#also rip grand; he's even MORE in it than before

[superblysubpar]

vampire!eddie munson x somekindofslayer!you / partner!steve

2,653 words

warnings: other than kind of like, illusions to some spicy things/slight implications of dubcon, not much in this little snippet | vampire things? Idk how to tag that ya'll? like weapons, blood imagery, etc? | oh also I think modern AU but also like ST things happened but also like the party is all in the modern AU except Eddie? Idk I haven't decided, don't think too hard about it

A/N: okay, so this is a little snippet of something I started *last* October and I lost the will and love to write and I've been returning to it frequently and I think I'll be posting the full thing soonish. I hope you enjoy it (and yes, I'm cheating and counting this as 3 days)

a blurb for the "Trick or Treat, Freak?" event

It feels wrong.

There’s no better way to describe the feeling that weighs heavy on your shoulders and pricks at the back of your neck as you weave in and out of the too loud crowd.

Spilled beer and red plastic cups at your feet further marking up and ruining what you’re sure was once beautiful wood floors. Spray painted images and words foul and rude against walls with chipped paint and frayed wallpaper that hold a history people have forgotten too quickly.

Your fingers glide over the banister, the tipped cup to your lips flashing red in the dingy mirror on the grand father clock as you ascend the stairs.

The celebration below softens to a dull murmur of a crowd, the low rumble of bass as you take the last step and your lungs deflate with an exhaled breath of relief. Each door you pass is open, revealing dust and cobwebbed covered furniture and art, rooms frozen in time as the world around it kept going. You were surprised to find that none of the pop culture clad couple’s costumes had made their way upstairs this evening to make use of the more private rooms.

Perhaps there were still some things here that people didn’t want to disturb.

The claims that this home held ghosts, made you see things, the history of what once happened in this town, hadn’t dissuaded the night from happening as you had hoped. The possibility of all the sinister and spooky things the home brought only served to be fuel for a Halloween night party and practically dared the teens to host it there.

Which is probably exactly what he wanted.

Your hand discards the now empty solo cup on a dark wood buffet, finger leaving a clean swipe to it’s surface as you tilt your head to listen for anything out of the ordinary while the heels of your boots slow, then stop in front of the only closed door on this level.

The knob of the door twists easily underneath your palm, and as the door creaks open, soft light flickers above from a room you can’t quite yet see. With a deep breath, you close the door behind yourself as quietly as you can, the noise of the party now almost nonexistent. The only clue to it the vibrations from below your soles as you carefully start the climb of this second staircase.

While equally stuck in the past, this attic is littered with frequent use.

Recent too.

Candle’s wicks flicker around the room, all of various heights with melted wax now solidified in drips down their sides, which tells you they’ve just been lit, but not for the first time ever.

There’s a dark line in the slat flooring, like it’s been ripped in half and then clumsily pushed and glued back together. Something inside jars glint in the moonlight shining in from the small window on the opposite side of the room.

“Nice costume,” a deep voice from the shadows calls. A flick of a zippo sounds before the flame sparks, illuminating a figure leaning against the wall. Broad shoulders long hair falls against and a cigarette dangling between plush lips just made out in its glow as he lights it. The metal clicks together, returning him to the darkness. The end of the cigarette burns red at his side as a puff of smoke floats into the air with his words, “Buffy, right?”

Your throat feels dry as you risk a glance down at the costume, as if you need to remind yourself what you’re wearing. Little black dress, emphasis on the little. Your tits shoved up and out with a cross hanging heavy between them and little left to the imagination between the short hem just covering your ass and the tall knee high boots.

“You’re just missing one thing, vampire slayer,” his voice makes you jump, an instinctual step back only to find you’re up against the banister and he’s right in front of you now.

He hadn’t made a single sound.

“Yeah?” Your voice betrays you, cracking as the weight of something inside of your boot scolds you for not having it out and ready as he leans in, eyes on the cross on your neck as you try to sound more confident than you are, “What’s that…sorry I didn’t catch your name? And who are you supposed to be?”

In a flash, he’s across the room, twirling something between his fingers you can’t quite see as he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and paces.

“Wow, you don’t recognize me?” The chains against his jeans click as he spins with a dramatic sigh, “It’s okay, I wouldn’t remember me either.”

His leather and denim clad shoulders rise then fall in a shrug, the devil on his chest pulled tight as he stretches his arms out as if to say “ta-da”, and his tone sounds like he’s doing just that when he says:

“I’m Eddie Munson. The guy who made this place famous.”

Your heart thuds in your ears, tongue suddenly taking up too much space in your mouth as your stomach clenches.

“Yeah? That your name or your costume’s?”

“Oh,” he laughs, “Think you already know the answer to that.”

He whistles to get your attention when you look down, now acutely aware of the empty space between your calf and boot.

He waves the wood stake in the air, teeth gleaming white in his smile that brings a dimple out you can see all the way across the room.

“Looking for this, princess?”

“I’m not a vampire slayer, Mr. Munson,” you start, fingers behind your back working at the discrete silver bracelet on your wrist.

Eddie’s lips purse, amused as he leans against the windowsill, completely at ease as he watches you take a cautious step forward then another.

He grins at you when you take a third step and nods his head, encouraging you, “That’s it. Get closer. Promise I won’t bite…” he winks, “ ‘Less you want me to, of course.”

“Lotta girls take you up on that offer Mr. Munson? That what you were hoping for tonight?”

His smile grows wider, his tongue pokes at a canine that’s suddenly grown longer.

“First of all, Mr. Munson is my uncle, please,” he sticks his hand out now that you’re close enough, like he intends to shake yours, “It’s Eddie. And second, you vampire slayers…” he sighs, “Always all business, never any fun, huh?”

“Right, Eddie,” you concede, whispering, now close enough that you know he could easily do what’s in his nature. “And I thought I told you, I’m not a vampire slayer.”

His eyes flash when your hand wraps around his in a firm shake. His adam’s apple bobs with a large swallow as you take a step even closer, body between his spread legs, your neck and chest right where he’d want it. Eddie’s eyes are tinged with red, but he starts to pull away, breathing heavily.

Your eyes are on your hands still locked, and your entire body warms, heartbeat racing as his thumb swipes over the back of yours and his eyelashes flutter when you moan at the tingle the contact of his skin leaves against yours. Like the good kind of heat from a bonfire, any closer and it’ll start to burn, and any further away you’d be too cold.

Static crackles in your ear, “Um…whatcha doing, killer?”

Eddie looks directly at your left earlobe at the sound, and it all snaps you back to attention. Your silver bracelet in your other hand quickly locks around his wrist in your grasp.

Eddie blinks at you, each drop and lift of his eyelids growing heavier by the milliseconds as his hand slips from yours.

“Fuck,” he laughs, like he’s a little tipsy, head knocking against the window behind him as he looks at you from under his lashes, smiling. “You got me, slayer.”

“Not,” you swallow, taking a larger step away from him while trying to fight the urge to take off the bracelet subduing him, “Not a vampire slayer.”

He hums, rolls his eyes like he doesn’t believe you as footsteps creak loudly on the stairs behind you and your partner’s winded breath calls out your name.

“You smell good,” Eddie mumbles as you pull him to his feet and sling his arm over your shoulder, his head falling into the crook of your neck makes your entire body freeze.

His nose drags along your pulse, his lips follow, and a chill races down your spine, skin on fire where he’s pressed against it and you have to stop your teeth from biting on your bottom lip too hard or you’ll draw blood and who knows what’ll happen then. Maybe he’d lick it off your chin, maybe he’d-

“Did I just witness what I think I just witnessed? Were you gonna let him-”

“Don’t,” you gasp as Eddie sighs against your throat. “Not another word, Harrington.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you wide eyed and with his mouth hanging open as you shove Eddie’s weight to him and right yourself, fixing the hem of your dress and yanking your stake off of the ground. Doesn’t say anything while you check around corners and you pretend to be three drunk idiots stumbling to a car in case any one sees. Doesn’t say anything until Eddie’s passed out in the backseat and you’re looking in the rearview for the third time in less minutes, wheels spinning against wet black top and taking you past the: “Now Leaving Hawkins!” sign.

“What the fuck-“ he starts to hiss.

“I don’t know. Just…don’t. Okay? He touched me and…and…” your heart starts thudding harder. “I choked or something. It happens to the best of us.”

Steve licks his lip before it prods at his cheek as you grip the steering wheel tighter and he looks over his shoulder.

“Compulsion?”

“Maybe?” You shrug, though not believing it one bit.

“Imprin-“

“Don’t. That’s a myth.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds and then Steve’s lips twitch.

“Horny?”

He laughs when you groan and swat at his chest. “Shut up. You’re such an asshole.”

Steve snorts, looking out the window, mumbling, “That wasn’t a no.”

You flick his eyebrow that time.

“If that is the case, I mean, there are plenty of us who’d love to help you out. You don’t gotta stoop to being sucked on by vamps if you’re feeling-“

“You want me to use the stake on him?”

The car swerves at the sound of his voice, your heartbeat in your ears as you return to the correct lane safely and see Eddie sitting up in the backseat in your mirror.

“Fucking Christ,” Steve gasps, holding his chest and facing the back now.

Eddie visibly winces at the use of the name and Steve perks up.

“Woah. That’s real?” He leans forward, eyebrows raised, “Christ, Christ, Christ, Chri-“

Eddie’s fangs sharpen and descend and he starts to growl low from his chest, eyes flashing red. Steve’s lips twitch but he raises his hands in surrender when you hiss for him to knock it off.

“Of course,” he looks at you then the backseat, “I’ll stop bothering your little toy, honey.”

Your gaze slices over to him as Steve holds his silver stake over his chest, keeping his back to the dash and eyes on the now alert vampire in your backseat.

Eddie lifts his wrist up, “What the hell is this?”

Steve smiles. “That, is a Henderson original. Powerful enough to subdue even the strongest of ghouls, goblins, vamps and any other weird ass creatures we come across - quickly and temporarily in case of emergency. A smaller version of his version of that trap thingy and that gun thingy,” he snaps his fingers and looks at you, “What are they again? In Ghostbusters?”

“The Proton Pack”, you say as Eddie asks at the same time,

“The Super Slammer Muon Trap?”

Eddie clears his throat, adjusts himself in the back seat while rubbing his neck and your eyes return to the road after making eye contact in the mirror again.

“You, uh, you like Ghostbusters?” He fiddles with the rings on his fingers.

Steve’s lips twitch when you grumble to yourself though you know they both can hear it, “Of course I like Ghostbusters, what am I, a moron?” You frown as you sarcastically add on, “And nobody’s impressed by your use of the name of the trap from the video game. It’s just a ghost trap.”

It’s like you feel his laugh inside your own chest. Warm and flowing over you like sunshine on your face after a really long, gloomy day. You tilt your head into it, eyelashes fluttering.

“Yeaah,” Steve draws out the word, clears his throat. “Those. Cause she couldn’t really go in with the big, real deal. Good thing it worked on you though, fast, too. Hepburn here was about to willingly be your human juicebox.”

“I was not-“

“Hepburn?” Eddie asks as you start to protest something you’re not even sure you can. “Is that your name, slayer?”

“Not a slayer,” you clarify again.

“And that didn’t answer my question,” Eddie raises his eyebrows in the mirror, gaze on the back of your ear, your throat. If you couldn’t glance up and see where he was looking you were sure you’d be able to feel the heat of his stare anyways.

Warmth prickles at your skin, and goosebumps rise to the surface in a trail from your ear, down your throat, across your collarbone as you imagine his mouth following that same-

“Can we,” Eddie clears his throat, he pulls at his collar, “Can we open a window or something?”

“Did you…” your breath comes sharper, words caught in your throat before you can ask him anything about the sensation on your skin. You grip the steering wheel tighter when images of his mouth moving lower break up the two lane highway in flashes.

Steve’s lips twitch when your body shivers, and you beg through gritted teeth, “Steve. Put a second bracelet on him.”

“I’m not…I’m not doing, it’s you…I won’t hurt…” Eddie puts his head between his legs and groans, like he’s in the worst pain of his life, or like he’s in the best-

“Fucking hell. Sweetheart, relax. Your pulse is…”

Steve’s lips part as your head hits the back of the seat, your neck extended as your mouth falls open and your leg flexes when you swear you feel a prick on your neck and you whine.

The bright yellow lights of a familiar restaurant break up the dark sky and road and your speedometer drops quickly from the 90 it had climbed to as you signal your exit despite no cars being around, whipping the car onto the exit ramp.

“What are you…” Steve starts, stopping when Eddie sits up again and pokes at his teeth with his tongue, wincing as he grips the edge of the seat.

“Steve? That’s your name?” He gasps, blinking rapidly, “Put the second bracelet on me, man.”

The car slams to a stop in front of the Waffle House and you toss the burner that had been in the cupholder to Steve.

“Call Hop. Tell him he needs to send someone else to drive him or pick me up. Now.”

When you step out of the car and the cool Autumn air does nothing to soothe your skin that’s slick with sweat, you slam the driver’s door. The minute it closes, it’s like a switch is flipped and when you look in the backseat, Eddie’s shoulders visibly relax at the same time yours do.

Steve’s mouth moves, and you can’t hear it, but you know he said exactly what you’re thinking.

What in the actual fuck just happened?

thank you for the original request for "ghosts" with eddie - I know it's not *technically* about ghosts and the creel house is just barely a part of this, but I promise Jason and Eddie/reader/Jason things will be a theme in the full story

[executiveibex]

if yesterday you had presented me with PARTIZAN 33 and Twilight Mirage 53 and asked me which one was the more stressful listening experience, i would have absolutely said PZN 33 no contest but toDAY?? absoLUTELY TM 53 because, instead of staring into middle distance on the couch because i was too stressed about the Glory fight to embroider, i had to be at WORK and acting LIKE i was working when "Our Flaws In A Vacuum, or The Promise We Made To Each Other" started playing!

[cursedcola]

Prompt: Couples will evidently begin to mimic their better half after some time. What traits do you steal from him, and vice versa? Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: Everyone - because I want to and I’m amidst fleshing out all my Yuu/Character dynamics + designs Format: Headcannons. Masterlist: LinkedUP Parts: Heartslabyul (Here) | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia A/N: Putting all my brain rot from my notes into something cohesive. Contrary to my love for ripping your hearts out, I've come with some fluff this time around. BTW you may or may not already do things mentioned - I write my works with a specific Yuu in mind for each character so this is based on them. Just a reminder.

Habits you steal:

Plan-Books (Inherited) : Riddle habitually carries a planner with all his tasks. A physical one, not an app in his cell phone like most students choose. You find it easier to manage and swap to paper-and-pen alternatives at his recommendation.

Tidiness (Inherited): Riddle is a nit-pickier when it comes to physical presentation. His habits of pressing his uniform, laying his clothes out every night, and dressing conservatively rub off. He has a point - ironed trousers do make a difference. Every morning he will redo your uniform tie. It's never knotted to his 'standard', and is his preferred excuse to greet you before class.

"Now, isn't that better? Surely you are more comfortable in ironed linens than those rags you'd been wearing as pajamas. You seriously found them lying in Ramshackle? Were you not given an allowance to buy basic needs? Ridiculous! The Headmaster's irresponsibility holds no bounds!" <- Utterly appalled that you've been sleeping in century-old robes. He supplies you with seven sets of pajamas, a spare uniform, and an iron + board for Ramshackle. All after reaming the Headmaster for neglect in the last dorm-head meeting - either Crowley coughed up the marks or Riddle will supply from his own bank. Seven have mercy if he chooses to become a lawyer instead of a doctor.

No Heels (Developed): Riddle has a height complex. He won't make a show of it, but you wearing heels does emasculate him. Especially if you're already taller naturally. For his sake, you choose to slay your outfits in flats.

"Are those new loafers? Oh - no, they're lovely. The embroidery is exquisite and I can see why Pomefiore's Housewarden models for their brand. I merely thought you preferred the heeled saddle-shoes we saw during the past weekend trip. I must have been mistaken. Never mind me. You look wonderful."

Playing Brain Teasers (Inherited): Riddle has this thing with memory - you don't know if he's really into preventing old-age Alzheimer's or what. He carries a book of teaser games like Sudoku, etc. for when he has downtime and you eventually get into them too.

"Oh! My Rose, would you care to join me for lunch? Trey's siblings recently mailed in a large collection of cross-words. You'll find they are both educational and entertaining - hm? I do not seem the 'type' for word-games? I assure you, even I can relax on occasion. There is no need to look so surprised." <- Riddle's been making a grand effort to do things he enjoys and become more personable. Trey's siblings did not send the collection. Riddle went into town and picked it out on his own. He also found a book on organizing excursions since he's big on quality time. He is dead-set on not being a neglectful or 'boring' partner.

Swear Jar (Developed): Tired of Riddle collaring Ace for his vulgar tongue, you suggest a Heartslabyul swear jar. When the jar gets filled, the money can be used to fund things like study materials and renovations for the dorm. Riddle liked this idea, but now implements it on anyone who sets foot in the Heartslabyul. Considering you spend most of your time there, you've had to develop a vast vocabulary beyond swearing. Oh - you also unironically use the word 'fiddlesticks' now.

Habits he steals:

Useless Expenses (Inherited): You are an enabler without a doubt. Riddle has always functioned with the bare bones - with function and efficiency being the number one priority. Ever so slowly - you've spoiled him with aesthetically pleasing stationary. At first all the needless purchases felt redundant - why buy the pillowcases with flowers when plain white is cheaper? You can invest in a higher quality this way. Yet you've ruined him with gifts that he had no choice but to use. Now he needs to buy the pens with little hedgehogs on them because studying doesn't feel the same with a plain ballpoint.

Slang Dictionary (Developed): With each passing day, all the students in Heartslabyul get more creative at bending the rules. That includes you. Riddle takes it upon himself to carry a 'little-black-book' full of all the sang words he is unfamiliar with. He does want to be a bit more 'hip' to understand you more, but at the same time he wants to bust any student being a smart-mouth. It's an ongoing battle *sigh*.

"Apologies, could you repeat that term for me? Surely it must be relevant to my lecture if you and Ace are whispering. 'Let him cook'? Do you think we are in a culinary lecture?! Have you not been listening to - ah. So it's in reference to letting me finish before interrupting...One moment. I need to make a note."

Chewing Gum (Developed): This is an ode to psychology. In short, eating is tied to a person's fight-or-flight. Instincts dictate that our bodies need to be in a calm state to eat comfortably. One day when Riddle was at his wits end, you tossed him a pack of sugarless gum and told him to chew. Disregarding Trey's unholy dental screeching, Riddle develops a gum dependence for when he's stressed out. On the bright side, his jaw has never been so sharp.

“Mimicry? You must be mistaken. Even if my influence has affected their person, surely there are only positive developments” == Riddle denies any changes if confronted. In truth, he’s well aware of how much you’ve helped him grow. It’s the opposite accusation that spikes concern. Riddle does not want others thinking you’re a mini-version of him. Rumors are not kind and neither is his current reputation. Making those amends is his burden to bare. He is flattered to see you paying attention to his mannerisms, and secretly proud that your bond is strong enough to affect the psyche.

Habits you steal:

Whistling (Inherited): Trey whistles while working in the kitchen or doing general chores around the dorm. He's not very loud with it, so not may students are bothered. Since you laze about in his shadow the tunes he goes through do become repetitive. Now you do the same when cleaning up Ramshackle. Grim wants to knock you both out because he can't take it anymore.

"Ah -- How'd you know it was me in here? Just because I bake for the un-birthday parties doesn't mean I live in the kitchen, you know. My whistling? Huh. Never thought that would be my calling card but there are worse things, haha"

Head-Scratching (Inherited): Trey's got a habit of scratching the back of his head when he's uncomfortable or nervous. That, or rubbing at the nape of his neck while adverting eye contact. You start doing this too whenever you're being scolded or put in a tough situation.

Dental Hygiene (Inherited): By far the most obvious shared trait. Trey enforces his dental habits onto everyone- you are no exception. You now own four different kinds of floss, two toothbrushes (one being electric), and have a strict hygiene routine. Your pearly whites have never been so clean. Eventually you become somewhat of a secondary enforcer, policing anyone who sleeps over your dorm to take care of themselves before bed. All of Heartslabyul learns that there is no going back when you scold Riddle for not brushing after his teatime tart, and live to tell the tale.

"Hey - uh, weird question? Were you handing out floss to the Spelldrive Team yesterday? Seriously? I though Grim was pulling my leg - oh, no! It's not weird at all! Those guys should have a better routine for all the meat they eat when bulking. I'm just shocked you got through to them." <- Very proud. Mildly cocky. He's been itching to get those negligent jocks to floss after their banquets his entire tenure, but steered away from that conflict like the plague. Thank you for making his dreams come true. Now if you could maybe get them to stop picking their gums with toothpicks?

Habits he steals:

Overbuying Food (Developed): Being a baker's son, Trey's good with finances and money. He's also meticulous with the ingredients he purchases for his bakes. You are not. You go to Sam's shop, buy whatever is on sale, and then bring it back home to improvise. This ends poorly more often than not, and behold! Trey has two Ramshackle sluggers snooping around his kitchen for eats. This is unpredictable and therefore he now never knows what amount to buy. You've ruined him.

Phone Calls (Developed): Texting is easier. Especially since phone calls can be a commitment that Trey dislikes being wrapped up in. Whenever Cater's name pops up as the caller, Trey knows he's getting an ear full. The thing is that you never. answer. your. phone. Either the text gets lumped in with the hundreds of missed messages you have, or Grim stole your cell to play mobile games. So Trey gives up and only ever calls. Either Grim will answer or you'll pick up thinking it's the snooze of your alarm.

"Hello? Prefect, where are you? It's me, Trey. Just calling to see if you're still coming to the Un-Birthday party? Riddle's getting a bit nervous since the schedule's set for the next hour. Grim's already here with Ace and Deuce - uh, want Cater to send a double to pick you up? I have a sinking feeling that you're asleep...Call me? Please?" <- He was correct. You called back not a moment after, half-asleep and hauling ass not to be late.

Speaking in Propositions (Inherited): Trey's normally good at keeping neutrality in a conversation, but getting a clear answer out of Yuu you is like solving a rubix cube. Either it's easy and instant, or a long game. Eventually your habit of indecisiveness rubs off on him and he asks questions more than answers them. Evidently this gets his younger classmen to stop asking for favors unless they really need to.

“Aha - really? I didn’t notice at all. Okay. Okay, I picked up on a few hints. What’s so wrong with them taking after me? It’s cute, right?” == Trey is the observant sort that picks up on his influence quickly. Not just anyone carries floss in their pocket at all times - and the looks from his dorm-mates when you offer some up is enough for the realization to click. Trey’s used to playing the respectable sort, and finds it endearing that you’re taking his good notes to heart. In truth, most of Trey’s mimicry is intentional. He’s a flexible guy who doesn’t mind altering his habits to fit your needs. Easier this way, y’know?

Habits you steal:

Speaking in Acronyms(Inherited): Now this is scary. The first time it happened, you had to take a pause and just re-evaluate your entire life. You don't use them nearly as often as Cater does, but somewhere along the line your brain must have rewired to speak in internet lingo. O-M-G you're TOTALLY twinning with him right now, period :)

Nicknames (Inherited): Again, frightening. You once swore against ever calling him Cay-Cay. It isn't very slay-slay. Yet you can only hear him use nicknames for so long until you're unconsciously calling people by them too. Especially since he's always dishing gossip. It starts in your head, which is fine. It's not like they know. Then you call Lilia 'Lils' and that old fart is just grinning behind his sleeve because ohoho~ young love <3

"Did you just- AHA! OMG DO IT AGAIN?! Wait, gotta get my camera out for this - wha? Oh, that's totes not fair! C'mon. Call me Cay-Cay. Just once! I won't even post it to Magicam, please? Lils won't believe me without proof! Pleasssssseeeee - " <- He actually doesn't want you to call him Cay-Cay all the time. Cater likes you using his given name, since it's more personal. Although the way it obviously slipped out on accident is just too cute to ignore.

Reality TV (Inherited): At first you don't like the gossip. It's cheesy, a bit annoying, and the shaky camera-work for nearly every show is headache inducing. Cater likes his dose of drama in his free-time, and Ramshackle has a tv that no one is using. It starts with him watching while you do other things around the dorm. Yet each time you pass the living area, you take longer to leave. Lingering around like one of the ghosts. Then he pulls you in with snacks and starts giving the low-down of what's going on, pulling out a bottle of tangerine shimmer polish to paint your nails. It's just one episode, watch it for him? Please? Oh no. No. No. Suddenly you're invested in who's the baby-daddy of little Ricky and what Chantel is going to do because her sister just lost the house to foreclosure.

"#KingdomOfDeadbeats - am I right? Ugh. I'm so glad we met if that's the dating scene back home...What?! I know it isn't real! Don't be a dummy, I was just joking! Ah! Stop! Don't hit me!" <- Half-hearted jokes about going on one of those talk-shows one day. You're an alien, after all - imagine the juicy drama and views his account would get from doing an interview? It's all jokes though. Cater likes spilling the tea, but hates being it. Don't ever abandon him and go out for milk though, kay? He doesn't want to pay Grim's child support. Otherwise he might have no choice smh

Habits he steals:

Phone/Web Games (Inherited): Cater's phone is mainly full of social media. He's not too into the gaming scene, it's not his peeps y'know? Alas, you download a few dress-up games and one MMO on his phone. First off - props on getting his phone. That's Cay-Cay's lifeline and not just anyone gets to play with it. Pray tell - what is this Wonderstar Planet (props if you know what is being ref.) and how can he become the most influential digital streamer on it? Congrats. He's addicted.

"Who's this Muscle Red and why's he bombing our raid - AH! He just tea-bagged me! So not cool...Prefect? STOP LAUGHING WE HAVE BETS ON THIS MATCH! There goes my collab opportunity, big fail" <- Muscle Red continues to make an appearance. Eventually he becomes Cater's official rival on stream, and Lils is all to invested in the tea cater drops during club meets. Side note. You're the one who gave 'muscle red' Cater's domain code. The lore thickens.

Internet Caution (Developed): This goes without saying, but Cater's well-known in the Magicam scene. He's very forward and knows his way around using charisma. Since you're not in the scene as much, he becomes more cautious of where and when he does streams. The change is so subtle that only the most observant people will pick up on it - but Cay-Cay doesn't want any creepos popping in if y'know what I'm saying. His sisters were the ones to instigate this change.

“Awe~ SRSLY?! That’s fresh news to my ears but good, right? Ne, are there any clips or pics? I need my evidence, y’see. Especially if my cutie is off taking notes from their one and only. C’mon, spill the tea!” == Cheeky Cater is well aware of what’s happening. He’d humor anyone out for some light teasing - after all, he isn’t by your side at all hours. His walls are probably the second most difficult in all of campus to bypass, so he’s both sweetened and nerved to see you picking up on his mannerisms. That’s proof of a strong attachment, after all.

Habits you steal:

Knuckle Cracking (Inherited): Deuce still does this from his biker days. It could be because joint pain from past fights, or possibly air retention in his knuckles from studying. Regardless, Deuce cracks his knuckles at least once every few hours and you began to mimic him. Some people groan at the popping sounds but it really does feel good to release the tension. Let's just hope neither of you dislocate any fingers on accident.

"Stop that! G-geez, you nearly gave me a heart attack. Thought you broke a finger...your hands are stiff? That just means you're studying a lot! I think...uh, let's break? I think there's some leftovers in the kitchen." <- Deuce 100% gets needing to pop those air bubbles. His hands get stiff from studying all the time, but don't crack them too much or you might dislocate something. Side note - he shows you how to wrap your fingers with a soothing salve. He used to do it after fights, but now it's a great help after class.

Double Notes (Developed): Deuce tries. He really does. Yet the lad just isn't great when it comes to book smarts. Seeing that he is dedicated to turning over a new leaf, you make a habit of copying all your notes. He isn't allowed to share them with Ace or Grim - else all bets are off. Sometimes you leave little 'good job' stickers on the last page for him. Is he a toddler? No. Does he peel the stickers off and save them? Totally. He is a good noodle. Suck it Ace.

Sewing (Developed): He breaks things. Most of the time it's an accident. You've learned to carry a mini-sewing kit for all the rips in Deuce's uniform. Same for mini remedies for stains and other problems. It's not like he's trying to get grass stains all over his under-shirt or to split the seam in his gloves (nearly every week). It just happens, and every time he comes to you with a kicked-puppy look with a promise of it being the last time. It is never the last time.

"Uhm...hun'? It happened again. I'm so sorry for bothering you but Housewarden is going to kill me if he sees the tear in my blazer! Can you fix it?! I can't handle another collar with my exam tomorrow! I need to breathe to focus! - really!? I owe you one! Snacks are on me tonight."

Habits he steals:

Bottomless Stomach (Developed): Have leftovers from dinner? Bring them over. He'll get the tubba-ware back in 1-2 days. Coupon for buy-one-get-one at Sam's? He'll take the extra and polish it off in less than a minute. Deuce becomes a human garbage disposal and is taking the unwanted condiments off your sandwich to eat. Just pick them off and leave 'em on the corner of his lunch plate. Even if he dislikes it, he'll down it so you don't have to.

"Mm. Oh, thanks hun' - its that all you're eatin'? You don't like the steam bun? It is a bit dry, but wasting food is disrespectful to the cooks! I'll finish it for you so have my fruit instead. You still need to eat" <- 10/10 very thoughtful and not picky at all. He is grateful to eat your cooking and will gobble up all leftovers at Ramshackle, but doesn't think twice to sharing meals in the cafeteria. He will notice though if you do not eat enough. Restocks the snack cabinet if he sees it's empty. Is touched if you routinely share things you know he enjoys, like saving half your frittata on purpose.

