped at his adams apple.

"I'm yours, fuck- all yours!"

Your stomach twisted with a pleasant warm feeling, which only increased rapidly which you felt his thrusts grow sloppy.

"You gonna cum, honey?" You asked through your marking. "Yes, yes, yes…" He babbled. "Good. Cum all over me." He let out one last loud moan before you felt the warmth of spend seep out and onto the hem of your dress.

There was a knock on the door.

"Okay, lovebirds. Time's up!"

You smirked at the fact that Spencer was shaking like a leaf in your hold.

"After this, we are so going to my dorm." You claimed. "Yes! Yeah, yeah… yes, please." He all but shouted.

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @their-love @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @murdadixon @hallecarey1 @bunnybabe-babydoll @alixwriter @dixonzzgirl @violettavirus

[marielism]

daniil gives me insaaaane “has a little sister” vibes

[regheart]

there's something i find particularly annoying in this fandom and it's the way purebloods are written as highly sophisticated extremely rich and straight up a rip off of regency period novels

i understand the choice of this specific portrayal, i can see it as an approximation to historical drama, where the social restrictions are compelling and are relevant to the story, and a good writer can make any concept believable and good

HOWEVER as much as the worldbuilding on wizarding costumes (and a lot of other things) is extremely inconsistent and gets progressively worse towards the later three books, the implications that i see don't point towards this version of a sophisticated performatic elite who interacts only with itself

while i tend to see the blood status in the harry potter universe as a distinction of class and not at all a distinction of race, i don't think the difference is, in practice, as marked as it is in real world contexts, mostly because of how numerically small and insulated the wizarding community is

this post is part of my personal vendetta against purebloods as charming aristocrats & what appears to be the necessity of writing each and all of them as so very well spoken and politically savvy and never-caught-dead-speaking-to-a-half-blood

for once, the sacred twenty-eight is extra canon information and is disputed IN UNIVERSE, because it was anonymously published and received backlash for the inclusion (weasley, ollivander) and exclusion (crabbe, goyle, potter) of certain names

the malfoys are the only extremely rich family we see in canon. extra canon information tells us they made money before the statute of secrecy by trading with muggles

compare that to the potters who are also very rich (there's no scale to tell us who is the richer family), but made most of their money from the invention of sleakezy in the 20th century

the blacks are also implied to be wealthy: sirius manages to live off his inheritance after buying harry an expensive broom, and he says his grandfather likely paid for an order of merlin

there's a lot to be said about the blacks (e.g. they should have at least a couple more properties other than grimmauld place), but the big picture and the similarity with the gaunts (not about the incest, stop fixating on that) suggest they were a family in decadence by the time sirius was growing up

i believe that the implication is that neither of them had a proper job, which creates a similarity with gentry, but gentry lived off rentals and while it is possible they had a country state i don't think grimmauld place was making a lot of money

lucius malfoy also didn't work and spent a portion of his time being a school counselor (and obviously not being paid for it, as it was a way to exercise his political power over the main learning institution in his community)

it's also extra canon that the nott family had equal footing with the malfoys, so we can assume that crabbe, goyle, parkinson and bulstrode were slightly beneath them, either in social standing or money, despite the later two being part of the sacred twenty-eight (or it could appear to be so because pansy and milicent are girls)

the weasleys are obviously the main example of a poor sacred twenty-eight family, as were the gaunts

the crouch family was most like rich (they could afford a house elf), but it's likely that most of that money came from mr. crouch having a high level ministry job. his family and connections were probably an advantage to getting the job, but it's possible he wouldn't be able to maintain the lifestyle without work

longbottom, prewett and macmillan are families that appear to be very traditional, but not remarkably wealthy

other working members of the sacred twenty-eight are: horace slughorn (school teacher, but it can be argued that teaching hogwarts is a prestigious position), garrick ollivander (wand maker and shop owner, but, again, the only wand maker, which holds a certain prestige in itself), mr. burke (shop owner), arthur weasley (ministry employee), frank longbottom and kingsley shacklebolt (both aurors). amycus and alecto carrow are also temporary hogwarts teachers

the blacks married out of the sacred twenty-eight many times (max, gamp, crabbe, potter)

all of these people and every single muggleborn goes to the same school, buys magical supplies at the same place, drinks from the same pubs, etc. that alone should serve as evidence that there aren't many exclusive pureblood hangouts around

the only place that seems to attract the malfoys (arguably the richest and most important pureblood family in the 90s) and not most other people, is the knockturn alley, which is hardly a high brow sophisticated spot

except for malfoy and flint, no slytherin quidditch player during the 90s is in the sacred twenty-eight, so that's hardly a criterion for making it into the team

mulciber is not a sacred twenty-eight name, they could very well be half-bloods

tom riddle and severus snape were half-blood students who formed ties with purebloods while in school and held blood supremacist views, assimilation to a certain level was possible