Early Riser (Inherited): See - even if you hate the mornings, there is no choice at Night Raven College. As Ramshackle Prefect you need to be up to take care of business before class. Deuce becomes your personal alarm clock because he wants some time with you before everyone else joins in. Mind you that he lives with three other dudes who threaten to end him every morning because his alarm wakes them up too. Eventually he can wake up without it, but the time leading is unpleasant.

"W-what? Seriously? I've been trying to be more like them! They're a good person and responsible so I've been trying to follow their example. To think we've been doing the same thing this entire time...." == Why would you ever imitate him? He's been trying his damn best to become an honor student worth respecting, and has a long way to go. To think you're comfortable enough with him to mimic his mannerisms? It's a pipe dream, one he doesn't grasp until it's put right in front of his face. You don't let anyone else pick off your plate other than Grim. The next time his clothes tear, he's already handing off his tie before realizing just what's happening. When you wrap his knuckles after a six-hour lock in at the library? He can't help but feel proud at how neat the bandages are. Suddenly the dark memories of hiding bruised knuckles from his mom are pacified with healing balm. Deuce views this development as a gift, and is grateful. Very, very grateful.

Habits you steal:

‘I owe you’ cards (Inherited): Ace's favorite social invention - the 'solid'. Nothing spells new-low like getting your friends to do stuff in exchange for a favor in the future. Most of the time Ace counts on people forgetting he owes them one, but you're not so gullible. The only difference between you both is that while Ace never fulfills his solid, you have a conscience. Give it a few more years. He'll get ya.

"I know this is the third ticket this week but - Oh! C'mon, cut a guy some slack, would you? I'm sorry for bein' late to our date. Yeah, it was shitty. I'm not trying to fight it, aright? I'm here now so let's have some fun and you can chalk three strikes on my tab. I'll even buy ya some candy - Ah! Okay! Two candies but that's where my charity ends!" <- Evidently, the 'I-owe-you' tabs cancel each other out from how often you both call in favors. It's just an excuse to do acts of service or express apologies without being too mushy. Ace is definitely keeping a track record of them though. Expect an ongoing log that dates back to the week you met, when he showed up homeless, collared, and looking to couch surf.

Profanity (Inherited): Ace swears like a sailor. Maybe not so much in his dorm because *cough* he's being policed. He holds no such reservations when you're both alone at Ramshackle. Unfortunately his potty mouth has a mind of it's own - it taints you, and you are a sham of a prefect. Ace earned a week-long collar for teaching you some Twisted-Wonderland exclusive curses. Riddle is not pleased.

Leaving the Windows Unlocked (Developed): There are only so many times he can sneak in through your window before the adrenaline-induced charm wears off. You have class in the morning, and can't be bothered to deal with him on nights he can't pass out in his dorm. Thank seven you have all of Ramshackle to yourself - because Heartslabyul sounds like a nightmare with the roommate situation. You can't leave the front door open for obvious reasons, but most nights the guest-bedroom window will be left slightly ajar in case he needs a place to crash.

"Pssst! Oi! Prefect! ...ugh, Grim! Wake them up, man! The latch is stuck. Don't go back to bed you furball! HEY! IT'S FREAKIN COLD OUT HERE SO LET ME IN ALREADY" <- Please let him in. If Ace has to spend one more night in that stinky dorm with three dudes, he'll string one of their dirty gym socks over your bed. No mercy.

Sleeping with Earplugs (Developed): Bitch Ace snores.

Habits he steals:

Notes Memo (Developed): Ace is bad with remembering things. Anniversaries? Dates? Allergies? He admits to not putting in a great amount of effort, but you can't say he doesn't try at all. He has a notes block on his phone dedicated to things like your go-to takeout orders and preferences. He even has a few alarms set days before any important events because even if you say no-gifts or plans...yeah, he's not that stupid.

Excessive Yawning (Inherited): You're always tired - it wasn't Ace's problem before but now he does feel a bit guilty. Dragging you into his messes felt different when you were just the prefect, y'know? Regardless, it's human instinct to mimic each other's demeanor so he'll openly yawn all the time - normally in succession of you.

"Hey...you're dozing off again. Am I seriously that boring to hang around? - Nah. Just messin' with you. I'd suggest taking a nap during next period but I doubt a goody-goody like you is gonna take that advice. Let's just ditch juice at lunch and go back to the dorm. Don't get mad if I forget to wake you up though"

Medications (Developed): Ace is the last person to become a human apothecary, but he's always got a pack of pain-reliever meds in his pocket with a few bandages, etc. He also attached one of those tiny capsule bottles to his keyring with some stomach meds inside. You took a spill running laps? Dang man. That sucks. Here's a band-aid for your knee. Curse you for making him the slightly-more responsible one.

"Eh..what, like it's a shock? You saying I'm a bad influence? Cause yeah, that checks. Nothin' I can do if they want to take a card outta my deck though," == Ace is entirely neutral on the topic. He is definitely smug that you're coming over to the dark side, but he doesn't need anyone to point it out. He was your first after all. Maybe the start could have been a bit better - but hey, you came around. It's not like he's hurting anyone by helping build your backbone. Although Ace will instantly deny going soft for you in any way, shape, or form.

[iamred-iamyellow]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Close To You

♥ masterlist

♥ pairing: oscar piastri x lily zneimer x f!singer!webber!reader

♥ synopsis: as the daughter of mark webber you got to know oscar piastri pretty quick and soon enough the two of you were dating. no one had known that you both were also dating lily, leading everyone to believe the leaked pictures of her and Oscar was evidence he was cheating on you. they couldn’t have been more wrong

♥ smau - fc: gracie abrams - none of the pictures are mine

♥ warnings: swearing and hate comments !!!

♥ a/n: my first poly fic! ty to bestie liz and cleo for hyping me up <3

liked by aussiegrit, oliviarodrigo, taylorswift and 656,305 more

y/n.webber channel that sad energy into a song queen

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user8 hope you're doing well 💛

user3 ilyy

user6 pls shes so unserious 😭

user5 that's so real

user9 wait so did her and her boyfriend break up?

user2 I'm pretty sure. everyone's been speculating it and they haven't been seen together in a long time

user1 is she making a new album ???

user10 liv and tay in the likess 🫶

user7 I still can't believe she's mark's daughter omggg

user12 those family genetics 😍

user2 we love you <3

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by oscarpiastri, oliviarodrigo, and 583,694 more

y/n.webber cut my hair in the way that i've wanted

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user9 change my number and bury my wallet !!!

user8 augusta <3

user12 LOVE

mclarenf1 we'll see you at the GP

y/n.webber <3

user10 shut up y/n is gonna be there?

user6 I thought she had a concert that day?

user1 @/user6 she has one the night before :)

user5 no bc how is she so pretty

user13 oscar in the likes 👀

user7 GORGEOUS

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by y/n.webber, user7, user12 and 502,669 more

f1gossip mark, y/n, and oscar are ready for the australian grand prix

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y/n.webber @/aussiegrit I'm starting to think you like Oscar more than me :(

oscarpiastri he does ❤️

yourusername 🖕

user8 now kiss

user14 enemies to lovers

user4 my favorite australian trio

user1 why'd he have to shave his beard 😔

user9 THE CAT

user2 oscar and mark pookie off

user10 everyone pray for an oscar home race podium

user3 🕯️oscar home race win 🕯️

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by oscarpiastri, aussiegrit, and 703,562 more

y/n.webber date night <3

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user7 I love how she doesn't even have to tell us she's dating oscar because we all just know

user9 THEM WATCHING TANGLED 😭🫶

user3 oscar getting her lilies :')

y/n.webber actually I got him lilies

oscarpiastri 🧡

*liked by original poster*

user4 this is the cutest shit I've ever seen

user1 mark in the likesss looks like oscar has the stamp of approval

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by y/n.webber, aussiegrit, and 750,683 more

oscarpiastri lando crashed our date

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landonorris I did not "crash" your date I just happened to be there.

oscarpiastri as if you didn't follow us

y/n.webber @/landonorris you LITERALLY crashed into the back of my kart

mclarenf1 lando we talked about your internet stalking problem.

user8 PLEASE 💀

user6 why'd they have to call him out like that 😭

user2 the admins are my favorite part of the f1 cinematic universe

-A Few Months Later-

liked by aarondessner, taylorswift, and 984,059 more

y/n.webber The Secret Of Us is out now! The songs on this album are a collection of my life these past few months and I’m so excited to share them with you all. Special thank you to @/aarondessner and @/taylorswift I love you both 💛

view comments

user1 I hope she rips oscar to shreds

user7 y/n better than revenge era

user9 !!!

user3 girl you can do so much better than o***r

user12 I'm so ready to scream and cry to this

user2 I cannot believe he cheated on her

user16 out of all the guys on the grid OSCAR?!?!

user11 kitten I'll be honest I'm still not over good riddance 😔

user8 LMAO

user9 so true 😭

user15 hyped af for the taylor collab

user16 the fact that she's the daughter of mark, the man who supported him since day one and he STILL cheated on her is CRAZYY

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by taylorswift, oliviarodrigo, and 985,750 more

y/n.webber throwback to my time at last year's era's tour. I'm so glad to be back 🩷

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taylorswift were so glad to have you <3

*liked by original poster*

oliviarodrigo miss youuu

yourusername I miss you too babes

user9 "and you knew my last love let me down" OSCARRRRAHHH

user7 AND I BET HES AT HER PLACE RIGHT NOW

user10 I'm so excited to see you

user16 he fumbled so hard

user4 we love you <3

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by oscarpiastri, lilyzneimer, and 1,194,203 more

y/n.webber I understand that, without my agreement, @/f1gossip put out a post a week ago that said Oscar Piastri was cheating on me. This is wrong and I am in a happy relationship with both Oscar and Lily. He did not cheat on me. 

view comments

lilyzneimer I love you 🩷

y/n.webber I love you more

user7 😨

user1 I'm not even sure what to say

user12 I'm so sorry oscar we weren't familiar with your game 😭

user3 I-

user6 in true bi panic fashion

user4 FUCK 😭

user19 everyone say sorry Oscar

user2 sorry oscar

user5 we're sorry Oscar :(

user13 WE DIDN'T KNOW WE SWEAR

user10 sorry Oscar 😔

user21 💖💜💙

user23 the @ is such a boss bitch move

user8 saying sorry to Oscar online isn't enough I need to revoke my statements in a court of law

user7 same

liked by lilyzneimer, y/n.webber, alexandrasaintmleux and 884,472 more oscarpiastri flowers for my favs 💐

view comments

y/n.webber my loves 🩷

lilyzneimer 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

user7 my favorite throuple

user23 as if you weren't hating on oscar yesterday

user7 and I am deeply ashamed

user12 we said we're sorry :(

user6 yea oscar x lily x y/n are cute but wheres mark x fernando x taylor

user9 as in swift? 😭

user6 yes.

alexandrasaintmleux you three are so cute

y/n.webber <3

[arieslost]

the other papaya | op81

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader (brief pato o’ward x fem!reader)

summary: something something the first five times you hear the name “oscar piastri” and the one time you say it

wc: 3,165

warnings: mention of covid lockdown, a wee bit o’ angst, drinking

masterlist — join my tag list here!

© arieslost 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

The first time you heard Oscar Piastri’s name, it was said in contempt.

You knew your boyfriend didn’t hate him, but you also knew that Pato could practically hear the phone ringing with the offer to drive for McLaren in F1 right up until he found out that the seat was going to someone else. To Oscar Piastri. The “kid,” as he so aptly referred to him.

“He’s only two years younger than you,” you admonished him one night, soon after the announcement was made public.

“Exactly. A kid.”

“I’m two years younger than you.” You said, and that made him wrinkle his nose.

“Point taken.”

You would describe your relationship with Pato O’Ward as puppy love. Things between the two of you escalated a little too quickly, as many things in 2020 did. You went from going on a whopping four dates by the end of 2019 to living together for the foreseeable future when everything went on lockdown. Your mother had voiced her concern about it, but if you didn’t live with him you didn’t really have anywhere else to go. Besides, you liked each other so much that it only made sense that you continued to build your relationship in the comfort of his spacious apartment. The two of you settled into a decent rhythm, and you took the time to learn more about motorsport. When he was finally able to hit the track again, you went to every race you could, decked out in papaya, cheering him on no matter what. And you continued to do so even though he lost his chance at driving in F1 to “the kid.”

The second time you heard Oscar Piastri’s name, it came from the man himself when you ran into him at the 2024 Australian Grand Prix.

It was the first time you felt rather hesitant about going to a race with your boyfriend. Pato was welcomed to the McLaren F1 team as a reserve driver, and that was how you found yourself feeling extremely out of place in the McLaren garage. You met Oscar’s girlfriend before you met him, and while she was kind enough to get you a pair of headphones and offer to sit with you during the race, the entire interaction had you feeling like you should’ve just stayed back at the hotel. All the other WAGs were dressed to the nines, looking effortlessly beautiful, and you were wearing ripped jeans and a jersey with Pato’s number on it, like you always did, even though he wasn’t racing. With Pato busy in a debrief, you were busy just trying to stay out of the way and not stick out like a sore thumb.

“Excuse me,” someone said, and you assumed you were in the way, so you apologized and started moving when the person grabbed your arm to stop you. “No, sorry, I just– hi. You’re Pato’s girlfriend, yeah?”

Your eyes widened when you recognized the man talking to you. “Um… yes, I am.”

“I’m Oscar. Piastri,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” you nodded, accepting his handshake and telling him your name in return. “Are you here to tell me I need to leave?”

“What? No, of course not. Pato told me you were here, so I wanted to come say hi.”

“Oh.” You could feel your face starting to grow hot, because you really weren’t sure what to do in this situation.

Pato lost a chance at a seat to this guy, and you remembered his disappointment well. But you didn’t expect Oscar to come up to you in a million years.

“That’s really nice of you,” you continued, trying to smile without looking too awkward. “Congrats on getting the seat. You must be pretty talented.”

“Ah, thanks.” He looked at you for a moment, and you looked back. “Anyway, I just wanted to say hi.”

You giggled in spite of yourself. “You said that already.”

“Right, yeah. Well, it was nice to meet you,” he said, hesitantly tacking your name onto the end of his sentence. “Thanks for being here.”

“Nice to meet you too, Oscar. Good luck today.”

Two races later, Pato messaged him to congratulate him on his podium, and you mentioned wanting to thank and congratulate him yourself. You got Oscar’s number, and after his quick response, the conversation died out, just as you expected. You didn’t have anything else to say to him anyway, but soon after, you got a follow request from him on Instagram. You accepted without a second thought– just one papaya supporting another.

The third time you heard Oscar Piastri’s name, it was when a TikTok showed up on your feed talking about the “shocking split” between him and his girlfriend. You were reasonably surprised; his girlfriend was beautiful and kind, and from an outsider’s perspective they seemed quite happy with each other. The video went on to discuss speculation that his girlfriend was the one who had ended the relationship, and there were pictures of him looking visibly upset at the latest race. You closed the app, feeling like you were massively invading his privacy even though the first thing you saw upon opening Instagram was a statement on his story confirming the breakup. You couldn’t imagine what he was going through.

“Ah, so you saw, too,” Pato said, adjusting his workout clothes as he leaned over your shoulder.

“It’s terrible,” you sighed, shutting your phone off. “They seemed so happy together.”

“High school sweethearts, too. That makes it worse.”

You gave him a look. “You can feel bad for him, y’know.”

“I do!” Pato raised his hands with a laugh. “But if he wants to sit out of a race because of this, I won’t be upset.”

“You’re terrible, get out of here.” You shoved him playfully, and he left with a kiss on your forehead.

The last race weekend before summer break brought you a taste of the heartbreak Oscar went through only a couple months prior.

Pato had been in one of the older cars running some tests, and came home a little later than usual. He didn’t even answer your question of how his day was before he was sitting you down on the couch and looking anywhere but at your face.

“Pato, what’s going on? You’re kind of freaking me out,” you laughed nervously.

“I think we should break up.” He said, face stony.

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a little while,” he began, “and I think it’s for the best.”

“How long is ‘a while’?” You asked, shifting away from him as you felt your heart begin to pound.

“Ever since I became a reserve driver.” He confessed, and you scoffed.

“Are you serious right now?”

“This is the closest I’ve ever been to a F1 seat.” He said, like that made breaking up logical.

“Yeah, I know. And you know how I know? Because I’ve been around for years.” You hissed, standing up and walking towards the bedroom. “But I guess that means nothing to you.”

“Don’t be like that,” Pato protested, following close behind. “This is my career. I don’t want to risk anything.”

“Right. Of course.” You nodded, moving about the room to collect as much of your stuff as you could with shaking hands.

The rest of the week went by in a blur. You packed up all your things and took the soonest flight to Australia to try and forget about the fact that Pato had just thrown away years of being together for a fleeting chance at driving a stupid race car.

The fourth time you hear Oscar Piastri’s name, it’s on the other end of the phone.

The two weeks following your breakup are uneventful and entirely consist of you, the warm Australian sun, and the spare bedroom in your aunt and uncle’s house. You haven’t deleted any of your IndyCar posts, nor have you posted any more. In fact, you haven’t posted anything since the last time you were in Australia, only a few months ago. Your Instagram has become stagnant; a reflection of your real life. You haven’t told many people about your breakup, so you’re surprised when your phone rings. Even more so when you see who it is.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Oscar. Piastri,” he adds his last name like an afterthought, just like he did when he introduced himself in the garage.

“I know,” you say, pushing yourself into a sitting position on your bed. “Caller ID. Although you’re probably the last person I’d expect a call from.”

“Listen, are you not around anymore?” He asks, evidently not in the mood to beat around the bush. “I haven’t seen you, and you haven’t posted about IndyCar or anything.”

“Ah, um, yeah, no, I’m not.” You clear your throat uncomfortably. “Actually, Pato and I broke up. Well, he broke up with me. So, no reason for me to be around, I guess.”

“Oh,” Oscar says, his loud sigh crackling through the microphone. “I figured something was wrong. Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. I’m uh… I’m sorry too. Seemed like you had a good thing going.”

“Thanks. Seemed that way for you, too,” he mumbles. “So… I guess things have really been sucking for both of us lately.”

“Pretty much.” You laugh.

“This is a terrible idea,” he begins after a moment of silence, “but are you in Australia right now?”

You debate lying to him, because it is a terrible idea, and you have a feeling you know what he’s going to say next. You don’t care. “I am.”

“Alright, well, it’s summer break for F1 right now, and to be honest you’re the only person I know that understands what I’ve been going through.”

“Are you asking me to be your wallowing buddy?” You ask.

“Something like that. My plan was pretty much along the lines of drowning our sorrows in alcohol.” You can hear the smile in his voice, and for some reason that does you in.

The fifth time you hear Oscar Piastri’s name, it’s through a cheap karaoke microphone.

You’ve lost count of how many days you’ve spent with him, and you feel like you’re still a little drunk from the night before when he breaks open a bottle of champagne.

“What is this, a celebration?” You ask, stretching your arms and legs out so you look like a starfish where you lay on the living room floor.

“It’s whatever the fuck we want it to be.” He takes two glasses and pours the champagne out.

You giggle at him while he dramatically sets them both down on the coffee table at your side. “You definitely pregamed before you got here.”

“I did not,” he protests, but you shake your head.

“No, no, you say curse words like that when you’re drunk.”

“Like what?”

“Like, ‘oh my God, this champagne is so fucking good.’” You mock him after taking a sip, and he starts laughing too.

“Fine, you caught me.” He throws his hands up. “I pregamed. But, I walked here, so who cares?”

You’re glad that your aunt and uncle are out for the night, because a few hours and countless glasses of champagne later find the both of you in the attic, discovering a karaoke microphone without a machine to match.

“Screw the machine, we don’t need the shitty machine,” Oscar rolls his eyes, watching you put batteries into the microphone. “We’ll just find something on YouTube. Does it work?”

You flip the switch and hold it up to your mouth. “HELLO? It works.”

You regret putting fresh batteries into it as soon as Oscar gets up to sing. You think that he might not be half bad if he’s sober, but drunk, his singing is absolutely insufferable. You would care if you weren’t equally as drunk as him. He pulls up a karaoke video of Last Friday Night by Katy Perry, only after getting you to swear on the lives of your entire family that you won’t tell anyone what you see or hear. You consider secretly recording him, but the second he starts, you’re practically folded in half from laughing so hard at his antics and the fleeting idea is gone.

He’s so dramatic with every lyric, like he’s trying to act all the words out while he’s singing about a stranger in his bed and pink flamingos in his (nonexistent) pool. When he gets to the part of the chorus talking about taking too many shots, he gestures for you to hand him the champagne bottle. You hand it over immediately and watch as he stops singing entirely to take a long drink straight from the bottle, ignoring how attractive he looks the whole while. You actually think that you’d really like to kiss him. You’re drunk, and you’re heartbroken. You just want to laugh and forget about it all. So when he chokes on the champagne for a moment and flounders to find where he’s supposed to be in the song, you do just that.

The song ends both too soon and not soon enough, and you give him a round of applause, chanting, “Encore!” a few times as he takes a bow.

“I’m Oscar Piastri,” he yells, “and I fucking hate relationships!”

You cheer loudly. “Speak on it!”

“Except I have a problem,” he says, all of a sudden dejected as he flops onto the couch beside you, still speaking into the mic. “I have a biiiig, huuuuge problem.”

“Tell the all-knowing, and she shall answer,” you turn onto your side to face him and reach out to… you don’t remember what you wanted to do. Maybe touch his cheek. Or his nose. Or his lips.

Your hand ends up resting on the top of his head, fingers tangled in the soft strands of his hair.

“I think I might really like you,” he whispers, his words muffled by his lips smushing against the top of the mic. “Which is not good. I mean, it’s good, like, I think you’re amazing, but it’s not good, because I broke up and then you broke up, so we both broke up, but not with each other, with other people, and–”

You cut him off by taking the mic from him with your free hand and switching it off.

“Sorry.” He says, blinking at you slowly. “Do we have to talk about this?”

“We do,” you begin, petting his head. “Eventually. But not now. I am way too drunk to talk about this.”

This makes him start giggling, so you start giggling, and then you’re both cackling and clutching your stomachs.

You want to laugh, and forget about it, and you want to do it every single day with Oscar.

The first time you say the name Oscar Piastri, it’s while you’re laying in a hospital bed.

You’ve always been notorious for getting easily bruised, but breaking a bone is a first. Especially when it happens in the public eye.

You were only trying to make a cute, aesthetic TikTok showcasing your first race weekend as Oscar’s official girlfriend when you tripped and fractured your ankle in front of half the McLaren team. Not to mention the throng of fans mere feet away.

The two of you didn’t start dating until half a year after his drunken confession, and when you first started going out you had to be very discreet so fans didn’t expose the both of you before either of you were ready. Most of your dates ended up being at your aunt and uncle’s, which had become your home too once you got a job and started really getting yourself together after your breakup. He flew out to see you all the time, and as soon as he suggested that you come with him to the race of the season, you jumped on the opportunity. You didn’t think you’d ever go to a race again, but here you were. You were both happy, and you were both ready.

And now you’re fuming, mentally cursing yourself as you look down at your boot-covered ankle that has now effectively ruined your entire weekend.

Oscar comes rushing into the room, and you hold up a hand.

“Don’t tell me. Do not even tell me.” You shake your head. “Just tell me if it’s somewhat safe to go online or if I should just throw my phone out.”

“What?”

“I know people are talking about it. Oh, no.” Your eyes widen. “No, no. I’ve become a public embarrassment for you. I knew it. It only took me a few hours.” You cover your face with your hands. “Oh, my God… I am so sorry.”

“Again, what?” He asks, prying your hands away. “Baby, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, aside from that,” you gesture to the boot, glaring at it before your eyes shoot back up to him. “Wait a second, how did quali go? Did you do your media stuff already?”

“I’m starting P5. I came here right after, no media.” He rushes out, pulling up a chair so he can sit right next to you and hold your hand. “They’re letting you go, right?”

“Yeah, just have to do some paperwork and get a prescription– why didn’t you go to the media?”

“Because they told me you got hurt? And you needed to be hospitalized?” He says, like it’s obvious.

“Oz, you get fined for that!” You exclaim. “Oh, no, this is so bad! First I embarrass you– no, not just you, probably the entire team, and now you’re here and not there and you’re going to get in trouble… fuck, what if you get fired?!”

“Baby, baby,” Oscar laughs, grabbing both of your hands now. “I’ll get fined, but I’m not gonna get fired just because I skipped media one time. Zak was fine with it, if that makes you feel better.”

You’re still worried, and he can see it in your eyes.

“What’s got you so worked up about this?” He asks softly.

“I just… don’t want to be a risk towards your career.” You say, feeling ashamed that you can still hear Pato’s words from the day he broke up with you. Oscar knows immediately.

“Oh, honey,” he sighs, leaning in and kissing you on the lips, and then your nose. “None of this means anything if I don’t have you.”

You’re still taking it slow, but this is the closest either of you have come to saying “I love you” without saying it, so you pull your hands from his and cup his cheeks to pull him into another kiss.

“Oscar Piastri, you are my whole world.”

Ten minutes later, Lando comes bursting into the room with such aggression that he almost faceplants, and he makes so much noise that a nurse runs into the room looking highly concerned.

So, you laugh, and you forget about it, and you do it with Oscar at your side, where you know he’ll stay for the rest of your lives.

note: this was a bitch to write. also i was gonna make a layout for this but i really wanted to post it tonight so it is sans layout and was edited like a half hour before it’s scheduled to post. all that being said, i hope u enjoyed!!

my inbox is always open for comments, criticism, and conversation! feel free to pop in!

reblogs are greatly appreciated <33

dividers by @/saradika

tags: @venusacrossthestars @67-angelofthelordme-67 @emails-i-can-send @nelly187 @cixrosie @fangirl-dot-com @sainzluvrr @imheretoread @mellowarcadefun @yourbane @monsieurbacteria6 @c-losur3 @papayatori @ssprayberrythings @namgification @maih23 @evlkking @witchycarmen @ilovethispookie @maxverstappenfan79 @sya-skies @sweatrevenge5436-blog @kimis-gloves @mia-rrrs @decafmickey @customsbyjcg-blog @bigheartsthings @tania2748 @scuderiadevils @iloveyou3000morgan @ctrlyomomma @hiireadstuff @daemyratwst @arian-directioner @evelyn-ny @avg-golden-retriever

[methoughtsphantom]

halfas are the found family trope foster child

they all adopt each other. it’s the reason Vlad wanted so badly to have Danny as his son and the reason Danny immediately went with sure you’re my cousin now with Dani. it’s a survival mechanism from being so very few of their species. Sooo, halfa!Jason except he sorta isn’t yet cause Jason’s core is extremely ruptured from the lack of ectoplasm involved in his forceful resurrection. So when Danny finds Jason in his catatonic state he can’t quite tell the dude’s been dead and remains some, just that the guy for some reason seems very friend-shaped. Danny doesn’t mind his friend is braindead, and is also a john doe, he gives familiar vibes and that’s apparently enough for Danny to constantly find himself in the hospital doing his engineering homework on the room with the guy, and talking for hours about the updates on the absolute clusterfuck of the city and how he was from a freaking ghost town and he can almost even draw comparisons. he blabbers about how he’s not homesick enough times to even corner himself to talk about a ghost lore many times and how he’s just finding himself a little more prone to violence and in constant pain since none of the people he has adopted as his family are here with him and he can’t consider a place a lair if there’s isn’t someone of his in it.

But Danny could never drag someone with him just because of some it, after all it was Danny’s choice to come to Gotham to collage and not stay where at least his parents (good parents Jack and Maddie) were in Amity.

Ironically, Danny essentially can’t feel that his core has been spoon feeding ectoplasm to Jason. As months go on, the little ball of energy builds in anticipation practically vibrating in the waiting pulse of something (Danny doesn’t know but more often than not has he found himself laughing in happy confusion. it weirds him out in a good way) It’s really that he’s feeling the slow healing process of his friend (brother brother brother) ‘s core.Imagine it’s just about to properly, correctly heal when canon strikes back and Jason gets snatched by League assassins. Danny is left feeling like his core got torned out. His core had spend months helping another’s only to feel the other’s imprint and to not be able to protect it in return is— forget it being an obsession; thats like having your newborn baby being ripped out of your arms. An all assuaging feeling of helplessness that is devastating. Danny just beginning to feel like home lair when out of nowhere the rug is swept under him. Danny suddenly struggling to not flunk all his classes and beat every single liminal that he can feel crossing paths with him to the ground. Danny suddenly having his chronic pain (that hadn’t been so bad lately) dialed up to the point that there are just bearable and bad days.

The worse thing is he doesn’t know why.

Jason had only been a guy.

…

It’s only a three weeks before Jazz tells him she accepted a job offer in Gotham.

(and the guilt only makes him feel worse when he can feel himself feel better because of it)

…

now

whimsical time skip ✨

Danny is now on his feet again and friends with a Wayne of your choice (or maybe they were friends a little before Jay dissapeared and it was badTM cause Waynes? liminal 🥲) Danny definitely didn’t enjoy snapping off to his friend like that. anyways it’s been a year since that and he and his friend are having a grand time playing civvies, uhh let’s say dick because I want them to meet while ice skating, Also Dick because he definitely turns a blind eye when Danny goes airborne for a second there yep. He’s just having too much fun.

anyways as alwaysTM Danny doesn’t clock celebrities and like why would he, Dick is just the random guy who’s was fast to turn Danny’s slow day in the ice ring into a competition one day and brighten when Danny matched up his puns. So he totally doesn’t get why the guy’s so gloomy one day, anyways as you can figure, it’s Jason’s deathday and Dick is a deprecating bean, Danny tries to cheer him up by having him remember his brother instead and Dick attempts to, but even skipping through some photos in his phone make his eyes burn.

It is because of that that he doesn’t notice Danny absolutely freeze up at the photo of his friend Jay (Jay because he’s a John Doe, but that’s just too impersonal and so the first letter is J *wink wink*)

Danny absolutely doesn’t know what to do with this information, barely catches himself from asking Dick how did his brother die. Most importantly when because Danny just saw Jay—Jason less than a year ago, and this somehow doesn’t feel too recent.

Annd that how we find Danny digging into the Wayne second son tragedy. Staring at the date of death while the knowledge that they met almost six months after burns his forefront of his mind. Danny spends a day going over all the questions running through his mind over how the fuck he couldn’t sense Jay was a ghost—err was… in past tense?? what the fuck?? Danny would really like a refund on his ghost sense.

Anyways Danny goes check out the grave (now that he knows there is one) and boom although intangible he somehow triggers those shitty ass sensors/alarms that somehow didn’t go off when jason was literally digging himself out.

Obviously the bats get in the case immediately. And boy are they absolutely enraged that someone would steal Jason’s body.

[lostfracturess]

symptoms and causes | ch. 11

ღ pairing professor gojo x med student reader

ღ summary he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart—and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

ღ wc 13.5 k (enjoy your meal lol)

ღ warnings [18+] this story contains substance abuse/addiction, overdosing, (rough) smut, mature themes, self-destructive and abusive behavior, manipulation, (heavy) angst, mentions of death / illness / blood, graphic medical procedures. reader discretion is advised.

ღ author's note hey loves!! thank you so much for your patience, i know it's been a while. buckle up, because we're taking another trip inside satoru's mind, so yeahhh. it's gonna be wild, oh and we're continuing right were we left off in the last chapter. this chapter is again in satoru's pov!! i've also updated the trigger warnings, so please take a look before reading (might be spoiling tho). and lastly, credit to the fanart in the cover, if you know the artist, pls let me know!! can't wait to hear what you all think & thanks for sticking with me!! ♡

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

They say before you can love someone else, you have to love yourself first.

And there lies the damn problem. 

I don't know how. 

Never have.

Why am I thinking this now? 

I knew this was right. 

Right for her. 

But then why does my heart feel like it's being ripped out by the fucking roots?

Suguru will take care of her. He always does. That's the only thing that keeps me from screaming, keeps me from chasing after her.

I trust him, damn it, but it shouldn't be him.

It should be me holding her. Me, who knows how she likes to be held when the panic claws its way up. Me, holding her until the world feels less sharp, less cruel.  

Me, who knows that she doesn't want to talk about it. Me, who knows to give her space. She needs space. My strong girl needs space first. 

I hope he gives her space.

But he wouldn't know any of this. He couldn't comfort her in the ways I instinctively knew how. 

Me, who knows how to soothe the invisible wounds, the ones even she denies exist. Me, who knows the soft words she needs to hear after it passes.

It shouldn't be him. 

Sorry. 

It shouldn't have been him.

Past tense. 

It all might be past tense now.

And the thought is more than I could bear.

Shattered. 

Was that the word?

Was there even a word for what I felt in that moment?

How could I ever convey this suffocating agony that's tearing me apart with mere words?

Words are meaningless in the end.

Meaningless when they couldn't be spoken to her, couldn't reach her, couldn't make her understand, couldn't heal the wound I'd carved into her heart.

So, yeah, maybe shattered is the right word. 

The wrong word.

The sterile air was acid in my lungs. Each ragged breath felt like sandpaper against my throat. I held my breath, a desperate plea for the world to stop spinning, for the clock to rewind, for a chance to undo everything.

But time doesn't care. 

It marched on, relentless, while I stayed trapped in this hell, drowning in the mess I made. 

My lungs burned. My vision blurred. I waited until she disappeared. The world seemed to tilt sideways, losing all color and shape, leaving only the sharp, agonizing realization that I'd made her walk away.

I didn't want to breathe anymore.

Not in a world where every breath ached without her.

"Dr. Gojo?" A voice, distant, muffled. 

Irrelevant.

My gaze flickered to Sukuna. He watched, a predator savoring the kill. 

His twisted smile fueled rage within me. But there would be no fighting this. No grand defense. Not when her life was the bargaining chip.

So, I lied. 

Each word a nail in the coffin of the connection I craved more than life itself.

Each word a drop of poison forced down my throat. A self-inflicted wound, a desperate mutilation of the only thing that had ever felt real.

Her eyes, those beautiful eyes I loved so fiercely, wide with confusion and horror. The strangled gasp, the way her body went limp in Geto's arms — a haunting image that would forever be etched on my heart.

Muscles screamed, a silent protest against my own pathetic stillness. But I remained frozen. 

This was my punishment. 

I had to watch her leave, had to sear the pain into my very being, an endless penance for the choices I'd made.

The door clicked shut behind them.

That simple sound, final, absolute.

My lungs filled with air, a betrayal. Oxygen I didn't deserve, didn't want. 

My own body, this treacherous thing kept going, kept me alive against my will, kept me tethered to this cruel reality.

The room swam back into focus, the judges' accusing faces nothing but a blurry backdrop. The sounds of their inquest washed over me like meaningless noise.

"Dr. Gojo? Can we continue?"

I nodded.

They pressed on. More questions about the research, her involvement, their accusations of favoritism.

How stupid.

Of course, I favored her. 

How could I not? 

She is everything.

Oh, sorry. Forgot. Past tense.

She was everything.

Did I regret it? 

Did I wish I could go back and treat her with the same damn indifference I afforded everyone else?

Yeah, maybe.

A familiar craving stirred my senses, the desperate need for the numbing escape that would mean failing her even more. My fingers clawed at my forearm, trying to replace the hollowness with physical pain. It wasn't enough.

My responses were rote, mechanical.

Yeah, I favored her. 

Yeah, I let her into the OR because of it.

Yeah, and she outshone every damn surgeon twice her age. 

No, she didn't know I'd set it up. 

No, she never asked for special treatment. She just worked until her eyes were bloodshot, pushing harder than anyone else.

And hell no, she didn't do a single thing wrong.

Except maybe — maybe loving me. 

After what felt like an eternity, the judges seemed satisfied, or perhaps just exhausted by my robotic replies. 

They painted me the arrogant professor with a weakness for a young student, who abused his power, who played favorites.

Whatever they wanted to believe, fine.

Didn't even have the energy to care anymore.

Let them drag my name through the mud, tarnish the reputation I'd worked so hard to build. 

Because the title, the position, the facade of success meant nothing when all I wanted was to rewind time, to undo the damage I'd done to the one person who truly mattered.

I didn't feel anymore.

I was done.

─── ·✧· ───

I burst out of the courtroom.

I needed escape, not just from this sterile prison of a room, but from my own traitorous flesh.

That itch.

It was a wildfire beneath my skin, a thousand insects gnawing their way to the surface. My fingers twitched, claws desperate to tear, to bleed out the poison of this relentless craving.

My legs moved without conscious thought, pushing me towards my office. Somewhere. Anywhere I would be able to breathe again. The guilt was a serrated blade twisting in my gut, each movement slicing me open anew.

Her terror-stricken eyes seared into my very soul.

The walls of my office closed in, the familiar space suddenly too small, too suffocating. 

My fist slammed into the desk. Papers scattered to the floor, a meaningless sea of white against the dark wood.

They didn't matter. None of it mattered.

A half-finished coffee mug followed. Porcelain shattered. Dark liquid splashed against the wall. 

My blood roared in my ears. 

Across the room, my framed diploma. I ripped it off the wall. Glass smashed. Sharp edges bit into my palm, drawing blood. But it wasn't enough. I hurled the frame against the wall.

Blood, hot and slick, coated my hands, the pain nothing.

In the shattered frame, I caught a glimpse of myself — wild eyes in a sweat-slicked face, a man on the verge of collapse.

It was a stranger.

I was across the room before I even registered the decision.

The drawer.

My fingers ripped it open. 

There, like a coiled viper, the amber vial gleamed, a venomous promise of oblivion.

Don't —

Don't come at me now. 

Did you really think I wouldn't keep a backup?

My hand reached, then hesitated.

The world lurched to a sharp halt as a knock pierced the chaos. My breath hitched, the vial a burning brand in my bloodied hand.

The door creaked open.

And there he was. Sukuna. 

He leaned against the doorframe, that sickening smirk plastered on his face. It was like a lit fuse to a powder keg. The rage that had been gnawing at my insides, tearing me apart, finally found its target.

Before a single rational thought could form, I was on him. Fist to jaw, heard the crack, felt it in my knuckles. He stumbled back, the smirk finally wiping off his face.

I pinned him against the door. Forearm across his throat, crushing his windpipe. His eyes widened, but even then, there was that damn flicker of amusement.

"Well, well," he choked out, "this is a nice welcome back."

"Funny to you?"

He coughed, a harsh laugh scraping out of him. "C'mon, Satoru, relax. I did you a favor," he sputtered. "Your precious little student, she's better off now. You know I'm right."

Every muscle in my body tensed.

He was right. 

In his twisted way, he was. 

And that's what made it all so much worse.

My grip on his throat tightened. But there was nothing, no satisfactio, no release in the violence.

Sukuna saw it, the hesitation. His mouth twisted into a smirk again. "See, you get it. Sweet thing doesn't belong in this mess, does she? It's not for her, Satoru. It's for us."

His words scraped like nails on a chalkboard. 

Yes, she was safer now, untouched by the rot that festered within me. Some desperate, logical part of me clung to that. But how could I hold on to that when my heart was screaming for her closeness?

"Or maybe," Sukuna drawled, pushing the knife deeper, "maybe you wanted to see where this goes. Stain her a bit, make her just a little bit more like you."

My breath hitched. For a split second, the floor vanished beneath me.

"Hit a nerve, did I?"

"Shut the hell up!" I couldn't face it, couldn't face the ugly truth as it would tear me apart. "You twist everything. Play with lives just for your own sick amusement."

This was his game.

Sukuna thrived on chaos, on exploiting pain. 

He knew my guilt, my fear for her, and wielded it like a scalpel, laying bare the raw nerve of my fragile sanity.

"Perhaps. But ain't I right?  You needed to end it, but you lack the guts for it. Waited a bit longer, it'd be a total disaster."

I hesitated, then my grip on him slackened. I stepped back.

"You know I'm right," Sukuna continued. "You know how this would have ended. Suspension. Scandal. She'll be doomed forever for getting involved with her professor for favors. You wouldn't destroy her like that, would you? You're not that cruel."

"I'm not so sure." I ran a hand through my hair.  It had taken everything in me to push her away. 

But I can't deny that an ugly part of me wanted to keep her close. Drag her down with me. 

See her drown.

"Damn, you hit hard," he said, rubbing his jaw. "Go beat up some students again, not me."

"Stop giving me reasons to punch you."  Exhausted, I slumped into my desk chair, burying my face in my hands. My head pounded, the infuriating itch worsening with each damn moment. "Was this your plan all along?"

"What?" he scoffed.

I lifted a single eyebrow at him.

"You think that low of me? Honestly, Toru, a bit of credit, please. It was your pathetic indecision that made this entertaining. You basically gift-wrapped this mess and handed it to me."

"Besides," he continued, "let's be honest, you were holding her back. Now maybe she'll have a chance to become someone who might surpass you one day. You wouldn't deny her that, would you? No thanks needed."

He was right, and I hated that more than anything.

Sukuna sank into the chair across from me, a picture of smug satisfaction despite the visible bruise. "Damn, that punch still stings."

I opened my desk drawer and wordlessly tossed him the bottle of opioids. His eyes widened in surprise, before he gave the bottle a knowing shake. "Still on the hydromorphone?"

I didn't answer. The sound alone threatened to shatter what fragile control I had left. The itch was unbearable, each nerve ending screaming for relief.

Sukuna observed me, a predator watching its prey struggle. "Withdrawal never suited you," he said, popping a pill. "You always get so—" he paused, savoring the word, "—tense."

"Yeah, real supportive of you."

"Actually, I'm being incredibly supportive. I'm leaving for a little research trip overseas—four months. Ethics committee can't meet without me, so—" He leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. "Gives you time to get your shit together. Isn't that nice of me?"

"Shut the hell up."

"C'mon, I put in a good word for you too. No suspension for now. You can keep teaching, just no surgeries. Yaga really hates my guts, doesn't he? But hey, at least you're not totally screwed."

"You expect a thank you?"

"Relax, Toru, the show's over," he said. "Trust me, they don't want a scandal, let alone lose their star surgeon. When I get back, a slap on the wrist, maybe a semester's suspension, then you're back to the boring old grind."

A bitter laugh escaped me. "Last I checked, you were the one pushing for a scandal."

He rolled his eyes. "Someone had to do it. Knew you'd drag this out forever, playing the tragic hero. Needed a villain to get things moving." He gave a mocking bow. "At your service, my friend."

"Also," he continued, leaning forward in his chair, "the focus is off you now. The committee's sniffing around those implant engineers. Funny, isn't it?" 

Sukuna paused, savoring the moment. "Honestly, never thought there was anything wrong with your surgeries. You wouldn't make that kind of mistake. Tech malfunction more likely."

Of course. 

The bastard never doubted the damn research. It had all been a game to him — my career, my sanity, her — just pieces on his chessboard.

It should've made me furious, lash out, pound his face in again — but all I felt was a bone-deep exhaustion, a weariness that seeped into my very soul. I was too tired, too hollowed-out to do anything but swallow the bitter truth.

"That supposed to make me feel better?" 

"A little," he said, tossing the opioid bottle back. "This, though? That'll do the trick even better."

I caught it, my fingers clenching around the plastic.

He rose, stretching with a theatrical sigh. "Well, time to go. Remember, you owe me big time. You should take one," he gestured towards the pills, "you look like shit."

My grip on the bottle tightened. I looked up at him. "When all of this is done, I never want to see your damn face again."

He laughed. "We both know that's a lie. You and me? We need each other."

"The only thing you need is some damn therapy."

"Ah, Toru," he dismissed me with a smirk, "you'll come crawling back soon enough. We both know how this works."

With that, he was gone. I was left alone in the echoing silence, the pill bottle a burning weight in my hand. The world seemed to sway around me, my eyelids growing heavy.

The will to fight simply wasn't there anymore.

─── ·✧· ───

Cruel. 

Cruel how one little pill can undo everything. 

Cruel how one little pill can silence everything. 

Cruel how one damn pill can soften the world, make it — bearable, almost.

Unfair. 

It's truly unfair.

The screaming under my skin, that relentless itch — it's still there, but it had dulled to a faint hum, pushed back by the familiar numbness.

Finally.

Oh, finally some fucking silence.

I let out a shaky breath. It wasn't peace, not really. I knew that all too well. Borrowed time, each second ticking closer to the inevitable crash, the return of that relentless screaming in my head.

But for now, it'll have to be enough.

I collapsed on the couch, smoke curling lazily before my eyes.

I knew I shouldn't mix opioids with cannabis. That's something they teach you within the first year of university. What I used to teach students within the first year of university.

What a hypocrite I am really.

Another drag — harsh, burning down my throat. 

The urge to close my eyes, to sink into oblivion, was almost overwhelming. But sleep wouldn't bring respite. Only nightmares. I knew that only too well.

So, I lay there, staring up at the ceiling.

It really came down to me failing again, huh?

What was it now?

Attempt number five? 

Six?

I started losing count.

Maybe this was my fate.

A broken record, stuck on the same damn track.

Deep down, under the chemical haze, guilt gnawed at me. It was a dull ache now, no longer the searing pain of earlier, but a constant, insidious reminder. 

She were out there, her life forever marked by my choices, while I was — here. Hiding in a haze of pills and smoke.

God, I hoped Suguru was looking after her. Making sure she ate, making sure she was safe — that she didn't hate me too much.

I brought the joint to my lips again, the smoke curling up towards the ceiling. It left an acrid taste in my mouth.

I watched my hand for a second.

Bloodied earlier, the wounds had scabbed over, the blood dried. It was perfectly still now, the trembling smoothed out by the chemicals in my blood. 

I clenched it into a fist, then unclenched, watching the movement like it belonged to someone else.

Traitor.

This body was a traitor — betrayed myself, betrayed her, betrayed everything I held dear.

Weak. 

Broken.

A pathetic mess.

Was that it?

Living as a slave to these chemicals to patch up my crumbling sanity one day at a time? 

Chained to pills, each dawn a ticking clock until the next dose, until I could silence the screaming for a few damn hours?

My eyes locked onto the half-empty vial on the table. 

Took too many, didn't I?

I knew that, even through the haze. But a cold certainty twisted in my gut. There'd be more. Always more. Until there was nothing left.

Before I could think, I threw another down my throat. Bad idea, probably, after a few clean days.

Suddenly, the haze warped, twisting into nausea. Bile rose in my throat.

I lurched to my feet, the world tilting precariously with each step. Surfaces rippled, the bathroom light stabbing into my skull.

I barely made it. My stomach heaved. Each retch wracked my body, leaving me gasping, weak.

Too many. 

Way too many.

How the hell did I forget? Forget my body's limits? Somehow, I felt like some reckless student again, stumbling through experiments, blind to the consequences.

Stupid. So damn stupid.

Darkness swam at the edges of my vision.  Another wave of nausea, and I was back, hunched over the toilet. 

I hauled myself up, hands shaking, clinging to the sink. In the mirror, a stranger stared back. Eyes bloodshot, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.

This wasn't me anymore.

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the acid burn. Didn't help. Drops of water ran down my face, felt like they were melting the damn skin off.

My knees buckled. I slid down the wall, my head heavy against the tile wall. 

The bathroom light, needles in my brain moments ago, seemed impossibly distant now. Each breath was a ragged gasp, each pulse a dull throb in my temples.

I waited for it to pass, the nausea, the haze. But as minutes crawled by, a new, searing pain gnawed at me.

My fingers trembled against my abdomen, pressing into the tender spot. Liver, of course. 

Wrecked it, just like the rest of me. I'd known the risks, had ignored the warnings, and now my body was demanding payment.

How pathetic.

Darkness gnawed at the edges of my vision, pushing back against the stubborn spots of light. My head felt heavy, detached from my body. Arms and legs useless.

Each breath a battle I wasn't sure I'd win.

Time warped. Stretching, then snapping, leaving me floating in nausea and pain. Then I heard something — muffled, distant. Footsteps, getting closer.

My eyes struggled to make sense of the shifting shadows.

Then, a voice. Soft, achingly familiar. I couldn't make out the words, but the warmth of it—

I knew that voice — would always recognize it.

Cold water hit my skin. Hands, gentle, but firm, on my face. I strained to focus, to see her, to soak in the sight I needed, yet feared more than anything.

Oh, how desperately I needed to see her. Needed her to be real.

But my eyes betrayed me.

She must be so beautiful. She always was.

Then, a touch on my outstretched leg, a flash of metal — was that a scalpel?

Agony ripped through me, shattering the haze. I jerked back, my scream ragged against the tiles. My head slammed back with sickening force.

Before I knew it, a needle pierced my skin.

The room spun as whatever she'd injected battled the comfortable blur of the pills. Nausea churned in my stomach, the numbness receding with terrifying speed.

Groaning, I shifted on the floor.

My vision sharpened, my senses returning with brutal clarity. 

The first thing I noticed was the metallic glint of the discarded syringe beside my leg. 

Then the cut, a ragged gash through the fabric of my dress pants where she'd stabbed the needle in — the unnecessarily deep and brutal cut — but in the chaos, I let it slide. Didn't even register the pain as I watched the blood drain from the cut. 

I reached for the syringe and read the label. 

Adrenaline. 

Smart girl. 

But as I turned it over, a frown creased my brow. Two fucking milliliters? Was she trying to give me a damn heart attack?

I lifted my head, the question burning on my tongue. But the words died unspoken as my gaze locked on hers. 

She stood there, just a few feet away, her breath ragged, her eyes — those pretty eyes.

Terror. 

There was raw, unadulterated terror etched in her eyes. But I was right. She looked as beautiful as ever. Even with those terror-stricken eyes she was breathtaking.

She stumbled back, slumping against the wall opposite of me with a choked gasp, pulling her knees up. I didn't move, couldn't move, my gaze locked with hers.

The terror faded slowly, replaced by a weariness that was far worse. 

For a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of that familiar defiance, the spark I both loved and feared. But even that felt strangely muted now, as if even the energy to fight had been drained out of her.

She simply watched me. In silence, in that devastating silence.

How I hated her silence.

Because her silence was far worse than anything she could have screamed, any insult she could have hurled my way. Her stillness, her silence, was the most terrifying weapon she'd ever wielded against me.

And for the first time in a very long time, I was truly afraid.

Time stretched, then I choked out, "You're angry."

Her answer was blunt, devoid of emotion. "Oh really? What makes you think that?"

I glanced down. Blood still seeped from the gash in my leg. With a trembling hand, I fumbled for a towel and pressed it against the wound. "Your cut is kinda deep. Was that on purpose?"

She didn't say anything.

It probably was on purpose.

My gaze fell on the syringe. "Where'd you get that?"

"What happened to your hand?"

"I asked first."

"Don't try to play games now, Satoru. You're walking on thin fucking ice," she snapped.

"Shattered some glass," I said after a pause ", and punched Sukuna."

"Stole it from the hospital."

"What?"

"You think I'd date an addict and not have adrenaline on hand?"

My lips twitched into a weary smile. Oh my beautiful, brilliant girl, always prepared.

"But you know, two milliliters is a bit much." I moved my leg slightly to check if she had cut any tendons, which would complicate the healing a bit. "Or are you trying to kill me?"

Her gaze pierced me, colder than any scalpel. "Looks like you're doing a fine job of that yourself."

My smile faded.

Silence.

Oh, that cruel silence again.

She didn't say anything. Maybe I should be thankful for that, because if she said anything now, I'd probably crumble completely — if I haven't already.

Ironic, wasn't it? 

How much power this woman had over me. 

Yet it was me who destroyed her.

She dropped her head, ran a shaking hand through her hair, then looked at me again. "How much did you take?"

Huh?

Why would she ask that?

Didn't she see that it's over?

That I'm too far gone?

It was unbearable.

It was unbearable, how she could still look at me and see someone worth saving. It was unbearable, knowing she believed in me even when I didn't. 

Almost pissed me off, how stubbornly she clung to that stupid hope. Because seeing that hope in her eyes — it made me hate myself even more.

I wouldn't change, couldn't. Not for her, not for anyone.

"Doesn't matter. It's over."

"Satoru, please," she choked out, pain raw in her voice, the pain I caused, "cut the crap and tell me. Now."

"It doesn't matter," I repeated, my voice cold. I couldn't bear the flicker of hope, couldn't bear to fail her yet again.

Then, the first tear rolled down her cheek and my heart shattered, the fragments piercing me from within. 

I'd never wanted to be the reason those beautiful eyes filled with pain, the reason her sweet lips trembled. Every fiber of my being wanted to pull her close, erase the hurt I'd caused.

I would have given anything, sacrificed anything, if only I could make it stop.

But I couldn't.

Because I was the problem. I was the poison.

She buried her face in her hands. "I'm tired, Satoru."

"I know."

"I'm so fucking tired," she whispered through tears.

"I know, love."

My eyes burned as I watched her fragile body shudder. Each sob of her driving a stake deeper into my already bleeding heart. I bit my lip until I tasted blood. 

I hated myself, hated myself, hated myself, hated myself, hated myself because — because I was the reason for all of this. 

She'd never wanted this, never wanted to fall in love with me to begin with, but I dragged her into it anyway.

Because I was selfish. 

Knew how it would end.

And now, I could only watch — only watch in this unbearable silence as the woman I loved wept over the man I hated. 

"It's for the best, believe me—"

"No," she cut me off.  "You're sacrificing me for this—this reputation of mine you think matters. It doesn't. I don't want any of it without you. I don't want a future where you're not in it."

She looked up then, eyes red and filled with unshed tears. "Because I love you, Satoru."

What?

The words turned my blood to ice.

After everything — the lies, the ways I'd hurt her, the desperate attempts to push her away — there it was, the confession I'd craved and feared in equal measure.

My heart was being ripped apart and stitched back together again in that very moment — vulnerable and yet so unbearably full. 

She loved me, she said it.

She loves me.

She loves me.

And I love her.

God, how I loved her. More than I thought possible.

I've never once loved in my entire life. 

Not until her. 

Not until she changed me completely. 

What is that, anyway? Love?

How can I possible describe the type of feeling I feel when I'm with her? How can I ever convey the words when they are not even clear to me? 

How cruel it is. How utterly cruel the type of feeling is, that she makes me feel.

Because how could I ever live without it.

Not when she showed me how to breathe.

How to live.

How could I ever go back to what I was before her — was there even something before her?

Not when she showed me how to breathe.

With her.

For her. 

Because she is the air that fills my lungs.

The pulse that keeps me alive.

And nothing can ever change that. So how could I ever go back to what I was before? 

Oh, how she tortures me, tortures me with feelings I rather not feel, tortures me with her love that I deserve so little. 

Nothing. 

I deserve nothing and yet she gives me everything.

Why can't I give it back? What chains me, binds this rotten heart? Why does it fail me so cruelly to love her the way she deserves? 

Because she does. 

She deserves everything. 

She is everything. 

Yet there is only my own failure in loving her. I'm failing her again and again. I hurt her again and again. I hate myself, hate myself for the pain I cause her.

Still—

How can I let her go, when she's the only good thing in my life? 

It is selfish, selfish to say the least, to want to keep her close when all I do is fail her.

Her tears were molten iron searing my insides. But I clench my jaw, refusing to let them break me. If she saw weakness, she might hesitate. Might stay and continue to be broken by me. 

Every fiber of my being wanted nothing more than to reach out, to comfort her, to tell her it would all be okay.

More lies for a heart that deserved nothing but the truth. So I swallowed down the love threatening to spill from my lips. 

I would give her anything, my life, the last shreds of my sanity — except the one thing she asked for, the only thing she ever ask for. 

Because loving her, truly loving her, meant letting her go. Even if it destroys me.

"I spare you," I rasped.

"No." She slowly shook her head. "You're killing me. Can't you see?" There was a cold edge in her voice now. "You're killing me."

"I can't change. Love isn't enough. I can't stop."

"You're the only one who thinks that." Her reply held a flicker of her old, beautiful defiance, a defiance I loved so dearly. "I'd follow you anywhere, Satoru. Even if you can't get clean, then so be it. I don't care. I won't leave you."

The sincerity in her voice was a blow, a beautiful, terrible blow. Complete, unwavering acceptance of who I was, in all my brokenness.

And in that moment, I finally realized. 

It wasn't about saving her. It was about saving myself from the terrifying vulnerability her love demanded. From the weakness that threatened to drown me if I let her in.

Perhaps I'm just a coward after all.

My heart was too damn small, too messed up. Of course I had to push her out, deny her the love she offered so freely — because it terrified me.

Her love terrified me.

"I can't do this to you," I choked out, the words scraping my throat raw. "You deserve—" I swallowed, the words catching in my throat. "You deserve better." 

"Better?" She leaned forward slightly. "You are my better."

Oh, love, that's not true.

You are my better. I'm your worst.

I wanted to say that, should've said that.

But I remained silent, unable to say anything. 

"Say something, Satoru." 

I couldn't, simply couldn't. Because mere words were too hollow, too insignificant against the depth of her pain.

"Say something, damn it!" 

"It will get easier someday," I chocked out. Each word felt like a stone I was forcing down my own throat. Each word empty — we both knew it.

"Is that what you hope for?"

"I have to."

She closed her mouth. Her silence more devastating than any scream. She didn't explode, as I half-expected. Instead, she straightened, her movements slow, weary.

I watched her, unable to move, unable to look away, as a horrifying realization bloomed across her face. It wasn't anger, wasn't sadness — it was a terrible understanding.

She knew. She always knew.

Perhaps that's what I hated about her the most.

"That's it?" she asked.

"That's it."

She watched me.  Not in anger, but with chilling detachment. Her eyes, usually so filled with warmth, were now as distant as those of a stranger. 

Still, I burned the image into my soul, knowing it might be the last time.

Then, without another word, she turned. And walked away.

When she finally disappeared from sight, a wave of crushing despair washed over me. It wasn't just the loneliness. It was the terrifying certainty that there was no going back from this. 

I had destroyed the best thing in my life — a sacrifice she didn't even ask for.

But then again, my sacrifice is really only an illusion after all, masking a desperate, terrified selfishness.

Because I'm selfish.

I do love her.  Gods, how I love her. 

But my fear was stronger.

And I was too damn weak to fight it.

─── ·✧· ───

Four weeks.

Was it four weeks?

I can't remember.

Time — it didn't tick or flow anymore. 

It was a shapeless thing. Punctuated only by the empty thump of my heart in this wrecked chest.

Those first days — or weeks, who knows? — they melted together in a haze. After she left, I was — raw. One giant exposed nerve.  

Each damn breath without the pills felt like scraping sandpaper across it, a reminder  of what I'd lost — no, what I'd destroyed.

So I was barely sober.

My body didn't even protest. At first, it was almost — nice? The rush, the way it wiped out not just the pain but any thought at all.

But the crash was always brutal. Mornings, if you could even call it that, I'd wake up shaking, sick to my stomach, and terrified of — what was I even terrified of? Somehow of everything and nothing at all. But I knew the fix for that. 

It was a sick, relentless cycle.

The phone rang, vibrated with messages. Suguru mostly. His messages growing more urgent with each unanswered text. Liver issues. Treatment. Something about irreversible damage.   

It was all white noise compared to the screaming in my head.

Her name, though, cut through the haze.

There were nights — or was it days? — when a desperate, clawing need to hear her voice, to see her face, would rise up in me. I'd reach for the phone, fingers hovering above her name. Then the fear would crush that impulse. 

I knew that reaching out to her would be the final act of cruelty.

So I stumbled on, each day collapsing into the next. 

Until the next semester started and I remembered I had an actual job.

─── ·✧· ───

I stood in the corridor outside the auditorium.

My fingers fumbled with the familiar pill bottle. Just enough to numb the edge, get me through the lecture. With a bitter swallow, I tilted the pill into my palm, chasing it down dry.

Four weeks. Four weeks of barely holding it together, four weeks since I almost OD'd, four weeks since she left, and the weight of it all threatened to crush me at any moment. 

Yet, muscle memory took over.

I limped slightly as I walked into the auditorium. My leg still hurt after she basically cut my muscle in half. 

She definitely did that on purpose. She was too smart not to not know what she was doing.

The usual chatter died down when I walked in.  Old routine. Time for the performance. Pretend I'm the professor, pretend like this whole thing isn't ripping me apart, piece by piece. It should have been comforting. 

Once, perhaps, it was.

Wordlessly, I grabbed a marker, scrawled my name on the board. Like they didn't already know who I was, right? 

Everyone on campus knows, especially after this summer's mess.

With a sigh, I turned towards the class.

And there she was. 

My breath hitched, the marker clattering to the floor. My lips parted, but no words came.

Of course.

Of fucking course. 

Second-year lecture. 

How the hell could I forget that?

She was here, after everything, right in front of me. The pain of the past weeks, that suffocating emptiness — it all melted away, replaced by a pounding headache in that one instant.

My eyes clung to her, unable to look away, drinking in the sight of her. That stubborn tilt of her head, the pain in those beautiful eyes — God, how I'd missed her. 

Yet with every beat of my yearning heart came a fresh wave of guilt. I longed to reach out, to apologize, to tell her how much I'd missed her. 

But I knew it was wrong. 

Then, it hit me. Every eye in the room was on her, following my gaze like a spotlight burning into her. Damn it.

Still, she didn't flinch.

Endured it like she has always endured everything.

Clearing my throat, I managed to speak as I adverted my gaze. "So, uh, let's start the lecture."

My voice echoed in the now tense auditorium, words tumbling out in a forced attempt at normalcy. The lecture blurred. My own words were just noise in my head. I pushed through the lecture. Don't even remember what I lectured about.

It was routine, should have been easy, but — not with her there. Never with her. 

Every damn minute, my eyes flicked towards her, drawn like a magnet. I couldn't help it. Because all I could see was her. But she avoided my gaze.

Should've expected that.

Shouldn't make me angry, right?

Still did.

Finally, thank god, the bell rang. 

I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding.

I remained behind my desk and gathered my notes. Students surged towards the exit, a faceless blur of motion. My traitorous gaze remained locked on her as the auditorium slowly emptied.

She and her friends passed by me. Before I could even think, the words tumbled out, "Wait, not—not you, first-year."

Silence. 

Her friend's chatter halted abruptly. I hadn't meant to say it, hadn't thought before the desperate need to speak to her had short-circuited my brain.

Now, it was done.

Her eyes, those beautiful eyes, met mine. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. 

Her friends exchanged glances. I could feel Zenin glaring daggers at me, didn't even need to look. She'd always been fiercely protective.

"I'll catch up later," she said then to her friends, a strained smile plastered on her face. 

They left, leaving us alone in the vast, suddenly suffocating auditorium.

Silence again.

My heart hammered against my ribs, so loud I feared she could hear it.

Finally, she spoke. "You know I'm not a first-year anymore."

I rounded the desk, the wood rough against my fingertips. "Yeah, right. Sorry." Leaning against it, I crossed my arms.

"Didn't you get suspended?"

"They postponed it."

She watched me for a moment, those beautiful eyes drilling into me. Her eyes held a coldness I've never seen before. For a sickening moment, I thought I might throw up.

"How are you?"

"Don't," she snapped. "Don't ask me that. Don't you dare pretend to care after—" 

She stopped herself, the silence louder than any accusation. After everything you did. After you pushed me away. After you nearly killed yourself.

She didn't need to voice it.

My hands clenched into fists against the edge of my desk, nails digging into my palms in a futile attempt to ground myself. Needed to maintain this thin illusion of control.

I do care. Dammit, I care more than you'll ever know. 

I wanted to scream it, to tear open my chest and show her the bleeding wound she'd left behind. But the words stuck in my throat. 

Pointless now, anyway.

Knuckles turned white, nails digging deeper.

She stepped closer. Her hand darted into her bag, then shot out, palm open. Keys glinted in the harsh light — the keys to my apartment. 

I watched them for a second. Should've expected that. Shouldn't hurt me. Still did.

"You don't have to return them. I want you to keep them."

"Why? I won't need them anymore, will I? Or are you planning on overdosing again?"

Each word was acid on an open wound.

I deserved this, the anger, the contempt, it was all on me. But why the hell did it make me so fucking angry?

"Have you ever thought about how I felt when I found you?" she snapped, her voice rising. "How terrified I was when you wouldn't respond? When you couldn't even recognize me? When I thought you'd die on me?" She took a shaky breath. "Fuck Satoru, I held your face in my hands while you were barely breathing!"

I tried to speak, but she cut me off.  "Don't. You. Dare."

"Four weeks," she went on, her voice sharp, laced with a fury that cut to the bone. "Four weeks of silence. Ever think I might be drowning, haunted by what I saw? Or were you too busy numbing yourself with pills? Hell, I didn't even know if you'd overdosed for good this time!"

Her words hit me cold, but they weren't the storm tearing me apart. It was the image of her, terrified, holding my barely-alive body, that ripped my insides out. 

Those eyes — her eyes filled with a terror that was all because of me. The guilt choked me. Seeing my near-death through her haunted eyes is twisted a knife in my gut.

It was the look of someone who'd had a piece of her soul ripped out. 

It was the look of someone who loved me.

"But then again, you never cared about me, did you?" she added, the raw hurt bleeding beneath the anger.

My stomach twisted. "Don't you dare say that," I rasped, the words ripping from my throat. "I care so much it damn near killed me. You were the only thing keeping me alive, the only reason I fought at all! Don't you dare say I don't—" I choked, the pain unbearable.

The room seemed to tilt, my anger threatening to consume me. 

I took a step towards her, closing the distance in one move. We were so close, I could smell her damn shampoo. "Every damn thing I did, every stupid decision—it was all because I care about you too much."

Her eyes widened. But only for a second. Then, that cold defiance was back, and it cut deep. 

"You're really pathetic, you know that?" she spat. "You talk about caring, but in the end you threw everything away. Because you are too terrified to let yourself love me. Because apparently your own damn peace is worth more than me."

Her words were knives, finding their mark with cruel efficiency. 

"Shut up," I whispered. "You know nothing."

"Oh really?" She glared at me, "then let me paint the picture for you—the minute things got difficult, the second you had to face actual consequences for your actions, you used it as an excuse to back away. Shut yourself down."

She moved closer still. "Convenient, wasn't it? Pushing me away, destroying us—it absolved you from having to confront anything real."

Her accusations hit uncomfortably close to home.

And I didn't want to hear it from her lips.

Not from hers.

"Shut up," I growled.

"Don't you dare tell me to shut up," she snapped back, her voice rising. "You don't get to play the victim here. You did this. You ruined everything."

Fury ignited, not at her, but at myself. 

Blindly, I reached out, my fingers gripping her jaw so tight it bordered on violence. I forced her to look at me, my eyes burning into hers. "Shut up, or I swear to god, I'll make you."

Her chin lifted, eyes narrowing. "I dare you."

The words set me on fire. Every rational thought, every vestige of self-preservation was devoured by a sudden, desperate need. My gaze fell to her lips, slightly parted, a vulnerable target I craved to claim.

Without even thinking, my hand went to her waist, fingers digging in as I pulled her impossibly close. My other hand tangled in her hair, forcing her head back. Our eyes locked, some kind of messed-up challenge.

I could feel her rapid breaths on my skin, smell that damn perfume of hers that I'd always loved, but now was driving me to the edge of control. Her heart pounding against mine.

Everything in me screamed to close the distance, claim those lips that had haunted me, haunted me for weeks. 

I wanted to claim her, to silence her, to lose myself in her, but my last shred of sanity held me back.

Because pushing her further into my nightmare was the ultimate act of cruelty. 

"Uncomfortable, isn't it? Getting confronted with the ugly truth?" she whispered against my lips.

My grip on her tightened. She really didn't know when to stop, or maybe she simply wanted to watch me burn. Perhaps both.

"Don't push me."

"Why? Scared of what you'll find if you let yourself be honest for once?" Her head tilted. Her gaze was fire, and I was already ash. "You run, Satoru. From everything, but most of all, from yourself."

"And that," she leaned closer, almost brushing my lips, "is what makes you the most pathetic person I know."

Oh, she could be so viciously cruel when she wanted to. So disgustingly cruel. It was one of the things I'd fallen hopelessly in love with. Even now, as it tore me apart, I still loved it. 

But I also wanted nothing more than to fuck that attitude out of her right then and there.

"You're right. You're always right. Maybe that's what's terrifies me about you so much."

"You're not terrified of me," she whispered. "You're terrified of yourself."

The air between us crackled. Every rational thought in my brain begged me to stop. Still, I couldn't resist. I inched closer, helpless against the force that binds and burns us both.

My hands tightened their hold as I took a sharp inhale. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. 

Our lips hovered, almost touching, two aching souls suspended in that impossible space. So much unspoken words, so much hurt, and the destructive pull between us that had always tethered us together.

Then, the auditorium door creaked open. 

Her head snapped towards the sound. But I couldn't look away, wouldn't miss a second of her. Because this, right here, was all I had left.

Had to be Suguru anyway — anyone else would be screaming their heads off by now.

After a pause, she turned back at me. "You know, I'm still waiting."

"For what, love?"

"For it to get easier."

I looked at her, the woman I loved, and guilt clawed at my insides. That hurt, that anger on her face — I deserved it all. Because it was the consequence of the pain I'd caused.

"You said it would get easier," she added.

It was a lie. Nothing about this was easy. Nothing ever would be again. Suddenly, the room felt too small, the air thick and unbreathable.

"I don't know if it ever will."

Perhaps I was only meant to love her in silence.

In distance.

Because at least then I couldn't hurt her anymore.

Suguru cleared his throat. He stepped into the room, breaking the moment.

Reluctantly, I let go of her. She stepped back, eyes holding mine for a second, something flickering there that I didn't dare try to read. Then, without another word, she turned and walked away.

I watched her go.

Suguru approached me, stopping close by. He didn't say anything.

I leaned against the desk, running a hand through my hair. The adrenaline from that almost-kiss crashed, leaving behind a hollow ache.

The sound of the door slamming behind her echoed in the empty auditorium, way too loud.

Suguru's hand landed on my shoulder. 

"You really have a thing for bad timing," I muttered.

"Bad timing," he echoed, "or good timing to stop you from doing something stupid?"

I didn't answer. The memory of her, so close, choked every thought out of my mind.

"You know it was the right thing to do. With everything going on, letting her go was the right decision."

"I know," I said, pushing off the desk and rounding it to gather my things. I couldn't meet his gaze. "I'm trying to remember that."

Suguru then started placing pill bottles on the desk with a serious expression. The first clink of plastic on wood cut through the silence. 

"Prednisone for the liver inflammation." Another bottle. "Lactulose for the hepatic encephalopathy." Then another. "Vitamin B and K for the nutritional deficiencies."

"But you know the first step would be to—" he paused for a second then placed another two bottles in from of me. "Methadone, to manage the withdrawal and craving. And Naltrexone, to block the euphoric effects of your opioids."

Hesitantly, another bottle appeared. "Clonidine, in case you feel like you're dying."

"Suguru—" I began, but he cut me off.

"Satoru, you have to get clean. The pills won't do a damn thing if you keep wrecking your liver."

"Yeah, it's a little late for that, don't you think? It's the only thing keeping me sane right now."

He sighed.  "You're the absolute worst patient ever."

"Aw, come on, I thought you liked a bit of challenge. You're the best doctor, you'll figure something out."  I rummaged through my bag, pulling out a folder.

"Even the best doctor on earth can't help if you don't—"

I shoved the folder across the desk, cutting him off. "What's this?"

"It's a patient. An anyeurism. I'm still not allowed to do surgery, not until this thing with the ethics committee is over."

Suguru opened the folder, flipping through the pages.  "You want me to do it?  Is there something special about this patient?"

"I want you to take her with you," I said quietly. "She likes aneurysm clippings."

Suguru looked up, that familiar crease between his brows.  "She'll figure it out. Sooner or later. Latest when you're in the hospital waiting for a liver transplant, not lecturing anymore."

Silence stretched. My eyes fell on the pill bottles lined up on the desk. 

I sighed, then gathered them and crammed them into my bag.  "Let's go. I need fresh fair," I said as I brushed past him, putting the withdrawal meds back into his hands.

Without another word, I left the auditorium.

─── ·✧· ───

My eyes snapped open.

I sat upright, a strangled gasp tearing from my throat. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat threatening to burst right out of my chest. 

For a disorienting second, the world was a blur. Sweat drenched my skin. My lungs screamed for air.

Damn nightmares. 

Another night of that shit. 

I clutched at my chest, trying to quell the frantic pounding. Cold sweat made my shirt cling to my skin. The room spun. My pulse thundered in my ears.

I fumbled for the lamp, the sudden brightness stinging my eyes. But it didn't chase away the image seared into my brain. Her face, cruel, beautiful, cruelly beautiful, twisted in absolute terror. My stomach twisted.

My fault. 

Always my fault.

I couldn't breathe right.

Sleep was a lost cause now. First decent rest in a week, and my brain decided to torment me again. Exhaustion was its own kind of hell, but it was nothing compared to this. That, more than anything, was the real torture.

I slumped forward, scrubbing a hand over my face.

I'd hurt her. 

I'd hurt her, the one person who meant something.

Every day, it felt more like I'd made the biggest mistake of my life. Letting her go, pushing her away, I—

I hated myself. 

Hated the way I ruined everything.

Hated the way I ruined every chance at something good. 

It was like a damn curse.

Nothing good ever lasted for me. I should've known that by now.

Damn it, I knew it was wrong. But how the hell could it be wrong when it'd felt so damn right? When she was the only thing, the only person, that cut through the crap, made this whole mess seem like it might have some sort of meaning?

How could that possibly be wrong?

Guilt ate at my insides. Had I been a damn coward? Too scared to fight for something that made me feel, really feel?

Perhaps.

Easier to push her away, sabotage the whole damn thing, than risk actually letting her in. Letting anyone in. Losing control. But it didn't matter now, did it? 

It was over. 

I needed out. Out of my head, out of this apartment, out of my own damn skin. 

The silence was unbearable.

I pushed off the bed, muscles screaming in protest. I slipped into running clothes, the routine automatic. As I laced up my shoes, a sharp sting shot through my leg from the still-healing cut on my leg.

That bitch. 

The more I thought about it, the more sure I was she'd done it on purpose.

Good thing I was addicted to painkillers, huh?

I drowned a pill — no two, for good measure — before stepping outside into the pre-dawn chill. 

Cold autumn air bit at my skin. Each step echoed on the empty street. The pills kicked in, dulling the sharp pain in my leg. Good. Long as the cut didn't split open, I didn't damn care.

I pushed myself, needing the burn in my muscles, the ache in my lungs, to drown out the constant echo of her voice, her name, in my head.

The world blurred. Streetlights, shadows, it all melded together. The only reality was the ache in my body, the cold air forcing its way into my lungs. My mind, for once, was mercifully blank. 

No nightmares, no guilt, no memories of her haunted eyes — just the simple focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

I didn't set a goal, didn't choose a destination. 

Just moving, pushing, escaping.

Sweat dripped, but I barely registered. With each mile, the crushing weight eased. Not gone, hell, not even close to forgotten, but  — manageable. 

I ran until the city was a smear of lights, until my legs burned and my lungs screamed. 

Finally, gasping for breath, legs threatening to give out, I stumbled to a halt. The neon lights of a Seven Eleven cut through the pre-dawn darkness. My throat was sandpaper. I pushed through the door.

Inside, the harsh lights stung my eyes. I grabbed a water, my body on autopilot as I shuffled toward the register. The bored-looking teenager behind the counter gave me a sidelong look as I fumbled for my wallet.

"Rough night?"

"Something like that." I glanced down at my leg, the still-healing cut a visible red line. Wincing, I shifted my weight, favoring the uninjured side. 

I pulled out my card to pay, but then a flash of color caught my eye. Beside the cashier's register, stacked in a gaudy pyramid, was a display of energy drinks. I starred at them for a second, the name oddly familiar.

I knew why the name was so familiar.

I reached for a can and placed it on the counter. "And this."

Outside, I downed the water in a matter of seconds. Then, I cracked open the energy drink. The first sip hit my tongue. Surprisingly, it didn't taste half-bad without a shot of stale coffee to ruin it. 

But the taste wasn't the problem, wasn't it? 

Memories flooded back. Her, hunched over a massive anatomy textbook in the dim library, those beautiful eyes ringed with exhaustion. Beside her, half-empty, a mug of coffee — spiked with the sickeningly sweet energy drink I currently held.

Just the thought of that awful mixture made my stomach turn.

Still, a smile tugged at my lips.

Dammit, I didn't want to think about her. But to be fair, thinking, not thinking — it was all the same. The dull, constant ache of her absence throbbed beneath it all.

I chugged the rest of the energy drink, crushing the can in my hand.

Ah, fuck it.

Before my sanity could interfere, my legs were in motion.

I knew this was wrong. Knew every step took me closer to more pain. Knew all along this was stupid, reckless — inevitable. 

I couldn't stop.

The pull towards her was too damn strong. I needed to see her, to confirm her existence, to know she was real, to fix — what? What the hell could I fix? What the hell did I even think I was doing?

Finally, gasping for breath, I stumbled to a halt outside her apartment building.

A glance at my watch confirmed the hour — well past 3 am. Insane. I hadn't expected her to be awake. Just needed the pathetic reassurance of her presence. But as I looked up, my breath hitched. 

In a second-floor window, a flicker of warm light spilled into the darkness. And there, etched against that warmth — her silhouette. Unmistakable.

A heavy exhale escaped my lips. 

She was there.

Here.

On this same cursed world with me.

My heart pounded against my ribs. I knew, I had no right to be here. But god, I needed this, needed to see her.

She sat on the windowsill, book in hand. My future wife. Even in the dead of night, she was studying. How I loved her.

My gaze traced the familiar curve of her shoulders, the way the soft lamplight painted her skin with warmth, highlighting the strands of hair escaping her messy bun. 

In that stolen moment, I could almost convince myself that things were different, that my actions hadn't irrevocably shattered something precious.

But then, she moved. Rising from her seat, she stretched, drawing the fabric of her shirt upwards. Before my mind could catch up, she was at the window, pushing it open. I froze.

She was staring down — right at me. 

Shit.

I held my breath. For what felt like an eternity, we simply stared at each other. A muscle in her jaw twitched. Then her gaze dropped, breaking eye contact.

"You're bleeding."

I glanced down. The edge of my shorts was soaked through, a fresh stain of crimson spreading. Damn it. The cut had reopened.

"Yeah," I said, looking back up at her, "I'm a mess."

I braced myself for whatever was coming. The anger, the disgust, the righteous fury — it would all be justified. I deserved it. But she simply watched me. Her gaze was steady, devoid of emotion. 

"You know where the entrance is," she said finally, then leaned back into the soft glow of her room and closed the window shut.

Before my brain could catch up with how wrong this was, I walked toward the apartment building.

─── ·✧· ───

I sat on the edge of her bed, she on a chair in front of me, her hands already on my leg as she pushed the fabric of my shorts up. "How could you not notice that?"

I opened my mouth, but she cut me off, "Wait, forget it." 

Yeah. Now she remembered.

With practiced efficiency, she began cleaning the wound. Her touch was surprisingly gentle, considering how pissed she must be. 

The silence was heavy, broken only by the rustle of bandages and my occasional  sharp intake of breath when the antiseptic hit a raw spot.

My eyes wandered. Her space, even small and half-finished, felt warm, lived in. Smelled like her. Books spilling everywhere, papers scattered on a desk, a yoga mat forgotten in the corner — the organized chaos was so perfectly her.

Then my gaze landed on the half-unpacked boxes stacked against the wall. She really still didn't fully move in. Occupied with my mess, huh? 

Guilt flooded me. I didn't deserve this, didn't deserve her gentle hands on me, not after everything. 

Yet, a selfish part of me wanted nothing more than to stay exactly like this, wanted nothing more than to keep her hands on me.

With a sigh, I sank back against her pillows. Exhaustion seeped into my bones. Pain returned as the effects of the pills wore off.

Her fingers brushed the reopened cut. I winced, throwing an arm over my eyes. The relentless pounding in my head threatened to split me open, spilling all the ugly thoughts onto her pristine sheets.

"You've had nightmares again, haven't you?"

Huh? 

I lifted my head a fraction, struggling to meet her eyes. She glanced up briefly, her eyes guarded, then focused back on my leg.

"Yeah, something like that." My head thumped back onto the pillow. "Hard to sleep when your head won't shut up."

"What dose?"

"You really don't want to know."

"I asked because I do," she countered. The sharp tug as she tightened the bandage around my leg was enough to make me speak.

"Ten milligrams," I admitted, wincing. "The usual."

She scoffed, then another, even sharper, tug had me gritting my teeth. "Ngh—fuck," I moaned. 

I really needed a pill now.

She stood, gathering the first-aid supplies. "Heals slowly, doesn't it?"

I knew it.

I popped myself up on one elbow, raising an eyebrow at her. 

"Don't give me that look. You know damn well you deserved it."

I let out a dry laugh. "You really are a bitch sometimes." I dropped back onto the bed, my hand reaching for my throbbing head. 

I needed two pills now.

"You've got some damn nerve. You show up here in the middle of the night, injured, high—"

"I'm not high—"

"Save it," she spat. "You know what your fucking problem is? You can't stand being alone. Alone with your thoughts, with yourself. So you run. You run to pills, to whatever distraction you can find, anything to fill the void."

Yeah, how the hell am I supposed to want to be alone after feeling what it's like to be with you, stupid.

"You're too damn scared to face your fears," she continued, her voice laced with a bitter edge, "and when someone threatens your artificial peace, someone who might actually force you to look in the damn mirror, you panic. You sabotage it, push them away before it all gets too real, too close."

She stepped closer. "Because it's easier, isn't it? Safer to stick with the misery you know than risk having to face that void."

Every word stung, but I couldn't deny it, couldn't lie anymore.

"You're right. And I'm sorry—"

"Don't." She rose a hand at me. "Don't pretend you care, Satoru. You've made it clear how little I matter."

How little you matter? 

Oh, love, you couldn't be more wrong.

A harsh laugh escaped me. 

"You find this funny?"

"No, love," I said, pushing myself up. My leg throbbed in protest, but I ignored it. Everything narrowed down to her. I moved closer, a strange recklessness fueling me. "Quite the opposite."

Something flickered in her eyes — surprise? wariness? — but the anger remained.

"Keep going," I insisted, moving closer. "Let it out. Yell at me, tell me how pathetic I am. Make me feel something, anything other than this damn emptiness."

She hesitated. Her eyes searched mine, and for a breathless moment, I hoped that her fury, her anger, would burn away the numbness, making me feel something, anything.

Because even her anger was better than her indifference.

I couldn't stand being indifferent to her.

Might as well make her hate me.

"You want me to yell at you?" Her voice rose, the first hint of the storm I craved. "Fine! You wanna be a pathetic mess? Go ahead! Piss away your career, your life, whatever the hell you care about, I don't give a damn anymore!"

Each word hit me, but there was a desperate relief in it. Finally, she wasn't looking at me with that chilling indifference, that cold pity that twisted a knife in my gut. 

Her rage, it was fire — scorching and brutal, but alive. And I loved it.

Because it was prove she still cared, even if it was just to hate me with every fiber of her being. It was better than the void, that terrible chasm that had opened up between us after I'd pushed her away.

I closed the distance, enjoying the anger in her eyes. She flinched, but didn't back down.

"More." I grabbed her waist, lifting her with ease, and hauled her towards the bed.

"You're weak!" she spat, pushing against my chest, her voice rising with each word.

Yeah, so damn weak for you, love.

"You're selfish! So consumed by your own self-pity you can't see how you hurt everyone around you!"

Her words should have hurt. They probably would have, under different circumstances. But right now, I couldn't care less.

"Keep going," I rasped, my pulse pounding in my ears. I forced her onto the bed and hovered over her, my body trapping her between the mattress and my own. "C'mon, love, let it all out."

"You don't deserve me," she continued. "You don't deserve anyone who gives a damn, because you only know how to destroy things."

Each word was a knife. Yet, with each insult, the suffocating hollowness inside me eased a fraction. I wanted her anger, the full force of it, wanted the burn only she could inflict on me.

"More."

Her breath hitched, eyes narrowing. "You keep breaking my heart over and over, then come crawling back when it suits you, like it doesn't matter!"

"You're right." I leaned in, my thumb brushing over her bottom lip. The thin fabric of her shirt did little to hide her shivers. "C'mon, love, give it to me. I know you can do better."

In one swift move, I ripped my shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor. I leaned down again, my breath ghosting over her lips. "Hate me." My hands went for the flimsy waistband of her shorts. "Tell me how much you despise me."

Her breaths came fast, quick gasps against my skin.  I could see it all over her face — the rage, the fear, and maybe — yeah, maybe that darker edge, the same desperation burning in me.

"I fucking hate you, Satoru. Hate that you made me care, made me fall for you, then crushed it."

"Don't stop," I said, my voice a hoarse rasp. "Say it again." Before she could react, her shorts were down, exposing her to the night air. My own pants followed hasty, desperate. "Say you hate me."

"I fucking hate that you treat me like I'm just another damn plaything to fill whatever void your messed-up mom or whatever left you with!"

Okay, now it gets personal.

"I fucking hate that you act like you can control me," she hissed, but her body betrayed her, shivered running down her skin as my hands gazed her collarbone. "Hate that you make my choices for me, decide what's good for me, like you got to have control over something when you obviously can't control yourself!"

Damn, Freud himself is on to something tonight, huh? She really doesn't know when to stop.

"You're a fucking hypocrite, you know that?" I leaned closer, my mouth close to her ear. "You hate who I am, but you crave this, don't you? Giving up control, being at my mercy. Admit it."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. She lifted a hand, as if to slap me, but I was faster. I caught her wrists and pinned them above her head, pressing them hard into the mattress.

"You know it's true," I pressed, relishing the way she struggled against my hold. "It's hard always being the composed one, isn't it? The responsible one. It's draining. Maybe that's why you're drawn to me. You love the thrill as much as I do, don't you?"

She stared at me, silent, her lips a tight line. 

"Prove me wrong, sweetheart. Call me a liar, and I'll show you just how wrong you are," I leaned in closer, my voice a harsh whisper against her lips. "We're the same, you and me. We feed off each other. Even if you hate to admit it, I fill that emptiness inside you same as you do for me."

"You arrogant piece of shit!" she spat, twisting and bucking against my grip. "You think you know everything, control everything!"

"Don't I?" My grip tightened, feeling her pulse throb against my fingers. "Seems I've got you pinned pretty damn well, wouldn't you say?"

"You know it's true. You love this. Makes you feel something your books, your fancy grades never could."

"Screw you, Satoru," she hissed, venom in her voice. "We're nothing alike."

"You really are a fool, for wanting to fix something so broken it'll cut you to shreds the moment you get close and then you cry afterwards—"

Her spit hit my face. I closed my eyes for a second, then a smile twisted across my lips. 

My future wife just spit in my face — what a good anecdote on our wedding day.

"That's my girl," I rasped, shoving her legs wider. "Tell me how much you hate me. Scream it."

"I fucking hate you Satoru, I hate you—"

Her words died on her tongue as I thrust forward, filling her completely. I closed my eyes, letting my head hang heavy for a second. 

My god, the things this woman's body could do to me. I could feel her body trembling beneath me, her heart racing as she arched her back.

How treacherous a body can be, huh?

"Hate you, Satoru," she managed to say before she closed her eyes, biting down her lip as I thrust deeper still. Her thighs spread further apart, inviting me closer, urging me onward. 

She's so damn beautiful.

I grinned, my hands still holding her wrists in place over her head. "I know you do, love. But you know what?" My lips were only a breath away from hers. "I hate you, too. I hate how you make me feel, how you expose every broken piece of me, how I crave you like I crave another fix."

Hell, I might just be addicted to this woman.

I pulled out fully, before thrusting back into her. Her head fell back, pressing into the mattress as a strangled moan escaping her lips.

She felt incredible.

Pulling back slowly, I watched her body react to the absence, her eyes flickering open to meet mine. Those pupils dilated with need, mirroring my own hunger for her. 

In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not our fight. Not our problems. Not our insults that had left our lips moments before. Just us — two halves coming together in a perfect whole. 

I pushed back into her, deeper, harder.

With each thrust, I felt myself sinking deeper into her, losing myself in her. Fuck, if there was anything better than this — well, I hadn't found it yet.

This woman owned me — plain and simple.

It was madness, this pull towards her. 

Insane, perhaps.

But it was also undeniably real. So real that even though dawn threatened to break soon, stealing away whatever remnants of darkness remained, I couldn't help but chase after that high only she could provide.

Even knowing full well that when morning arrived, reality would crash down upon us, forcing us back onto opposite sides of the divide.

"Look what you've done to me, love. You're making a fool of me." I whispered against her lips without touching them.

Weren't together anymore after all.

Kissing would be too much.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly beneath me. Her nails dug into my skin where my hands gripped her wrists. With each deep thrust, I watched her face contort with pleasure and pain, her features illuminated by fleeting streaks of moonlight seeping through the curtains.

I loved that look on her face.

I wondered if I could make that look even more pathetic.

I pulled out, dragging the tip of my length across her clit before pushing back in. She squirmed underneath me, arching her back. But I denied her, keeping my unhurried pace. I wanted to draw out this sweet torture for as long as possible.

Hours passed — or perhaps mere minutes. I couldn't tell anymore. All that mattered was this woman writhing beneath me.

Groaning in frustration, she attempted to break free from my grip. "Dammit, Satoru. If you won't finish what you started, then get off me!"

I smirked. "Why so eager, love. Can't handle the wait?" I leaned in to kiss down the side of her neck. She shivered beneath me, her breath hitching as my teeth grazed her skin. 

With my free hand I reached down, running my fingers down her quivering stomach, relishing in the shivers that coursed through her body. 

She glared up at me, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "Stop calling me 'love'. I don't belong to you, not anymore—" 

She gasped into my mouth when I found her clit. Slowly, deliberately, I began to circle it with my thumb, feeling her surrender to me. I plunged deeper, thrusting into her mercilessly.

Let her hate me all she wants. She can't deny the chemistry between us — a spark that refuses to fade, no matter how hard either of us tries.

She must have hated this — hated how she surrendered to me, even with all that anger. Made me wondered if I could rail her up even more.

"You think you're so much better than me?" I rasped. "So strong, so selfless, always putting others first? It's a lie, and you know it. You're just bored."

"You fucker!" Before I knew what was happening, she broke free of my grasp and had flipped us over so that she was now straddling my hips. 

Without warning, she reached forward, gripping my throat with surprising strength as she leaned down, her hair falling like a curtain around our faces. I couldn't help but smile.

"Don't project your bullshit on me," she seethed, her face inches from mine. 

Her words sent a chill down my spine, stirring up a fresh wave of desire within me. Damn, this woman was infuriating — and captivating in the worst way possible.

We glared at each other like enemies preparing for battle. 

"Aren't you a little tired? Pulling up that act all the time?" I choked out, feeling her fingers dig in further. "Deep down, you're just as bored as me, you're just too righteous to admit it."

"Shut up," she hissed, pressing harder, choking the words out of me.

This was madness. Destructive madness. But for this one desperate moment, I didn't care. It was exhilarating, addictive. Because love, our twisted, broken love, wasn't supposed to be pretty.

It was messy, chaotic, and borderline abusive. But sometimes all you need is a firm grip around the throat to remind you that you're alive.

"Harder, love," I gasped, a laugh bubbling up in my constricted throat. "Come on, make me feel your rage."

Slowly, deliberately, she began grinding her hips against mine, setting a maddening pace that left me reeling. Fuck, I think I love it even more when she hates me.

"Ahh, shit," I gasped, clutching at her thighs as she rode me mercilessly. "That's it."

Eyes squeezed shut, my head rolled back. Chills prickled my skin, possibly due to the cool breeze drifting in from the window. Or perhaps it was merely her.

She rode me with increased speed, and I could barely contain the overwhelming sensations coursing through my body. Every fiber of my being screamed for release. 

My knuckles on her thighs turned white from the force. "Oh, shit, you're going to kill me," I moaned between choked sounds that escaped my lips. 

My lips twisted into a smile again. "Admit it. You love the chaos as much as I do. The thrill, the way it makes you feel alive."

"You're wrong," she said, increasing her pace making my cock twitch inside her. "We're nothing alike."

"Keep telling yourself that," I replied, struggling to catch my breath, as she made me lose my mind. "But I know the truth—we're two sides of the same coin."

"You really believe that, don't you?"

"Why else would you be here, like this, with me?" I countered. "Face it, we're addicted to each other—the highs, the lows, the constant push and pull. It's exhilarating, isn't it?"

"You're the only addict here."

"Liar," I rasped.

Her muscles clenched around me, drawing me deeper inside her. She was close. Each contraction of her pushing me further towards a peak that I knew would soon shatter me.

But I wasn't ready yet. Not quite.

I shifted our positions, sitting upright before spinning us around so she was now beneath me on the mattress. I positioned myself behind her, forcing her down onto the mattress.

I slowly slid my hand along her spine as I pushed her further down, feeling her tremble beneath my touch, the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips. 

It was intoxicating to watch her submit to me.

"Fuck, you'll be the death of me."

Leaning down, I pressed my lips against the small of her back, feeling her shiver once more. My hand continued its descent, stopping just short of where she needed me.

"Satoru," my name fell from her lips.

Oh, how I loved it when she breathed my name like that. I couldn't resist her — could never resist her. I was at her mercy. Even now.

She arched her back, silently pleading for me to continue. I slid my hand between her legs. "God, you're so fucking wet," I murmured, slipped a finger inside her, then another. She was so tight, so warm. 

I couldn't wait to be inside her again.

She gasped, pushing back against me. "Don't stop."

Curving my fingers, I searched for that spot that I knew would drive her mad. When I found it, she cried out, her hips bucking against my hand. Her hands scrabbled at the sheets, grasping for purchase as I started to move inside her.

"Yes, fuck," she moaned, spreading her legs wider. "Right there."

Oh, love. I know you like that.

I smiled, relishing the fact that I knew her body better than herself. I knew every inch of her, every freckle, every scar, every sensitive spot that made her squirm. 

"More," she begged.

I happily obliged, adding a third finger and thrusting deeper. She was soaking wet, her juices coating my fingers as I fucked her with my hand. Her moans grew louder, more urgent. She was close, so close.

I increased the pace of my fingers, pumping them in and out of her as I used my thumb to apply pressure to her clit. 

However, as her moans reached a fever pitch, I withdrew my fingers, denying her release.

She gasped, glanced over her shoulder at me, her mouth open, but said nothing — probably out of breath. 

I brought my fingers to my mouth, savoring the taste of her. It was so uniquely her. I couldn't get enough.

Leaning in, I pressed my body against hers from behind, my hard length probed at her entrance. 

I leaned down over her, my hand snaking into her hair. I grabbed it tightly, forcing her head up to meet mine. "I love you, first-year," I murmured against her ear.

She trembled, but her defiance remained strong. "I hate you."

I sighed — always so fierce, makes me wonder what it takes to fuck that stubborn attitude out of her. 

"It's alright, I love you enough for both of us."

With that, I pushed her head down into the mattress. Her cry muffled by the sheets beneath her as I thrust into her once more, bottoming out inside her with a groan.

I began to move in and out of her. Faster now, harder until the headboard slammed against the wall. Her muscles clenched around me, drawing me deeper inside her. She clawed at the sheets beneath her, her moans muffled by the fabric.

As her cries grew louder, I quickly pushed her face further into the mattress. "Quiet, first year," I murmured as I angled myself to rub against her G-spot, making it harder for her to keep quiet. "Wouldn't want to disturb anyone in the middle of the night, would we?"

Neither of us spoke a word — not that she could but — perhaps because there was nothing left to say. Instead, we communicated solely through our actions, saying everything that needed to be said without opening our mouths.

I increased both the pace and pressure. Nearly causing her to fall forward hadn't I held her in place with one hand on her waist and one sill in her hair. Her breath hitched, her entire body tensed as she approached her breaking point.

Oh, how I loved feeling her tighten around me.

Bringing her closer to the edge was a thrill like no other. Watching her lose control, hearing her cries and moans, feeling her body tremble beneath me — it was intoxicating.

I could feel myself getting closer to the edge, my balls tightening as I approached my own release. 

Her cries grew louder, more urgent, until finally, she shattered around me, her orgasm triggering my own.

With a final thrust, I emptied myself inside her, filling her completely. Her contractions milked every last drop from me, her body still quivering around me. 

I stayed inside her, savoring the feeling. It might be the last time.

I was panting, my chest rising and falling rapidly as I tried to catch my breath. My cock was still twitching inside her. Reluctantly, I pulled out with a low moan.

I stayed behind her for a moment longer, admiring the curve of her waist, the sheen of sweat on her skin in the sliver of moonlight. 

Don't know when or if I'll ever see that again.

Time seemed to stand still, suspended indefinitely as we tried to find our breath again.

Then she turned her head. "You're a fucking idiot," she finally said.

"Tell me something I don't know."

She shifted to face me, her expression serious.  "Promise me something."

"Anything you want, love."

"Promise me, you won't kill yourself with your pills."

I swallowed hard. That's not what'll get me, I thought, as I felt a sharp pain lancing through my right side.

I moved closer, cupping her face with my hands that trembled slightly. For an insane moment, I wanted to kiss her, but I knew I couldn't — couldn't ever again. "I promise," I rasped.

The words heavy with a lie we both knew.

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

author's note: wooooaaa, another insane!gojo chapter lol. this chapter really killed me, was crying, screaming, throwing up while writing.

i'm equally scared and excited to hear what you think about todays chapter, ngl. originally i didn't plan a smut scene in this chapter, but you know, somewhere down that line gojo just happened and here we are. 

also like, i think now both their's darkest secrets are now out — in the worst way possible. also because i keep getting messages regarding how much chapters are left of the story, idk i write form chapter to chapter. we're down somewhere the 60—70 % line with the story i guess, but we'll see. still more to uncover of gojo's past and all that.

also sorry for the people asking of for more fluff and happy moments, ehhh, there will be some in the future?? also i'm still sticking to the plan of a happy ending, so don't worry!! gojo fucked up big time and the next chapters will center about him trying to fight his fears and get shit together — let's see if he can do that. curious myself.

so thank you so so much for sicking by with the story. sending kisses to all of you lovely people seeing me messages, leaving likes, comments and reblog stuff. it really makes my heart happy everything i see a notification. love you all sm!! ♡

okay my last note, just so you know, i'm going on vocation soon, so the next chapter will be a bit delayed again, sorraaaayyy!! wishing you a great day or night and an awesome weekend ahead! ♡

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[fatcatlittlebox]

It's interesting that Galadriel has it in her mind that Sauron is the Great Deceiver, an illusionist and manipulator. All of those things are true, but not really as he regards her. She was the goal. She is the light he bends to and for whom he would bend the world. For all their talk of healing Middle Earth and creating perfection, Galadriel is the ultimate end for him, not the means. His need for her light will always usurp his need for perfection. When stripped of his form and face, he is a base creature of need and that is when you see what truly motivates him.

He is drawn to the light. He hungers for it. For all his machinations and schemes as Sauron, this is what he really wants. To feel the light. To bask in it. To feel the peace and freedom that it promises.

So why does he not repent before the Valar or Eru? Why does he turn from their salvation? Initially, he does take up the role of penitent son. He follows after Diarmid who was a human emissary of forgiveness. He listens and remembers. But ultimately, when faced with the choice to save Diarmid and in turn, save himself, he rejects it. He could easily take the hand of this kind, humble man. But he doesn't. Why? Because he, this old man, is humble. It chafes him. So he abandons his own ship. And whom does he collide into next? Galadriel, the embodiment of light without the contrition. This is where his fathomless memory comes into play.

He knows what she has done. He knows she was bound for the Undying Lands. But as Elrond had warned against, she denied the call. She defied the gods. She is like him. And the very next thing that happens upon this revelation is the arrival of The Storm. The Valar have spoken. This union must not be. Amidst this tempest Galadriel offers to bind herself to him. He knows what this offer means and, interestingly, she's struck from the raft by lightning. That was no accident. Lightning, as it is in all cultures, is the touch from the gods. If Galadriel will not willingly go to the Undying Lands, the Valar are going to send her there with a one-way ticket. But Sauron defies the Valar also. Where he had abandoned Diarmid and his ship companions not too long ago, he does something so unlike himself, unprecedented. Unexpected. He dives into the water after Galadriel and rips her from Ulmo’s grasp. She is his. They are unto themselves.

What happens next is his new beginning. He calls Numenor a "paradise, ripe with opportunity." Like I and others have concluded, I don't think Sauron really wanted to leave Numenor. In fact, he tries to convince Galadriel to stay in Numenor as well. She is his peace and light. He asks to keep it, by keeping her, "for both [their] sakes". This is both a warning and a promise. He is already envisioning their glory together.

He ends this conversation by clasping her close, handing Gal her precious dagger and warning her to not make anymore enemies. Again, a promise. They'll call back to this later.

Afterwards, there doesn't really seem to be a practical plan to what he does at this time other than try to be by her side. I think that's actually in keeping with what TROP ends up revealing about Sauron's grand game plan. More specifically, he doesn't have one, or detailed one anyways. His Numenor Halbrand Era seems to be mostly: 1) appease elf 2) stay by her side. And it's genuinely the happiest and most organic the viewer ever sees him. I even think that's why he betrayed Galadriel to Pharazon. So that she would be caught. Again. He'll risk her ire, just to keep her close. She brazenly tries to manipulate him constantly (and really everyone in Numenor) under the banner of saving the world, but he isn't fooled. Like calls to like. She enjoys doing it. She enjoys moving the people around her like pawns. So he lets her. Amusedly so. He even gives her tips on how to do it better. The viewer is even shown the vivid rush they both get from indulging in their mind games.

He has not conjured up any illusions. There are no tricks. In fact, what he offers her is the tempting truth of herself. Still, he is content to follow her, watching her move through the world, bending it with her alluring light and force of will all the while knowing that time is not on his side. So he goes back to what he knows best, forging. He will forge this bond. First with the armor. I’d like to think that as he was making it, he was recollecting her body. How to protect her. How to bind her to him. He remembers everything. He recalls her form, every curve and bone while being with her on that raft on the Sundering Sea.

He remembers gazing at her face, her hair, her hand. It's right there. That might have been where he was inspired. While contemplating those countless hours on the raft, the sun and her light bathing him, he wonders how he can preserve the peace of this moment. He finds himself staring at her hand and the seed of an idea takes root. Rings.

From this point forward, that is Sauron's primary objective. Every memory he has from their time in Numenor to Eregion reinforces his belief. This elf warrior with enough passion to rival his own, so much that he follows her back to the Southlands. The place Diarmid had pointedly told him is nothing but death and despair. He goes back for her. He leaves the place that he describes as "a paradise" because she wills it. She crowns him a king. He lets her. She tells him to spare Adar's life. He does. He says he wants to bind "that feeling" to him always. Galadriel shares those feelings. So he designs two rings. Not one ring of power. Two.

Galadriel has crowned him king of the Southlands. So even after she rejects his offer of unending partnership, he goes to the Southlands again as their king. He still acts as their king because it was what Galadriel wanted. Then he sets his sights on making 9 rings for the kings of men. He insists on this despite the protests of Celebrimbor and it ends up the loose thread that unravels everything. If not for that, he would not have pressed upon Celebrimbor to rush their making. He would not have kept Celebrimbor under his thrall. Eregion might not have fallen. He would not have had to use his blood instead of mithril. He risked so much for these 9 rings. Why does it matter so much? Because he is still going to try to heal the Southlands. He must. That was his vow to Galadriel. That was her wish. He will execute her will as if they were still partners and bound to each other.

But Galadriel doesn't see it or doesn’t want to. Her heart betrays her though. Nevertheless, Sauron still has to make good on his promises. He now has impaled her with the crown of Morgoth, ensuring in some way, they will never be free of each other. But he has not yet made the mate of her ring. He still has to forge the One. I wonder if he will use parts of that crown to make it. It is stained by both her blood and his. He may not have sway over Nenya but another ring can still be forged to bind them. I think that is his grand vision, to create that paradise for them to stand side by side again. A healed world where this warrior elf could finally put down her sword and grant him his peace and forgiveness by way of her light. Where his touch does not leave a dark stain of malice. Because Middle Earth is the only place where they may meet again in the light. It is the only place left where he may follow where she has tread. All other doors are shut.

[evagreen-stories]

Mother’s madness | (Aemond x f!lowborn!reader) (3/?)

Summary: Aemond, troubled by his unfruitful marriage and the stress of the war, takes himself a bed slave when he seizes Harrenhal and gets more attached to her than he ever thought possible. Bringing her to the Red Keep after he needs to leave Harrenhal would not go as he hoped it would, especially after the birth of the babes he sired onto her.

Warnings: mentions of violence, light angst (kinda?), canon typical misogyny, canon typical behaviour, dark!aemond, abusive!aemond, forced relationship, forced impregnantion, canon typical classicism, mentions of assault, stockholm syndrom (kind of), non-canon storyline

Author's note: Short little chapter but at last, an update!

Divider @targaryen-dynasty

< part 2 masterlist

By the time Aemond had made all his reports, listened to the yappings of all the council members and sat through hours of further strategy planning, he wanted to rip out each strand of his hair.

It was hard for him to focus already, the worries over his precious bed slave and her madness over their, over his, sons had all but consumed every part of his mind, and yet, odd stares from his mother and grand maester Orwyle made him all the more restless.

Finally, the council meeting was concluded and the Lords left the room. Aemond would watch in silence as Criston helped the struggling king to his feet and down the stairs.

Aegon had been burned and injured gravely during the battle at Rooks Rest over a year ago where Meleys had ingulfed him and his dragon in dragonfire, but he was growing more and more capable these days and managed to attend the council meetings from time to time.

Still, Aemond remained the prince regent, but would sit opposite of the king’s seat at the foot of the long wooden table whenever his brother was in attendance.

From there, he watches as neither his mother nor Orwyle made any attempts to move from their seats, just as he didn’t.

Sitting in tense silence for several moments, Aemond eventually fixates on the elder man to his right. Glaring at him, his voice is little more than a growl, he asks,

“Care to explain to me what is going on with my mistress?”

Orwyle takes a moment to answer, shifting nervously in his seat and glancing to the dowager queen sitting opposite of him before turning his attention back to the prince regent.

“Your mistress, my prince, would appear to suffer from some sort of birth induced mania. It happens from time to time, unfortunately.” He states before carefully adding. “Mothers of such circumstance… they should be separated from the child. They are unable to care for the babes and may harm them during manic episodes.”

Aemond’s face hardens, his jaw clenching. “She is perfectly capable to care for my sons. I have gone to meet her already. I do not believe for a moment she suffers from true madness.”

“She does.” Alicent speaks up. “She would chase anyone out of her room, preferably with the nearest sharp object in hand. Your whore is incapable of caring for your sons.”

“That is a lie!” Aemond snaps his head to her. “What would you even know of this? She and what I do with her is none of your concern, I have told you so a hundred times already.”

“I am your mother. Mind your tongue when talking to me.” The red-haired woman hisses before continuing. “I am also the dowager queen and queen mother. With the queen still occupied in her grief, the Red Keep is my responsibility in your absence. That makes your whore and her spawn my responsibility as well. I needed to deal with the drama she caused. Had she not locked herself away I can assure you, this matter would have long been settled already.”

“Settled?” Aemond scoffs. “And what would that have looked like? Taken my sons from her? And then what?”

“Most certainly. And she must receive treatment-“

“Treatment? What would your great treatment entail?”

“Treatment varies from individual to individual. It remains to be seen what methods work best on her. Is that not right, grand maester?” Alicent urges Orwyle to speak up.

“…yes. Yes, your grace. It is difficult to predict which treatments will work best on her.” The man nods softly.

Aemond was well aware of how maesters would attempt to cure madness. Their methods would be torturous. His own methods of bringing her into full submission when he first claimed her would seem tame in comparison. His stomach turns at the thought of what they would have done to her in his abscence had she not kept her door locked at all times.

“You will do no such thing.” Aemond growls. “No one but me touches her. No one but me will make any decision on any treatments. She is not mad. The babes are healthy. There is no need to intervene.”

“Now they are. But they weren’t always. Your children should be supervised by maesters not by some deranged lowborn.” Alicent retorts.

Aemond furrows his brows, looking at his mother in disbelief. His y/n hadn’t said anything of the sorts. “Now? Now? What is that supposed to mean?”

After another nod from the dowager queen, Orwyle explains, “It… appears we might have miscalculated the day of conception. The babes came early, it seems. Weak, very small, frail. It borders on a miracle the boys live, my prince.”

Aemond stares at him dumbfounded. He held his sons just a few hours earlier, they seemed well. Plumb, full of life. Not just that, he himself had been there when they conceived. He was sure his seed took the very first night that he dragged her to his bed near a year ago. He had watched her belly swell even before he brought her here to the Red Keep.

It made no sense the babes were born sickly when not a single issue had been encountered before. Not even when she was going about her duties of tending to him with little struggle. Well, as long as she could sit down, lay on her side and not have to bend over, that is.

The maesters voice brings him out of his thoughts. “It is best the babes be closely supervised by maesters and raised by experienced nursemaids and wetnurses. Your… mistress should not have them. Mad or not, she will not be able to provide your sons with the care they need to survive.”

Aemond had always been a stubborn man. Perhaps it was his thick head that made him refuse the maesters urging, or perhaps it was his trust is his little bed slave that did so. She was a pure hearted woman, her heart soft. She had learned her new place in life quickly, she had not once betrayed him or given him any reason to doubt her.

She had nothing to gain from lying to him but everything to lose.

She was so convinced of the maesters wanting to steal their children, it could not be a mistake. She would not beg him for help and forgo all formalities with him unless she was truly afraid.

Aemond’s thoughts and emotions were in turmoil now, struggling to discern the truth between y/n’s words, the words of his mother and the grand maester, and the facts he knew to be true.

Staring off at the empty king’s chair in the distance, his voice is little more than a murmur when he asks, “What do you even care for? She’s nothing but a whore in your eyes. You see my sons as bastards only. Why do you care for what happens to them?”

Aemond freezes at his mother’s following shameless reply. He can’t believe she would just state something like this as if it was nothing unusual. It would seem little more than an odd phrasing of words to some but with his suspicions in mind, it's all the confirmation he needs.

“She is a whore, yes. She has seduced you so she can live in luxury far above her station. You’re just a foolish young man with no control of his urges. But… the fact remains that you have no heir. With only a daughter and no sons, they could be of good use to you had you done your wife the courtesy of putting them into her belly instead.”

His gaze cold as ice, he stares at her, never once looking away as he growls. “So it’s true what y/n says? That you plan to steal my sons from her and give them to Floris?”

Alicent seems taken aback, her surprised expression shortly finding Orwyle’s startled one before quickly moving back to her son. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Y/n.” Aemond says firmly. “She says she has heard someone say it. That you tasked the maesters to take my sons from her and give them to Floris.”

Alicent remains quiet for a while before her own face hardens. Straightening her posture and keeping her hands clasped firmly in front of her on the table, she begins to lecture her son.

“You have a lady wife, Aemond. A respectable, honorable lady wife of high birth. Princess Floris has given you a daughter already and served you faithfully.” She begins. “The only thing you still need is a legitimate son. With your wife’s recent stillbirth during your absence, it would be easy to arrange so. Give your whore’s sons to her. Or just one, even. You can pass him off as hers and have your-“

“ENOUGH!” Aemond roars, his fists slamming onto the table as he stands up, the chair loudly scraping across the floor. “I will not hear of this! How DARE you try and steal my sons from y/n!”

Alicent’s face remains resolute, her chin held up high in defiance, while Orwyle looks like he wants to vanish beneath the floor.

“I did what needed to be done. Stop coddling your whore, Aemond. Let her pay back for living on the crown’s cost and causing your lady wife distress. Let her produce the boys and you make them heirs, as the sons of you and Princess Floris.”

Mouth hanging open, Aemond can barely believe what his mother is saying. “If anyone has gone mad here, it is you, not her.” He says firmly. “I cannot believe you would betray me like this. Go against my orders, willing to harm my y/n.”

He glares down at his mother as he continues, “Floris will not have my sons. She does NOT deserve them. She has failed me. Failed as my wife, failed as a woman. My mistress has done within a year what that bitch of a wife could not manage in five. Y/n will keep my sons and all other children I will put into her belly and all of them will be made my heirs. Not as Floris’s children, but as y/n’s. I will legitimize them at once and have them declared as my heirs.”

“Have you lost your mind?!” Alicent is the one yelling now. “You cannot do that! Think of the shame that it would bring to your wife! Of how it will disrupt our ally with the Baratheon’s!”

“She is the one that brings shame to me!” Aemond shouts back, his face filled with pure rage and hatred. “It is her failing that has made me the laughingstock across the realm! Made me the maimed prince whose cock does not work! Now they will no longer laugh, now that I have my sons! Lord Borros praised me her fertility but delivered a woman unable to carry a child properly. It is his own doing our alliance has faltered. He will not speak against my y/n or our sons. He will accept them as my heirs. He will remain loyal to our side or I will personally fly south and turn Storm’s End into a second Harrenhal!”

With that, Aemond throws the nearest cups and parchments off the table before turning on his heel to make his way out the door, curses at his mother and wife flowing out his mouth as he does so.

In his rage, Aemond makes his way to the training yard, the urge to stab one of the dummies repeatedly or challenge one of the poor squires to a duel overwhelming him.

< part 2 masterlist

[badger-tales]

More Than Meets The Eye//F.W x Reader

a/n: oops I went a little crazy with this fic. i was only gonna write like 2k.

request:

Hii!🫶🏻

Can i request Fred Wealey x Slytherin reader?Fred wouldn't spare a second glance at her because he expected her to be mean and arrogant...and then they bond through a prank.He gets to know her.He is surprised at how well they get along.She still has a strong personality,like being determined and ambitious,prioritizes her goals, but they also share common humor with Fred,supports him and his dream,is honest,stands up for him and his family and etc.

Honestly, I am more about the beginning of their connection,but I'd be very happy if you want to add romance.

Also, I wouldn't mind if the reader is gn.

Thanks in advance!♡♡

word count: 7.4k

Fred Weasley had never really given much thought to anyone in Slytherin, especially not you. It wasn’t anything personal—well, actually, it sort of *was*. From the moment he and George had stepped into Hogwarts, they’d been fed the same story over and over again: Slytherins were ambitious, ruthless, cold, and far too pleased with themselves for anyone’s liking. That was just the way it was. House stereotypes ran deep, and for Fred, those old tales of Slytherin superiority seemed to hold more than a little truth. 

Most of the Slytherins he encountered fit the mold perfectly—smug, calculating, always scheming in their own dark corners of the castle. In Fred’s eyes, they had an aura about them, a kind of icy detachment that separated them from the warmth of Gryffindor camaraderie. So it was only natural that he didn’t spare you more than a passing glance whenever you crossed paths. 

At least, not until that day.

You weren’t mean, necessarily, but there was something about you that set you apart—a kind of magnetic presence that made people take notice. Maybe it was the way you moved with confidence, the way you held your head high like you always knew exactly where you were going and how to get there. You walked the halls like you owned them, and for Fred, that kind of self-assurance could only mean one thing: you were another one of those Slytherins. The type that had ambition running through their veins, and absolutely no time to waste on anything or anyone that didn’t serve their goals. 

You always seemed focused—too focused. Good grades, a close-knit group of friends, and that perpetual look of someone already ten steps ahead of everyone else. You never bothered with Gryffindors unless you had to, and Fred had long assumed he was no exception to that rule. You hardly ever looked his way, and he certainly didn’t make the effort to look back.

But all of that changed the day you pranked him.

It had started off like any other afternoon in the Great Hall. Fred and George had been huddled together at the Gryffindor table, heads bent in deep discussion about their next grand plan. The hall was alive with the usual chatter and clinking of silverware, but the twins were in their own world, plotting whatever chaos they could unleash next.

Fred was mid-sentence, leaning over the table, when suddenly—BAM. A bone-chilling shock of cold hit him, ripping through his body like he’d been plunged into the icy depths of the Black Lake. His breath hitched, and without thinking, he shot up from the bench, arms flailing, his wet robes clinging to his skin. Water dripped from his hair and pooled at his feet, and he shivered uncontrollably as the hall erupted in laughter.

It took him a second to regain his bearings, blinking as he processed what had just happened. George, looking equally baffled, stared at Fred’s drenched form with wide eyes, hands lifted in mock surrender.

“That wasn’t us,” George muttered, casting a wary glance around the hall. “Who—?”

Fred didn’t even get a chance to finish his thought before a soft, unmistakable chuckle floated across the table. His ears perked up, and his gaze followed the sound. There you were, sitting a few seats away, your arms casually crossed over your chest as you watched him with a look of pure amusement. The faintest smirk tugged at the corners of your lips, but it was the glint in your eyes that caught Fred’s attention—the kind of glint that screamed mischief.

You tilted your head slightly, raising a single eyebrow as your eyes locked with Fred’s. You didn’t say a word, but the message was clear as day: Got you. The smirk deepened, and Fred felt the heat rise to his cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from theyer disbelief.

Had you, a Slytherin, just pranked him? 

Fred stood there, blinking, momentarily thrown off-kilter. Slytherins didn’t prank. They schemed, sure, but this? This was something else entirely. He’d expected arrogance, maybe a condescending remark or two, but this? This playful, teasing glimmer in your eyes—this was a whole new side of you he’d never seen before.

For a split second, Fred didn’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed. But as the hall’s laughter died down, he felt his mouth twitch into a grin, the shock fading into something more like admiration. It wasn’t every day someone managed to catch him off guard. And for you, of all people, to pull it off? Well, that was something he could respect.

Fred glanced at George, who was still trying (and failing) to stifle his own laughter. “Looks like someone’s playing our game,” George said, nudging Fred with his elbow.

Fred’s grin widened as he turned back to you, shaking off the last of the water from his robes. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for you to hear. “Didn’t think I’d see the day a Slytherin pulled one over on me.”

You didn’t reply, but the satisfied smirk on your face said it all.

Fred stared at you, still dripping wet, his shock morphing into something else entirely—a blend of disbelief and curiosity. His brows were raised, and there was a slight flicker of admiration in his eyes. He hadn’t expected you to be behind it. Not you. He wiped the water off his face with a quick swipe of his sleeve, blinking through the last remnants of surprise.

"Was that you?" Fred asked, his voice a mixture of incredulity and—though he wouldn’t admit it yet—something like respect.

Your smirk only grew wider, a glint of satisfaction dancing in your eyes as you met his gaze without hesitation. “Maybe,” you replied, your tone casual and entirely unbothered, as if soaking one of the Weasley twins was a perfectly ordinary part of your day. You leaned back slightly, watching his reaction with amusement. “It’s not like you Gryffindors own the art of mischief, you know.”

Fred blinked again, still caught off guard by your audacity. Slytherins didn’t pull pranks like this—at least, not ones that weren’t dripping with malice or some underhanded agenda. But this? This was pure fun, a clever, harmless trick. His kind of fun. His lips twitched upward despite himself, the corners of his mouth lifting into a grin that was more impressed than anything else.

“Right, well,” Fred said slowly, his surprise now melting into something warmer, “I can appreciate a well-executed prank, even when I’m the one getting soaked.”

You tilted your head, your smirk deepening as you shrugged, the gesture effortlessly cool. “I’d hope so,” you replied, eyes never leaving his. “Thought you could use a taste of your own medicine.”

Fred let out a short laugh, and for a moment, it felt like the entire hall had faded into the background—the noise of clattering plates and chatter dulling to a distant hum. You had his full attention now, and he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you’d just broken some sort of unspoken rule. Slytherins didn’t prank him. Yet here you were, defying every expectation he had, and doing it with style.

George, still laughing beside him, clapped Fred on the shoulder, clearly enjoying the moment as much as Fred was. “they’s got you there, mate.”

Fred kept his eyes on you, studying you in a way he hadn’t before. There was something about the way you carried yourself—sure, you were ambitious, confident like any Slytherin. But there was something else too. A spark of humor, a playful side that Fred hadn’t seen in you or any of your housemates. It was like you weren’t just focused on winning or getting ahead; you enjoyed the game itself, the thrill of pulling off something clever. 

After that day, Fred couldn’t help but notice you more. Whether it was in the common spaces between classes or across the Great Hall at mealtimes, there was a new, unspoken connection between the two of you. A shared look, a grin exchanged across the room, and sometimes, when the timing was just right, a wink if one of you had managed to pull off something particularly sneaky. You didn’t hang around with the Gryffindors, not like Fred’s usual circle, but it didn’t matter. There was something about you—something that felt a little too familiar, like the two of you were cut from the same cloth in ways Fred hadn’t anticipated.

It was a few days later when Fred and George were sitting in a quiet corner of the castle, heads bent together over a crumpled piece of parchment as they plotted their next grand scheme. The brothers were deep in discussion, hutheyd whispers and wicked grins, when your voice cut through the air, smooth and teasing.

"Planning something good?" you asked, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. You leaned against the wall with your arms crossed, just enough swagger in your stance to grab their attention without even trying.

Fred looked up, a slow grin spreading across his face as he leaned back against the stone wall. “Always,” he said, his voice light and playful. “Why? Want in?”

You didn’t answer right away, instead tapping your chin thoughtfully, as if weighing your options. Finally, with a small, amused hum, you gave a short nod. “Could be fun. What are we targeting?”

George’s eyes went wide, flicking between Fred and you as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Are we seriously teaming up with a Slytherin?” he asked, though the glint of excitement in his tone betrayed him.

Fred shrugged, shooting you a sideways grin. “Why not? they've got talent.”

At that, you flatshed a quick grin of your own—sharp, confident, and just mischievous enough to match the Weasley twins. Something in Fred’s chest warmed at the sight. He hadn’t expected to like you this much, hadn’t thought you’d be the kind of person who could stand shoulder to shoulder with him and George in the art of causing magical mayhem. But here you were, already fitting right in with the two of them, your mind working just as fast, just as sharp. It was almost too easy—like you were meant to be part of the team.

It didn’t take long for the three of you to hatch a plan. The idea was bold, ambitious, and absolutely hilarious: charming all of Hogwarts’ staircases to reverse themselves at random intervals, creating chaos for anyone trying to get anywhere in the castle for at least an hour. Fred could already picture it—students lost, moving in circles, teachers getting increasingly flustered as they tried to reach their classrooms. It was perfect.

As you all sat together, conspiring over the finer details of the prank, Fred couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of camaraderie. There was something electric in the air, a shared excitement that buzzed between the three of you. It wasn’t just the thrill of the prank itself—it was the fact that you were part of it. That, somehow, the boundaries between Gryffindor and Slytherin didn’t seem to matter when you were plotting mischief together.

And as Fred exchanged a glance with you, your eyes gleaming with the same kind of mischief that always lived in his, he realized that this was only the beginning.

When the prank finally went off without a single hitch—just as the three of you had planned it—Fred couldn’t help but feel a surge of genuine admiration. The chaotic symphony of moving staircases, confused shouts, and students doubling back in frustration echoed throughout the castle. Everything unfolded exactly as intended. It was a beautiful disaster, one Fred and George might have taken full credit for under normal circumstances, but this time, there was someone else in the mix. 

You.

He glanced over at you amidst the mayhem, and for what felt like the hundredth time that day, he found himself impressed. You were sharper than he'd realized, quick on your feet with ideas and witty comebacks, and your sense of humor? It matched his own in a way that surprised him. Where he and George were used to bouncing ideas off each other in perfect sync, adding you to the mix had been... effortless. It was almost as if you'd been part of their mischief-making duo all along. The way you kept up, even outsmarting them in some cases, made Fred feel like he’d finally met someone outside of his brother who got it—the thrill, the fun, the sheer genius of a perfectly executed prank.

And the more he thought about it, the more he liked it. He liked how you weren’t afraid to speak your mind, whether it was about the prank or something else entirely. There was a blunt honesty about you that Fred found refreshing. It wasn’t like the typical Gryffindor bravado he was so used to—charging into things headfirst and hoping for the best. No, with you, it was different. There was a sharpness to your words, a determination that showed how driven you were toward your own goals. You were ambitious, no doubt about it. But you weren’t above teaming up for something as ridiculous as a prank.

That night, as the three of you sat together near the Gryffindor common room, celebrating the chaos you’d unleatheyd on the castle, Fred found himself laughing—really laughing, the kind that made his stomach ache and tears prick at the corners of his eyes. George, too, was still chuckling beside him, recounting the way Snape had nearly gotten caught in one of the staircases as it reversed direction. But Fred’s focus wasn’t entirely on his brother. It kept drifting back to you.

As the laughter slowly faded into an easy silence, Fred leaned against the stone wall, catching his breath. He looked at you, and for the first time, he realized just how wrong he’d been—not just about Slytherins, but about you. All that time, he’d thought of you as nothing more than another ambitious snake with no room in your life for fun or friendship. But here you were, your laughter still lingering in the air, looking more at ease than he’d ever seen you.

"You're not so bad," Fred said, nudging you playfully with his elbow, his grin still lingering. You were standing near the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, your posture relaxed in a way that told Fred you were no longer trying to prove anything—to him or anyone else. It was just you. And he liked that.

You shot him a look, but there was no real bite to it, just a teasing smile that softened your features. "Thanks, Weasley. You're not half as annoying as I thought you’d be either."

Fred chuckled, but there was something in your voice—something light, playful, but genuine. It wasn’t just teasing; it was a little warmer than that, like maybe this whole thing had surprised you too. The back-and-forth between you two was easy, natural even, and Fred found that he liked this feeling—this... whatever it was.

For a moment, the two of you stood there in the glow of the flickering torches, silence settling comfortably between you as the others around you continued chatting. Fred turned toward you again, his grin softening into something more thoughtful.

"You know..." he began, scratching the back of his neck. "I’m glad we did this. I didn’t think I’d ever say it, but I actually enjoy having you around."

The words were sincere, maybe more sincere than Fred had meant them to be, but he didn’t take them back. He couldn’t. Because the truth was, he really did like having you around. You weren’t just some prank partner or an occasional clever rival—you were someone who challenged him in ways he didn’t expect. And that? Well, that made you someone worth knowing.

Your smile grew just a little warmer at his words, and for a second, Fred swore he saw something shift in your expression—something almost... fond. "Careful, Fred," you said, your voice carrying a hint of amusement. "People might start thinking we’re friends."

Fred let out a light laugh, though it felt like something more, something unspoken passing between the two of you. "Would that be such a bad thing?"

You didn’t answer right away, instead turning the question over in your mind, and Fred could see that you weren’t dismissing it outright. It wasn’t like you to offer your trust or friendship easily. You were too sharp for that, too guarded, too Slytherin, maybe. But then, after a moment, you shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips.

"No," you said, your tone softer now. "I suppose not."

And that was it. Simple words, exchanged in the quiet of the evening, but to Fred, they felt heavier than they should have—like you’d just let him in, just a little, but enough to know there was something real there.

Fred didn’t say anything more, didn’t need to. But as he stood there beside you, he felt something settle inside him, a lightness he hadn’t expected. Maybe you weren’t just a Slytherin. Maybe you weren’t just the ambitious, clever person he’d thought you were. Maybe you were something more. Someone more.

And maybe—just maybe—you were someone he wanted to know a lot better.

Days had a way of blurring together at Hogwarts, especially when you were caught up in the whirlwind of pranks and laughter, but lately, Fred found himself paying more attention to the small moments. The little flashes of time where you crossed paths—fleeting, but somehow charged with a new energy. It started slowly at first. He'd catch your eye across the Great Hall, a brief glance that always ended with a knowing smirk exchanged between the two of you. Then in class, he'd feel your gaze on him from across the room, or he’d notice you walking ahead in the corridors, and something inside him would stir—a spark of recognition, of expectation.

It was odd, really. Fred had never thought he'd actually enjoy the company of a Slytherin, especially outside of a prank war. But here you were, slipping seamlessly into the chaos of his life, like you'd been part of the madness all along. You fit in so naturally with him and George that it was starting to feel like you were an honorary Weasley twin—sharp, quick-witted, and always one step ahead. You weren’t just a partner-in-prank; you were a constant presence now, someone Fred had grown used to looking for, whether he’d admit it or not.

The pranks kept coming, too. After the staircase stunt, which had sent the whole castle into a delightful frenzy, you, Fred, and George had begun working on a series of smaller, subtler stunts. It was almost too easy. You always seemed to know exactly what would work, how to make the chaos just disruptive enough to be hilarious but not catastrophic. Fred couldn’t help but admire that. It wasn’t just that you could keep up with him and George—it was the fact that you made the mischief better.

But what surprised Fred most was how much he enjoyed being around you when there wasn’t a prank in progress. It wasn’t just about causing trouble anymore. It was something deeper, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The way you laughed, the way you challenged him in conversation, even the way you’d give him that small, genuine smile—those were the moments Fred found himself thinking about more than he cared to admit.

It was on one of those rare afternoons when Hogwarts seemed quieter than usual. The hustle and bustle of the castle had slowed, and Fred, fresh from Quidditch practice, his broom slung casually over his shoulder, was heading back to the common room when he spotted you by the lake. You were sitting alone, reading, the usual group of Slytherins conspicuously absent. 

The sight of you, bathed in the soft light of the afternoon sun, caught him off guard. You looked different here, outside of the usual spaces where chaos brewed. Fred hesitated for only a moment, feeling an unfamiliar boldness rise within him. He wasn’t about to let this chance slip by.

Grinning to himself, he walked over, his long strides carrying him swiftly across the grass until he was close enough to cast a playful shadow over your book. "Well, this is unexpected," he teased, dropping down onto the grass beside you without waiting for an invitation. "You, out in broad daylight, no mischief in sight? I’m shocked."

You glanced up from your book, one eyebrow arched as you took him in. "Believe it or not, Weasley," you said dryly, "I do have other things going on besides plotting your downfall."

Fred let out a laugh, stretching his legs out and leaning back on his elbows, completely at ease in your presence. "I don’t know," he replied, casting you a sideways glance. "You’ve got a talent for it. Can’t imagine you giving it up entirely."

"Who said I’m giving it up?" you shot back smoothly, closing your book and setting it aside with deliberate care. "Maybe I’m just taking a break before the next strike."

Fred’s grin widened. There it was again—that playful edge, that back-and-forth that came so naturally between you two. He couldn’t help himself; he nudged you lightly with his elbow, the gesture almost affectionate. "I should be worried, shouldn’t I?"

You shrugged, the faintest of smiles tugging at your lips. "Probably," you said, though there was a spark of amusement in your eyes.

It was that smile, that small, genuine smile, that did something to Fred. He was starting to realize how much he liked seeing it, how much he looked for it in those quieter moments between the laughter and chaos. You didn’t smile easily—not like George, not even like Fred himself—but when you did, it was real. Honest.

There was something about you—something different from anyone else Fred had ever known. It was in the way you held back, keeping parts of yourself hidden, but not in a cold or distant way. It was just... you. Fred respected that, maybe even admired it. You didn’t need to prove yourself to anyone, and that made the moments when you let your guard down—like right now—all the more meaningful.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the breeze ruffling the pages of the book beside you. Fred found himself glancing at you again, his usual grin softening slightly. You were just sitting there, reading by the lake, no pranks or schemes, no grand plans for the next wave of chaos. And yet, Fred felt that same warmth, the same pull toward you that he’d been feeling for weeks now.

"Don’t tell me you’re actually reading that," Fred teased lightly, nodding toward the book, though his tone wasn’t as sharp as usual. "Seems awfully serious for someone who’s so good at plotting pranks."

You laughed softly, and Fred swore it was one of his new favorite sounds. "I can have layers, you know," you said, rolling your eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, my entire existence doesn’t revolve around your demise."

"Shame," Fred replied, eyes twinkling. "Keeps things interesting."

"Don’t worry," you said with a smirk. "I’ll make sure to keep you on your toes, Weasley."

Fred grinned, something fluttering in his chest that felt a little like excitement, but something else too—something he wasn’t quite ready to admit to himself just yet. Maybe it was the fact that being around you felt easy, natural. Or maybe it was because he knew that you weren’t just someone to laugh with or prank with. There was more to you than that, and Fred couldn’t deny that he wanted to know all of it.

As the sun began to sink lower in the sky, casting a golden glow over the lake, Fred found himself wishing for more afternoons like this—where it was just you and him, no distractions, no grand schemes. Just the two of you, sitting by the lake, exchanging easy banter, sharing something that felt... right.

He didn’t say it out loud, but Fred knew. He liked you. Maybe more than he’d expected. Maybe more than he was ready to admit.

“So, what’s next on the list of Slytherin goals?” Fred asked, his voice casual, though there was an unmistakable flicker of genuine curiosity beneath his playful tone. He wasn’t used to asking questions like that, not with people outside his usual circle, but with you? There was something about you that made him want to know more—something beyond the pranks and witty comebacks.

You leaned back on your elbows, eyes fixed on the shimmering surface of the Black Lake, where the late afternoon sunlight danced on the water in rippling, golden threads. The world around you was quiet, peaceful in a way that felt rare at Hogwarts. Fred watched as you seemed to contemplate his question for a moment, your gaze distant, thoughtful. Finally, you spoke, your voice steady but relaxed, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

"I’ve got my eye on a few things," you said, exhaling softly. "Mostly school-related, getting ahead in my classes." You glanced at him then, as if already anticipating his reaction. "I know it sounds boring to you, but I’m not about to coast through just because I can pull off a good prank."

Fred tilted his head slightly, watching you in a way he hadn’t really done before. He’d always been the kind of person who found more joy in breaking the rules than following them, living for the thrill of chaos and spontaneity. But you? You seemed to walk a fine line, balancing ambition and fun, seriousness and mischief. You weren’t defined by any one thing, and that intrigued him more than he wanted to admit.

“Nah, doesn’t sound boring at all,” Fred said after a pause, surprising himself as much as you. His voice had softened, no trace of his usual sarcasm or teasing grin. "I respect it, actually. You know what you want, and you’re not afraid to go after it."

You turned your head to look at him, a bit taken aback by the sincerity in his words. Fred Weasley wasn’t exactly known for deep, thoughtful conversations, but there was something in his tone—something real—that made you stop and consider him in a new light. It wasn’t just a passing compliment. He meant it.

"And what about you, Weasley?" you asked, sitting up a bit straighter now, your interest piqued. "What are your big ambitions? Or is it all just pranks and Quidditch with you?"

Fred chuckled, though the sound was quieter than usual. He shifted his position, plucking absently at the blades of grass between his fingers. The question caught him off guard in a way that few things did. He’d never really thought too seriously about his future—at least, not in the way you seemed to think about yours. But now, sitting here with you, the question felt like it demanded more than his usual joking response.

“Me and George—we’ve got dreams,” he began, a bit hesitant. His voice wasn’t quite as confident as usual, and for once, it lacked its typical swagger. “We want to open a joke shop, you know? Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.” He let the name hang in the air for a moment, as if testing how it sounded when said aloud. “But it’s just an idea for now.”

You shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully. There was something in the way he said it that made you pay closer attention, something in the way the words seemed both hopeful and uncertain. "A joke shop?" you repeated, intrigued. "Sounds like you’re well on your way already. Between you and George, half the school already thinks you run one."

Fred chuckled again, but this time there was a trace of uncertainty in his laugh. His fingers played with the grass as he looked down, avoiding your gaze for a moment. "Maybe," he admitted, his tone a bit quieter now. "But it’s risky, you know? Our mum thinks it’s all a big waste of time."

You frowned, your brows knitting together in disbelief. "That’s ridiculous," you said firmly, your voice full of conviction. “Your pranks are brilliant, Fred. You’ve got something here—something that could be bigger than you realize.”

Fred blinked, his head snapping up to look at you, taken aback by the weight of your words. He wasn’t used to hearing people take his ideas seriously, not like this. Sure, George was always by his side, and the two of them had enough confidence to laugh in the face of doubt, but this? You weren’t just humoring him. You believed in him. And that hit harder than he expected.

“You really think so?” he asked, his usual bravado softening, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.

You didn’t hesitate, meeting his gaze with a steady certainty that made Fred’s heart do a small, unexpected flip. "Of course I do," you replied, your voice calm but firm. "You’ve got a gift for making people laugh, Fred. That’s not something to take lightly. The world could use more of that. And if it’s what you want, you shouldn’t let anyone stop you—not even your mum."

For a moment, Fred couldn’t speak. He just stared at you, the words sinking in, warming him from the inside out in a way that caught him off guard. It was rare for him to feel this way—this seen, this understood. Most people saw him as just the jokester, the prankster, always up to something but never serious. But you saw him differently, and that meant more than he could put into words.

A slow, genuine smile spread across Fred’s face, but it wasn’t his usual cheeky grin. It was something softer, more real, a smile that reached his eyes and stayed there. "You know," he said after a moment, his voice a little lighter, "for someone who’s all about ambition and personal goals, you’re a pretty good friend."

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint returning to your eyes. "Is that your way of saying you like having me around, Weasley?"

Fred let out a soft laugh, nudging you playfully with his shoulder. "Maybe. Don’t let it go to your head."

But as the two of you sat there by the lake, the sun sinking lower on the horizon, Fred couldn’t shake the warmth spreading through his chest. For the first time, he wasn’t just thinking about pranks or jokes or the next laugh. He was thinking about you—about the way you saw him, the way you understood him in a way no one else did.

And for the first time in a long while, Fred wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was something more between you than friendship. Something worth exploring.

You scoffed lightly. "You say that like being ambitious means I don’t care about other people. I just don’t waste time on people who aren’t worth it."

Fred leaned back on his elbows, mirroring your posture as he glanced over at you. "And I’m worth it, then?"

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade. "Surprisingly, yes."

Fred chuckled again, but the sound was quieter this time. There was a comfortable silence between you, one that felt easy—natural, even. It was in these moments, when the pranks were set aside, that Fred realized just how much he enjoyed your company. You weren’t what he’d expected. You were honest, driven, but not ruthless. You stood up for what you believed in, and apparently, that included him and his ridiculous dreams.

The conversation drifted after that, moving from Quidditch to classes to some gossip about Snape’s latest unfair detention, and Fred found himself talking to you about things he normally didn’t share with people outside his family.

By the time the sun started to set, casting long shadows over the grass, Fred realized he didn’t want the conversation to end. He liked this side of you—the one that wasn’t all Slytherin determination and ambition, but someone who could tease and laugh and encourage him, too.

As you stood up to leave, Fred reached out and lightly grabbed your wrist, just enough to stop you. When you looked down at him, confused, he gave you a crooked grin.

"Hey," he said, his voice a little softer than usual, "Thanks. For believing in the joke shop thing. It means a lot coming from you."

You held his gaze for a moment before nodding. "Anytime, Weasley."

He let go of your wrist, watching as you walked away, his heart doing a little flip in his chest. He didn’t know when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, Fred had stopped seeing you as just a Slytherin. You were more than that. You were you, and that was someone he wanted to keep around.

That evening, as Fred lay in bed staring at the ceiling, George nudged him.

"You’ve been staring at the ceiling for ages. Thinking about a new prank, or is it something else?" George asked, a knowing smirk on his face.

Fred hesitated, then grinned. "Maybe both."

George gave him a look. "Is this about a certain Slytherin?"

Fred shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. "Maybe. they're—" He paused, searching for the right words. "They're not like the others."

George chuckled. "Clearly. You’ve gone and gotten yourself interested."

Fred threw a pillow at his twin, but his mind was still on you—on how you’d looked at him today, how you’d believed in him. Maybe George was right. Maybe Fred was interested.

The chill of autumn had settled into the castle by the time Fred’s feelings for you became undeniable. He’d tried to play it cool—tried to act like it was just fun working together on pranks, just a friendship with a Slytherin he hadn’t expected to like. But as the weeks passed, Fred found himself thinking about you more often than not, and it wasn’t just about jokes or mischief anymore.

He liked how you challenged him, how you made him think, and how you were unflinchingly honest. You didn’t just see the prankster side of Fred; you saw him, his dreams, his frustrations. It was a connection Fred hadn’t expected, but now that it was there, he couldn’t ignore it.

Which is why it stung when he overheard what happened in the dungeons one afternoon.

Fred was passing by the Slytherin common room on his way to Potions when he heard raised voices. Curiosity piqued, he slowed his pace, pausing by the stone corridor to listen.

"Why are you always hanging around with Weasley and his lot?" a familiar, sneering voice spat. It was one of your housemates, a particularly snide sixth-year named Malvin. "You know they’re blood traitors, right? Dirt poor and—"

"Shut up, Malvin," your voice cut through sharply, filled with a kind of venom Fred had never heard from you before.

Fred’s heart stopped. He knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but something about the tension in your voice made him stay put, listening.

"Yeah, right," another Slytherin, Bexley, chimed in. "What’s wrong with you? Hanging out with Gryffindors, defending that pathetic family—"

"They’re not pathetic," you snapped, your voice fierce and unwavering. "They’re decent people, which is more than I can say for some of the so-called ‘pureblood elite’ around here."

Malvin snorted. "You’re joking, right? Fred Weasley? He’s a joke. His whole family’s a joke. You’re embarrassing yourself by hanging around with him."

Fred’s stomach twisted at the cruel words, but what hit harder was the silence that followed. He could picture you standing there, tense, eyes flashing. He half-expected you to walk away, to let it go like anyone would when facing off against their own housemates.

But then, your voice cut through the air again, colder than he’d ever heard it.

"If anyone’s embarrassing themselves, it’s you. You think that insulting people makes you better than them? Grow up, Malvin. Fred’s twice the person you’ll ever be."

Fred’s breath caught in his throat.

"Unbelievable," Bexley muttered, sounding disgusted. "Look at you, defending a Weasley. Maybe you should’ve been sorted into Gryffindor after all, since you’re so keen on playing hero."

"Maybe I should have been," you shot back, defiant. "At least Gryffindors know how to treat people with respect."

There was a tense pause before Malvin spoke again, his voice lower, more threatening. "You’ll regret this, you know. People talk. Stick around with the Weasleys long enough, and your own house won’t want anything to do with you."

"Good," you said, your voice unwavering. "Because I don’t want anything to do with people who treat others like rubbish."

Fred’s heart swelled. He didn’t wait any longer. He stepped out from the shadow of the corridor and walked straight into the common room entrance, ignoring the startled looks from the other Slytherins. His eyes were locked on you, standing tall, arms crossed, with a fire in your gaze that made Fred’s chest ache in the best way possible.

"Y/N," Fred said, his voice firm but soft. "You don’t have to do this."

You turned to him, surprised. But then your expression softened, just slightly. "Yes, I do."

Fred stared at you for a moment, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t push down any longer. He didn’t care what anyone said anymore—about him, about his family, about Gryffindor or Slytherin. You had just defended him and his family against your own housemates, knowing full well the backlash you’d get. And that was when it hit him—how much he really, really liked you.

No. How much he was falling for you.

Malvin sneered, stepping forward. "Oh, look, the hero shows up to—"

"Shut it," Fred snapped, cutting him off. His voice had a sharp edge now, something fierce that wasn’t always there. He turned to you, ignoring the others entirely. "You alright?"

You nodded. "Fine. Just dealing with idiots."

Fred grinned, feeling a surge of pride at your bravery. "Well, you do that pretty well."

The Slytherins were still glaring, but Fred didn’t care. His eyes were on you, and in that moment, all he could think about was how much he wanted to tell you—everything.

"Let’s go," Fred said, reaching out his hand.

You hesitated for a second, then placed your hand in his, letting him pull you away from the common room and out into the corridor. Once you were clear of the Slytherin common room, Fred finally stopped, turning to face you fully.

"You didn’t have to defend me like that," Fred said, though his tone was softer now, filled with gratitude. "But… thank you. For standing up for me and my family."

You shrugged, but there was a warmth in your eyes. "It’s nothing. They were out of line. I don’t care what house I’m in—people don’t get to talk about you or your family like that."

Fred smiled, the kind of smile that reached his eyes. His heart was pounding now, but for a different reason. It wasn’t just gratitude he was feeling—it was something bigger. He couldn’t deny it anymore.

"Y/N," Fred began, taking a step closer to you. His voice was quieter now, a little more serious than usual. "I’ve been thinking… about you. About us."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Fred—"

"I like you," Fred blurted out, his cheeks going a bit pink but his grin never faltering. "A lot. You’re not just some prank partner or a mate to hang around with. You’re… you’re incredible. And today, when you stood up for me—" He paused, his grin softening. "It just made me realize I don’t want to waste any more time pretending I don’t feel this way."

You blinked, processing his words, but Fred didn’t give you a chance to reply just yet. He scratched the back of his neck, looking slightly sheepish now.

"So, um… what do you say? Would you want to go out with me? Like, a proper date?" His voice was laced with hope, his usual confidence just slightly shy as he waited for your response.

For a second, you just stared at Fred, your eyes widening slightly in surprise as his words sank in. You hadn’t expected him to ask—not now, not like this—but there it was, hanging in the air between you, as real and clear as anything. His question wasn’t some flippant remark, some casual joke. It was Fred, standing there with his usual crooked grin, but there was something else in his eyes too—something soft, hopeful, and entirely sincere.

And then, slowly, a smile broke across your face—not the usual smirk you gave him when you traded banter, but a real, genuine smile, one that reached your eyes and softened your whole expression. It was the kind of smile that made Fred’s heart stop for a beat, then race twice as fast.

"You know," you said, stepping closer to him, your voice light but full of something warmer, something that made Fred’s pulse quicken, "I was starting to wonder when you’d finally ask."

Fred’s heart skipped a beat, the world around him seeming to still for just a moment. You were close now, so close that he could see the glint of amusement in your eyes, the way your lips curled just slightly at the corners. He’d been teasing, sure, but now that he was looking at you, seeing that smile, that look, he realized that maybe this wasn’t a joke after all. This was real.

"So that’s a yes?" Fred asked, his voice a bit more breathless than usual, though he tried to keep the grin on his face. His heart was pounding now, loud enough that he wondered if you could hear it.

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your expression didn’t fade. In fact, it only deepened, and Fred couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. "Yes, Weasley. That’s a yes."

Fred’s grin widened, a rush of pure joy surging through him so fast he barely had time to think before his arms were around you. He pulled you into a tight hug, lifting you off the ground without a second thought, his heart soaring as your laughter bubbled up, light and easy in his ear. The sound sent a thrill through him, and in that moment, Fred felt like he was on top of the world.

You held on to him, your laughter fading into a breathy chuckle as he spun you once, just enough to make you squeak in surprise before he set you back down. But even as your feet touched the ground again, Fred didn’t let go. His arms stayed wrapped around you, holding you close as if he was afraid to let the moment slip away. His forehead rested gently against yours, and for a moment, everything else faded away—the noise of the castle, the bustle of students in the distance. It was just the two of you, standing there in your own little world.

"You know," Fred said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "I think this is going to be fun."

You smiled up at him, your eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief he loved so much. But there was something more behind it now, something that made his chest feel impossibly full. "Of course it will be," you replied, your voice as light and teasing as ever, but the words carried a promise. "We’re in this together now."

Fred chuckled, his breath fanning lightly against your skin as he leaned forward, pressing a gentle, teasing kiss to your forehead. It was quick, playful, but there was a tenderness to it that made his heart skip yet again. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his arms still loosely draped around your waist.

"Together, then," he said, his grin returning in full force, the playful edge back in his tone. "Let’s make some trouble, yeah?"

You smirked, that familiar spark of mischief flashing in your eyes, and Fred felt the thrill of it run through him. "Always," you replied, your voice confident, playful—*you*, in every sense of the word.

And in that moment, Fred Weasley knew—*really* knew—that he’d found something special. Something real. There was no more guessing, no more wondering. You weren’t just someone who could pull off a good prank or keep up with his teasing. You were someone who believed in him, who laughed with him, who made him feel like anything was possible. 

And he wasn’t about to let that go. Not for anything.

[webslingingslasher]

just horrifically bombed a math test so… peter comforting reader after failing a test but accidentally making her feel really stupid?

don't worry bestie, as somone several years out of high school, and a college dropout, grades really don't matter in the grand sceme of things. my testing has never once affected my life, but me (and peter) believe in you!

“C’mon, gimme a kiss.” 

Normally kissing Peter Parker would snap you out of any kind of upsetting mood, however today nothing felt like it could get you out of your funk, and nothing could; not even the escape of sighing into your boyfriend's mouth. 

You also weren’t one to turn down a kiss, so when he pressed a kiss to your mouth upside down, your head laying on his lap, his neck bent to kiss you, you still enjoyed it but it couldn’t wipe the frown from your mouth. 

“Not even a Peter kiss can help? You must be really upset.” 

You give him a big frown, his thumb rubs between your eyebrows. 

“Tell me, baby.” His words are a whisper. 

With a groan you sit up and stretch over the bed to grab your backpack, Peter takes this time to appreciate the view and smack down your ass, you whimper a ‘heyy,’ before grabbing a paper and shuffling back to him. 

“Here, look at my failures and dump the dummy.” 

Peter snatched the paper with a grumpy face, a sympathetic frown takes front when he sees the grade circled on top. 

“Oh, baby.” 

You take it as patronizing. 

You rip the paper from his hands, it tears at the edges. “Nevermind, Peter. My fault for thinking you would have some form of sympathy, I forgot I was talking to the genius of Midtown.” Peter’s hands chase you, frantic, “No, no, no! I wasn’t being mean, baby! I swear I wasn’t being mean, c’mere, lemme see it.” You look him up and down wearily, he seems authentic, you hand it over one more time.

Peter looks over the test, front and back, flipping it multiple times to line up numbers. He looks your way a few times and back at the sheet, he’s trying to figure out how to say what you did wrong without you thinking he thinks you’re an idiot. 

Finally he pats the space next to him, you slink over on your knees, the sheets scrunching around your pants. His left hand holds your worksheet, his right is resting on your thigh. “You made a common mistake, most people get it wrong, no biggie.” You lean against his arm, “show me, please.” 

Peter grabs a pen and starts circling your missteps and rewrites the formula, he runs it through one more time. “And I just multiply that for the answer?” Peter was really pretty when he was explaining things to you, most of the time you were checked out, blissfully blinking at each word curled around his lips; you were trying to piece together what he was saying.  “Correctomundo, babe.” 

“Ew, don’t say that.” 

Peter shoulder checked you, “disrespect me now but without me you’d be failing every class.” 

He laughed. Peter laughed, like what he said was funny. Like he didn’t understand how that made you feel, not like you just basically hinted that your biggest insecurity was being dumber than him. 

Fine, if he thinks you can’t pass without him, you’ll show him you can. 

You fake a laugh with him, usually he can catch it. This time he doesn’t. You put away the test after that, not that you’ll tell him but you’ll ask for a retest, and pass, and then not tell Peter so he doesn’t feel like he can take the credit. 

—----------------------------------

Peter is, what he thinks, jealous for the first time in his life. 

Well, he’s been jealous before. Like when Ned got that new monitor for his gaming setup, or when MJ was able to solve a rubik's cube in under a minute. Even that one time when Ashley Mulligan, a third grader, cheated off his test and that made her win star student of the week. 

But he’s never been jealous before in his relationship with you, he’s never felt the need to. But after you spent so much time with Jeremy, he can’t even think of his name without souring, he can’t help the bubble forming in his gut. 

“I really don’t mind helping you out, baby! I even cleared the desk for you!” Peter’s been grasping at straws for you to study with him, he’s always loved the extra time with you, and you actually learned from him and he feels like he helpt, and he loves helping you, he feels needed. 

Maybe you felt like you didn’t have enough space? 

You check to make sure everything is in your bag, “It’s not a problem, I don’t want to keep J waiting.” 

J. 

J.

She has a fucking nickname for J. 

“J?” 

You tilt your head like a dog, “Jeremy?” 

Peter scoffs, his arms cross defensively. “Oh, we’re on nickname basis with this dude?” 

“This dude,” you air quote, “is helping me with school.” 

Peter runs a hovering hand down his body, “so was this dude!” 

You understand now, he’s jealous and you switching up on him really hurt his feelings. But he did too, and if he thinks it was funny then so do you. 

“He just understands me better.” 

Peter feels like he’s been shot, his head is underwater. The one thing he thought he had, the thing he thought he was the best at, wasn’t good enough for you anymore. He doesn’t know when you started to feel this way, he’s only ever tried to help you and he thought he was doing it well, did he misread the signs? 

“Oh, okay.” 

Does he have something to worry about? 

You feel bad, he looks upset. But maybe you’re too dumb to read it well.

“Okay? I’ll call you on my way home.” 

Peter’s smile didn’t match his eyes. 

—-----------------------

Peter flopped on the couch next to his aunt. 

May looked to her side at her nephew and continued watching ID TV, Peter sighs loudly, May speaks without breaking eye contact on the screen. “It’s always the husband, watch it be the husband.” Peter sighs again loudly, May again talks, “everytime I watch these I always expect a twist and guess what? It’s the husband.” For the third time Peter sighs, this time May lets one out of her own and raises the remote to pause the channel. 

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s wrong, Peter?” 

Pouty lips mumble words, his fingers play with the fringe on a throw pillow. 

“Y/N’s gonna break up with me.” 

May thinks her eyes are going to pop out of her head, “what?!” 

Peter nods like it can’t be true, but it is. “Yup. So she can be with this guy, ‘J,’’ he uses air quotes, “she has a nickname for him now.” 

Her eyebrows furrow, “what’s his name?” 

Peter mocks a high pitched tone, “Jeremy.” 

May snorts, “that’s a shit name, don’t worry.” 

“My name is a euphemism for penis.” 

May waves her hand, “when did she start hanging around him?” 

Peter shrugs, “a few weeks ago. Apparently they only study together.” 

This bothers him a whole lot more than he’s saying but May can pick up on it, she always can. 

“I thought she only studied with you?” 

“So did I.” 

May hums, “any idea why she might?” 

“She failed a math test and she thought I was going to call her dumb, but I never have!” 

A gentle smile, “Pete, honey. Do you think it’s possible she feels intimidated by you? You’re smart, and you have a good heart but when you’re already embarrassed for flunking and you have a super smart boyfriend over your shoulder who you know thinks it’s childs math, you start to feel intimidated.” 

Peter deflates, “but I’ve never made her feel inferior, and I don’t think of her as any less! Math is hard, you have to be exact, I know it can be hard! Everyone thinks Peter’s a genius, but Peter gets stuck on problems too!” 

May tilts her head, he’s proved her point. “Does she know that?” 

You’ve never seen him struggle but he’s watched you do it a million times. He doesn’t think you’re stupid or below him in any way, everyone has different strengths, yours isn’t math and that’s perfectly okay. Maybe if he shows you that he’s not some all knowing mathematician you’d feel less threatened. 

Peter looks over at the TV, then at May. 

“It’s the husband, right?” 

May clicks play, “oh, totally.” 

—--------------------------------

Peter spun in his desk chair, a one eighty to face you. 

He had almost forgotten. 

“How’d you do on your test?” 

You snap your neck up to see his face, he looks excited. It’s hard feeling upset when he only wants you to succeed, even when he’s not the one teaching you. 

“I got a B.” 

Peter rolls his eyes and huffs, “well, I would've gotten you an A, but I’m sure Jeremy is just fine.” 

You blink, “he is, thanks,” you go back to reading, Peter decides it’s time for a heart to heart. He comes to find you on his bed, rolling until his knees hit yours. Peter’s fingers tap on your knees getting your attention. 

“Baby, I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.” 

You freeze, “nothing’s wrong.” 

His fingers squeeze your knees, “don’t lie, it doesn’t look cute on you.” 

Peter reaches for your face, his hands cup the sides and forces you to look at him. Your lips are slightly squashed from his placement, you can’t avoid him now. 

His voice comes out as a delicate whisper, he’s begging for the truth. “Be honest, did I make you feel dumb?” Peter feels your cheeks warm under his touch, your eyes dart around the room, anywhere but his face. “Baby?” Your eyes close, you can’t cry, not now. 

“Oh, c’mon, baby. No crying, I’m the one that made you feel like a dummy.” 

Your silence was answer enough, “hey, look at me,” he taps against your cheeks until you blink them open. His smile made you feel safe. 

“I’m sorry. I promise you baby, there is nothing, shy of getting yourself hurt, that could make me think you’re dumb. Anything after algebra is useless math anyways, I just do it to keep my ego in check.” He smiles when you snort, “And if I did or said something to make you think otherwise then I’m sorry, but I really, really hate you’re getting help from another dude with a nickname.” 

Your words are jumbled because of his hands, “you said I’d fail every class without your help.” 

Peter frowns, “fuck, that’s mean.” His head shakes disapprovingly, “I didn’t mean it, I don’t even remember that, baby. I swear, it was just a shitty joke.” 

“It might’ve been a joke but it really hurt my feelings.” Peter moves his right hand to brush some hair behind your ear, “I know I did, you had to outsource another man.” You smack his wrist away, “are you actually sorry or do you just feel threatened?” 

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t pleasing you and you had to find someone who could, I can’t blame you for that.” 

You groan, “you’re impossible.” 

Peter gets serious again, when the moment gets too much he can always break the tension for a second. “Hey, I mean it. I’m sorry, it was a stupid thing to say and I really, really miss having you over. And I promise if you ever feel that way again, let me know and I’ll dial it back. Sometimes I even get ahead of myself.” 

You push your forehead against his and pull back, “it’s okay, I didn’t tell you so it’s not your fault you didn’t know.” 

Peter holds his breath, “does this mean Jeremy fucks off now?” 

You can’t help the laugh that tumbles, “yes, Jeremy can fuck off now.” 

“Good.” Peter’s hand pulls you in, right before you connect you grab a hand at his shoulder and clench the fabric as he settles his mouth against yours. He tries to pull away but you hold him there, just a moment longer. 

“I wanna show you something.” 

You’re in a post kiss haze, you’d say yes to anything he wants right now. He kicks his feet off the floor and it sends the chair back to his desk, his hands digging through his drawers. Peter finally untucks a leather notebook from the back of a drawer, you’ve never seen it before, and you’ve been together for a while. 

Consider your interest peaked. 

Peter pats his thigh, an invitation to a seat. Who are you to ignore the call? 

His left arm loops around your waist when you sit. 

“This notebook holds all my dirty little secrets, wanna see?” Peter chuckles at your amusement, your head bobbles with your nod, he pinches your side, you lean into his body to escape his fingers. 

“Contrary to popular belief, Peter Parker, the thoughtless, no effort, mega genius who knows everything, does not know everything. And I’m definitely not always perfect on the first try, most of the time I’m just lucky.” 

You tried to question where this was going, how did it have any connection to a journal? 

He pushes it in front of you. 

“Open.” 

Your fingers twitch, you open the front cover, it creaks. The inside page is empty, no ‘this journal belongs to,’ no name, no number, nothing. The next page is full of notes, cursive letters you’d need a moment to decipher, circled markings and animated question marks. 

The next page had numbers all over it, it bled into the opposite page. Numbers written over and over and over, each one crossed out, arrows to move numbers around, swapping patterns and numbers. Frustrated scribbles that broke through the page behind it when you turned. 

The same combination of numbers jumbled on the page, now a string of ‘fuck’s’ gradually got bigger in the collums of the page, finally a number and equestion was circled in bright red three times. You flipped through seven more pages, each one riddled with most of the same math patterns, some of them were with spanish triple underlined with a ‘dumb fuck,’ written in the corner, it drew your lip down, he wasn’t allowed to think of himself that way. 

Peter wasn’t perfect. He struggled with things too, and he wasn’t always right. Sometimes he had to get through thirty possibilities until he found one that worked, other times he just couldn’t remember that damn word. He had just shown you an incredibly private thing in his life, something that you knew he’d never planned to show someone. Something that showed the human in him, he wasn’t so superb all the time. 

“Math is fucking hard sometimes.” 

Peter was nervous, your Peter was nervous that you saw that. You saw his breakdowns and frustrations and negative self talk. He’s glad you stopped when you did, the next section was AP probability and statistics, and if you saw the things he said about himself then? You’d have him committed. 

You blow air from your mouth, “tell me about it, champ.” 

His fingers tickled along your hips, your stomach tightened with butterflies and pulses when his hands sneaked under your t-shirt and layed above your beltline. “Why’d you never show me before?” 

Peter places a kiss on your arm, “it’s embarrassing.” 

You scoff and turn to him with fervor, “it’s not! I don’t think it’s embarrassing, and I don’t think you’re dumb at all! I’d never judge you for that, petey. Math is fucking hard sometimes, you’re right! But no, not embarrassing and definitely not a dumb fuck, please never call yourself that, I’d have to fight you and I don’t want to actually embarrass you.” 

Peter tries to stop the growing grin, he has to bite his lip, the irony is sticky sweet to him. You wait for a response, his amusement both aggravating and confusing you. After a moment in silence and staring at his smug grin you connect the dots. 

“Oh, fuck. It’s a ditto, moment, huh?”   

He just nods happily. 

[merp-blerp]

Random things about Cinderella (1950) I noticed/want to say after doing a psych project on it

I love the foreshadowing they do with the clock striking midnight when Cinderella is startled by the morning clock and she says "Even he orders me around." I never noticed it that way before.

The reason why no one recognizes Cinderella at the ball is because A) she seemingly wasn't allowed off her stepmother's property, so no one in town had ever seen her before or since she was a child, and B) when she gets there the prince immediately introduces himself and dances her away from everyone. The duke even pulls a curtain to separate her and him from the guests so they can dance alone. Almost no one gets a good up-close look at her except the prince.

I've said before on here that I think the prince in this movie was meant to be more of a symbolic personification of Cinderella's freedom rather than a literal character, and I still think that. However, I find it interesting that everything we know about the prince is told through others, not him. He doesn't get to be known. The only person he ever even gets to speak to is Cinderella. He also has a bit of character (relayed by others). His father laments that the prince is growing farther away from him the older he gets, he avoids responsibilities, and suggests that he's a hopeless romantic. It's also worth noting that the prince has no idea the ball is for the purpose of setting him up with a wife. He supposedly was led by the king to believe it was a welcome home ball, as he was away from home before (the ball invitees don't seem aware either until the night after the ball when they do the slipper fittings). [EDIT: I forgot to mention that I sappily like to interpret this as Cinderella, his eventual wife, being the only one who ever truly knows him, as he assumedly isn't close to the king or anyone else, so this is reflected in the fact that even us, the audience, don't get to know him like Cinderella must. Probably not the intention, but it's cute.] He also doesn't have severe facial blindness, he probably would've recognized Cinderella without the slipper but A) it was the king who thought of the whole slipper-fitting idea; all the prince supposedly said was that he'd marry the girl who wore the glass slipper, and B) He is explicitly not the one to do the slipper-fitting. The grand duke does it. But even the grand duke seems to recognize her before she gets the slipper on (he saw her up close briefly while she ran away and chased after her).

Also, as Cinderella runs from the prince, the other maidens there crowd him, so he can't get to her to stop her, but they only stop him to converse with him about how "lovely" she is, not because they want him, which is kinda wholesome. Again, no one was there to try and marry the prince because no one knew that's what the ball was for to begin with except the king and duke.

Cinderella is definitely very kind, but she knows the treatment she gets from her family is not right. She speaks somewhat passive-aggressively about them when they're not around. I like that touch.

When her stepfamily teases her over her excitement that she could go to the ball because she's eligible, she asserts that she's still a part of the family. Even though she's being abused, it's a type of abuse where she thinks her family must value her in some way. I think when her sisters ripped her dress apart was the moment she realized she wasn't a part of the family after all and that she wasn't loved/valued.

Lady Tremaine was so different from other Disney princess villains at the time. Allow me to go on for a bit. Compare her to the evil queen or Maleficent (who are also great). They have a very booming presences and everyone knows they are monsters, it's just that no one can stop them until the end of their stories. But Lady Tremaine knows how to fool people by having a motherly disposition. Not in a nurturing way, but in a stern, tough “love”, almost “calm” way. She never yells at anyone (just raises her voice) or acts traditionally evil in the way the evil queen or Maleficent do. More bite than bark I guess. For example, when she lets the step-sisters rip Cinderella’s dress, she simply tells them to come along afterwards and tells Cinderella goodnight like a mother might, but without affection with it, like a covert dig; she doesn't visibly get cross with Cinderella, but what she’s doing is still abuse. Even Cinderella seems to see her as a mother in one way or another before the dress ripping (I don't think Cinderella ever calls her "Step-Mother" again after the dress-ripping she allowed her sisters to do). She's very covert in her villainy. A very good depiction of an abuser. The only other Disney villain I can think to compare her to off the top of my head is Scar from the og Lion King when he was around anyone who wasn't the hyenas, but even then he dropped the act eventually after becoming king. Lady Tremaine never really does.

I also like the detail that after the ball when trying to tell the step-sisters about the shoe-fitting, she asks Cinderella, “Where are my daughters?” excluding Cinderella from being her daughter even though she should be. She really only sees her as a maid.

Cinderella's pink dress has a lot of bows, and at the beginning of the film, we see her when she was younger and the dress she wore as a child also had bows and was in a somewhat similar style. Her childhood dresses were probably taken away by Lady Tremaine when her dad died. Makes me wonder if Cinderella redesigned her mom's dress with her dress from youth in mind, as she certainly hadn't worn a nice dress since she was a kid. And if so, what would that mean? Was she just feeling nostalgic? Or had her sense of style not matured since childhood because she had been made to wear nothing but rags for who knows how long? Is her only frame of reference to what her own personal style is based from her childhood dresses? I just think it's kinda intriguing. The pink dress always felt explicitly young for Cinderella.

Cinderella's voice is so cute. Not just her singing, but her voice in general. Ilene Woods, love of my life apparently.

People often complain about Cinderella marrying the prince the day after the shoe fit, but Disney's version never specifically states that the wedding is the day after the slipper scene, it just comes right after it. Who's to say how much time there was in between scenes. There are versions that do say that it was the next day, so I guess people conflate different versions together in their heads. This is why it's important to watch films with your brain on before criticizing them for things they didn't do.

I never thought too deeply of it, but when Cinderella sings the words "So this is love" she really is (re)learning what love is. It's a realization. She likely hasn't felt love from another human being since her father died. Or rather she thought she was loved in some way, but then realized she wasn't when her dress was ripped. So now, with the prince, she has a better understanding of what it's like to be properly loved. Imagine hating this girl. 🩵

[xcherricutie]

🥀 other friends 🥀

[Lucifer Morningstar x Reader]

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four]

[Word Count - 2.5k]

[Tags: Angst, songfic, canon typical violence]

[Notes: This was a bit more difficult to write than drift away, action scenes aren't really my forte. Also, there are mentions of Adam becoming a demon, its a bit of setup for a potential one shot relating to this series soon. I think it'd be fun to do a little series of Steven Universe song one shots within the canon these one shots have set up. Not promising anything, but it would be fun to try]

“The Hazbin Hotel is now officially open! Come stay with us for a chance to have your soul redeemed, and earn your place in Heaven!” 

The video flickered ever so slightly, the television displaying the image of Charlie Morningstar, princess of Hell, for both angels and demons alike to see. As the video played, Charlie giving more details about her hotel, a trio of angels looked on, the seraphims keeping their eyes glued on the ancient angel before them. You. 

Upon finding your near lifeless body standing in the abandoned Garden of Eden, Sera and Emily quickly took you into their care. You could hardly pay them any mind since Sera had told you of Lucifer’s fate, of the curse he had put on himself. He had become the Devil, the sin of pride. He had cheated on you and left you for Lilith, who he soon had a child with. The girl on the screen before you happened to be said child. The very personification of Lucifer’s betrayal. 

Your blood boiled at the sight. You had demanded information from Sera, someone you had once considered a friend. You knew she was innocent in all of this, but you could not help your anger at the fact that not only had she let Charlie into Heaven, but was working with her to redeem the sinners that Lucifer had been the cause of in the first place. He was the reason sin and chaos existed in humanity in the first place. You were mad that things had spiraled to this point, you were mad that this was apparently how the story ended. 

No. You wouldn’t have it this way. If you had known just how good Lucifer was having it now after what he did to you, you would have rather stayed ignorant of everything. Perhaps even rather let the garden claim your body, than be here, in this horrible reality. But you were here, and now, you were going to change the ending of this story. You intended to have your happy ending, at any price. 

A soft hum filled the long, glowing halls of the Hazbin Hotel, the sounds of shoes tapping with each step accompanying the hum. With a twirl of his staff, and an adjustment of his top hat, the man entered the grand entrance hall of the lobby, where everyone, including his daughter, waited. His heels clicking as he came to a stop, Lucifer stood atop the steps, looking down at everyone with a smile, his daughter catching his attention right away. 

“Dad! There you are!” Charlie exclaimed, running up the steps. Lucifer raised a brow in confusion, meeting her halfway as he walked down the steps. 

“Charlie? What’s the matter?” Lucifer asked, curious. Surely, their newest resident hadn’t already started causing trouble, right? Lucifer knew the man would be uncomfortable here, but surely Adam wasn’t jumping straight into causing chaos, hopefully. 

Charlie grabbed her father by the wrist, dragging him down the stairs, towards the small crowd of people standing in the doorway. Lucifer immediately noted the uncomfortable, even downright fearful look in their faces, even Adam seemingly upset, or at the very least, startled. His attention was whipped to whatever had caused their discomfort, his eyes widening at the sight. 

“Tears in the sky are appearing all over, and they’re clearly from Heaven,” Charlie spoke, pointing up at the rip that had begun to appear over the hotel, the golden outline of the tear drawing attention. More rips and tears dotted the skies of Hell, all across the pride ring. A soft, white light shone from inside, though nothing else seemed to come through. 

“I thought Heaven agreed to back off, I-I don’t understand,” Charlie grabbed her hair by the roots, pulling tightly. She felt the calming hand of her girlfriend, Vaggie, on her shoulder, but it did little to soothe her anxiety. 

Vaggie huffed, glaring up at the sky, clenching her angelic spear tightly in her other hand. “Well, you know how Heaven can be. They might’ve decided they’re too good for us.” 

But that didn’t seem right. Not to Lucifer at least. He knew Sera. Even if she had intended to betray them, she would’ve gone about it in a more subtle way. This seemed far more... personal. Almost as if they wanted to be seen, to catch the attention of something. Lucifer tried to piece together just what was going on, and just what he should do about it. 

His eyes widened as he noticed the rip just above the hotel widen, and something, someone, coming through. The hair on his neck suddenly stood on end, the light masking the angel, hiding their face and casting a large silhouette over the hotel. 

“Hey!” A loud, booming voice suddenly yelled, Lucifer nearly jumping in his skin. He could clearly see the ethereal glow of their eyes, and the snarl that pulled on their lips. “Are you Charlotte Morningstar?” 

“Um...” Charlie sweat nervously, putting on her best friendly smile, silently begging that maybe they were a friendly angel. But she knew that wasn’t the case, not if this was their entrance. “Yes?” 

Their lips curled upward into a smirk, grinning down at her. “Perfect.” 

Their wings curled into their back, disappearing in a burst of golden magic. Dropping to the ground, they landed just before the hotel with a loud thud, bright blue eyes turning up to look at them, crinkling at the edges as they grinned maniacally. You finally made it into Hell. 

Letting out a sinister chuckle, you stood up straight, nearly bursting at the seams with excitement. “Well, well, well, well, well! Let me get a look at the menagerie!” 

Your eyes, glowing almost ominously, roved over the group before you. Each and every person, you studied meticulously, you knew exactly which ones were of no concern, which one would stand up for the hotel, which ones you would kill. 

“You must Vaggie,” Your eyes landed on the fallen angel, watching as she visibly flinched at the sound of her name coming from your mouth. You moved onto the next one, smirking. “You must be Alastor,” 

Alastor’s eyes narrowed at you, curiosity and even a hint of worry eating at him. Something didn’t seem right about any of this. This wasn’t like the other angelic attacks, no, this seemed far more malicious. He didn’t fail to notice the horror written plainly across the Demon King’s face either, especially as your eyes finally landed on him. Lucifer. 

“And Lucifer, the King of Hell, wow! She keeps you here, isn’t that just swell?” You rolled your eyes in annoyance, your grin ever present as you tensed. You knew Lucifer was in and out of the hotel, but you had hoped to catch Charlie in a moment of vulnerability. Not that it mattered in the end, they were all going to suffer the same fate. You’d already decided how this would end. 

“I-It can’t be...” Lucifer stuttered, nearly stumbling backward, his heart thudding in his chest, drumming loudly in his ears. You let out a string of laughter, your eyes watering at the sight of his trembling frame. This was all so perfect. 

“Oh, but it can be. And it is!” You ran your fingers through your hair, watching as Lucifer’s fearful gaze was drawn to the charcoal color of your hands, as if you had been burnt, the off coloration seeping down your arms, into your skin. Purple lines streaked through your arms, your fingers more resembling claws than hands now. “I got a new style, and a few new toys that are gonna put an end to your happily ever after, once and for all!” 

“Woah, woah!” Charlie jumped to the front, holding her hands out defensively. “This has gotta be a misunderstanding! In case you haven’t heard, I’ve established peace with the Heavens—” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard,” You snapped, glaring at Charlie, who flinched. You clenched your fist, raising it as you glanced at it, before smirking at Charlie. “I’ve had your little message to the Heavens, on loop!” 

A ball of light formed in your hand, your grin stretching across your face as you threw it Charlie. The demon’s eyes widened, letting out a startled cry as it hit her square in the chest, skidding across the grass, tripping on the steps of the hotel entrance. Lucifer was immediately at her side, checking her for injuries, shooting you a dark glare. You giggled, however, your grin leaning on maniacal as your eyes glowed. 

“I just love that part, where Lucifer spends the rest of his days in this nowhere realm, with a bunch of nobodies!” 

Something in you finally snapped, rushing at Charlie. She let out a startled scream as you grabbed her by her ankles, yanking her out of Lucifer’s caring hold, standing her up straight as you danced around with her, flinging her left and right. 

“That’s right, I heard the story over and over again,” You sung cheerfully, spinning Charlie out of your grip, turning your anger on Vaggie as she flew at you, spear pointed to your heart. 

Grabbing the spear handle, the tip just barely pressing into your chest, you flung Vaggie, giggling all the while. “Gee, it’s swell to finally meet his other friends!” 

You watched as the cat demon, Husk, tried to attack, a pitiful attempt in your opinion. You grabbed him by his wings, pulling him up and pulling his feet out from under him, dropping him on the ground. “That’s right, I heard the story, don’t really like how it ends!” 

A tall, spider-like demon, Angel Dust, rushed to Husk’s rescue, yelling as he barreled towards you. You grinned as you sidestepped him, watching as he tripped over Husk. “Gee, it’s swell to finally meet his other friends!” 

Your attention zoned back in on Charlie, who was still trying to gather her wits. Grabbing her by her wrists, your pair of wings flapped behind you as you flew into the air. Charlie cried out in alarm as you tossed her upward, grabbing her by her ankles and dangling her around. “What did he say about me, what did he say?” 

Dropping Charlie, she landed with a thud as you whipped over to Vaggie, grabbing her by her waist and spinning round and round. “What did you do without me, what did you do~?” 

Throwing Vaggie, you turned your attention to the demon who had been narrowly managing to avoid you, Alastor. You grabbed him just before he could melt into the shadows, pulling him up off the ground as you held him by his waist, looking up at him with big, deceivingly innocent eyes. “Did you play games without me? What did you play?” 

Releasing him just before he could retaliate, your wings flapped as you dodged each oncoming attack with ease, gliding towards your true victim. “Did you think all this time that I wouldn’t find out about you!?” 

Your wings spread out, your blue eyes glowing as you floated just before the Devil himself, grinning madly, as if excited. Lucifer flinched under your cold gaze, completely frozen in place. However, he found himself being ripped from his place as silky golden ribbons poured from your hands, wrapping around Lucifer, around each and every sinner and demon. With a flap of your wings, you yanked the ribbons, pulling them together as they smashed into one another. 

“Oh, that’s right I heard the story over and over again, gee it’s swell to finally meet his other friends...” You landed on the roof of the hotel entrance, giggling at the sight of the demons before you scrambling to get their bearings. 

“She’s running circles around us!” Husk hissed, clawed hand running through the fur on his head. Angel scoffed, sitting up as he rubbed his pained arms. 

“I’m rusty, give me a break!” He grumbled, pushing himself up. 

As everyone stood up, one demon remained, stuck on the ground. It felt as though the whole world was spinning, threatening to uproot everything good in his life. Karma certainly was a bitch. “I-It really is her. But she can’t be serious...” 

“You know her, dad!? Can you tell us who she is?” Charlie asked, looking to her father with worry. She had never seen him look so utterly terrified. 

Charlie’s words made the thin thread of patience within you snap. You grit your teeth, blood boiling, your skin burning, your hands aching, aching to squeeze the life out of them. “Who am I!? Who am I? What are you even saying!?” 

You stomped down toward the edge, your shadow casting over them in the glowing lights of the hotel. “I’m the loser of the game you didn’t know you were playing!” 

But this was different. This time, you wouldn’t lose. Your lips twitched, curling into a shaky smirk, nerves fried and emotions haywire. “Let’s play another game! This time, I’ve got to win!” 

A burst of light from your palm startled Lucifer, the light turning into a long staff, almost electrifying. A blade formed at the top in the shape of a scythe, the glow of your angelic power combined with the ominous glow of your eyes offputting. 

“Lives on the line, winner takes all, ready or not, let’s begin!” 

With a flap of your wings, you flew at the demons, watching as they jumped to dodge you. You let out a burst of laughter, slamming your foot into the gut of one of the demons, flinging them across the hotel yard. Another demon jumped at you, the handle of your scythe smashing into them, knocking them into the others. 

“Oh, that’s right, I heard the story over and over again, gee it’s swell to finally beat his other friends!” You sang happily, grabbing the arm of Vaggie and throwing her just before she could attempt an attack. Vaggie cried out as she crashed into the ground, battered and bruised. 

“Oh, that’s right, I heard the story, don’t really like how it ends!” 

You shoved demons aside, throwing them around, all the while Lucifer could only watch. He could only watch as you terrorized his friends, and you were reveling in it. The tables had finally turned, and now, he was playing your game. 

“Gee, it’s swell to finally beat his other,” You flew around, dodging demons, zoning in on one demon in particular. This was it. “Other...” 

“Other friends!” 

Your scythe sliced clean through Charlie’s waist, the angelic weapon leaving a trail of gold through her body. Charlie’s eyes widened, a silent scream stuck in her throat, her vision blotting and clouding. The last thing she saw was the horror in her father’s eyes as he stood before her, completely frozen, unable to move. 

Charlie collapsed to the ground, the golden trail healing like a scar, almost as if it hadn’t cut through her at all. You giggled as Vaggie rushed to Charlie’s side, the other demons shortly behind her as they checked to make sure she was still alive. Your eyes remained on Lucifer, his body deathly still, as if he weren’t even breathing. He wasn’t. Because he knew exactly what you’d done. 

“Don’t worry, Luci,” You called out, a wicked grin spread across your face, as if knowing exactly what was going through his mind. “I didn’t kill her. I simply hit her with my divine light. I do wonder what would happen to a half demon being filled with angelic light...” 

You had already won.

[iliketangerines]

Hello, I have an idea ^^, I imagine Bi-han abecés with a slightly psychopathic side and a reader who is someone who controls the magic of blood and is quite bloodthirsty and that is those reasons why the two have some connection I don't know if I understand myself 🤗

L.N

tied with blood

a/n: no funny comment today :(

pairing: bi han x gn!reader

warnings: mentions of blood and gore

Bi Han frowns at Shang Tsung as he brings the grandmaster on the tour of his new island where he had honed his sorcery after escaping from Empress Mileena’s prisons

the sorcerer gives him a smug smile, gesturing for Bi Han to walk through the grand doors to reveal his most favorite project yet, and the grandmaster finds you in the middle of the training field, attacking a horde of mutated corpses

it’s effortless, the way you fight, using the blood of your enemies to form weapons and pierce them, and then using the blood in their bodies to control them against their will to attack each other

Bi Han watches in fascination as you laugh at the sight of the bodies ripping and tearing, splattering blood all over your body, and what once started as a horde lays as a bloody mess at your feet

finally, your gaze travels to Shang Tsung and Bi Han, and you give them both a lazy salute, using your powers to lift the blood and bodies off the training field and dumping them into a bubbling cauldron, leaving the ground spotless, as if no fight had ever occurred

you prance over to the both of them, smiling widely, and you get much too close to Bi Han than he would like and tilt your head at him

Shang Tsung simply watches and tells you to back off from his ally, but you don’t, instead leaning in even closer and taking in a deep breath

Bi Han growls and summons a knife into his hands, pointing the sharp tip into your neck and telling you to back off, and you smile at him and laugh

you grab onto his wrist and pull the knife further into your neck, daring him to go ahead and kill you, and Shang Tsung sharply calls your name

it makes you whine and sigh, but you let go of the grandmaster's wrist and step away, not before you shoot him a wink and say that his blood smells so sweet

the comment makes Bi Han glare at you as you saunter away, and Shang Tsung smiles, sending you off with a wave before turning back to Bi Han

you had also washed ashore a little while after he had, and he had taken you under his wing and found your powers to be useful

and you, you were indebted to him for saving your life and enhancing your powers with his potions, now loyal to a fault to Shang Tsung

the sorcerer beckons for Bi Han to continue following him to the meeting room and that they’ll discuss plans there for the future

the grandmaster steals another glance at you as you sigh and wait for the cauldron to reanimate your play things, and then Bi Han leaves

when he comes back, you’re licking your fingers clean of blood and throwing the last droplets of blood back into the cauldron

you spot him in the corner of his eye and excitedly wave at him, bounding over and getting up into his face again, uncaring of how a blade of ice presses into your neck

he glares at you as you ask to spar with him, just once, you just want to know how well he fights, and then you lick your lips and eye his neck

there’s the slight hint of your fangs poking out as you part your lips, and he knows you’re Vaeternian, how you use blood as your power to destroy and thrive

and yet, your wings are nowhere in sight, but you almost act like they’re still there, leaning forward like there’s a weight sitting on your back and you needed to balance it out

the way your feet don’t fully touch the ground and how you teeter on the edge of your toes as you await his answer and beg once more, pouting at him, it screams that you’re used to floating, to flying high above others

he growls and steps away, saying that if he beats you, then you will stay far away from him, and you laugh at his proposal, saying that if you win, you get to taste his blood

Bi Han stands his ground, he will not lose this fight, and he readies himself, summoning his weapons of ice and frost to wield against you

the air chills around him as you build your own weapons of blood, tearing at your chest to make a longsword, ready to cut and swing

you move first, a wide smile on your face as you deal blow after blow, and he dodges and parries, observing how you fight

it’s wild and brutal, but unbalanced, like you expect to be able to jump into the air and fly away with no consequences

you rarely crouch and leave your legs defenseless, but your moves are so fast and quick that he can’t find an opportunity to try and sweep you onto your back

but he finds the practice and ease in your moves, how it’s all so effortless, the way you don’t even think about how you move as you beat Bi Han with blow after blow

you’ve had a lot of practice with these moves that they’ve become second nature, practice that would’ve taken years to ingrain into your muscles memory and not just the few months that you’ve been at the island

suddenly, he’s more curious about what you’re doing on Shang Tsung’s island, why you weren’t in Vaeternus with Nitara, why he didn’t see you fighting with Shang Tsung earlier

moving with your flow, he waits as you fall into the familiar pattern of your quick hits, and then moves to use your momentum against you, letting you fall to the ground and face-plant

he presses his frosted foot against your back and the blade of his sword on the side of your neck, telling you to yield

you squirm for a moment, trying to break free but then sigh and give up, letting your weapon dissolve into blood and sink into the dirt

he says he wants to change his conditions of the deal, and you hum and giggle and say sure he can and turn your head enough to stare at him in the corner of your eye

Bi Han asks who you were, using the edge of his weapon to press into your back where your wings would normally be, and you still on the ground and then scoff

you get up, wiping dust and sand off of your uniform, and he can see the regret of you allowing him to change the conditions of the deal

sighing, you shrug and say that you were the heir to the throne in Vaeternus, trained since birth to be perfect, and then had gotten your wings cut off and exiled for proposing a new idea to the council

it sounds all too familiar to Bi Han, the betrayal of his brothers, the practice and training to be perfect, heir to the Lin Kuei

you sigh and turn away from him, almost like you were going to fly off before remembering that you couldn’t do that any longer

Bi Han takes his blade and cuts the back of his palm and holds it out of you, telling you to drink, he had changed his deal technically and you deserved retribution

lighting up, you lick your lips, attaching your lips to the wound and drinking in his blood, and you hum at the taste before letting go after a few seconds

he freezes the wound, planning on patching it up later, and you prance off, turning around one more time saying that you were right, his blood was sweet, and then you disappear

perhaps you were a little strange, but you were the closest thing to home that he felt

[marthawrites]

A Lady’s Thrill

Aemond Targaryen x wife reader

word count: 3.5k+

About: a stressed Aemond returns late and his lady wife helps him de-stress.

Includes: explicit sexual content! (m and f receiving oral, fingering, overstimulation, praise, some degradation, p in v) also some comfort fluff ♥

Note: hello lovely reader! get comfy and enjoy my longest (and perhaps filthiest?) fic to date. please, enjoy! have an idea? I’m open to requests!

-

Such was the hour that you were beginning to lose hope in seeing your husband tonight. Aemond had been gone all day, leaving early in the morning with little more than a goodbye kiss. Stress had been high as of late; everyone seemed to be under its weight. Sunset was hours ago and you'd still yet to see him. While not completely out of his character to be gone overnight -- sometimes multiples at a time -- tonight looked as if it would be just that. Your eyelids grew heavier by the moment.

Quiet minutes passed and you were beginning to drift to sleep when a crash through the door jolted you awake. The relaxing atmosphere of yours and Aemond's bedchamber immediately shifted and you might as well have ran into a wall. “W-wha?” You sat up in bed and blinked, unable to make words on your sleepy tongue.

“If he wasn't my brother I'd maul him,” Aemond seethed, jaw tense and fluttering with unspoken words. He slammed the door closed  behind him and instantly ripped his eyepatch off, carelessly throwing it somewhere. He paced long strides and his footfalls were heavier than his normal gait. “And mother just lets him.” Despite all the love he had for Alicent he still spat the words. Instead of hitting or kicking something like another man might, the young prince held his arms tightly behind his back. Posture square and straight. Cold fury colored his face and for a moment you thought he might actually spit fire.

“My love,” you said, hardly above a whisper. “Please. Sit and relax a moment, yes?” You stepped out of bed, nightgown fluttering around your ankles as you moved with precision around the room.

Inaudible high valyrian grumbled from his chest. “It's a grand joke to him. All of it. How can mother let it happen too? Why does no one stand up to him?” If the situation were any lighter he might have scoffed beneath his breath. The chair he habitually sat in was in front of the hearth, at an angle, to have a view of the bed, study table, and door. Its cushioned seat let out a breath beneath his weight while his arms instantly draped atop the thick rests.

You appeared by his good side, goblet and pitcher in hand. “Here,” you offered the goblet. “Drink. It'll help.” You filled it about halfway, knowing he didn't like to drink much this late.

“Thank you, my darling. I don't mean to come in like this, but--,”

“--do not apologize,” you cut him off. “I cannot imagine the stress you're constantly under. Not even mentioning your chronic pain. If half of what you say about Aegon is true and I were his sibling? I'd have killed him a long time ago.” You kissed the top of his head, carefully unlacing the tie that held his hair back. It fell free around your wrists.

That brought an amused chuff from his nose. “Murder is much worse than mauling.”

“And I would live with those consequences.”

He drank before kissing the top of your hand, lips leaving behind the barest trace of wine.

“You are free and safe within these walls, husband,” you said softly, sincerely. You held a brush and began to gently pull it down and through his lovely hair. It reflected the warm firelight exquisitely, shimmering and flowing in all of its Targaryen glory. You cherished tending to it when time allowed, and he always loved it when you did. He drank again and you continued to quietly brush, only the crackling hearth sounds filling the room. 

You'd filled his cup two more times, letting him unwind from the day. Slowly, like falling asleep, the tension in his shoulders eased.

“I barge in here and wake you up, yet you still wine and attend me. You are much too sweet, my dear. I appreciate you, and this, very much,” Aemond said with meaning. You'd been in a bit of a trance, and it seemed he might have been too.

“Anything for my prince,” you reply, voice low and warm like the embers in the hearth. It was then, and only then, that you put aside the brush and stepped from behind Aemond. “You smell like salt, and dragon, and smoke,” you said, eyes admiring him as you now stood in front of him. “I know there are only few things that would make you carry such a trio and I dare not ask. At least not tonight,” you offered a soft smile, the expression twinkling in your eyes. You traced a finger beneath his scarred eye, tucking a stray bit of hair behind his ear, and trailed the same digit across the span of his shoulder. “Let me assist you in taking these off.”

Whether the darkened expression in his eye was from the low light or what your words implied, you couldn't tell. Leaning forward he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you to his lap. Your knees bent into the cushion by his thighs, effortlessly straddling over him, and he bunched your nightgown high around your thighs to make sitting easier. “Be my guest, my lady.”

A thrill danced up and down your spine. You'd been married for less than a year. Yet, still, you could see yourself becoming an excited maiden in countless years down the road; such was the power Aemond had over you. The space between your mouths closed, and you tried not to be too eager in deepening the affection.

“Mm,” he hummed, satisfied, long fingers disappearing into the hair behind your ears. “My sweet wife,” he whispered against your mouth, nose tipping under yours so he could bite over your bottom lip.

You smiled, giddiness washing over you at his words. “I missed you today.” Your hands pushed up his front until you felt the top clasp of his tunic, fingers making quick work at undoing it. Pushing it open revealed the warmth of his neck and collar, fair skin glowing in the firelight. 

“Se nyke ao,” 'and I, you.' His hands traced down your arms and over your thighs, pushing back up your front to begin untying the laces of your sleepwear.

You kissed along his jaw, down the column of his throat, and over his collarbones. The second clasp of his tunic popped open beneath your touch, and soon, the third. His breath came faster as you kissed and nibbled his chest. You made no move to fully push his clothes off, instead leaving them open wide, secured to his body by his shoulders. Your mouth crashed to his again and you couldn’t help yourself as your hands squeezed between your bodies to begin fumbling with his belt. “Let me make you forget all of that. If only for tonight,” you declared as you began to slowly slide off his lap and between his legs.

A near silent hiss sounded from Aemond as you knelt before him. It was rare he let you please him in such a manner -- the young prince preferring to be the one in control of your pleasure -- it thrilled you even more that he made no move to guide you to the bed instead. Leaning back on your heels you took his boot off, tossing it and the sock somewhere to the side, repeating the same thing to his other. Heat pooled between your thighs as you leaned forward and unlaced his pants with practiced fingers.

He watched you from above, hungry eye not missing a single detail of your motions. A low sound came from him as you pulled him free -- mostly hard and quickly hardening -- hips lifting as you made to pull his trousers full off. His hands gripped against the armrest, knuckles taut beneath the skin.

“My lovely prince,” you said reverently before taking him in your hand, slowly wrapping your mouth around his tip. The sensation which filled you was unlike anything you expected. The sharp inhale of his breath sent tingles all up and down your spine, webbing out to your most sensitive places. Beneath your mouth, you began to pump along his length with slow, easy movements. You took more of him in, then, pulling back with a wet 'pop' before doing it over.

Aemond's hand extended to your face, tracing the back of it over the sweep of your cheekbone. With upturned eyes you watched as he bit over his bottom lip. As soon as you released him with a second pop he traced the outline of your lips, thumb slowly pushing into your parted mouth. “So pretty on your knees,” he said lowly, eye hooded. He opened his legs wider, giving you all the room you might need.

You smiled with fluttering lashes, licking along any part of his length your hand wasn't covering. You continued to pump those slow lazy pumps, kissing his cock with hot, open mouthed kisses. You relished the feel of his solidness, his heat, his scent, beneath you; all intensifying as you continued. You held him firmly at his base and took him into your mouth again. Tongue slid along his underside as you dipped your head further and further down, as far as you could go, sucking all around him as you pulled up, gasping.

"Good girl," he purred, shifting his hips to line up with your mouth. "Your mouth feels so good. Keep that up, darling." That same hand as before moved to rest atop your head. He made no move to force anything, simply rested it there, fingers pushing through your tresses.

You desperately wanted friction between your thighs. More so than that you wanted to hear more of those delicious praises from your husband. You engulfed him. He hit the back of your throat and you gagged. He groaned. Briefly keeping your spot there, you hollowed your cheeks around him and sucked, pulling up to push forward again. And again. And again. Lewd sounds began building and they only seemed to egg both of you on more. One of your hands cupped and gently rolled his balls, feeling a new wave of rippling tension flow through him.

"Oh fuck, my girl. There, just like that... shit, you feel so good," he rasped as you bobbed. His hand tightened in your hair, head falling back as he let you continue at your own pace.

Despite the ache growing in your jaw, you obeyed. You bobbed, and rolled, and sucked, and slurped, feeling him grow utterly rigid with your fervor. He began to pulse harder. That could only mean one thing and a new thrill danced through you.

Both his hands went to your head and immediately knotted into your strands. He guided your head up and down at his pace now. Your gagging and choking didn't stop him, and if anything it only made him want to savor every second until his release. "Gonna come soon, darling. Is that what you want? My seed all over your pretty tongue?"

He paused to let you breathe. Your eyes upturned, his down cast; fire and lightening clashing. With gasping breaths and desperate eyes, you nodded.

"Good girl. Good fucking girl," he growled, rolling his hips into you as he shoved your head down for the final time. He wasn't going to let you free again until he was spent and you knew it. Your nose pushed into the flat of his groin, your throat wholly lodged. "Swallow. I want to taste myself on your tongue."

Even if you didn't want to you had little choice in the matter. But you did. You wanted it horribly. You throbbed unbearably between your thighs, arousal no doubt pooling in your under clothes. Your hands gripped onto his thighs, fingers splayed wide as you pushed up his slim hips and lean abdomen, scratching down the same trail and ending in a firm grasp around his calves. He exploded, and the sounds that poured from your husband's mouth sent ecstasy thrilling down your spine.

Just as you were swallowing, his grip moved from your hair to your upper arms and he pulled you up, not bothering to wipe the mess that was your mouth before he crashed into it. He kissed you deeply, needing it as much as you, and tasted the salt of his body. He moaned and all the air escaped the room. "Why are you still dressed?" He asked, not letting you answer before removing your nightgown without care. "Lay on the bed. Now."

You were a trembling mess still trying to catch your breath and you did not need to be told twice. Standing on shaky legs you made your way to the bed and laid flat. You lifted your head to see him and vibrated at the sight: Aemond Targaryen stood in an otherworldly smooth motion, cock already half hard again, long hair spilling down his front as he walked to you in deliberate strides. Had you any pressure on any part of your body you'd have bowed with climax right then and there.

Immediately he pulled you to the edge of the bed, startling you. The hold on your thighs as he spread them apart was barely controlled, fingertips denting into the soft flesh. He sighed, reveling at the sight. "Look at this beautiful cunt. My darling wife, you're soaked and glistening from sucking my cock. No better, and thrice as wet, as the most eager whore."

A blush of excitement, embarrassment, and horror bloomed in your face as you looked down at him, his eye blown huge while the sapphire glinted dark as dragonglass in the low light. "Was fun," you whispered, smiling, wiggling your hips in an attempt to press closer to him.

"Don't move and don't touch yourself. I want to look at what's mine. ñuhon. 'mine' I want to savor this absolute perfection."

"Aemond...," you whine, sounding pitiful even to your own ears. "Not fair."

He spread you open gently, utterly feasting on the sight. A breath trembled from his lungs, posture shifting to that of a predator. "I don't think I've ever seen you this wet. You must have loved choking on my cock." He mocked, watching as your body reacted his words: throbbing and clenching around nothing. "Oh, you did? My filthy girl."

Your hands found his, and with trembling fingertips you held onto his wrists as he still held you open. "Please, Aemond. This is torture," you mumbled in the same tone as before; pitiful and aching for any sensation he might give you.

He loved hearing that. "My sweet wife, begging so prettily." He leaned forward and kissed you where he held you open, knowing once he started he wouldn't be able to stop. You clenched and dripped beneath his kiss, pathetically desperate for what he was beginning. You moaned and he laughed. "So fucking wet. What is it this lovely cunt wants?"

Words nearly failed you. Your blush prickled your scalp and pebbled your breasts. "Anything."

"Mayhap more kisses?" He asked as he kissed your swollen outer lips, and further out to that soft, gentle space in the very inside of your thighs. He dared kiss the top of your mound too, chin ghosting over your exposed clit.

"Yes," your word shuddered out while your hands fisted in the bedsheets. Blood roared so loud, so hotly behind your ears, you had to close your eyes to ground yourself.

"Or perhaps it's my tongue you want?" At his question he licked over all those same spots he'd kissed a moment ago, watching your face all the while. The barest pressure is all he gave, and even that was enough to make your back arch up off the bed, squirming. You squeezed into the sheets tighter.

"Oh," he started, leaning back from your saturated core. "Maybe it's not my tongue you want, then." He grinned. Mischievous. It shone more in his eye than his mouth, lips barely smirking even as those little dimples betrayed his restraint.

Gasping and looking down at him you made an inaudible sound of protest. Your legs flexed in an attempt to slide further down the bed, chasing him.

"Words. I want to hear your words." He spoke calm, patient, even as every fiber in him blazed.

Somehow you mustered up all the courage you had, practically mewling, "yes, I want your tongue! Please..."

He hummed in satisfaction. "There. Not so difficult, hm?" He rewarded you with a slow lick up your slit, ending with a torturous kiss to your swollen, throbbing bud. "You've been so good tonight. Do you think you deserve more?" Repeating the same action as before, his sweet, wet kisses built a coil of tension in your core.

"I-I think so," you manage to say, voice higher than you intended, lilting with your growing bliss.

He chuckled in his throat, low and barely audible. "I don't think you've been good enough. You've yet to give yourself to me. Yet to come undone. Laying like a good little wife, but not purring like my sweet little kitten. Will you scratch me bloody when you come?"

You half sobbed, lust overtaking everything else.

Unable to resist any longer, he leisurely licked and kissed your cunt like he would your mouth; sinking, trailing, and flicking, wholly devouring.

That's all it took for your body to curl in the most divine wave of pleasure, pulling his hair as he pushed you to, and through, orgasm.

The release of your bliss didn't hinder nor slow him and he effortlessly slipped a finger into you. He found that spot in your fluttering walls and locked to it. He ate your clit, the fullness of his month's attention there, and his own senses nearly blissed out at your quivering walls.

"Ae-Aemond... it's too much," you beg helplessly, trying to push him away with hands and thighs alike. Every part of your being was aflame, embers practically emitting from your pores. He didn’t waver. Soon, a second wave of tension built in those low muscles of your belly.

"Let go, sweet wife," he said as a second finger joined the first. Gently, so, so, gently, he sucked your bud and angled his digits just right, just there where he knew you liked it, pushing you over the edge again. Your hips and thighs shuddered beneath him, his name ringing out from your mouth, fingers once more fisting in his hair. He pulled back and watched as you rode the wave of pleasure, chin glistening. "There's my good girl," he crooned, slowly and agonizingly twirling his digits around between your walls. "You love having your cunt played with like this, don't you?"

"Mm-- Gods, Aemond it's too much... please, I need a break..," you begged yet again, body betraying you as you continued to grind against his hand.

"That's what you said before and now look at my face. Coated in your slick. You're lying and will pay for it. This one is for me. Your punishment for lying to your prince." He shoved a third finger into you and mercilessly pumped them in and out, savoring your cries as he delicately fluttered his tongue over your clit. He didn't stop until the sheets beneath your ass were soaked and you were screaming into your own arm to muffle the cries of blinding ecstasy.

He barely gave you time to catch your breath before he pounced, trapping you on the mattress between his arms. Looming above you, his white hair spilled over his shoulders to shield both of your faces, so close that you could see your reflection in his eye and sapphire. Without warning he slid into the absolute mess of your core, lean hips driving forward until your bodies meshed into a single being.

Exhausted and spinning from euphoria, your body contracted and squeezed all around him “Look at you. So heavenly beneath me. My proper wife in court, and my filthy cockdrunk whore in private. You're so lovely this wanton. Just as a wife should always be for her husband.”

Keeping your eyes open and straight was an impossibility: they crossed and shut, the wet sounds of your cunt humiliatingly obscene as he railed in, and out, repeating. Over, and over, and over. Sweat covered the entirety of your skin and your brain could only focus on where your bodies connected; your world so small, only Aemond. Only the half coherent praises he continued to give you as he fucked you to delirium. You were putty after four orgasms, fingers numb as you scratched his back; angry red welts oozing with pebbles of blood.

That pushed him over the edge, cock flexing with powerful pulses as he emptied into you, filling all of your deepest parts with his seed. Finally he slowed, finally he allowed both of you to catch your breaths. Finally, he slipped from your overstimulated quim and cupped your face between his hands. “Good girl. You did so well tonight,” he whispered, kissing your eyelids and cheeks with a thousand delectable kisses.

Once you untangled from each other he was beyond gentle. He produced a washcloth from somewhere and cleaned you up with the utmost reverence. He kissed you anywhere he could reach, featherlight and heartbreakingly soft, caressing you with the utmost admiration. “Kirimvose. Avy jorrāelan.” ‘thank you. I love you.’

You held each other into slumber and neither of you stirred until morning time.

-

thank you for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider a follow and reblog as I have plans to create and share more writings.

as said above, I am open to requests and idea shares too! and one last thing before you go: here is my masterlist if you’d like to see what else I’ve created!

[biteofcherry]

Hi! ALPHA STEVEEEEE oh my actual days. i have an unhealthy attachement to GoT. If his omega was feeling insecure how would he react? I feel like he would be completely flabbergasted and considering how she is very much independent she might not tell him at first. but if he found out...

A study

alpha!Steve Rogers x omega female reader

warnings: none; fluffy hurt/comfort; alpha has unique ways of improving your mood; but there's also understanding and communication; alpha Steve is a warning okay?

Grain of Truth Masterlist

Main Masterlist

"I guess this one could work," you shrugged, watching yourself in the mirror with growing resentment.

Your words reached Steve with quite a delay. He was staring at you, his mind occupied with images of ripping the fabric off of your body to get his hands on the magnificence of your curves and softness.

You looked absolutely fantastic in that dress - and it wasn't even some revealing, super sexy evening gown, but rather a chic, modest piece. Perfect for attending a conference.

And when you first saw that dress on the display as you passed the shop, you seemed to love it. How could it change so quickly?

Steve's gaze dragged up your body until he met your eyes in the mirror.

It was the very first time you showed annoyance with your looks, even if occasionally you fussed about not fitting into your favorite clothes right before the heat, because your body was accumulating fat to survive days of endless fucking.

"What is it?" Steve's brows furrowed as he took a step closer and you felt the warmth of his body at your back.

His hands slipped onto your hips and he rested his chin on top of your head as he held your gaze in the reflection.

"Nothing," you shrugged again, instinctively leaning into your alpha's embrace. "It's a good dress, but it doesn't really matter, right?"

Steve sensed that clearly it did matter, so he waited patiently for you to elaborate.

"I just have one meaningless presentation, nobody will pay attention to it beside just politely listening and clapping after I'm done." You tried to play it cool, like it didn't bother you that there was going to be a different star at the conference.

"Unlike Hope," you muttered, your tone more bitter than you wanted to let on.

Hope was- not exactly a friend, but not an enemy either.

You went to the same university, shared some mutual friends and occasionally worked on the same projects before graduation. Then you pursued your career goals while Hope went on to rock the world with everything that she had.

She was stunning, always had a line of men and women trailing behind her with dreams of spending time with her. She had a brilliant mind, too. Honestly, she had it all, in your opinion.

Including the freedom of not being driven by designation and hormones, since she was a beta.

As it turned out, Hope now had not one but three degrees and steered her career toward medical science for the military purposes. You were proud of how you were actually helping people day to day, running your small research, but it suddenly felt less significant compared to Hope's straight road to saving the world.

When you stumbled into her an hour ago, your brief, quite warm conversation revealed she was going to be the mysterious grand star at the conference you were also attending.

And she too was searching for an outfit. Judging by the label on the bag she was carrying, Hope was going to have something designer. Perhaps even custom fitted.

Then it turned out Steve was familiar with one of her projects; he saw it used in action when back in the military.

They switched feedback and information about Hope's upgrades so flawlessly and passionately, and you just stood there with a smile, nodding your head in pretend-interest.

Hope had it all. Still. Just like she had in uni.

Including attention of your mate.

You knew Steve loved you, you didn't fear him leaving you to chase anyone else. But love didn't mean he was impressed, or interested in your meager career.

The only profit you'd gain from presenting your study at the conference would be Maria's proud face as she added to your clinic's website information about running research acknowledged at international conferences.

"Hope?" One of Steve's eyebrows quirked up, confusion settling on his face. "That beta we ran into?"

"Yes, that beta whose great improvements to the battlefield medicine-" you mocked Steve's voice- "you were complimenting less than an hour ago," you glared at him, barely stopping yourself from stomping on his foot.

"Sweet brat," Steve's hands tightened their grip on your hips, an almost painful reminder to watch your tone.

"I was a Captain in the Army and sometimes on missions things got really bad. I simply appreciate that Hope's projects helped to save lives of some of my men."

"I know her work is important." You grit out, crossing your arms over your chest. "Which is why I know everyone will look forward to her presentation and discussion panel with her. So I don't need to bother stressing over my showing."

Steve recited the full title of your presentation and research, showing you he was always paying attention to what was important to you.

"Hope's work may be desired by the big, important institutions," he said, "but it's your research that has the potential of aiding people nationally, in their day to day struggles."

Your heart melted at the conviction in Steve's voice. Through the bond you sensed a steady rhythm and a flush of fiery pride that your alpha felt about your work.

"And you know what else?" Steve bent down a little, resting his chin in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing your cheek.

"Hope has nothing beyond her career. Beneath the smell of perfume, there's only the scent of the lab on her. No partner, neither long term nor a fuckbuddy. No remnants of anyone familiar, like a friend or a pet."

"Maybe she chose it that way," Steve mused, rubbing soothing circles on your hips with his thumbs, "or maybe she spends the rest of her day being as fussy as you, feeling bitter that she doesn't have a mate and love like you."

You sighed softly, uncrossing your arms. You rested your hands atop Steve's forearms, caressing his warm skin.

You tilted your head slightly as your placated insecurities slowly retreated, living room to the mentioned fussy streak. That still wasn't entirely gone, strumming inside you with a need to act out.

"So you were checking her scent?" It was a deliberate poke, delivered with a glare.

Steve huffed and closed his eyes for a second. Then he straightened and in one swift move twirled you around.

He pushed you back against the mirror, gripping the back of your neck with one of his large hands.

"If you're sporting for a spanking until you sob all your frustration and insecurities out, I will happily arrange it." His voice remained soft, but dropped to that low octave a breath away from a growl.

"Or maybe we can make you more excited on that stage?" You gulped nervously as Steve's eyes darkened.

His lips trailed along your jaw, teeth just barely grazing your skin.

"You'll be giving your lecture wearing nothing but that pretty dress, while I sit in the first row with your panties in my pocket. Knowing that as soon as you're done with your presentation, I'm going to be fucking you full of my cum..."

Steve nipped your chin in reprimand when your eyes closed, the sting making you open them instantly.

"So that when you do the rounds at the banquet later that beta you're jealous off knows that you've won something she'll never have. A true mate."

Your clamped your hands on Steve's shoulders, gripping the fabric of his too tight t-shirt.

"You can't solve everything with sex, you know," you said breathlessly, clenching your thighs as you felt Steve's free hand slide up the pencil skirt of the dress you were trying on.

"How about we conduct a longitudinal study on that?" Steve chuckled and slapped your thigh.